The Chronicles of Barsetshire

by Anthony Trollope

  This party at Ullathorne had been planned in the first place as a sort of welcoming to Mr. Arabin on his entrance into St. Ewold’s parsonage; an intended harvest-home gala for the labourers and their wives and children had subsequently been amalgamated with it, and thus it had grown to its present dimensions. All the Plumstead party had of course been asked, and at the time of the invitation Eleanor had intended to have gone with her sister. Now her plans were altered, and she was going with the Stanhopes. The Proudies were also to be there, and, as Mr. Slope had not been included in the invitation to the palace, the signora, whose impudence never deserted her, asked permission of Miss Thorne to bring him.

  This permission Miss Thorne gave, having no other alternative; but she did so with a trembling heart, fearing Mr. Arabin would be offended. Immediately on his return she apologized, almost with tears, so dire an enmity was presumed to rage between the two gentlemen. But Mr. Arabin comforted her by an assurance that he should meet Mr. Slope with the greatest pleasure imaginable and made her promise that she would introduce them to each other.

  But this triumph of Mr. Slope’s was not so agreeable to Eleanor, who since her return to Barchester had done her best to avoid him. She would not give way to the Plumstead folk when they so ungenerously accused her of being in love with this odious man; but, nevertheless, knowing that she was so accused, she was fully alive to the expediency of keeping out of his way and dropping him by degrees. She had seen very little of him since her return. Her servant had been instructed to say to all visitors that she was out. She could not bring herself to specify Mr. Slope particularly, and in order to avoid him she had thus debarred herself from all her friends. She had excepted Charlotte Stanhope and, by degrees, a few others also. Once she had met him at the Stanhopes’, but as a rule, Mr. Slope’s visits there were made in the morning and hers in the evening. On that one occasion Charlotte had managed to preserve her from any annoyance. This was very good-natured on the part of Charlotte, as Eleanor thought, and also very sharp-witted, as Eleanor had told her friend nothing of her reasons for wishing to avoid that gentleman. The fact, however, was that Charlotte had learnt from her sister that Mr. Slope would probably put himself forward as a suitor for the widow’s hand, and she was consequently sufficiently alive to the expediency of guarding Bertie’s future wife from any danger in that quarter.

  Nevertheless the Stanhopes were pledged to take Mr. Slope with them to Ullathorne. An arrangement was therefore necessarily made, which was very disagreeable to Eleanor. Dr. Stanhope, with herself, Charlotte, and Mr. Slope, were to go together, and Bertie was to follow with his sister Madeline. It was clearly visible by Eleanor’s face that this assortment was very disagreeable to her, and Charlotte, who was much encouraged thereby in her own little plan, made a thousand apologies.

  “I see you don’t like it, my dear,” said she, “but we could not manage otherwise. Bertie would give his eyes to go with you, but Madeline cannot possibly go without him. Nor could we possibly put Mr. Slope and Madeline in the same carriage without anyone else. They’d both be ruined forever, you know, and not admitted inside Ullathorne gates, I should imagine, after such an impropriety.”

  “Of course that wouldn’t do,” said Eleanor, “but couldn’t I go in the carriage with the signora and your brother?”

  “Impossible!” said Charlotte. “When she is there, there is only room for two.” The signora, in truth, did not care to do her travelling in the presence of strangers.

  “Well, then,” said Eleanor, “you are all so kind, Charlotte, and so good to me that I am sure you won’t be offended, but I think I’ll not go at all.”

  “Not go at all!—what nonsense!—indeed you shall.” It had been absolutely determined in family counsel that Bertie should propose on that very occasion.

  “Or I can take a fly,” said Eleanor. “You know I am not embarrassed by so many difficulties as you young ladies; I can go alone.”

  “Nonsense, my dear! Don’t think of such a thing; after all, it is only for an hour or so; and, to tell the truth, I don’t know what it is you dislike so. I thought you and Mr. Slope were great friends. What is it you dislike?”

