Mr. Slope lost no time in availing himself of the bishop1’s permission to see Mr. Quiverful, and it was in his interview with this worthy2 pastor3 that he first learned that Mrs. Bold was worth the wooing. He rode out to Puddingdale to communicate to the embryo4 warden5 the goodwill6 of the bishop in his favour, and during the discussion on the matter it was not unnatural7 that the pecuniary8 resources of Mr. Harding and his family should become the subject of remark.
Mr. Quiverful with his fourteen children and his four hundred a year was a very poor man, and the prospect9 of this new preferment, which was to be held together with his living, was very grateful to him. To what clergyman so circumstanced would not such a prospect be very grateful? But Mr. Quiverful had long been acquainted with Mr. Harding, and had received kindness at his hands, so that his heart mis-gave him as he thought of supplanting10 a friend at the hospital. Nevertheless, he was extremely civil, cringingly civil, to Mr. Slope; treated him quite as the great man; entreated11 this great man to do him the honour to drink a glass of sherry, at which, as it was very poor Marsala, the now pampered12 Slope turned up his nose; and ended by declaring his extreme obligation to the bishop and Mr. Slope and his great desire to accept the hospital, if — if it were certainly the case that Mr. Harding had refused it.
What man as needy13 as Mr. Quiverful would have been more disinterested14?
“Mr. Harding did positively15 refuse it,” said Mr. Slope with a certain air of offended dignity, “when he heard of the conditions to which the appointment is now subjected. Of course you understand, Mr. Quiverful, that the same conditions will be imposed on yourself.”
Mr. Quiverful cared nothing for the conditions. He would have undertaken to preach any number of sermons Mr. Slope might have chosen to dictate16 and to pass every remaining hour of his Sundays within the walls of a Sunday-school. What sacrifices, or at any rate, what promises would have been too much to make for such an addition to his income and for such a house! But his mind still recurred17 to Mr. Harding.
“To be sure,” said he; “Mr. Harding’s daughter is very rich, and why should he trouble himself with the hospital?”
“You mean Mrs. Grantly,” said Slope.
“I meant his widowed daughter,” said the other. “Mrs. Bold has twelve hundred a year of her own, and I suppose Mr. Harding means to live with her.”
“Twelve hundred a year of her own!” said Slope, and very shortly afterwards took his leave, avoiding, as far as it was possible for him to do, any further allusion18 to the hospital. Twelve hundred a year! said he to himself as he rode slowly home. If it were the fact that Mrs. Bold had twelve hundred a year of her own, what a fool would he be to oppose her father’s return to his old place. The train of Mr. Slope’s ideas will probably be plain to all my readers. Why should he not make the twelve hundred a year his own? And if he did so, would it not be well for him to have a father-inlaw comfortably provided with the good things of this world? Would it not, moreover, be much more easy for him to gain the daughter if he did all in his power to forward the father’s views?
These questions presented themselves to him in a very forcible way, and yet there were many points of doubt. If he resolved to restore to Mr. Harding his former place, he must take the necessary steps for doing so at once; he must immediately talk over the bishop, quarrel on the matter with Mrs. Proudie whom he knew he could not talk over, and let Mr. Quiverful know that he had been a little too precipitate19 as to Mr. Harding’s positive refusal. That he could effect all this he did not doubt, but he did not wish to effect it for nothing. He did not wish to give way to Mr. Harding and then be rejected by the daughter. He did not wish to lose one influential20 friend before he had gained another.
And thus he rode home, meditating21 many things in his mind. It occurred to him that Mrs. Bold was sister-inlaw to the archdeacon and that not even for twelve hundred a year would he submit to that imperious man. A rich wife was a great desideratum to him, but success in his profession was still greater; there were, moreover, other rich women who might be willing to become wives; and after all, this twelve hundred a year might, when inquired into, melt away into some small sum utterly22 beneath his notice. Then also he remembered that Mrs. Bold had a son.
