When Frank Gresham expressed to his father an opinion that Courcy Castle was dull, the squire1, as may be remembered, did not pretend to differ from him. To men such as the squire, and such as the squire’s son, Courcy Castle was dull. To what class of men it would not be dull the author is not prepared to say; but it may be presumed that the De Courcys found it to their liking2, or they would have made it other than it was.
The castle itself was a huge brick pile, built in the days of William III, which, though they were grand for days of the construction of the Constitution, were not very grand for architecture of a more material description. It had, no doubt, a perfect right to be called a castle, as it was entered by a castle-gate which led into a court the porter’s lodge3 for which was built as it were into the wall; there were attached to it also two round, stumpy adjuncts, which were, perhaps properly, called towers, though they did not do much in the way of towering; and, moreover, along one side of the house, over what would otherwise have been the cornice, there ran a castellated parapet, through the assistance of which, the imagination no doubt was intended to supply the muzzles4 of defiant6 artillery7. But any artillery which would have so presented its muzzle5 must have been very small, and it may be doubted whether even a bowman could have obtained shelter there.
The grounds about the castle were not very inviting8, nor, as grounds, very extensive; though, no doubt, the entire domain9 was such as suited the importance of so puissant10 a nobleman as Earl de Courcy. What, indeed, should have been the park was divided out into various large paddocks. The surface was flat and unbroken; and though there were magnificent elm-trees standing11 in straight lines, like hedgerows, the timber had not that beautiful, wild, scattered12 look which generally gives the great charm to English scenery.
The town of Courcy — for the place claimed to rank as a town — was in many particulars like the castle. It was built of dingy-red brick — almost more brown than red — and was solid, dull-looking, ugly and comfortable. It consisted of four streets, which were formed by two roads crossing each other, making at the point of junction13 a centre for the town. Here stood the Red Lion; had it been called the brown lion, the nomenclature would have been more strictly14 correct; and here, in the old days of coaching, some life had been wont15 to stir itself at those house in the day and night when the Freetraders, Tallyhoes, and Royal Mails changed their horses. But now there was a railway station a mile and a half distant, and the moving life of the town of Courcy was confined to the Red Lion omnibus, which seemed to pass its entire time in going up and down between the town and the station, quite unembarrassed by any great weight of passengers.
There were, so said the Courcyites when away from Courcy, excellent shops in the place; but they were not the less accustomed, when at home among themselves, to complain to each other of the vile16 extortion with which they were treated by their neighbours. The ironmonger, therefore, though he loudly asserted that he could beat Bristol in the quality of his wares17 in one direction, and undersell Gloucester in another, bought his tea and sugar on the sly in one of those larger towns; and the grocer, on the other hand equally distrusted the pots and pans of home production. Trade, therefore, at Courcy, had not thriven since the railway opened: and, indeed, had any patient inquirer stood at the cross through one entire day, counting customers who entered the neighbouring shops, he might well have wondered that any shops in Courcy could be kept open.
And how changed has been the bustle18 of that once noisy inn to the present death-like silence of its green courtyard! There, a lame19 ostler crawls about with the hands thrust into the capacious pockets of his jacket, feeding on memory. That weary pair of omnibus jades20, and three sorry posters are all that now grace those stables where horses used to be stalled in close contiguity21 by the dozen; where twenty grains apiece, abstracted from every feed of oats consumed during the day, would have afforded a daily quart to the lucky pilferer22.
Come, my friend, and discourse23 with me. Let us know what are thy ideas of the inestimable benefits which science has conferred on us in these, our latter days. How dost thou, among others, appreciate railways and the power of steam, telegraphs, telegrams, and our new expresses? But indifferently, you say. ‘Time was I’ve zeed vifteen pair o’ ‘osses go out of this ’ere yard in vour-and-twenty hour; and now there be’ant vifteen, no, not ten, in vour-and-twenty days! There was the duik-not this ’un; he be’ant no gude; but this ’un’s vather-why, when he’d come down the road, the cattle did be a-going, vour days an eend. Here’d be the tooter and the young gen’lmen, and the governess and the young leddies, and then the servants-they’d be al’ays the grandest folk of all — and then the duik and doochess — Lord love ‘ee, zur; the money did fly in them days! But now —’ and the feeling of scorn and contempt which the lame ostler was enabled by his native talent to throw into the word ‘now’, was quite as eloquent24 against the power of steam as anything that has been spoken at dinners, or written in pamphlets by the keenest admirers of latter-day lights.
