Dr. Proudie tripped out into the adjoining room, in which were congregated a crowd of Grantlyite clergymen, among whom the archdeacon was standing pre-eminent, while the old dean was sitting nearly buried in a huge arm chair by the fireplace. The bishop was very anxious to be gracious, and, if possible, to diminish the bitterness which his chaplain had occasioned. Let Mr. Slope do the
fortiter in re
, he himself would pour in the
suaviter in modo
.
“Pray don’t stir, Mr. Dean, pray don’t stir,” he said as the old man essayed to get up; “I take it as a great kindness, your coming to such an
omnium gatherum
as this. But we have hardly got settled yet, and Mrs. Proudie has not been able to see her friends as she would wish to do. Well, Mr. Archdeacon, after all, we have not been so hard upon you at Oxford.”
“No,” said the archdeacon, “you’ve only drawn our teeth and cut out our tongues; you’ve allowed us still to breathe and swallow.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the bishop; “it’s not quite so easy to cut out the tongue of an Oxford magnate—and as for teeth—ha, ha, ha! Why, in the way we’ve left the matter, it’s very odd if the heads of colleges don’t have their own way quite as fully as when the hebdomadal board was in all its glory; what do you say, Mr. Dean?”
“An old man, my lord, never likes changes,” said the dean.
“You must have been sad bunglers if it is so,” said the archdeacon; “and indeed, to tell the truth, I think you have bungled it. At any rate, you must own this; you have not done the half what you boasted you would do.”
“Now, as regards your system of professors—” began the chancellor slowly. He was never destined to get beyond such beginning.
“Talking of professors,” said a soft clear voice, close behind the chancellor’s elbow; “how much you Englishmen might learn from Germany; only you are all too proud.”
The bishop, looking round, perceived that that abominable young Stanhope had pursued him. The dean stared at him as though he were some unearthly apparition; so also did two or three prebendaries and minor canons. The archdeacon laughed.
“The German professors are men of learning,” said Mr. Harding, “but—”
“German professors!” groaned out the chancellor, as though his nervous system had received a shock which nothing but a week of Oxford air could cure.
“Yes,” continued Ethelbert, not at all understanding why a German professor should be contemptible in the eyes of an Oxford don. “Not but what the name is best earned at Oxford. In Germany the professors do teach; at Oxford, I believe, they only profess to do so, and sometimes not even that. You’ll have those universities of yours about your ears soon, if you don’t consent to take a lesson from Germany.”
There was no answering this. Dignified clergymen of sixty years of age could not condescend to discuss such a matter with a young man with such clothes and such a beard.
“Have you got good water out at Plumstead, Mr. Archdeacon?” said the bishop by way of changing the conversation.
“Pretty good,” said Dr. Grantly.
“But by no means so good as his wine, my lord,” said a witty minor canon.
“Nor so generally used,” said another; “that is, for inward application.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the bishop, “a good cellar of wine is a very comfortable thing in a house.”
“Your German professors, Sir, prefer beer, I believe,” said the sarcastic little meagre prebendary.
“They don’t think much of either,” said Ethelbert, “and that perhaps accounts for their superiority. Now the Jewish professor—”
The insult was becoming too deep for the spirit of Oxford to endure, so the archdeacon walked off one way and the chancellor another, followed by their disciples, and the bishop and the young reformer were left together on the hearth-rug.
“I was a Jew once myself,” began Bertie.
The bishop was determined not to stand another examination, or be led on any terms into Palestine, so he again remembered that he had to do something very particular, and left young Stanhope with the dean. The dean did not get the worst of it for Ethelbert gave him a true account of his remarkable doings in the Holy Land.
“Oh, Mr. Harding,” said the bishop, overtaking the
ci-devant
warden; “I wanted to say one word about the hospital. You know, of course, that it is to be filled up.”
Mr. Harding’s heart beat a little, and he said that he had heard so.
