Mr. Harding was not a happy man as he walked down the palace pathway and stepped out into the close. His preferment and pleasant house were a second time gone from him, but that he could endure. He had been schooled and insulted by a man young enough to be his son, but that he could put up with. He could even draw from the very injuries which had been inflicted1 on him some of that consolation2 which we may believe martyrs3 always receive from the injustice4 of their own sufferings, and which is generally proportioned in its strength to the extent of cruelty with which martyrs are treated. He had admitted to his daughter that he wanted the comfort of his old home, and yet he could have returned to his lodgings5 in the High Street, if not with exaltation, at least with satisfaction, had that been all. But the venom7 of the chaplain’s harangue8 had worked into his blood and sapped the life of his sweet contentment.
“New men are carrying out new measures and are carting away the useless rubbish of past centuries!” What cruel words these had been; and how often are they now used with all the heartless cruelty of a Slope! A man is sufficiently9 condemned10 if it can only be shown that either in politics or religion he does not belong to some new school established within the last score of years. He may then regard himself as rubbish and expect to be carted away. A man is nothing now unless he has within him a full appreciation11 of the new era, an era in which it would seem that neither honesty nor truth is very desirable, but in which success is the only touchstone of merit. We must laugh at everything that is established. Let the joke be ever so bad, ever so untrue to the real principles of joking; nevertheless we must laugh — or else beware the cart. We must talk, think, and live up to the spirit of the times, and write up to it too, if that cacoethes be upon us, or else we are nought12. New men and new measures, long credit and few scruples13, great success or wonderful ruin, such are now the tastes of Englishmen who know how to live. Alas14, alas! Under such circumstances Mr. Harding could not but feel that he was an Englishman who did not know how to live. This new doctrine15 of Mr. Slope and the rubbish cart, new at least at Barchester, sadly disturbed his equanimity16.
“The same thing is going on throughout the whole country! .... Work is now required from every man who receives wages!” And had he been living all his life receiving wages and doing no work? Had he in truth so lived as to be now in his old age justly reckoned as rubbish fit only to be hidden away in some huge dust-hole? The school of men to whom he professes17 to belong, the Grantlys, the Gwynnes, and the old high set of Oxford18 divines, are afflicted19 with no such self-accusations as these which troubled Mr. Harding. They, as a rule, are as satisfied with the wisdom and propriety20 of their own conduct as can be any Mr. Slope, or any Dr. Proudie, with his own. But unfortunately for himself Mr. Harding had little of this self-reliance. When he heard himself designated as rubbish by the Slopes of the world, he had no other resource than to make inquiry21 within his own bosom22 as to the truth of the designation. Alas, alas! The evidence seemed generally to go against him.
He had professed23 to himself in the bishop24’s parlour that in these coming sources of the sorrow of age, in these fits of sad regret from which the latter years of few reflecting men can be free, religion would suffice to comfort him. Yes, religion could console him for the loss of any worldly good, but was his religion of that active sort which would enable him so to repent25 of misspent years as to pass those that were left to him in a spirit of hope for the future? And such repentance26 itself, is it not a work of agony and of tears? It is very easy to talk of repentance, but a man has to walk over hot ploughshares before he can complete it; to be skinned alive as was St. Bartholomew; to be stuck full of arrows as was St. Sebastian; to lie broiling27 on a gridiron like St. Lorenzo! How if his past life required such repentance as this? Had he the energy to go through with it?
Mr. Harding, after leaving the palace, walked slowly for an hour or so beneath the shady elms of the close and then betook himself to his daughter’s house. He had at any rate made up his mind that he would go out to Plumstead to consult Dr. Grantly, and that he would in the first instance tell Eleanor what had occurred.
