It was against Chadwick that his efforts were to be directed, but Bold
soon found that if he interfered with Mr. Chadwick as steward, he must
interfere with Mr. Harding as warden; and though he regretted the
situation in which this would place him, he was not the man to flinch
from his undertaking from personal motives.
Having got a copy of John Hiram's will, and mastered it, Bold next
ascertained the extent and value of the property, and then made out a
schedule of what he was informed was the present distribution of its
income. Armed with these particulars, he called on Mr. Chadwick, who
naturally declined to answer any questions and referred him to his
attorneys in London.
Bold at once repaired to the hospital. The day was now far advanced, but
he knew that Mr. Harding dined in the summer at four, that Eleanor was
accustomed to drive in the evening, and that he might therefore probably
find Mr. Harding alone. It was between seven and eight when he reached
the precentor's garden, and as he raised the latch he heard the notes of
Mr. Harding's violoncello; advancing before the house and across the
lawn, he found him playing, and not without an audience. The musician
was seated in a garden chair, and around sat, and lay, ten of the twelve
old men who dwelt with him beneath John Hiram's roof. Bold sat down on
the soft turf to listen, or rather to think how, after such harmony, he
might best introduce a theme of so much discord. He felt that he had a
somewhat difficult task, and he almost regretted the final leave-taking
of the last of the old men, slow as they were in going through their
adieus.
The precentor remarked on the friendliness of the visit. "One evening
call," said he, "is worth ten in the morning. It's all formality in the
morning; real social talk never begins till after dinner. That's why I
dine early, so as to get as much as I can of it."
"Quite true, Mr. Harding," said the other; "but I fear I've reversed the
order of things, and I owe you much apology for troubling you on
business at such an hour. I wish to speak to you about the hospital."
Mr. Harding looked blank and annoyed. But he only said, "Well, well,
anything I can tell you I shall be most happy--"
"It's about the accounts."
"Then, my dear fellow, I can tell you nothing, for I'm as ignorant as a
child. All I know is that they pay me £800 a year. Go t Chadwick; he
knows all about the accounts."
"But, Mr. Harding, I hope you won't object to discuss with me what I
have to say about the hospital."
Mr. Harding gave a deep, long-drawn sigh. He did object, very strongly
object, to discuss any such subject with John Bold, but he had not the
business tact of Mr. Chadwick, and did not know how to relieve himself
from the coming evil.
"I fear there is reason to think that John Hiram's will is not carried
out to the letter, Mr. Harding, and I have been asked to see into it."
"Very well, I've no objection on earth; and now we need not say another
word about it."
"Only one word more, Mr. Harding. Chadwick has referred me to lawyers.
In what I do I may appear to be interfering with you, and I hope you
will forgive me for doing so."
"Mr. Bold," said the other, speaking with some solemnity, "if you act
justly, say nothing in this matter but the truth, and use no unfair
weapons in carrying out your purposes, I shall have nothing to forgive.
I presume you think I am not entitled to the income I receive from the
hospital, and that others are entitled to it. Whatever some may do, I
shall never attribute to you base motives because you hold an opinion
opposed to my own and adverse to my interests; pray do what you consider
to be your duty; I can give you no assistance, neither will I offer you
any obstacle. Let me, however, suggest to you that you can in no wise
forward your views, nor I mine, by any discussion between us. Here comes
Eleanor and the ponies, and we'll go in to tea."
Bold felt that he could not sit down at ease with Mr. Harding and his
daughter after what had passed, and therefore excused himself with much
awkward apology; and, merely raising his hat and bowing as he passed
Eleanor and the pony chair, left her in disappointed amazement at his
departure.
-III.--Iphigenia-
The bedesmen heard a whisper that they were entitled to one hundred
pounds a year, and signed a petition, which Abel Handy drew up, to the
bishop as visitor, praying his lordship to see justice done to the legal
recipients of John Hiram's charity. John Bold was advised to institute
formal proceedings against Mr. Harding and Mr. Chadwick. Archdeacon
Grantly took up the cause of the warden, and obtained a legal opinion
from the attorney general, Sir Abraham Haphazard, that Mr. Harding and
Mr. Chadwick being only paid servants, the action should not have been
brought against them, but that the defendants should have been either
the corporation of Barchester, or possibly the dean and chapter, or the
bishop. That all-powerful organ of the press, the daily -Jupiter-,
launched a leading thunderbolt against the administration of Hiram's
Hospital, which made out the warden to be a man unjust, grasping--and
the responsibility for this attack rested upon John Bold's friend Tom
Towers, of the Temple.
Bold kept away from the warden's house, but he met Miss Harding one day
in the cathedral close. He tried to explain and apologised.
"Mr. Bold," said she, "you may be sure of one thing: I shall always
judge my father to be right, and those who oppose him I shall judge to
be wrong." And then, curtsying low, she sailed on, leaving her lover in
anything but a happy state of mind.
To her father Eleanor owned that she had loved John Bold once, but would
not, could not do so now, when he proved himself the enemy of her
father.
But the warden, wretched as he was at the attacks of the -Jupiter-,
declared that Bold was no enemy of his, and encouraged her love, and
then he spoke to her of happier days when their trials would all be
over.