“Of course,” continued the bishop; “there can be only one man whom I could wish to see in that situation. I don’t know what your own views may be, Mr. Harding—”
“They are very simply told, my lord,” said the other; “to take the place if it be offered me, and to put up with the want of it should another man get it.”
The bishop professed himself delighted to hear it; Mr. Harding might be quite sure that no other man would get it. There were some few circumstances which would in a slight degree change the nature of the duties. Mr. Harding was probably aware of this, and would, perhaps, not object to discuss the matter with Mr. Slope. It was a subject to which Mr. Slope had given a good deal of attention.
Mr. Harding felt, he knew not why, oppressed and annoyed. What could Mr. Slope do to him? He knew that there were to be changes. The nature of them must be communicated to the warden through somebody, and through whom so naturally as the bishop’s chaplain? ‘Twas thus he tried to argue himself back to an easy mind, but in vain.
Mr. Slope in the meantime had taken the seat which the bishop had vacated on the signora’s sofa, and remained with that lady till it was time to marshal the folk to supper. Not with contented eyes had Mrs. Proudie seen this. Had not this woman laughed at her distress, and had not Mr. Slope heard it? Was she not an intriguing Italian woman, half wife and half not, full of affectation, airs, and impudence? Was she not horribly bedizened with velvet and pearls, with velvet and pearls, too, which had not been torn off her back? Above all, did she not pretend to be more beautiful than her neighbours? To say that Mrs. Proudie was jealous would give a wrong idea of her feelings. She had not the slightest desire that Mr. Slope should be in love with herself. But she desired the incense of Mr. Slope’s spiritual and temporal services, and did not choose that they should be turned out of their course to such an object as Signora Neroni. She considered also that Mr. Slope ought in duty to hate the signora, and it appeared from his manner that he was very far from hating her.
“Come, Mr. Slope,” she said, sweeping by and looking all that she felt, “can’t you make yourself useful? Do pray take Mrs. Grantly down to supper.”
Mrs. Grantly heard and escaped. The words were hardly out of Mrs. Proudie’s mouth, before the intended victim had stuck her hand through the arm of one of her husband’s curates, and saved herself. What would the archdeacon have said had he seen her walking downstairs with Mr. Slope?
Mr. Slope heard also, but was by no means so obedient as was expected. Indeed, the period of Mr. Slope’s obedience to Mrs. Proudie was drawing to a close. He did not wish yet to break with her, nor to break with her at all, if it could be avoided. But he intended to be master in that palace, and as she had made the same resolution it was not improbable that they might come to blows.
Before leaving the signora he arranged a little table before her and begged to know what he should bring her. She was quite indifferent, she said—nothing—anything. It was now she felt the misery of her position, now that she must be left alone. Well, a little chicken, some ham, and a glass of champagne.
Mr. Slope had to explain, not without blushing for his patron, that there was no champagne.
Sherry would do just as well. And then Mr. Slope descended with the learned Miss Trefoil on his arm. Could she tell him, he asked, whether the ferns of Barsetshire were equal to those of Cumberland? His strongest worldly passion was for ferns—and before she could answer him he left her wedged between the door and the sideboard. It was fifty minutes before she escaped, and even then unfed.
“You are not leaving us, Mr. Slope,” said the watchful lady of the house, seeing her slave escaping towards the door, with stores of provisions held high above the heads of the guests.
Mr. Slope explained that the Signora Neroni was in want of her supper.
“Pray, Mr. Slope, let her brother take it to her,” said Mrs. Proudie, quite out loud. “It is out of the question that you should be so employed. Pray, Mr. Slope, oblige me; I am sure Mr. Stanhope will wait upon his sister.”
Ethelbert was most agreeably occupied in the furthest corner of the room, making himself both useful and agreeable to Mrs. Proudie’s youngest daughter.
“I couldn’t get out, madam, if Madeline were starving for her supper,” said he; “I’m physically fixed, unless I could fly.”