  “Oh, nothing particular,” said Eleanor; “only I thought it would be a family party.”

  “Of course it would be much nicer, much more snug, if Bertie could go with us. It is he that is badly treated. I can assure you he is much more afraid of Mr. Slope than you are. But you see Madeline cannot go out without him—and she, poor creature, goes out so seldom! I am sure you don’t begrudge her this, though her vagary does knock about our own party a little.”

  Of course Eleanor made a thousand protestations, and uttered a thousand hopes that Madeline would enjoy herself. And of course she had to give way, and undertake to go in the carriage with Mr. Slope. In fact, she was driven either to do this, or to explain why she would not do so. Now she could not bring herself to explain to Charlotte Stanhope all that had passed at Plumstead.

  But it was to her a sore necessity. She thought of a thousand little schemes for avoiding it; she would plead illness and not go at all; she would persuade Mary Bold to go, although not asked, and then make a necessity of having a carriage of her own to take her sister-in-law; anything, in fact, she could do, rather than be seen by Mr. Arabin getting out of the same carriage with Mr. Slope. However, when the momentous morning came, she had no scheme matured, and then Mr. Slope handed her into Dr. Stanhope’s carriage and, following her steps, sat opposite to her.

  The bishop returned on the eve of the Ullathorne party, and was received at home with radiant smiles by the partner of all his cares. On his arrival he crept up to his dressing-room with somewhat of a palpitating heart; he had overstayed his alloted time by three days, and was not without much fear of penalties. Nothing, however, could be more affectionately cordial than the greeting he received; the girls came out and kissed him in a manner that was quite soothing to his spirit; and Mrs. Proudie, “albeit, unused to the melting mood,” squeezed him in her arms and almost in words called him her dear, darling, good, pet, little bishop. All this was a very pleasant surprise.

  Mrs. Proudie had somewhat changed her tactics; not that she had seen any cause to disapprove of her former line of conduct, but she had now brought matters to such a point that she calculated that she might safely do so. She had got the better of Mr. Slope, and she now thought well to show her husband that when allowed to get the better of everybody, when obeyed by him and permitted to rule over others, she would take care that he should have his reward. Mr. Slope had not a chance against her; not only could she stun the poor bishop by her midnight anger, but she could assuage and soothe him, if she so willed, by daily indulgences. She could furnish his room for him, turn him out as smart a bishop as any on the bench, give him good dinners, warm fires, and an easy life—all this she would do if he would but be quietly obedient. But, if not—! To speak sooth, however, his sufferings on that dreadful night had been so poignant as to leave him little spirit for further rebellion.

  As soon as he had dressed himself, she returned to his room. “I hope you enjoyed yourself at ——,” said she, seating herself on one side of the fire while he remained in his armchair on the other, stroking the calves of his legs. It was the first time he had had a fire in his room since the summer, and it pleased him, for the good bishop loved to be warm and cosy. Yes, he said, he had enjoyed himself very much. Nothing could be more polite than the archbishop, and Mrs. Archbishop had been equally charming.

  Mrs. Proudie was delighted to hear it; nothing, she declared, pleased her so much as to think

  Her bairn respectit like the lave.

  She did not put it precisely in these words, but what she said came to the same thing; and then, having petted and fondled her little man sufficiently, she proceeded to business.

  “The poor dean is still alive,” said she.

  “So I hear, so I hear,” said the bishop. “I’ll go to the deanery directly after breakfast to-morrow.”
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  “We are going to this party at Ullathorne to-morrow morning, my dear; we must be there early, you know—by twelve o’clock I suppose.”

  “Oh—ah!” said the bishop; “then I’ll certainly call the next day.”

  “Was much said about it at ——?” asked Mrs. Proudie.

  “About what?” said the bishop.

  “Filling up the dean’s place,” said Mrs. Proudie. As she spoke, a spark of the wonted fire returned to her eye, and the bishop felt himself to be a little less comfortable than before.