That night Eleanor decided that she would extricate her father from his
misery; she would sacrifice herself as Iphigenia did for Agamemnon. She
would herself personally implore John Bold to desist from his
undertaking and stop the lawsuit; she would explain to him her father's
sorrows, and tell him how her father would die if he were thus dragged
before the public and exposed to such unmerited ignominy; she would
appeal to his old friendship, and, if need were, kneel to him for the
favour she would ask; but before she did this the idea of love must be
banished. There must be no bargain in the matter. She could not appeal
to his love, nor allow him to do so. Should he declare his passion he
must be rejected.
She rose refreshed in the morning, and after breakfast started out, and
arrived at Bold's door; where John's sister Mary greeted her warmly.
"John's out now, and will be for the next two hours, and he returns to
London by the mail train to-night."
"Mary, I must see your brother before he goes back, and beg from him a
great favour." Miss Harding spoke with a solemn air, and then went on
and opened to her friend all her plan for saving her father from a
sorrow which would, if it lasted, bring him to his grave.
While they were yet discussing the matter, Bold returned, and Eleanor
was forced into sudden action.
"Mr. Bold," said she, "I have come here to implore you to abandon this
proceeding, to implore you to spare my father."
"Eleanor, I will do anything; only let me tell you how I love you!"
"No, no, no," she almost screamed. "This is unmanly of you, Mr. Bold.
Will you leave my father to die in peace in his quiet home?" And seizing
him by his arm, she clung to him with fixed tenacity, and reiterated her
appeal with hysterical passion.
"Promise me, promise me!" said Eleanor; "say that my father is safe--one
word will do. I know how true you are; say one word, and I will let you
go."
"I will," said he, at length; "I do. All I can do I will do."
"Then may God Almighty bless you for ever and ever!" said Eleanor; and,
with her face in Mary Bold's lap, she wept and sobbed like a child.
In a while she was recovered, and got up to go; and Mary, under a
pretence of fetching her bonnet, left the two together in the room.
And now, with a volley of impassioned love, John Bold poured forth the
feelings of his heart; and Eleanor repeated with every shade of
vehemence, "No, no, no!" But let her be never so vehement, her vehemence
was not respected now; all her "No, no, noes" were met with counter
asseverations, and at last were overpowered. Her defences were
demolished, all her maiden barriers swept away, and Eleanor capitulated,
or rather marched out with the honours of war, vanquished evidently, but
still not reduced to the necessity of confessing it. Certainly she had
been victorious, certainly she had achieved her object, certainly she
was not unhappy. Eleanor as she returned home felt that she had now
nothing further to do but to add to the budget of news for her father
that John Bold was her accepted lover.
-IV.--The Warden Resigns-
When Eleanor informed her father of the end of the lawsuit the warden
did not express himself peculiarly gratified at the intelligence. His
own mind was already made up. A third article had appeared in the
-Jupiter-, calling on Mr. Harding to give an account of his stewardship,
and how it was that he consumed three-fifths of Hiram's charity. "I tell
you what, my dear," he said, while Eleanor stared at him as though she
scarcely understood the words he was speaking, "I can't dispute the
truth of these words. I do believe I have no right to be here. No right
to be warden with £800 a year; no right to spend in luxury money that
was intended for charity. I will go up to London, my dear, and see these
lawyers myself. There are some things which a man cannot bear--" and he
put his hand upon the newspaper.
And to London Mr. Harding went, stealing a march upon the archdeacon,
who with Mrs. Grantly pursued him twenty-four hours later. By that time
the warden had obtained an interview with the great Sir Abraham
Haphazard. "What I want you, Sir Abraham, to tell me is this," said Mr.
Harding. "Am I, as warden, legally and distinctly entitled to the
proceeds of the property after the due maintenance of the twelve
bedesmen?"
Sir Abraham declared that he couldn't exactly say in so many words that
Mr. Harding was legally entitled to, etc., etc., and ended in expressing
a strong opinion that, as the other side had given notice of withdrawing
the suit, it would be madness to raise any further question on the
matter.
"I can resign," said Mr. Harding, slowly.
"What! throw it up altogether?" said the attorney general. "Believe me,
it is sheer Quixotism."
But Mr. Harding's mind was made up. He knew that the attorney general
regarded him as a fool, but Eleanor, he was sure, would exult in what he
had done, and his old friend, the bishop, he trusted, would sympathise
with him. Back at his hotel in St. Paul's Churchyard Mr. Harding had to
face the archdeacon. In vain Dr. Grantly argued. "I shall certainly
resign this wardenship," said Mr. Harding. The letter of resignation was
posted to the bishop, and the warden returned home. The bishop at once
wrote to him full of affection, condolence, and praise, and besought him
to come and live at the palace.
It was hard for Mr. Harding to make the bishop understand that this
would not suit him, and that the only real favour he could confer was
the continuation of his independent friendship; but at last even this
was done. "At any rate," thought the bishop, "he will come and dine with
me from time to time, and if he be absolutely starving I shall see it."
It was settled that Mr. Harding should still be the precentor of the
cathedral, and a small living within the walls of the city was given to
him. It was the smallest possible parish, containing a part of the
cathedral close and a few old houses adjoining. The church was no bigger
than an ordinary room--perhaps twenty-seven feet long by eighteen
wide--but still it was a perfect church. Such was the living of St.
Cuthbert's at Barchester, of which Mr. Harding became rector, with a
clear income of £75 a year.