The lady’s anger was increased by seeing that her daughter also had gone over to the enemy, and when she saw, that in spite of her remonstrances, in the teeth of her positive orders, Mr. Slope went off to the drawing-room, the cup of her indignation ran over, and she could not restrain herself. “Such manners I never saw,” she said, muttering. “I cannot and will not permit it;” and then, after fussing and fuming for a few minutes, she pushed her way through the crowd and followed Mr. Slope.
When she reached the room above, she found it absolutely deserted, except by the guilty pair. The signora was sitting very comfortably up to her supper, and Mr. Slope was leaning over her and administering to her wants. They had been discussing the merits of Sabbath-day schools, and the lady had suggested that as she could not possibly go to the children, she might be indulged in the wish of her heart by having the children brought to her.
“And when shall it be, Mr. Slope?” said she.
Mr. Slope was saved the necessity of committing himself to a promise by the entry of Mrs. Proudie. She swept close up to the sofa so as to confront the guilty pair, stared full at them for a moment, and then said, as she passed on to the next room, “Mr. Slope, his lordship is especially desirous of your attendance below; you will greatly oblige me if you will join him.” And so she stalked on.
Mr. Slope muttered something in reply, and prepared to go downstairs. As for the bishop’s wanting him, he knew his lady patroness well enough to take that assertion at what it was worth; but he did not wish to make himself the hero of a scene, or to become conspicuous for more gallantry than the occasion required.
“Is she always like this?” said the signora.
“Yes—always—madam,” said Mrs. Proudie, returning; “always the same—always equally adverse to impropriety of conduct of every description;” and she stalked back through the room again, following Mr. Slope out of the door.
The signora couldn’t follow her, or she certainly would have done so. But she laughed loud, and sent the sound of it ringing through the lobby and down the stairs after Mrs. Proudie’s feet. Had she been as active as Grimaldi, she could probably have taken no better revenge.
“Mr. Slope,” said Mrs. Proudie, catching the delinquent at the door, “I am surprised you should leave my company to attend on such a painted Jezebel as that.”
“But she’s lame, Mrs. Proudie, and cannot move. Somebody must have waited upon her.”
“Lame,” said Mrs. Proudie; “I’d lame her if she belonged to me. What business had she here at all?—such impertinence—such affectation.”
In the hall and adjacent rooms all manner of cloaking and shawling was going on, and the Barchester folk were getting themselves gone. Mrs. Proudie did her best to smirk at each and every one as they made their adieux, but she was hardly successful. Her temper had been tried fearfully. By slow degrees the guests went.
“Send back the carriage quick,” said Ethelbert, as Dr. and Mrs. Stanhope took their departure.
The younger Stanhopes were left to the very last, and an uncomfortable party they made with the bishop’s family. They all went into the dining-room, and then the bishop observing that “the lady” was alone in the drawing-room, they followed him up. Mrs. Proudie kept Mr. Slope and her daughters in close conversation, resolving that he should not be indulged, nor they polluted. The bishop, in mortal dread of Bertie and the Jews, tried to converse with Charlotte Stanhope about the climate of Italy. Bertie and the signora had no resource but in each other.
“Did you get your supper at last, Madeline?” said the impudent or else mischievous young man.
“Oh, yes,” said Madeline; “Mr. Slope was so very kind as to bring it me. I fear, however, he put himself to more inconvenience than I wished.”
Mrs. Proudie looked at her but said nothing. The meaning of her look might have been thus translated; “If ever you find yourself within these walls again, I’ll give you leave to be as impudent and affected and as mischievous as you please.”
At last the carriage returned with the three Italian servants, and La Signora Madeline Vesey Neroni was carried out, as she had been carried in.
The lady of the palace retired to her chamber by no means contented with the result of her first grand party at Barchester.