Another circumstance also much influenced him, though it was one which may almost be said to have influenced him against his will. The vision of the Signora Neroni was perpetually before his eyes. It would be too much to say that Mr. Slope was lost in love, but yet he thought, and kept continually thinking, that he had never seen so beautiful a woman. He was a man whose nature was open to such impulses, and the wiles23 of the Italianized charmer had been thoroughly24 successful in imposing25 upon his thoughts. We will not talk about his heart: not that he had no heart, but because his heart had little to do with his present feelings. His taste had been pleased, his eyes charmed, and his vanity gratified. He had been dazzled by a sort of loveliness which he had never before seen and had been caught by an easy, free, voluptuous26 manner which was perfectly27 new to him. He had never been so tempted28 before, and the temptation was now irresistible29. He had not owned to himself that he cared for this woman more than for others around him, but yet he thought often of the time when he might see her next and made, almost unconsciously, little cunning plans for seeing her frequently.
He had called at Dr. Stanhope’s house the day after the bishop’s party, and then the warmth of his admiration30 had been fed with fresh fuel. If the signora had been kind in her manner and flattering in her speech when lying upon the bishop’s sofa, with the eyes of so many on her, she had been much more so in her mother’s drawing-room, with no one present but her sister to repress either her nature or her art. Mr. Slope had thus left her quite bewildered, and could not willingly admit into his brain any scheme a part of which would be the necessity of his abandoning all further special friendship with this lady.
And so he slowly rode along, very meditative31.
And here the author must beg it to be remembered that Mr. Slope was not in all things a bad man. His motives32, like those of most men, were mixed, and though his conduct was generally very different from that which we would wish to praise, it was actuated perhaps as often as that of the majority of the world by a desire to do his duty. He believed in the religion which he taught, harsh, unpalatable, uncharitable as that religion was. He believed those whom he wished to get under his hoof33, the Grantlys and Gwynnes of the church, to be the enemies of that religion. He believed himself to be a pillar of strength, destined34 to do great things, and with that subtle, selfish, ambiguous sophistry35 to which the minds of all men are so subject, he had taught himself to think that in doing much for the promotion36 of his own interests, he was doing much also for the promotion of religion. But Mr. Slope had never been an immoral37 man. Indeed, he had resisted temptations to immorality38 with a strength of purpose that was creditable to him. He had early in life devoted39 himself to works which were not compatible with the ordinary pleasures of youth, and he had abandoned such pleasures not without a struggle. It must therefore be conceived that he did not admit to himself that he warmly admired the beauty of a married woman without heart-felt stings of conscience, and to pacify40 that conscience he had to teach himself that the nature of his admiration was innocent.
And thus he rode along meditative and ill at ease. His conscience had not a word to say against his choosing the widow and her fortune. That he looked upon as a godly work rather than otherwise; as a deed which, if carried through, would redound41 to his credit as a Christian42. On that side lay no future remorse43, no conduct which he might probably have to forget, no inward stings. If it should turn out to be really the fact that Mrs. Bold had twelve hundred a year at her own disposal, Mr. Slope would rather look upon it as a duty which he owed his religion to make himself the master of the wife and the money; as a duty too, in which some amount of self-sacrifice would be necessary. He would have to give up his friendship with the signora, his resistance to Mr. Harding, his antipathy44 — no, he found on mature self-examination that he could not bring himself to give up his antipathy to Dr. Grantly. He would marry the lady as the enemy of her brother-inlaw if such an arrangement suited her; if not, she must look elsewhere for a husband.
It was with such resolve as this that he reached Barchester. He would at once ascertain45 what the truth might be as to the lady’s wealth, and having done this he would be ruled by circumstances in his conduct respecting the hospital. If he found that he could turn round and secure the place for Mr. Harding without much self-sacrifice, he would do so; but if not, he would woo the daughter in opposition46 to the father. But in no case would he succumb47 to the archdeacon.
He saw his horse taken round to the stable and immediately went forth48 to commence his inquiries49. To give Mr. Slope his due, he was not a man who ever let much grass grow under his feet.
Poor Eleanor! She was doomed50 to be the intended victim of more schemes than one.