And now he was doomed28 to undergo another misery29. Mr. Slope had forestalled30 him at the widow’s house. He had called there on the preceding afternoon. He could not, he had said, deny himself the pleasure of telling Mrs. Bold that her father was about to return to the pretty house at Hiram’s Hospital. He had been instructed by the bishop to inform Mr. Harding that the appointment would now be made at once. The bishop was of course only too happy to be able to be the means of restoring to Mr. Harding the preferment which he had so long adorned31. And then by degrees Mr. Slope had introduced the subject of the pretty school which he hoped before long to see attached to the hospital. He had quite fascinated Mrs. Bold by his description of this picturesque32, useful, and charitable appendage33, and she had gone so far as to say that she had no doubt her father would approve and that she herself would gladly undertake a class.
Anyone who had heard the entirely34 different tone and seen the entirely different manner in which Mr. Slope had spoken of this projected institution to the daughter and to the father could not have failed to own that Mr. Slope was a man of genius. He said nothing to Mrs. Bold about the hospital sermons and services, nothing about the exclusion36 of the old men from the cathedral, nothing about dilapidation37 and painting, nothing about carting away the rubbish. Eleanor had said to herself that certainly she did not like Mr. Slope personally, but that he was a very active, zealous38 clergyman and would no doubt be useful in Barchester. All this paved the way for much additional misery to Mr. Harding.
Eleanor put on her happiest face as she heard her father on the stairs, for she thought she had only to congratulate him; but directly she saw his face she knew that there was but little matter for congratulation. She had seen him with the same weary look of sorrow on one or two occasions before, and remembered it well. She had seen him when he first read that attack upon himself in The Jupiter which had ultimately caused him to resign the hospital, and she had seen him also when the archdeacon had persuaded him to remain there against his own sense of propriety and honour. She knew at a glance that his spirit was in deep trouble.
“Oh, Papa, what is it?” said she, putting down her boy to crawl upon the floor.
“I came to tell you, my dear,” said he, “that I am going out to Plumstead: you won’t come with me, I suppose?”
“To Plumstead, Papa? Shall you stay there?”
“I suppose I shall, to-night: I must consult the archdeacon about this weary hospital. Ah me! I wish I had never thought of it again.”
“Why, Papa, what is the matter?”
“I’ve been with Mr. Slope, my dear, and he isn’t the pleasantest companion in the world, at least not to me.” Eleanor gave a sort of half-blush, but she was wrong if she imagined that her father in any way alluded39 to her acquaintance with Mr. Slope.
“Well, Papa.”
“He wants to turn the hospital into a Sunday-school and a preaching-house, and I suppose he will have his way. I do not feel myself adapted for such an establishment, and therefore, I suppose, I must refuse the appointment.”
“What would be the harm of the school, Papa?”
“The want of a proper schoolmaster, my dear.”
“But that would of course be supplied.”
“Mr. Slope wishes to supply it by making me his schoolmaster. But as I am hardly fit for such work, I intend to decline.”
“Oh, Papa! Mr. Slope doesn’t intend that. He was here yesterday, and what he intends —”
“He was here yesterday, was he?” asked Mr. Harding.
“Yes, Papa.”
“And talking about the hospital?”
“He was saying how glad he would be, and the bishop too, to see you back there again. And then he spoke35 about the Sunday-school; and to tell the truth I agreed with him; and I thought you would have done so too. Mr. Slope spoke of a school, not inside the hospital, but just connected with it, of which you would be the patron and visitor; and I thought you would have liked such a school as that; and I promised to look after it and to take a class — and it all seemed so very —. But, oh, Papa! I shall be so miserable40 if I find I have done wrong.”
“Nothing wrong at all, my dear,” said he gently, very gently rejecting his daughter’s caress41. There can be nothing wrong in your wishing to make yourself useful; indeed, you ought to do so by all means. Everyone must now exert himself who would not choose to go to the wall.” Poor Mr. Harding thus attempted in his misery to preach the new doctrine to his child. “Himself or herself, it’s all the same,” he continued; “you will be quite right, my dear, to do something of this sort; but —”
“Well, Papa.”
I am not quite sure that if I were you I would select Mr. Slope for my guide.”
“But I never have done so and never shall.”
“It would he very wicked of me to speak evil of him, for to tell the truth I know no evil of him, but I am not quite sure that he is honest. That he is not gentlemanlike in his manners, of that I am quite sure.”