Mr. Harding allowed himself no rest till everything was prepared for his
departure from the hospital.
For his present use he took a lodging in Barchester, and thither were
conveyed such articles as he wanted for daily use. Mrs. Grantly had much
wished that her sister would reside at Plumstead, but Eleanor strongly
resisted this proposal. She had not desired that her father should give
up the hospital in order that she might live at Plumstead rectory and he
alone in his Barchester lodgings. So she got a little bedroom for
herself behind the sitting-room, and just over the little back parlour
of the chemist, with whom they were to lodge. There was somewhat of a
savour of senna softened by peppermint about the place; but, on the
whole, the lodgings were clean and comfortable.
Nothing could induce the bishop to fill up the vacancy at Hiram's
Hospital caused by Mr. Harding's retirement. It is now some years since
Mr. Harding left it, and the warden's house is tenantless and the
warden's garden a wretched wilderness.
Mr. Harding is neither a discontented nor an unhappy man; he still
inhabits the lodgings to which he went on leaving the hospital, but he
now has them to himself. Three months after that time Eleanor became
Mrs. Bold, and of course removed to her husband's house.
The archdeacon would not be persuaded to grace the marriage ceremony
with his presence, but he allowed his wife and children to be there. The
marriage took place at the palace, and the bishop himself officiated. It
was the last occasion on which he ever did so, and it is not probable
that he will ever do so again.
Mr. Harding's time is spent chiefly at his daughter's or at the palace,
but he keeps his lodgings.
Every other day a message is brought to him from the bishop. "The
bishop's compliments, and his lordship is not very well to-day, and he
hopes Mr. Harding will dine with him." This bulletin as to the old man's
health is a myth; for, though he is over eighty, he is never ill. Mr.
Harding does dine with him very often, which means going to the palace
at three and remaining till ten.
* * * * *
Barchester Towers
"Barchester Towers" shares with "The Warden" the distinction
of containing Trollope's most original, freshest, and best
work, and in the character of Mr. Proudie a new specimen was
added to English fiction. It was written for the most part in
pencil, while the author was travelling about the country
prosecuting his duties as a Post-office Surveyor, what was
done being afterwards copied by the novelist's wife. The
Barchester of the story has been identified as Winchester, and
scattered at random throughout the work are many references to
the neighbourhood of Hampshire's ancient capital.
-I.--The New Bishop-
In the latter days of July in the year 1805, a most important question
was hourly asked in the cathedral city of Barchester: Who was to be the
new bishop?
The death of old Dr. Grantly, who had for many years filled that chair
with meek authority, took place exactly as the ministry of Lord----was
going to give place to that of Lord----. The illness of the good old man
was long and lingering, and it became at last a matter of intense
interest to those concerned whether the new appointment should be made
by a Conservative or Liberal government.
It was pretty well understood that the outgoing premier had made his
selection, and that, if the question rested with him, the mitre would
descend on the head of Archdeacon Grantly, the old bishop's son, who had
long managed the affairs of the diocese.
A trying time was this for the archdeacon as he sat by his father's
dying bed. The ministry were to be out within five days: his father was
to be dead within--no, he rejected that view of the subject.
Presently Mr. Harding entered noiselessly.
"God bless you, my dears"--said the bishop with feeble voice--"God bless
you both." And so he died.
"It's a great relief, archdeacon," said Mr. Harding, "a great relief.
Dear, good, excellent old man. Oh, that our last moments may be as
innocent and as peaceful as his!"
The archdeacon's mind, however, had already travelled from the death
chamber to the study of the prime minister. It was already evening, and
nearly dark. It was most important that the prime minister should know
that night that the diocese was vacant. Everything might depend on it.
And so, in answer to Mr. Harding's further consolation, the archdeacon
suggested that a telegraph message should be immediately sent to London.
Mr. Harding got as far as the library door with the slip of paper
containing the message to the prime minister, when he turned back.
"I forgot to tell you," he said. "The ministry are out. Mr. Chadwick got
the news by telegraph, and left word at the palace door."
Thus terminated our unfortunate friend's chance of possessing the
glories of a bishopric.
The names of many divines were given in the papers as that of the bishop
elect. And then the -Jupiter- declared that Dr. Proudie was to be the
man.
Dr. Proudie was the man. Just a month after the demise of the late
bishop, Dr. Proudie kissed the queen's hand as his successor elect, and
was consecrated bishop of Barchester.
Dr. Proudie was one among those who early in life adapted himself to the
views held by the Whigs on most theological and religious subjects.
Toleration became the basis on which he fought his battles, and at this
time he was found to be useful by the government. In person he was a
good-looking man, and it was no fault of his own if he had not a
commanding eye, for he studied hard for it.
Dr. Proudie may well be said to have been a fortunate man, for he had
not been born to wealth, and he was now bishop of Barchester with £5000
a year; but nevertheless he had his cares. He had a large family, of
whom the three eldest were daughters, now all grown up and all fitted
for fashionable life; and he had a wife.