  “Filling up the dean’s place; that is, if the dean dies? Very little, my dear. It was mentioned, just mentioned.”

  “And what did you say about it, Bishop?”

  “Why, I said that I thought that if, that is, should—should the dean die, that is, I said I thought—” As he went on stammering and floundering, he saw that his wife’s eye was fixed sternly on him. Why should he encounter such evil for a man whom he loved so slightly as Mr. Slope? Why should he give up his enjoyments and his ease and such dignity as might be allowed to him to fight a losing battle for a chaplain? The chaplain, after all, if successful, would be as great a tyrant as his wife. Why fight at all? Why contend? Why be uneasy? From that moment he determined to fling Mr. Slope to the winds and take the goods the gods provided.

  “I am told,” said Mrs. Proudie, speaking very slowly, “that Mr. Slope is looking to be the new dean.”

  “Yes—certainly, I believe he is,” said the bishop.

  “And what does the archbishop say about that?” asked Mrs. Proudie.

  “Well, my dear, to tell the truth, I promised Mr. Slope to speak to the archbishop. Mr. Slope spoke to me about it. It is very arrogant of him, I must say—but that is nothing to me.”

  “Arrogant!” said Mrs. Proudie; “it is the most impudent piece of pretension I ever heard of in my life. Mr. Slope Dean of Barchester, indeed! And what did you do in the matter, Bishop?”

  “Why, my dear, I did speak to the archbishop.”

  “You don’t mean to tell me,” said Mrs. Proudie, “that you are going to make yourself ridiculous by lending your name to such a preposterous attempt as this? Mr. Slope Dean of Barchester, indeed!” And she tossed her head and put her arms a-kimbo with an air of confident defiance that made her husband quite sure that Mr. Slope never would be Dean of Barchester. In truth, Mrs. Proudie was all but invincible; had she married Petruchio, it may be doubted whether that arch wife-tamer would have been able to keep her legs out of those garments which are presumed by men to be peculiarly unfitted for feminine use.

  “It is preposterous, my dear.”

  “Then why have you endeavoured to assist him?”

  “Why—my dear, I haven’t assisted him—much.”

  “But why have you done it at all? Why have you mixed your name up in anything so ridiculous? What was it you did say to the archbishop?”

  “Why, I just did mention it; I just did say that—that in the event of the poor dean’s death, Mr. Slope would—would—”

  “Would what?”

  “I forget how I put it—would take it if he could get it; something of that sort. I didn’t say much more than that.”

  “You shouldn’t have said anything at all. And what did the archbishop say?”

  “He didn’t say anything; he just bowed and rubbed his hands. Somebody else came up at the moment, and as we were discussing the new parochial universal school committee, the matter of the new dean dropped; after that I didn’t think it wise to renew it.”

  “Renew it! I am very sorry you ever mentioned it. What will the archbishop think of you?”

  “You may be sure, my dear, the archbishop thought very little about it.”

  “But why did you think about it, Bishop? How could you think of making such a creature as that Dean of Barchester? Dean of Barchester! I suppose he’ll be looking for a bishopric some of these days—a man that hardly knows who his own father was; a man that I found without bread to his mouth or a coat to his back. Dean of Barchester, indeed! I’ll dean him.”

  Mrs. Proudie considered herself to be in politics a pure Whig; all her family belonged to the Whig party. Now, among all ranks of Englishmen and Englishwomen (Mrs. Proudie should, I think, be ranked among the former on the score of her great strength of mind), no one is so hostile to lowly-born pretenders to high station as the pure Whig.

  The bishop thought it necessary to exculpate himself. “Why, my dear,” said he, “it appeared to me that you and Mr. Slope did not get on quite so well as you used to do!”

  “Get on!” said Mrs. Proudie, moving her foot uneasily on the hearth-rug and compressing her lips in a manner that betokened much danger to the subject of their discourse.