CHAPTER 12
Slope versus Harding
Two or three days after the party, Mr. Harding received a note begging him to call on Mr. Slope, at the palace, at an early hour on the following morning. There was nothing uncivil in the communication, and yet the tone of it was thoroughly displeasing. It was as follows:
MY DEAR MR. HARDING,
Will you favour me by calling on me at the palace to-morrow morning at 9:30 a.m. The bishop wishes me to speak to you touching the hospital. I hope you will excuse my naming so early an hour. I do so as my time is greatly occupied. If, however, it is positively inconvenient to you, I will change it to 10. You will, perhaps, be kind enough to let me have a note in reply.
Believe me to be,
My dear Mr. Harding,
Your assured friend,
OBH. SLOPE
The Palace, Monday morning,
20th August, 185—
Mr. Harding neither could nor would believe anything of the sort, and he thought, moreover, that Mr. Slope was rather impertinent to call himself by such a name. His assured friend, indeed! How many assured friends generally fall to the lot of a man in this world? And by what process are they made? And how much of such process had taken place as yet between Mr. Harding and Mr. Slope? Mr. Harding could not help asking himself these questions as he read and re-read the note before him. He answered it, however, as follows:
DEAR SIR,
I will call at the palace to-morrow at 9:30 a.m. as you desire.
Truly yours,
S. HARDING
High Street, Barchester, Monday
And on the following morning, punctually at half-past nine, he knocked at the palace door and asked for Mr. Slope.
The bishop had one small room allotted to him on the ground-floor, and Mr. Slope had another. Into this latter Mr. Harding was shown and asked to sit down. Mr. Slope was not yet there. The ex-warden stood up at the window looking into the garden, and could not help thinking how very short a time had passed since the whole of that house had been open to him, as though he had been a child of the family, born and bred in it. He remembered how the old servants used to smile as they opened the door to him; how the familiar butler would say, when he had been absent a few hours longer than usual, “A sight of you, Mr. Harding, is good for sore eyes;” how the fussy housekeeper would swear that he couldn’t have dined, or couldn’t have breakfasted, or couldn’t have lunched. And then, above all, he remembered the pleasant gleam of inward satisfaction which always spread itself over the old bishop’s face whenever his friend entered his room.
A tear came into each eye as he reflected that all this was gone. What use would the hospital be to him now? He was alone in the world, and getting old; he would soon, very soon have to go and leave it all, as his dear old friend had gone; go, and leave the hospital, and his accustomed place in the cathedral, and his haunts and pleasures, to younger and perhaps wiser men. That chanting of his! Perhaps, in truth, the time for it was gone by. He felt as though the world were sinking from his feet; as though this, this was the time for him to turn with confidence to those hopes which he had preached with confidence to others. “What,” said he to himself, “can a man’s religion be worth if it does not support him against the natural melancholy of declining years?” And, as he looked out through his dimmed eyes into the bright parterres of the bishop’s garden, he felt that he had the support which he wanted.
Nevertheless, he did not like to be thus kept waiting. If Mr. Slope did not really wish to see him at half-past nine o’clock, why force him to come away from his lodgings with his breakfast in his throat? To tell the truth, it was policy on the part of Mr. Slope. Mr. Slope had made up his mind that Mr. Harding should either accept the hospital with abject submission, or else refuse it altogether, and had calculated that he would probably be more quick to do the latter, if he could be got to enter upon the subject in an ill-humour. Perhaps Mr. Slope was not altogether wrong in his calculation.
It was nearly ten when Mr. Slope hurried into the room and, muttering something about the bishop and diocesan duties, shook Mr. Harding’s hand ruthlessly and begged him to be seated.
Now the air of superiority which this man assumed, did go against the grain with Mr. Harding, and yet he did not know how to resent it. The whole tendency of his mind and disposition was opposed to any contra-assumption of grandeur on his own part, and he hadn’t the worldly spirit or quickness necessary to put down insolent pretensions by downright and open rebuke, as the archdeacon would have done. There was nothing for Mr. Harding but to submit, and he accordingly did so.