Now, Mrs. Proudie was not satisfied with home dominion, but stretched
her power over all her husband's movements, and would not even abstain
from things spiritual. In fact, the bishop was henpecked. In her own way
the bishop's wife was a religious woman, and the form in which this
tendency showed itself in her was by a strict observance of Sabbatarian
rule. Dissipation and low dresses during the week were, under her
control, atoned for by three services, an evening sermon read by
herself, and a perfect abstinence from any cheering employment on the
Sunday. In these matters Mrs. Proudie allowed herself to be guided by
the Rev. Mr. Slope, the bishop's chaplain; and as Dr. Proudie was guided
by his wife, it necessarily followed that Mr. Slope had obtained a good
deal of control over Dr. Proudie in matters concerning religion. Mr.
Slope's only preferment hitherto had been that of reader and preacher in
a London district church; and on the consecration of his friend the new
bishop he readily gave this up to become domestic chaplain to his
lordship.
-II.--The Bishop's Chaplain-
When Mr. Slope sat himself down in the railway carriage, confronting the
bishop and Mrs. Proudie, as they started on their first journey to
Barchester, he began to form in his own mind a plan of his future life.
He knew well his patron's strong points, but he knew the weak ones as
well; and he rightly guessed that public life would better suit the
great man's taste than the small details of diocesan duty.
He, therefore--he, Mr. Slope--would in effect be bishop of Barchester.
Such was his resolve; and, to give Mr. Slope his due, he had both
courage and spirit to bear him out in his resolution. He knew that he
should have a hard battle to fight, for Mr. Proudie would also choose to
be bishop of Barchester. At first, doubtless, he must flatter and
cajole, and perhaps yield in some things; but he did not doubt of
ultimate triumph. If all other means failed, he could join the bishop
against his wife, inspire courage into the unhappy man, and emancipate
the husband.
Such were Mr. Slope's thoughts as he sat looking at the sleeping pair in
the railway carriage. He intended to lead, and to have followers; he
intended to hold the purse-strings of the diocese, and draw round him a
herd of his poor and hungry brethren. He had, however, a pawing, greasy
way with him, and he was not a man to make himself at once popular in
the circle of Barchester.
The second day after his arrival came Mr. Slope's first introduction to
the clergy of Barchester, when Archdeacon Grantly and Mr. Harding called
together at the palace to pay their respects to the bishop.
Our friends found Dr. Proudie sitting in the old bishop's chair, very
nice in his new apron; they found, too, Mr. Slope standing on the
hearth-rug, persuasive and eager; but on the sofa they found Mrs.
Proudie, an innovation for which no precedent could be found in all the
annals of Barchester. There she was, however, and they could only make
the best of her.
The introductions were gone through in much form. The archdeacon shook
hands with the bishop, and named Mr. Harding. His lordship then
presented them to his lady wife. After this Mr. Slope presented himself.
The bishop did mention his name, and so did Mrs. Proudie, too, in a
louder tone; but Mr. Slope took upon himself the chief burden of his own
introduction. He thrust out his hand, and, grasping that of the
archdeacon, bedewed it unmercifully. Dr. Grantly in return bowed, looked
stiff, contracted his eyebrows, and wiped his hand with his pocket
handkerchief. Nothing abashed, Mr. Slope then noticed the precentor, and
descended to the grade of the lower clergy.
There were four persons there, each of whom considered himself--or
herself, as Mrs. Proudie was one of them--the most important personage
in the diocese. The bishop himself actually wore the visible apron. The
archdeacon knew his subject, and really understood the business of
bishoping, which the others did not. Mrs. Proudie had her habit of
command. Mr. Slope had only his own courage and tact to depend on.
"I fear there is a great deal of Sabbath travelling here," said Mr.
Slope. "On looking at the 'Bradshaw,' I see that there are three trains
in and three out every Sabbath. Could nothing be done to induce the
company to withdraw them?"
"Not being a director, I really can't say. But if you can withdraw the
passengers, the company, I dare say, will withdraw the trains," said the
archdeacon. "It's merely a question of dividends."
"But surely, Dr. Grantly," said the lady, "surely we should look at it
differently. Don't you think so, Mr. Harding?"
Mr. Harding thought that all porters and stokers, guards and pointsmen
ought to have an opportunity of going to church, and he hoped that they
all had.
"But surely, surely!" continued Mrs. Proudie, "surely that is not
enough."
Come what might, Dr. Grantly was not to be forced into a dissertation on
a point of doctrine with Mrs. Proudie, nor yet with Mr. Slope; so he
turned his back upon the sofa, and hoped that Dr. Proudie had found the
palace repairs had been such as to meet his wishes.
At once Mr. Slope sidled over to the bishop's chair, and began a
catalogue of grievances concerning the stables and the out-houses. Mrs.
Proudie, while she lent her assistance in reciting the palatial
short-comings in the matter of gas, hot-water pipes, and the locks on
the doors of servants' bedrooms, did not give up her hold of Mr.
Harding. Over and over again she had thrown out her "Surely, surely!" at
Mr. Harding's devoted head, and ill had that gentleman been able to
parry the attack.
He had never before found himself subjected to such a nuisance, or been
so hard pressed in his life. Mrs. Proudie interrogated him, and then
lectured. "Neither thou, nor thy son, nor thy daughter, nor thy man
servant, nor thy maid servant," said she, impressively, and more than
once, as though Mr. Harding had forgotten the words. She shook her
fingers at him as she quoted the law, as though menacing him with
punishment.
Mr. Harding felt that he ought to rebuke the lady for presuming so to
talk to a gentleman and a clergyman many years her senior; but he
recoiled from the idea of scolding the bishop's wife, in the bishop's
presence, on his first visit to the palace; moreover, to tell the truth,
he was somewhat afraid of her.