About the time that Mr. Slope was visiting the vicar of Puddingdale a discussion took place respecting her charms and wealth at Dr. Stanhope’s house in the close. There had been morning callers there, and people had told some truth and also some falsehood respecting the property which John Bold had left behind him. By degrees the visitors went, and as the doctor went with them, and as the doctor’s wife had not made her appearance, Charlotte Stanhope and her brother were left together. He was sitting idly at the table, scrawling51 caricatures of Barchester notables, then yawning, then turning over a book or two, and evidently at a loss how to kill his time without much labour.
“You haven’t done much, Bertie, about getting any orders,” said his sister.
“Orders!” said he; “who on earth is there at Barchester to give one orders? Who among the people here could possibly think it worth his while to have his head done into marble?”
“Then you mean to give up your profession,” said she.
“No, I don’t,” said he, going on with some absurd portrait of the bishop. “Look at that, Lotte; isn’t it the little man all over, apron52 and all? I’d go on with my profession at once, as you call it, if the governor would set me up with a studio in London; but as to sculpture at Barchester — I suppose half the people here don’t know what a torso means.”
“The governor will not give you a shilling to start you in London,” said Lotte. “Indeed, he can’t give you what would be sufficient, for he has not got it. But you might start yourself very well, if you pleased.”
“How the deuce am I to do it?” said he.
“To tell you the truth, Bertie, you’ll never make a penny by any profession.”
“That’s what I often think myself,” said he, not in the least offended. “Some men have a great gift of making money, but they can’t spend it. Others can’t put two shillings together, but they have a great talent for all sorts of outlay53. I begin to think that my genius is wholly in the latter line.”
“How do you mean to live then?” asked the sister.
“I suppose I must regard myself as a young raven54 and look for heavenly manna; besides, we have all got something when the governor goes.”
“Yes — you’ll have enough to supply yourself with gloves and boots; that is, if the Jews have not got the possession of it all. I believe they have the most of it already. I wonder, Bertie, at your indifference55; that you with your talents and personal advantages should never try to settle yourself in life. I look forward with dread56 to the time when the governor must go. Mother, and Madeline, and I— we shall be poor enough, but you will have absolutely nothing.”
“Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof,” said Bertie.
“Will you take my advice?” said his sister.
“Cela depend,” said the brother.
“Will you marry a wife with money?”
“At any rate,” said he, “I won’t marry one without; wives with money a’nt so easy to get now-a-days; the parsons pick them all up.”
“And a parson will pick up the wife I mean for you, if you do not look quickly about it; the wife I mean is Mrs. Bold.”
“Whew-w-w-w!” whistled Bertie, “a widow!”
“She is very beautiful,” said Charlotte.
“With a son and heir all ready to my hand,” said Bertie. “A baby that will very likely die,” said Charlotte.
“I don’t see that,” said Bertie. “But however he may live for me — I don’t wish to kill him; only, it must be owned that a ready-made family is a drawback.”
“There is only one after all,” pleaded Charlotte.
“And that a very little one, as the maidservant said,” rejoined Bertie.
“Beggars mustn’t be choosers, Bertie; you can’t have everything.”
“God knows I am not unreasonable,” said he, “nor yet opinionated, and if you’ll arrange it all for me, Lotte, I’ll marry the lady. Only mark this: the money must be sure and the income at my own disposal, at any rate for the lady’s life.”
Charlotte was explaining to her brother that he must make love for himself if he meant to carry on the matter, and was encouraging him to do so by warm eulogiums on Eleanor’s beauty, when the signora was brought into the drawing-room. When at home, and subject to the gaze of none but her own family, she allowed herself to be dragged about by two persons, and her two bearers now deposited her on her sofa. She was not quite so grand in her apparel as she had been at the bishop’s party, but yet she was dressed with much care, and though there was a look of care and pain about her eyes, she was, even by daylight, extremely beautiful.
“Well, Madeline, so I’m going to be married,” Bertie began as soon as the servants had withdrawn57.
“There’s no other foolish thing left that you haven’t done,” said Madeline, “and therefore you are quite right to try that.”
“Oh, you think it’s a foolish thing, do you?” said he. “There’s Lotte advising me to marry by all means. But on such a subject your opinion ought to be the best; you have experience to guide you.”
