We must now take leave of Mr. Slope, and of the bishop1 also, and of Mrs. Proudie. These leave-takings in novels are as disagreeable as they are in real life; not so sad, indeed, for they want the reality of sadness; but quite as perplexing, and generally less satisfactory. What novelist, what Fielding, what Scott, what George Sand, or Sue, or Dumas, can impart an interest to the last chapter of his fictitious2 history? Promises of two children and superhuman happiness are of no avail, nor assurance of extreme respectability carried to an age far exceeding that usually allotted3 to mortals. The sorrows of our heroes and heroines, they are your delight, oh public!— their sorrows, or their sins, or their absurdities4; not their virtues5, good sense, and consequent rewards. When we begin to tint6 our final pages with couleur de rose, as in accordance with fixed7 rule we must do, we altogether extinguish our own powers of pleasing. When we become dull, we offend your intellect; and we must become dull or we should offend your taste. A late writer, wishing to sustain his interest to the last page, hung his hero at the end of the third volume. The consequence was that no one would read his novel. And who can apportion8 out and dovetail his incidents, dialogues, characters, and descriptive morsels9 so as to fit them all exactly into 930 pages, without either compressing them unnaturally11, or extending them artificially at the end of his labour? Do I not myself know that I am at this moment in want of a dozen pages and that I am sick with cudgelling my brains to find them? And then, when everything is done, the kindest-hearted critic of them all invariably twits us with the incompetency12 and lameness13 of our conclusion. We have either become idle and neglected it, or tedious and overlaboured it. It is insipid14 or unnatural10, overstrained or imbecile. It means nothing, or attempts too much. The last scene of all, as all last scenes we fear must be,
Is second childishness, and mere15 oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
I can only say that if some critic who thoroughly16 knows his work and has laboured on it till experience has made him perfect will write the last fifty pages of a novel in the way they should be written, I, for one, will in future do my best to copy the example. Guided by my own lights only, I confess that I despair of success.
For the last week or ten days Mr. Slope had seen nothing of Mrs. Proudie and very little of the bishop. He still lived in the palace and still went through his usual routine work, but the confidential17 doings of the diocese had passed into other hands. He had seen this clearly and marked it well, but it had not much disturbed him. He had indulged in other hopes till the bishop’s affairs had become dull to him, and he was moreover aware that, as regarded the diocese, Mrs. Proudie had checkmated him. It has been explained, in the beginning of these pages, how three or four were contending together as to who, in fact, should be Bishop of Barchester. Each of these had now admitted to himself (or boasted to herself) that Mrs. Proudie was victorious18 in the struggle. They had gone through a competitive examination of considerable severity, and she had come forth19 the winner, facile princeps. Mr. Slope had for a moment run her hard, but it was only for a moment. It had become, as it were, acknowledged that Hiram’s Hospital should be the testing-point between them, and now Mr. Quiverful was already in the hospital, the proof of Mrs. Proudie’s skill and courage.
All this did not break down Mr. Slope’s spirit because he had other hopes. But, alas20, at last there came to him a note from his friend Sir Nicholas, informing him that the deanship was disposed of. Let us give Mr. Slope his due. He did not lie prostrate21 under this blow, or give himself up to vain lamentations; he did not henceforward despair of life and call upon gods above and gods below to carry him off. He sat himself down in his chair, counted out what monies he had in hand for present purposes and what others were coming in to him, bethought himself as to the best sphere for his future exertions22, and at once wrote off a letter to a rich sugar-refiner’s wife in Baker23 Street, who, as he well knew, was much given to the entertainment and encouragement of serious young evangelical clergymen. He was again, he said, “upon the world, having found the air of a cathedral town, and the very nature of cathedral services, uncongenial to his spirit;” and then he sat awhile, making firm resolves as to his manner of parting from the bishop and also as to his future conduct,
At last he rose, and twitched24 his mantle25 blue (black), To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.
Having received a formal command to wait upon the bishop, he rose and proceeded to obey it. He rang the bell and desired the servant to inform his master that, if it suited his lordship, he, Mr. Slope, was ready to wait upon him. The servant, who well understood that Mr. Slope was no longer in the ascendant, brought back a message saying that “his lordship desired that Mr. Slope would attend him immediately in his study.” Mr. Slope waited about ten minutes more to prove his independence, and then he went into the bishop’s room. There, as he had expected, he found Mrs. Proudie, together with her husband.
“Hum, ha — Mr. Slope, pray take a chair,” said the gentleman bishop.