The archdeacon was now ready to depart, and he and the precentor, after
bowing low to the lady and shaking hands with my lord, made their escape
from Mr. Slope as best they could. It was not till they were well out of
the palace and on the gravel walk of the close that the archdeacon
allowed the wrath inspired by Mr. Slope to find expression.
"He is the most thoroughly bestial creature that ever I set my eyes
upon," said the archdeacon. "But what are we to do with him? Impudent
scoundrel! To have to cross-examine me about out-houses, and Sunday
travelling, too. I never in my life met his equal for sheer impudence.
Why, he must have thought we were two candidates for ordination!"
"I declare I thought Mrs. Proudie was the worst of the two." said Mr.
Harding.
-III.--Mrs. Proudie Gets a Fall-
An act of Parliament had decided that in future the warden of Hiram's
Hospital should receive £450 a year, and no one thought for a moment
that the new bishop would appoint any other than Mr. Harding.
Mr. Slope, however, had other plans. He saw from the first that he could
not conciliate Dr. Grantly, and decided on open battle against the
archdeacon and all his adherents. Only those came to call on Mr. Slope
who, like Mr. Quiverful, the rector of Puddingdale, had large families
and small incomes, and could not afford to neglect the loaves and fishes
of the diocese, even if a Mr. Slope had charge of the baskets.
So Mr. Harding received a note begging him to call on Mr. Slope at the
palace concerning the wardenship.
The result of this interview was so offensive to Mr. Harding that he
said:
"You may tell the bishop, Mr. Slope, that as I altogether disagree with
his views about the hospital, I shall decline the situation if I find
that any such conditions are attached to it as those you have
suggested." And so saying, he took his hat and went his way.
Mr. Slope was contented. He considered himself at liberty to accept Mr.
Harding's last speech as an absolute refusal of the appointment. At
least, he so represented it to the bishop and to Mrs. Proudie.
"I really am sorry for it," said the bishop.
"I don't know that there is much cause for sorrow," said the lady. "Mr.
Quiverful is a much more deserving man."
"I suppose I had better see Quiverful," said the chaplain.
"I suppose you had," said the bishop.
But no sooner had Mr. Slope promised Quiverful the wardenship, Mrs.
Proudie writing at the same time to her protégée, Mrs. Quiverful, than
he repented of the step he had taken.
Eleanor Bold, Mr. Harding's daughter, was a widow in prosperous
circumstances, and when Mr. Slope had made her acquaintance, and learnt
of her income, he decided that he would woo her. Mr. Harding at the
hospital, and placed there by his means, would be more inclined to
receive him as a son-in-law. Mr. Slope wanted a wife, and he wanted
money, but he wanted power more than either. He had fully realised that
sooner or later he must come to blows with Mrs. Proudie. He had no
desire to remain in Barchester as her chaplain; he had higher views of
his own destiny. Either he or Mrs. Proudie must go to the wall, and now
had come the time when he would try which it should be.
To that end, he rode over to Puddingdale and persuaded Mr. Quiverful to
give up all hope of the wardenship. Mrs. Quiverful, however, with
fourteen children, refused to yield without a struggle, and went off
there and then to Mrs. Proudie at the palace.
She told her tale, and Mrs. Proudie walked quickly into her husband's
room, and found him seated at his office table, with Mr. Slope opposite
to him.
"What is this, bishop, about Mr. Quiverful?" said she, coming to the end
of the table and standing there.
"I have been out to Puddingdale this morning, ma'am," replied Mr. Slope,
"and have seen Mr. Quiverful; and he has abandoned all claim to the
hospital. Under these circumstances I have strongly advised his lordship
to nominate Mr. Harding."
"Who desired you to go to Mr. Quiverful?" said Mrs. Proudie, now at the
top of her wrath--for it was plain to her the chaplain was taking too
much upon himself. "Did anyone send you, sir?"
There was a dead pause in the room. The bishop sat twiddling his thumbs.
How comfortable it would be, he thought, if they could fight it out
between them; fight it out so that one should kill the other utterly, as
far as diocesan life was concerned, so that he, the bishop, might know
clearly by whom he ought to be led. If he had a wish as to which might
prove victor, that wish was not antagonistic to Mr. Slope.
"Will you answer me, sir?" Mrs. Proudie repeated. "Who instructed you to
call on Mr. Quiverful?"
"Mrs. Proudie," said Mr. Slope, "I am quite aware how much I owe to your
kindness. But my duty in this matter is to his lordship. He has approved
of what I have done, and having that approval, and my own, I want none
other."
What horrid words were these which greeted the ear of Mrs. Proudie? Here
was premeditated mutiny in the camp. The bishop had not yet been twelve
months in the chair, and rebellion had already reared her hideous head
in the palace.
"Mr. Slope," said Mrs. Proudie, with slow and dignified voice, "I will
trouble you, if you please, to leave the apartment. I wish to speak to
my lord alone."
Mr. Slope felt that everything depended on the present interview. Should
the bishop now be repetticoated his thralldom would be complete and for
ever. Now was the moment for victory or rout. It was now that Mr. Slope
must make himself master of the diocese, or else resign his place and
begin his search for fortune elsewhere.