“Yes, I have,” said Madeline with a sort of harsh sadness in her tone, which seemed to say — What is it to you if I am sad? I have never asked your sympathy.
Bertie was sorry when he saw that she was hurt by what he said, and he came and squatted58 on the floor close before her face to make his peace with her.
“Come, Mad, I was only joking; you know that. But in sober earnest Lotte is advising me to marry. She wants me to marry this Mrs. Bold. She’s a widow with lots of tin, a fine baby, a beautiful complexion59, and the George and Dragon hotel up in the High Street. By Jove, Lotte, if I marry her, I’ll keep the public-house myself — it’s just the life to suit me.”
“What,” said Madeline, “that vapid60, swarthy creature in the widow’s cap, who looked as though her clothes had been stuck on her back with a pitchfork!” The signora never allowed any woman to be beautiful.
“Instead of being vapid,” said Lotte, “I call her a very lovely woman. She was by far the loveliest woman in the rooms the other night; that is, excepting you, Madeline.”
Even the compliment did not soften61 the asperity62 of the maimed beauty. “Every woman is charming according to Lotte,” she said; “I never knew an eye with so little true appreciation63. In the first place, what woman on earth could look well in such a thing as that she had on her head.”
“Of course she wears a widow’s cap, but she’ll put that off when Bertie marries her.”
“I don’t see any of course in it,” said Madeline. “The death of twenty husbands should not make me undergo such a penance64. It is as much a relic65 of paganism as the sacrifice of a Hindu woman at the burning of her husband’s body. If not so bloody66, it is quite as barbarous and quite as useless.”
“But you don’t blame her for that,” said Bertie. “She does it because it’s the custom of the country. People would think ill of her if she didn’t do it.”
“Exactly,” said Madeline. “She is just one of those English nonentities67 who would tie her head up in a bag for three months every summer, if her mother and her grandmother had tied up their heads before her. It would never occur to her to think whether there was any use in submitting to such a nuisance.”
“It’s very hard in a country like England, for a young woman to set herself in opposition to prejudices of that sort,” said the prudent68 Charlotte.
“What you mean is that it’s very hard for a fool not to be a fool,” said Madeline.
Bertie Stanhope had been so much knocked about the world from his earliest years that he had not retained much respect for the gravity of English customs, but even to his mind an idea presented itself that, perhaps in a wife, true British prejudice would not in the long run be less agreeable than Anglo-Italian freedom from restraint. He did not exactly say so, but he expressed the idea in another way.
“I fancy,” said he, “that if I were to die, and then walk, I should think that my widow looked better in one of those caps than any other kind of head-dress.”
“Yes — and you’d fancy also that she could do nothing better than shut herself up and cry for you, or else burn herself. But she would think differently. She’d probably wear one of those horrid69 she-helmets, because she’d want the courage not to do so; but she’d wear it with a heart longing70 for the time when she might be allowed to throw it off. I hate such shallow false pretences71. For my part I would let the world say what it pleased and show no grief if I felt none — and perhaps not, if I did.”
“But wearing a widow’s cap won’t lessen72 her fortune,” said Charlotte.
“Or increase it,” said Madeline. “Then why on earth does she do it?”
“But Lotte’s object is to make her put it off,” said Bertie.
“If it be true that she has got twelve hundred a year quite at her own disposal, and she be not utterly vulgar in her manners, I would advise you to marry her. I dare say she’s to be had for the asking: and as you are not going to marry her for love, it doesn’t much matter whether she is good-looking or not. As to your really marrying a woman for love, I don’t believe you are fool enough for that.”
“Oh, Madeline!” exclaimed her sister.
“And oh, Charlotte!” said the other.
“You don’t mean to say that no man can love a woman unless he be a fool?”
“I mean very much the same thing — that any man who is willing to sacrifice his interest to get possession of a pretty face is a fool. Pretty faces are to be had cheaper than that. I hate your mawkish73 sentimentality, Lotte. You know as well as I do in what way husbands and wives generally live together; you know how far the warmth of conjugal74 affection can withstand the trial of a bad dinner, of a rainy day, or of the least privation which poverty brings with it; you know what freedom a man claims for himself, what slavery he would exact from his wife if he could! And you know also how wives generally obey. Marriage means tyranny on one side and deceit on the other. I say that a man is a fool to sacrifice his interests for such a bargain. A woman, too generally, has no other way of living.”