“Pray be seated, Mr. Slope,” said the lady bishop.
“Thank ye, thank ye,” said Mr. Slope, and walking round to the fire, he threw himself into one of the armchairs that graced the hearth-rug.
“Mr. Slope,” said the bishop, “it has become necessary that I should speak to you definitively26 on a matter that has for some time been pressing itself on my attention.”
“May I ask whether the subject is in any way connected with myself?” said Mr. Slope.
“It is so — certainly — yes, it certainly is connected with yourself, Mr. Slope.”
“Then, my lord, if I may be allowed to express a wish, I would prefer that no discussion on the subject should take place between us in the presence of a third person.”
“Don’t alarm yourself, Mr. Slope,” said Mrs. Proudie “no discussion is at all necessary. The bishop merely intends to express his own wishes.”
“I merely intend, Mr. Slope, to express my own wishes — no discussion will be at all necessary,” said the bishop, reiterating27 his wife’s words.
“That is more, my lord, than we any of us can be sure of,” said Mr. Slope; “I cannot, however, force Mrs. Proudie to leave the room; nor can I refuse to remain here if it be your lordship’s wish that I should do so.”
“It is his lordship’s wish, certainly,” said Mrs. Proudie.
“Mr. Slope,” began the bishop in a solemn, serious voice, “it grieves me to have to find fault. It grieves me much to have to find fault with a clergyman — but especially so with a clergyman in your position.”
“Why, what have I done amiss, my lord?” demanded Mr. Slope boldly.
“What have you done amiss, Mr. Slope?” said Mrs. Proudie, standing28 erect29 before the culprit and raising that terrible forefinger30. “Do you dare to ask the bishop what you have done amiss? Does not your conscience —”
“Mrs. Proudie, pray let it be understood, once for all, that I will have no words with you.”
“Ah, sir, but you will have words,” said she; “you must have words. Why have you had so many words with that Signora Neroni? Why have you disgraced yourself, you a clergyman, too, by constantly consorting31 with such a woman as that — with a married woman — with one altogether unfit for a clergyman’s society?”
“At any rate I was introduced to her in your drawing-room,” retorted Mr. Slope.
“And shamefully32 you behaved there,” said Mrs. Proudie; “most shamefully. I was wrong to allow you to remain in the house a day after what I then saw. I should have insisted on your instant dismissal.”
“I have yet to learn, Mrs. Proudie, that you have the power to insist either on my going from hence or on my staying here.”
“What!” said the lady. “I am not to have the privilege of saying who shall and who shall not frequent my own drawing-room! I am not to save my servants and dependants33 from having their morals corrupted34 by improper35 conduct! I am not to save my own daughters from impurity36! I will let you see, Mr. Slope, whether I have the power or whether I have not. You will have the goodness to understand that you no longer fill any situation about the bishop, and as your room will be immediately wanted in the palace for another chaplain, I must ask you to provide yourself with apartments as soon as may be convenient to you.”
“My lord,” said Mr. Slope, appealing to the bishop and so turning his back completely on the lady, “will you permit me to ask that I may have from your own lips any decision that you may have come to on this matter?”
“Certainly, Mr. Slope, certainly,” said the bishop; “that is but reasonable. Well, my decision is that you had better look for some other preferment. For the situation which you have lately held I do not think that you are well suited.”
“And what, my lord, has been my fault?”
“That Signora Neroni is one fault,” said Mrs. Proudie; “and a very abominable37 fault she is; very abominable and very disgraceful. Fie, Mr. Slope, fie! You an evangelical clergyman indeed!”
“My lord, I desire to know for what fault I am turned out of your lordship’s house.”
“You hear what Mrs. Proudie says,” said the bishop.
“When I publish the history of this transaction, my lord, as I decidedly shall do in my own vindication38, I presume you will not wish me to state that you have discarded me at your wife’s bidding — because she has objected to my being acquainted with another lady, the daughter of one of the prebendaries of the chapter?”
“You may publish what you please, sir,” said Mrs. Proudie. “But you will not be insane enough to publish any of your doings in Barchester. Do you think I have not heard of your kneelings at that creature’s feet — that is, if she has any feet — and of your constant slobbering over her hand? I advise you to beware, Mr. Slope, of what you do and say. Clergymen have been unfrocked for less than what you have been guilty of.”
“My lord, if this goes on I shall be obliged to indict39 this woman — Mrs. Proudie I mean — for defamation40 of character.”