"His lordship has summoned me on most important diocesan business," said
Mr. Slope, glancing with uneasy eye at Dr. Proudie; "my leaving him at
the present moment is, I fear, impossible."
"Do you bandy words with me, you ungrateful man?" said the lady. "My
lord, is Mr. Slope to leave this room, or am I?"
His lordship twiddled his thumbs, and then proclaimed himself a
Slopeite.
"Why, my dear," said he, "Mr. Slope and I are very busy."
That was all. There was nothing more necessary. Mr. Slope saw at once
the full amount of his gain, and turned on the vanquished lady a look of
triumph which she never forgot and never forgave.
Mrs. Proudie without further parley left the room; and then followed a
close conference between the new allies. The chaplain told the bishop
that the world gave him credit for being under the governance of his
wife, and the bishop pledged himself with Mr. Slope's assistance to
change his courses.
-IV.--Mr. Slope Bids Farewell-
As it proved, however, Mr. Slope had not a chance against Mrs. Proudie.
Not only could she stun the poor bishop by her midnight anger when the
two were alone, but she could assuage him, if she so willed, by daily
indulgences.
On the death of Dr. Trefoil, the dean of Barchester, Mr. Slope had not
shrunk from urging the bishop to recommend his chaplain for the post.
"How could you think of making such a creature as that dean of
Barchester?" said Mrs. Proudie to her now submissive husband.
"Why, my dear," said he, "it appeared to me that you and Mr. Slope did
not get on as well as you used to do, and therefore I thought that if he
got this place, and so ceased to be my chaplain, you might be pleased at
such an arrangement."
Mrs. Proudie laughed aloud.
"Oh yes, my dear, of course he'll cease to be your chaplain," said she.
"After what has passed, that must be a matter of course. I couldn't for
a moment think of living in the same house with such a man. Dean,
indeed! The man has gone mad with arrogance."
The bishop said nothing further to excuse either himself or his family,
and having shown himself passive and docile was again taken into favour,
and spent the pleasantest evening he had had in his own house for a long
time.
Mr. Slope did not get the deanery, though for a week he was decidedly
the favourite--owing to the backing he received from the -Jupiter-. And
Mr. Quiverful was after all appointed to the hospital, with the complete
acquiescence of Mr. Harding.
Mr. Harding might have had the deanery, but he declined the office on
the ground of his age and his inability to fit himself into new duties.
In vain the archdeacon threatened, and in vain he coaxed; his
father-in-law could not be made to accept it.
To Mr. Harding's infinite relief, Mrs. Bold regarded Mr. Slope's
proposal with horror, and refused him with indignation. She had never
thought of him as a possible suitor, and when he addressed her as
"beautiful woman," and as "dearest Eleanor," and as "sweetest angel,"
and even contrived to pass his arm round her waist, it was more than she
could bear. Mrs. Bold raised her little hand and just dealt him a box on
the ear with such good will that it sounded among the trees--he had
followed her into the garden--like a miniature thunderclap.
The news that the deanery was not for him ended Mr. Slope's prospects in
Barchester. He was aware that as regarded the diocese Mrs. Proudie had
checkmated him. He had, for a moment, run her hard, but it was only for
a moment, and Mrs. Proudie had come forth victorious in the struggle.
Having received a formal command to wait upon the bishop, he went into
Dr. Proudie's study. There, as he had anticipated, he found Mrs. Proudie
together with her husband.
"Mr. Slope," began the bishop, "I think you had better look for some
other preferment. I do not think you are well suited for the situation
you have lately held. I will enclose you a cheque for any balance that
may be due to you; and under the present circumstances it will, of
course, be better for all parties that you should leave the palace at
the earliest possible moment."
"If, however, you wish to remain in the neighbourhood," said Mrs.
Proudie, "the bishop will mention your name to Mr. Quiverful, who now
wants a curate at Puddingdale, and the stipend is £50 a year, sufficient
for your requirements."
"May God forgive you, madam, for the manner in which you have treated
me," said Mr. Slope; "and remember this, madam, that you yourself may
still have a fall. As to the bishop, I pity him!"
Thus ended the intimacy of the bishop of Barchester with his first
confidential chaplain.
Mr. Slope returned to town, and promptly consoled the widow of a rich
sugar-refiner. He soon was settled with much comfort in Baker Street,
and is now possessed of a church in the New Road.
Mr. Harding is still precentor, and still pastor of the little church of
St. Cuthbert's. In spite of what he has often said, he is not even yet
an old man.
* * * * *
IVAN TURGENEV
Fathers and Sons
Among the great critics and great artists of every period,
Ivan Sergeyvitch Turgenev occupies a supreme position. He was
born at Oriel in the Government of the same name, on November
9, 1818, and died on September 3, 1883. His father was a
colonel in a cavalry regiment, and an ancestor was a James
Turgenev who was one of Peter the Great's jesters. Educated at
Moscow, St Petersburg, and Berlin, Ivan Turgenev began life in
a government office, but after a year retired into private
life. His early attempts at literature consisted chiefly of
poems and sketches, none of which attracted any degree of
attention; and it was not until about 1847, upon the
appearance of "A Sportsman's Sketches"--a series of stories
depicting with startling realism the condition of the Russian
peasant, that his name became known. About 1860 Ivan Turgenev,
in common with many of the Russian writers of the period,
found himself being carried away towards the study of social
reform. In 1861 he produced "Fathers and Sons" ("Otzi i
Dieti"), a story that stirred up a storm the suddenness of
which is difficult to imagine in the light of recent events.