“But Bertie has no other way of living,” said Charlotte.
“Then, in God’s name, let him marry Mrs. Bold,” said Madeline. And so it was settled between them.
But let the gentle-hearted reader be under no apprehension75 whatsoever76. It is not destined that Eleanor shall marry Mr. Slope or Bertie Stanhope. And here perhaps it may be allowed to the novelist to explain his views on a very important point in the art of telling tales. He ventures to reprobate77 that system which goes so far to violate all proper confidence between the author and his readers by maintaining nearly to the end of the third volume a mystery as to the fate of their favourite personage. Nay78, more, and worse than this is too frequently done. Have not often the profoundest efforts of genius been used to baffle the aspirations79 of the reader, to raise false hopes and false fears, and to give rise to expectations which are never to be realized? Are not promises all but made of delightful80 horrors, in lieu of which the writer produces nothing but most commonplace realities in his final chapter? And is there not a species of deceit in this to which the honesty of the present age should lend no countenance81?
And what can be the worth of that solicitude82 which a peep into the third volume can utterly dissipate? What the value of those literary charms which are absolutely destroyed by their enjoyment83? When we have once learnt what was that picture before which was hung Mrs. Ratcliffe’s solemn curtain, we feel no further interest about either the frame or the veil. They are to us merely a receptacle for old bones, an inappropriate coffin84, which we would wish to have decently buried out of our sight.
And then how grievous a thing it is to have the pleasure of your novel destroyed by the ill-considered triumph of a previous reader. “Oh, you needn’t be alarmed for Augusta, of course she accepts Gustavus in the end.” “How very ill-natured you are, Susan,” says Kitty with tears in her eyes: “I don’t care a bit about it now.” Dear Kitty, if you will read my book, you may defy the ill-nature of your sister. There shall be no secret that she can tell you. Nay, take the third volume if you please — learn from the last pages all the results of our troubled story, and the story shall have lost none of its interest, if indeed there be any interest in it to lose.
Our doctrine85 is that the author and the reader should move along together in full confidence with each other. Let the personages of the drama undergo ever so complete a comedy of errors among themselves, but let the spectator never mistake the Syracusan for the Ephesian; otherwise he is one of the dupes, and the part of a dupe is never dignified86.
I would not for the value of this chapter have it believed by a single reader that my Eleanor could bring herself to marry Mr. Slope, or that she should be sacrificed to a Bertie Stanhope. But among the good folk of Barchester many believed both the one and the other.
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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embryo
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| n.胚胎，萌芽的事物 | |
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warden
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| n.监察员，监狱长，看守人，监护人 | |
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goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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supplanting
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| 把…排挤掉，取代( supplant的现在分词 ) | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pampered
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| adj.饮食过量的，饮食奢侈的v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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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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dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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precipitate
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influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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wiles
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| n.（旨在欺骗或吸引人的）诡计，花招；欺骗，欺诈( wile的名词复数 ) | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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imposing
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voluptuous
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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tempted
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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admiration
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meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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motives
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hoof
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destined
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sophistry
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promotion
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immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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immorality
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devoted
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pacify
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| vt.使(某人)平静(或息怒)；抚慰 | |
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redound
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| v.有助于；提；报应 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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succumb
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| v.屈服，屈从；死 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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scrawling
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的现在分词 ) | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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outlay
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| n.费用，经费，支出；v.花费 | |
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raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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squatted
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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vapid
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| adj.无味的；无生气的 | |
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soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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asperity
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| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
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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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penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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nonentities
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| n.无足轻重的人( nonentity的名词复数 )；蝼蚁 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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pretences
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| n.假装( pretence的名词复数 )；作假；自命；自称 | |
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lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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mawkish
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| adj.多愁善感的的；无味的 | |
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conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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reprobate
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| n.无赖汉；堕落的人 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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