“I never thought of taking him for my guide, Papa.”
“As for myself, my dear,” continued he, “we know the old proverb — ‘It’s bad teaching an old dog tricks.’ I must decline the Sunday-school, and shall therefore probably decline the hospital also. But I will first see your brother-inlaw.” So he took up his hat, kissed the baby, and withdrew, leaving Eleanor in as low spirits as himself.
All this was a great aggravation42 to his misery. He had so few with whom to sympathize that he could not afford to be cut off from the one whose sympathy was of the most value to him. And yet it seemed probable that this would be the case. He did not own to himself that he wished his daughter to hate Mr. Slope, yet had she expressed such a feeling there would have been very little bitterness in the rebuke43 he would have given her for so uncharitable a state of mind. The fact, however, was that she was on friendly terms with Mr. Slope, that she coincided with his views, adhered at once to his plans, and listened with delight to his teaching. Mr. Harding hardly wished his daughter to hate the man, but he would have preferred that to her loving him.
He walked away to the inn to order a fly, went home to put up his carpet-bag, and then started for Plumstead. There was, at any rate, no danger that the archdeacon would fraternize with Mr. Slope; but then he would recommend internecine44 war, public appeals, loud reproaches, and all the paraphernalia45 of open battle. Now that alternative was hardly more to Mr. Harding’s taste than the other.
When Mr. Harding reached the parsonage, he found that the archdeacon was out and would not be home till dinnertime, so he began his complaint to his elder daughter. Mrs. Grantly entertained quite as strong an antagonism46 to Mr. Slope as did her husband; she was also quite as alive to the necessity of combating the Proudie faction6, of supporting the old church interest of the close, of keeping in her own set such of the loaves and fishes as duly belonged to it; and was quite as well prepared as her lord to carry on the battle without giving or taking quarter. Not that she was a woman prone47 to quarrelling, or ill-inclined to live at peace with her clerical neighbours, but she felt, as did the archdeacon, that the presence of Mr. Slope in Barchester was an insult to everyone connected with the late bishop and that his assumed dominion48 in the diocese was a spiritual injury to her husband. Hitherto people had little guessed how bitter Mrs. Grantly could be. She lived on the best of terms with all the rectors’ wives around her. She had been popular with all the ladies connected with the close. Though much the wealthiest of the ecclesiastical matrons of the county, she had so managed her affairs that her carriage and horses had given umbrage49 to none. She had never thrown herself among the county grandees50 so as to excite the envy of other clergymen’s wives. She never talked too loudly of earls and countesses, or boasted that she gave her governess sixty pounds a year, or her cook seventy. Mrs. Grantly had lived the life of a wise, discreet51, peace-making woman, and the people of Barchester were surprised at the amount of military vigour52 she displayed as general of the feminine Grantlyite forces.
Mrs. Grantly soon learned that her sister Eleanor had promised to assist Mr. Slope in the affairs of the hospital school, and it was on this point that her attention first fixed53 itself.
“How can Eleanor endure him?” said she.
“He is a very crafty54 man,” said her father, “and his craft has been successful in making Eleanor think that he is a meek55, charitable, good clergyman. God forgive me, if I wrong him, but such is not his true character in my opinion.”
“His true character, indeed!” said she with something approaching scorn for her father’s moderation. “I only hope he won’t have craft enough to make Eleanor forget herself and her position.”
“Do you mean marry him?” said he, startled out of his usual demeanour by the abruptness56 and horror of so dreadful a proposition.
“What is there so improbable in it? Of course that would be his own object if he thought he had any chance of success. Eleanor has a thousand a year entirely at her own disposal, and what better fortune could fall to Mr. Slope’s lot than the transferring of the disposal of such a fortune to himself?”
“But you can’t think she likes him, Susan?”
“Why not?” said Susan. “Why shouldn’t she like him? He’s just the sort of man to get on with a woman left, as she is, with no one to look after her.”
“Look after her!” said the unhappy father; “don’t we look after her?”