“About the hospital, Mr. Harding?” began Mr. Slope, speaking of it as the head of a college at Cambridge might speak of some sizarship which had to be disposed of.
Mr. Harding crossed one leg over another, and then one hand over the other on the top of them, and looked Mr. Slope in the face; but he said nothing.
“It’s to be filled up again,” said Mr. Slope. Mr. Harding said that he had understood so.
“Of course, you know, the income will be very much reduced,” continued Mr. Slope. “The bishop wished to be liberal, and he therefore told the government that he thought it ought to be put at not less than £450. I think on the whole the bishop was right, for though the services required will not be of a very onerous nature, they will be more so than they were before. And it is, perhaps, well that the clergy immediately attached to the cathedral town should be made as comfortable as the extent of the ecclesiastical means at our disposal will allow. Those are the bishop’s ideas, and I must say mine also.”
Mr. Harding sat rubbing one hand on the other, but said not a word.
“So much for the income, Mr. Harding. The house will, of course, remain to the warden, as before. It should, however, I think, be stipulated that he should paint inside every seven years, and outside every three years, and be subject to dilapidations, in the event of vacating, either by death or otherwise. But this is a matter on which the bishop must yet be consulted.”
Mr. Harding still rubbed his hands and still sat silent, gazing up into Mr. Slope’s unprepossessing face.
“Then, as to the duties,” continued he, “I believe, if I am rightly informed, there can hardly be said to have been any duties hitherto,” and he gave a sort of half-laugh, as though to pass off the accusation in the guise of a pleasantry.
Mr. Harding thought of the happy, easy years he had passed in his old home; of the worn-out, aged men whom he had succoured; of his good intentions; and of his work, which had certainly been of the lightest. He thought of these things, doubting for a moment whether he did or did not deserve the sarcasm. He gave his enemy the benefit of the doubt, and did not rebuke him. He merely observed, very tranquilly, and perhaps with too much humility, that the duties of the situation, such as they were, had, he believed, been done to the satisfaction of the late bishop.
Mr. Slope again smiled, and this time the smile was intended to operate against the memory of the late bishop, rather than against the energy of the ex-warden; and so it was understood by Mr. Harding. The colour rose to his cheeks, and he began to feel very angry.
“You must be aware, Mr. Harding, that things are a good deal changed in Barchester,” said Mr. Slope.
Mr. Harding said that he was aware of it. “And not only in Barchester, Mr. Harding, but in the world at large. It is not only in Barchester that a new man is carrying out new measures and casting away the useless rubbish of past centuries. The same thing is going on throughout the country. Work is now required from every man who receives wages, and they who have to superintend the doing of work, and the paying of wages, are bound to see that this rule is carried out. New men, Mr. Harding, are now needed and are now forthcoming in the church, as well as in other professions.”
All this was wormwood to our old friend. He had never rated very high his own abilities or activity, but all the feelings of his heart were with the old clergy, and any antipathies of which his heart was susceptible were directed against those new, busy, uncharitable, self-lauding men, of whom Mr. Slope was so good an example.
“Perhaps,” said he, “the bishop will prefer a new man at the hospital?”
“By no means,” said Mr. Slope. “The bishop is very anxious that you should accept the appointment, but he wishes you should understand beforehand what will be the required duties. In the first place, a Sabbath-day school will be attached to the hospital.”
“What! For the old men?” asked Mr. Harding.
“No, Mr. Harding, not for the old men, but for the benefit of the children of such of the poor of Barchester as it may suit. The bishop will expect that you shall attend this school, and that the teachers shall be under your inspection and care.”
Mr. Harding slipped his topmost hand off the other and began to rub the calf of the leg which was supported.