Yet, curiously enough, Turgenev, ardent Liberal though he was,
had no political motive whatsoever in view in writing his
novel, his purpose simply being the delineation of certain
types which were then, for good or for bad, making themselves
a force in his country. The figure of Bazaroff, in regard to
whom Turgenev gave a new interpretation of the word
"nihilist," possesses few of the revolutionary ideas that are
now generally associated with his kind. Young Russia greatly
objected to the picture, and the author, who so far had been
hailed as a champion of liberty, was now looked on as a
reactionist. To the end, however, Turgenev persisted that
Bazaroff represented a type as he saw it, and the portrait was
neither a caricature nor entirely a product of the
imagination.
-I.--The Old and the New-
Arkady had come home, a full-blown graduate from the University at
Petersburg, and as his father, Nikolai Petrovitch pressed his lips to
his beardless, dusky, sunburnt cheek, he was beside himself with
delight. Even his uncle, Pavel Petrovitch--once a famous figure in
Russian society, and now, in spite of his dandy habits and dandy dress,
living with his brother on the latter's estate in the heart of the
country--showed some emotion. And Arkady, too, though he endeavoured to
stifle his feelings as became a superior young man who had risen above
the prejudices of the older generation, could not conceal the pleasure
he felt.
Arkady had brought back with him his great friend, Bazaroff, a tall man,
long and lean, with a broad forehead, a nose flat at the base and
sharper at the end, large greenish eyes, and drooping whiskers of a
sandy colour--a face which was lighted up by a tranquil smile and showed
self-confidence and intelligence. Bazaroff alone seemed supremely
indifferent to the atmosphere of pleasure which pervaded his friend's
home-coming. As the two young men left the room, Pavel Petrovitch turned
to his brother with a slightly questioning look on his clear-cut,
clean-shaved, refined face.
"Who is he?" he asked.
"A friend of Arkady's; according to him, a very clever fellow."
"Is he going to stay with us?"
"Yes."
"That unkempt creature?"
"Why, yes."
Pavel Petrovitch drummed with his finger-tips on the table. "I fancy
Arkady -s'est dégourdé-," he remarked. "I am glad he has come back."
"Your uncle's a queer fish," Bazaroff remarked to Arkady, in the
seclusion of their room; "only fancy such style in the country! His
nails, his nails--you ought to send them to an exhibition! And as to his
chin, it's shaved simply to perfection. Now, come, Arkady, isn't he
rather ridiculous?"
"Perhaps he is," replied Arkady; "but he's a splendid man, really."
"An antique survival! But your father's a capital fellow. He wastes his
time reading poetry, and doesn't know much about farming, but he's a
good-hearted fellow."
"My father's a man in a thousand."
"Did you notice how shy and nervous he is?"
Arkady shook his head, as though he himself were not shy and nervous.
"It's something astonishing," pursued Bazaroff, "these old idealists,
they develop their nervous systems till they break down... so balance is
lost.... In my room there's an English wash-stand, but the door won't
fasten. Anyway, that ought to be encouraged--an English wash-stand
stands for progress."
The antipathy between Pavel Petrovitch and Bazaroff became more
pronounced as the days went by. There were several passages of arms
between them--the one taking the old-fashioned view of life, the other
dismissing contemptuously his outlook as unprogressive. For himself,
Nikolai Petrovitch was too delighted at having his son with him to feel
any concern about Bazaroff.
"What is this Mr. Bazaroff--your friend?" Pavel asked one day, with a
drawl.
"Would you like me to tell you, uncle?" Arkady replied with a smile. "He
is a Nihilist, a man who accepts nothing, who regards everything from
the critical point of view--who does not take any principle on faith,
whatever reverence that principle may be enshrined in."
"Well, and is that good?"
"That depends, uncle. Some people it would do good to, but some people
would suffer for it."
"Indeed! Well, I see it's not in our line. We are old-fashioned people;
we imagine that without principles, taken as you say on faith, there is
no taking a step, no breathing. -Vous avez changé tout cela-, God give
you good health and the rank of a general, while we will be content to
look on and admire worthy... what was it?"
"Nihilist," Arkady said, speaking very distinctly.
So great was the silent, unvoiced antipathy between the two men that
Nikolai Petrovitch, even, breathed more freely when Arkady and Bazaroff
at the end of a fortnight announced their intention of visiting the
neighbouring town of X------.
At X------, the two friends made the acquaintance of Madame Odintsov, a
wealthy widow, who lived alone in her large, well-ordered establishment,
with her one daughter, Katya Sergyevna. Bazaroff was contemptuously
amused at the luxury and peace that pervaded the house. The excellent
arrangements of the establishment he made a subject for laughter, but,
none the less, he gladly prolonged his stay for a fortnight. The reason
was not far to seek. In spite of his avowed disbelief in love and
romance, the gracious charm, the refined intelligence and the beauty of
Madame Odintsov had won his heart. And Arkady, too, willingly accepted
his hostess's urgent invitation that they should stay for as long as
they pleased, because of his passion for Katya. Circumstances, however,
brought their visit to an abrupt conclusion.
