The Complete Chronicles of Barsetshire: (The Warden + Barchester Towers + Doctor Thorne + Framley Parsonage + The Small House at Allington + The Last Chronicle of Barset). Anthony Trollope
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 akimbo 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 XXXIV
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 determined 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,