“As to the old men,” continued Mr. Slope, “and the old women who are to form a part of the hospital, the bishop is desirous that you shall have morning and evening service on the premises every Sabbath, and one weekday service; that you shall preach to them once at least on Sundays; and that the whole hospital be always collected for morning and evening prayer. The bishop thinks that this will render it unnecessary that any separate seats in the cathedral should be reserved for the hospital inmates.”
Mr. Slope paused, but Mr. Harding still said nothing.
“Indeed, it would be difficult to find seats for the women; on the whole, Mr. Harding, I may as well say at once, that for people of that class the cathedral service does not appear to me the most useful—even if it be so for any class of people.”
“We will not discuss that, if you please,” said Mr. Harding.
“I am not desirous of doing so; at least, not at the present moment. I hope, however, you fully understand the bishop’s wishes about the new establishment of the hospital; and if, as I do not doubt, I shall receive from you an assurance that you accord with his lordship’s views, it will give me very great pleasure to be the bearer from his lordship to you of the presentation to the appointment.”
“But if I disagree with his lordship’s views?” asked Mr. Harding.
“But I hope you do not,” said Mr. Slope.
“But if I do?” again asked the other.
“If such unfortunately should be the case, which I can hardly conceive, I presume your own feelings will dictate to you the propriety of declining the appointment.”
“But if I accept the appointment and yet disagree with the bishop, what then?”
This question rather bothered Mr. Slope. It was true that he had talked the matter over with the bishop and had received a sort of authority for suggesting to Mr. Harding the propriety of a Sunday school and certain hospital services, but he had no authority for saying that these propositions were to be made peremptory conditions attached to the appointment. The bishop’s idea had been that Mr. Harding would of course consent and that the school would become, like the rest of those new establishments in the city, under the control of his wife and his chaplain. Mr. Slope’s idea had been more correct. He intended that Mr. Harding should refuse the situation, and that an ally of his own should get it, but he had not conceived the possibility of Mr. Harding openly accepting the appointment and as openly rejecting the conditions.
“It is not, I presume, probable,” said he, “that you will accept from the hands of the bishop a piece of preferment with a fixed predetermination to disacknowledge the duties attached to it.”
“If I become warden,” said Mr. Harding, “and neglect my duty, the bishop has means by which he can remedy the grievance.”
“I hardly expected such an argument from you, or I may say the suggestion of such a line of conduct,” said Mr. Slope with a great look of injured virtue.
“Nor did I expect such a proposition.”
“I shall be glad at any rate to know what answer I am to make to his lordship,” said Mr. Slope.
“I will take an early opportunity of seeing his lordship myself,” said Mr. Harding.
“Such an arrangement,” said Mr. Slope, “will hardly give his lordship satisfaction. Indeed, it is impossible that the bishop should himself see every clergyman in the diocese on every subject of patronage that may arise. The bishop, I believe, did see you on the matter, and I really cannot see why he should be troubled to do so again.”
“Do you know, Mr. Slope, how long I have been officiating as a clergyman in this city?” Mr. Slope’s wish was now nearly fulfilled. Mr. Harding had become angry, and it was probable that he might commit himself.
“I really do not see what that has to do with the question. You cannot think the bishop would be justified in allowing you to regard as a sinecure a situation that requires an active man, merely because you have been employed for many years in the cathedral.”
“But it might induce the bishop to see me, if I asked him to do so. I shall consult my friends in this matter, Mr. Slope; but I mean to be guilty of no subterfuge—you may tell the bishop 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, Mr. Harding 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.
“That is very surprising,” said the bishop.
“Not at all,” said Mrs. Proudie; “you little know how determined the whole set of them are to withstand your authority.”
“But Mr. Harding was so anxious for it,” said the bishop.
“Yes,” said Mr. Slope, “if he can hold it without the slightest acknowledgement of your lordship’s jurisdiction.”
“That is out of the question,” said the bishop.
“I should imagine it to be quite so,” said the chaplain.
“Indeed, I should think so,” said the lady.
“I really am sorry for it,” said the bishop.