“Ah, Papa, how innocent you are! Of course it was to be expected that Eleanor should marry again. I should be the last to advise her against it, if she would only wait the proper time and then marry at least a gentleman.”
“But you don’t really mean to say that you suppose Eleanor has ever thought of marrying Mr. Slope? Why, Mr. Bold has only been dead a year.”
“Eighteen months,” said his daughter. “But I don’t suppose Eleanor has ever thought about it. It is very probable, though, that he has; and that he will try and make her do so; and that he will succeed too, if we don’t take care what we are about.”
This was quite a new phase of the affair to poor Mr. Harding. To have thrust upon him as his son-inlaw, as the husband of his favourite child, the only man in the world whom he really positively57 disliked would be a misfortune which he felt he would not know how to endure patiently. But then, could there be any ground for so dreadful a surmise58? In all worldly matters he was apt to look upon the opinion of his eldest59 daughter as one generally sound and trustworthy. In her appreciation of character, of motives60, and the probable conduct both of men and women she was usually not far wrong. She had early foreseen the marriage of Eleanor and John Bold; she had at a glance deciphered the character of the new bishop and his chaplain; could it possibly be that her present surmise should ever come forth61 as true?
“But you don’t think that she likes him?” said Mr. Harding again.
“Well, Papa, I can’t say that I think she dislikes him as she ought to do. Why is he visiting there as a confidential62 friend, when he never ought to have been admitted inside the house? Why is it that she speaks to him about your welfare and your position as she clearly has done? At the bishop’s party the other night I saw her talking to him for half an hour at the stretch.”
“I thought Mr. Slope seemed to talk to nobody there but that daughter of Stanhope’s,” said Mr. Harding, wishing to defend his child.
“Oh, Mr. Slope is a cleverer man than you think of, Papa, and keeps more than one iron in the fire.”
To give Eleanor her due, any suspicion as to the slightest inclination63 on her part towards Mr. Slope was a wrong to her. She had no more idea of marrying Mr. Slope than she had of marrying the bishop, and the idea that Mr. Slope would present himself as a suitor had never occurred to her. Indeed, to give her her due again, she had never thought about suitors since her husband’s death. But nevertheless it was true that she had overcome all that repugnance64 to the man which was so strongly felt for him by the rest of the Grantly faction. She had forgiven him his sermon. She had forgiven him his Low Church tendencies, his Sabbath-schools, and puritanical65 observances. She had forgiven his pharisaical arrogance66 and even his greasy67 face and oily, vulgar manners. Having agreed to overlook such offences as these, why should she not in time be taught to regard Mr. Slope as a suitor?
And as to him, it must also be affirmed that he was hitherto equally innocent of the crime imputed68 to him. How it had come to pass that a man whose eyes were generally so widely open to everything around him had not perceived that this young widow was rich as well as beautiful cannot probably now be explained. But such was the fact. Mr. Slope had ingratiated himself with Mrs. Bold, merely as he had done with other ladies, in order to strengthen his party in the city. He subsequently amended69 his error, but it was not till after the interview between him and Mr. Harding.
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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faction
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| n.宗派，小集团；派别；派系斗争 | |
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venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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professes
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| 声称( profess的第三人称单数 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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broiling
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| adj.酷热的，炽热的，似烧的v.（用火）烤（焙、炙等）( broil的现在分词 )；使卷入争吵；使混乱；被烤（或炙） | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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forestalled
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| v.先发制人，预先阻止( forestall的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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appendage
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| n.附加物 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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dilapidation
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| n.倒塌；毁坏 | |
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zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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aggravation
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| n.烦恼，恼火 | |
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rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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internecine
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| adj.两败俱伤的 | |
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paraphernalia
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| n.装备；随身用品 | |
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antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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umbrage
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| n.不快；树荫 | |
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grandees
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| n.贵族，大公，显贵者( grandee的名词复数 ) | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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64
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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puritanical
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| adj.极端拘谨的；道德严格的 | |
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66
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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67
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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68
imputed
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
Amended
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| adj. 修正的 动词amend的过去式和过去分词 | |
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