One morning Madame Odintsov, when she was alone with Bazaroff, commented
upon his reticence and constraint. As she made this remark, Bazaroff got
up and went to the window.
"And would you like to know the reason for this reticence?" he queried.
"Would you like to know what is passing within me?"
"Yes," rejoined Madame Odintsov, with a sort of dread she did not at the
time understand.
"And you will not be angry?"
"No."
"No?" Bazaroff was standing with his back to her. "Let me tell you,
then, that I love you like a fool, like a madman.... There, you forced
it out of me."
He turned quickly, flung a searching look upon her, and, snatching both
her hands, he drew her suddenly to his breast.
She did not at once free herself from his embrace, but an instant later
she was in the seclusion of her own room, standing, her cheeks scarlet,
meditating on what had occurred.
"I am to blame," she decided, aloud, "that I could not have foreseen
this.... No, no.... God knows what it would lead to; he couldn't be
played with. Peace is, anyway, the best thing in the world."
She had come to a definite decision before she saw Bazaroff again. He
found an opportunity of speaking to her alone and hoarsely apologised
for what had taken place.
"I am sufficiently punished," he said, without raising his eyes to hers.
"My position, you will certainly agree, is most foolish. To-morrow I
shall be gone. There is no recalling the past, consequently I must go. I
can only conceive of one condition upon which I could remain; that
condition will never be. Excuse my impertinence, but you don't love me
and you never will love me, I suppose?"
Bazaroff's eyes glittered for an instant under their dark brows. Madame
Odintsov did not answer him. "I am afraid of this man," flashed through
her brain.
"Good-bye, then," said Bazaroff, as though he guessed her thought, and
he went back into the house.
-II--Bazaroff's Home-Coming-
From the scene of his discomfiture Bazaroff fled to his own house,
taking Arkady with him. Vassily Ivanovitch, his father, an old retired
army doctor, who had not seen his son for three years, was standing on
the steps of the little manor house as the coach in which they travelled
rolled up. He was a tall, thinnish man, with, dishevelled hair and a
thin hawk nose, dressed in an old military coat not buttoned up. He was
smoking a long pipe and screwing up his eyes to keep the sun out of
them. The horses stopped.
"Arrived at last," said Bazaroff's father, still going on smoking,
though the pipe was fairly dancing up and down between his fingers.
"Enyusha, Enyusha," was heard a trembling woman's voice. The door was
flung open and in the doorway was seen a plump, short little woman, in a
white cap and a short, striped jacket. She moaned, staggered, and would
certainly have fallen had not Bazaroff supported her. Her plump little
hands were instantly twined round his neck. "For what ages, my dear one,
my darling Enyusha!" she cried, her wrinkled face wet with tears. Old
Bazaroff breathed hard and screwed his eyes up more than ever.
"There, that's enough, that's enough, Arina; give over--please give
over."
His lips and eyebrows were twitching and his beard was quivering... but
he was obviously trying to control himself and appear almost
indifferent. But, like his wife, the old man was deeply moved at the
coming of his son. Only with difficulty could he keep his eyes off him.
The whole little house was turned upside down to provide him proper
entertainment. Arisha produced the most tempting dainties she could cook
and old Bazaroff brought out a bottle of wine, told some of the best of
his old stories, and, regardless of the snubs uttered occasionally by
Bazaroff, seemed to be filled with an ecstatic joy as long as he could
be near him. He took an early opportunity of questioning Arkady, and
when he heard the words of praise that fell from the latter's lips and
the expectation that was current at the University of the great future
for his son, he could stand it no longer. He bent down to Arkady and
kissed him on his shoulder.
"You have made me perfectly happy," he said, never ceasing to smile. "I
ought to tell you, I... idolise my son; my old wife I won't speak of--we
all know what mothers are!--but I dare not show my feelings before him,
because he doesn't like it. He is averse to every kind of demonstration
of feeling; many people even find fault with him for such firmness of
character, and regard it as a proof of pride or lack of feeling, but men
like him ought not to be judged by the common standard, ought they?"
One thing troubled old Bazaroff. How long was his son going to stay? He
dared not ask him, but he centred his hopes on three weeks, at least.
Bazaroff, however, was restless and unsatisfied. He had not succeeded in
effacing the memory of Madame Odintsov. On the third day he told Arkady
that he could stand it no longer.
"I am bored; I want to work, but I can't work here. I will come to your
place again; I have left all my apparatus there, too. In your house one
can, at any rate, shut oneself up; while here my father repeats to me,
'My study is at your disposal--nobody shall interfere with you,' and all
the time he himself is never a yard away. It's the same thing, too, with
mother. I hear her sighing the other side of the wall, and if one goes
in to her, one's nothing to say to her."
Vassily Ivanovitch was dumbfounded when he broke the news to him.
"Very good..." he faltered, "very good.... I had thought you were to be
with us... a little longer. Three days.... After three years, it's
rather little; rather little, Yevgeny!"
"But I tell you I'm coming back directly. It's necessary for me to go."
"Necessary.... Very good. Arina and I, of course, did not anticipate
this. She has just begged some flowers from a neighbour; she meant to
decorate the room for you. Liberty... is the great thing; that's my
rule.... I don't want to hamper you... not..."
He suddenly ceased and rushed from the room. He had to tell his old
wife; that was the trying task that lay before him. She was utterly
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