“I think, Mr. Slope, you had better now retire,” said the bishop. “I will enclose to you a cheque for any balance that may be due to you; under the present circumstances, it will of course be better for all parties that you should leave the palace at the earliest possible moment. I will allow you for your journey back to London and for your maintenance in Barchester for a week from this date.”
“If, however, you wish to remain in this neighbourhood;” said Mrs. Proudie, “and will solemnly pledge yourself never again to see that woman, and will promise also to be more circumspect41 in your conduct, the bishop will mention your name to Mr. Quiverful, who now wants a curate at Puddingdale. The house is, I imagine, quite sufficient for your requirements, and there will moreover be a stipend42 of fifty pounds a year.”
“May God forgive you, madam, for the manner in which you have treated me,” said Mr. Slope, looking at her with a very heavenly look; “and remember this, madam, that you yourself may still have a fall;” and he looked at her with a very worldly look. “As to the bishop, I pity him!” And so saying, Mr. Slope left the room. Thus ended the intimacy43 of the Bishop of Barchester with his first confidential chaplain.
Mrs. Proudie was right in this; namely, that Mr. Slope was not insane enough to publish to the world any of his doings in Barchester. He did not trouble his friend Mr. Towers with any written statement of the iniquity44 of Mrs. Proudie, or the imbecility of her husband. He was aware that it would be wise in him to drop for the future all allusion45 to his doings in the cathedral city. Soon after the interview just recorded he left Barchester, shaking the dust off his feet as he entered the railway carriage; and he gave no longing46, lingering look after the cathedral towers as the tram hurried him quickly out of their sight.
It is well known that the family of the Slopes never starve: they always fall on their feet, like cats, and let them fall where they will, they live on the fat of the land. Our Mr. Slope did so. On his return to town he found that the sugar-refiner had died and that his widow was inconsolable — in other words, in want of consolation47. Mr. Slope consoled her and soon found himself settled with much comfort in the house in Baker Street. He possessed48 himself, also, before long, of a church in the vicinity of the Red Road, and became known to fame as one of the most eloquent49 preachers and pious50 clergymen in that part of the metropolis51. There let us leave him.
Of the bishop and his wife very little further need be said. From that time forth nothing material occurred to interrupt the even course of their domestic harmony. Very speedily, a further vacancy52 on the bench of bishops53 gave to Dr. Proudie the seat in the House of Lords, which he at first so anxiously longed for. But by this time he had become a wiser man. He did certainly take his seat and occasionally registered a vote in favour of Government views on ecclesiastical matters. But he had thoroughly learnt that his proper sphere of action lay in close contiguity54 with Mrs. Proudie’s wardrobe. He never again aspired55 to disobey, or seemed even to wish for autocratic diocesan authority. If ever he thought of freedom, he did so as men think of the millennium56, as of a good time which may be coming, but which nobody expects to come in their day. Mrs. Proudie might be said still to bloom, and was, at any rate, strong, and the bishop had no reason to apprehend57 that he would be speedily visited with the sorrows of a widower’s life.
He is still Bishop of Barchester. He has so graced that throne that the Government has been averse58 to translate him, even to higher dignities. There may he remain, under safe pupilage, till the newfangled manners of the age have discovered him to be superannuated59 and bestowed60 on him a pension. As for Mrs. Proudie, our prayers for her are that she may live forever.
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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absurdities
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| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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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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apportion
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| vt.（按比例或计划）分配 | |
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morsels
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| n.一口( morsel的名词复数 )；（尤指食物）小块，碎屑 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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incompetency
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| n.无能力，不适当 | |
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lameness
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| n. 跛, 瘸, 残废 | |
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insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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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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victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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definitively
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| adv.决定性地，最后地 | |
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reiterating
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的现在分词 ) | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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consorting
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| v.结伴( consort的现在分词 )；交往；相称；调和 | |
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shamefully
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| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
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dependants
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| 受赡养者，受扶养的家属( dependant的名词复数 ) | |
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corrupted
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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impurity
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| n.不洁，不纯，杂质 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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vindication
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| n.洗冤，证实 | |
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indict
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| v.起诉，控告，指控 | |
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defamation
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| n.诽谤；中伤 | |
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circumspect
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| adj.慎重的，谨慎的 | |
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stipend
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| n.薪贴；奖学金；养老金 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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contiguity
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| n.邻近，接壤 | |
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aspired
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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millennium
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| n.一千年，千禧年；太平盛世 | |
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apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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superannuated
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| adj.老朽的，退休的；v.因落后于时代而废除，勒令退学 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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