  “I began to find that he was objectionable to you”—Mrs. Proudie’s foot worked on the hearth-rug with great rapidity—”and that you would be more comfortable if he was out of the palace”—Mrs. Proudie smiled, as a hyena may probably smile before he begins his laugh—”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.”

  And then the hyena laughed out. Pleased at such an arrangement! Pleased at having her enemy converted into a dean with twelve hundred a year! Medea, when she describes the customs of her native country (I am quoting from Robson’s edition), assures her astonished auditor that in her land captives, when taken, are eaten. “You pardon them?” says Medea. “We do indeed,” says the mild Grecian. “We eat them!” says she of Colchis, with terrific energy. Mrs. Proudie was the Medea of Barchester; she had no idea of not eating Mr. Slope. Pardon him! Merely get rid of him! Make a dean of him! It was not so they did with their captives in her country, among people of her sort! Mr. Slope had no such mercy to expect; she would pick him to the very last bone.

  “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. Besides, he has shown himself quite unfit for such a situation; making broils and quarrels among the clergy; getting you, my dear, into scrapes; and taking upon himself as though he were as good as bishop himself. Of course he’ll go. But because he leaves the palace, that is no reason why he should get into the deanery.”

  “Oh, of course not!” said the bishop; “but to save appearances, you know, my dear—”

  “I don’t want to save appearances; I want Mr. Slope to appear just what he is—a false, designing, mean, intriguing man. I have my eye on him; he little knows what I see. He is misconducting himself in the most disgraceful way with that lame Italian woman. That family is a disgrace to Barchester, and Mr. Slope is a disgrace to Barchester. If he doesn’t look well to it, he’ll have his gown stripped off his back instead of having a dean’s hat on his head. Dean, indeed! The man has gone mad with arrogance.”

  The bishop said nothing further to excuse either himself or his chaplain, and having shown himself passive and docile, was again taken into favour. They soon went to dinner, and he spent the pleasantest evening he had had in his own house for a long time. His daughter played and sang to him as he sipped his coffee and read his newspaper, and Mrs. Proudie asked good-natured little questions about the archbishop; and then he went happily to bed and slept as quietly as though Mrs. Proudie had been Griselda herself. While shaving himself in the morning and preparing for the festivities of Ullathorne, he fully resolved to run no more tilts against a warrior so fully armed at all points as was Mrs. Proudie.

  CHAPTER 15

  Oxford—The Master and Tutor of Lazarus

  Mr. Arabin, as we have said, had but a sad walk of it under the trees of Plumstead churchyard. He did not appear to any of the family till dinner-time, and then he seemed, as far as their judgement went, to be quite himself. He had, as was his wont, asked himself a great many questions, and given himself a great many answers; and the upshot of this was that he had sent himself down for an ass. He had determ
ined that he was much too old and much too rusty to commence the manoeuvres of love-making; that he had let the time slip through his hands which should have been used for such purposes; and that now he must lie on his bed as he had made it. Then he asked himself whether in truth he did love this woman; and he answered himself, not without a long struggle, but at last honestly, that he certainly did love her. He then asked himself whether he did not also love her money, and he again answered himself that he did so. But here he did not answer honestly. It was and ever had been his weakness to look for impure motives for his own conduct. No doubt, circumstanced as he was, with a small living and a fellowship, accustomed as he had been to collegiate luxuries and expensive comforts, he might have hesitated to marry a penniless woman had he felt ever so strong a predilection for the woman herself; no doubt Eleanor’s fortune put all such difficulties out of the question; but it was equally without doubt that his love for her had crept upon him without the slightest idea on his part that he could ever benefit his own condition by sharing her wealth.

  When he had stood on the hearth-rug, counting the pattern, and counting also the future chances of his own life, the remembrances of Mrs. Bold’s comfortable income had certainly not damped his first assured feeling of love for her. And why should it have done so? Need it have done so with the purest of men? Be that as it may, Mr. Arabin decided against himself; he decided that it had done so in his case, and that he was not the purest of men.