‘Why, luke at this ’ere town,’ continued he of the sieve26, ‘the grass be a-growing in the very streets;— that can’t be no gude. Why, luke ‘ee here, zur; I do be a-standing at this ’ere gateway27, just this way, hour arter hour, and my heyes is hopen mostly;— I zees who’s a-coming and who’s a-going. Nobody’s a-coming and nobody’s a-going; that can’t be no gude. Luke at that there homnibus; why, darn me —’ and now, in his eloquence28 at this peculiar29 point, my friend became more loud and powerful than ever —‘why, darn me, if maister harns enough with that there bus to put hiron on them osses’ feet, I’ll-be-blowed!’ And as he uttered this hypothetical denunciation on himself he spoke25 very slowly, bringing out every word as it were separately, and lowering himself at his knees at every sound, moving at the same time his right hand up and down. When he had finished, he fixed30 his eyes upon the ground, pointing downwards31, as if there was to be the site of his doom32 if the curse that he had called down upon himself should ever come to pass; and then, waiting no further converse33, he hobbled away, melancholy34, to his deserted35 stables.
Oh, my friend! my poor lame friend! it will avail nothing to tell thee of Liverpool and Manchester; of the glories of Glasgow, with her flourishing banks; of London, with its third millions of inhabitants; of the great things which commerce is doing for this nation of thine! What is commerce to thee, unless it be commerce in posting on that worn-out, all but useless great western turnpike-road? There is nothing left for thee but to be carted away as rubbish — for thee and for many of us in these now prosperous days; oh, my melancholy, care-ridden friend!
Courcy Castle was certainly a dull place to look at, and Frank, in his former visits, had found that the appearance did not belie36 the reality. He had been but little there when the earl had been at Courcy; and as he had always felt from his childhood a peculiar taste to the governance of his aunt the countess, this perhaps may have added to his feeling of dislike. Now, however, the castle was to be fuller than he had ever before known it; the earl was to be at home; there was some talk of the Duke of Omnium coming for a day or two, though that seemed doubtful; there was some faint doubt of Lord Porlock; Mr Moffat, intent on the coming election — and also, let us hope, on his coming bliss37 — was to be one of the guests; and there was also to be the great Miss Dunstable.
Frank, however, found that those grandees38 were not expected quite immediately. ‘I might go back to Greshamsbury for three or four days as she is not to be here,’ he said naively39 to his aunt, expressing, with tolerable perspicuity40, his feeling, that he regarded his visit to Courcy Castle quite as a matter of business. But the countess would hear of no such arrangement. Now that she had got him, she was not going to let him fall back into the perils41 of Miss Thorne’s intrigues42, or even of Miss Thorne’s propriety43. ‘It is quite essential,’ she said, ‘that you should be here a few days before her, so that she may see that you are at home.’ Frank did not understand the reasoning; but he felt himself unable to rebel, and he therefore, remained there, comforting himself, as best he might, with the eloquence of the Honourable44 George, and the sporting humours of the Honourable John.
Mr Moffat was the earliest arrival of any importance. Frank had not hitherto made the acquaintance of his future brother-inlaw, and there was, therefore, some little interest in the first interview. Mr Moffat was shown into the drawing-room before the ladies had gone up to dress, and it so happened that Frank was there also. As no one else was in the room but his sister and two of his cousins, he had expected to see the lovers rush into each other’s arms. But Mr Moffat restrained his ardour, and Miss Gresham seemed contented45 that he should do so.
He was a nice, dapper man, rather above the middle height, and good-looking enough had he had a little more expression in his face. He had dark hair, very nicely brushed, small black whiskers, and a small black moustache. His boots were excellently well made, and his hands were very white. He simpered gently as he took hold of Augusta’s fingers, and expressed a hope that she had been quite will since last he had the pleasure of seeing her. Then he touched the hands of the Lady Rosina and the Lady Margaretta.
‘Mr Moffat, allow me to introduce you to my brother?’
‘Most happy, I’m sure,’ said Mr Moffat, again putting out his hand, and allowing it to slip through Frank’s grasp, as he spoke in a pretty, mincing46 voice: ‘Lady Arabella quite well?— and your father, and sisters? Very warm isn’t it?— quite hot in town, I do assure you.’
‘I hope Augusta likes him,’ said Frank to himself, arguing on the subject exactly as his father had done; ‘but for an engaged lover he seems to me to have a very queer way with him.’ Frank, poor fellow! who was of a coarser mould, would, under such circumstances, have been all for kissing — sometimes, indeed, even under other circumstances.
Mr Moffat did not do much towards improving the conviviality47 of the castle. He was, of course, a good deal intent upon his coming election, and spent much of his time with Mr Nearthewinde, the celebrated48 parliamentary agent. It behoved him to be a good deal at Barchester, canvassing49 the electors and undermining, by Mr Nearthewinde’s aid, the mines for blowing him out of his seat, which were daily being contrived50 by Mr Closerstil, on behalf of Sir Roger. The battle was to be fought on the internecine51 principle, no quarter being given or taken on either side; and of course this gave Mr Moffat as much as he knew how to do.
Mr Closerstil was well known to be the sharpest man at his business in all England, unless the palm should be given to his great rival Mr Nearthewinde; and in this instance he was to be assisted in the battle by a very clever young barrister, Mr Romer, who was an admirer of Sir Roger’s career in life. Some people in Barchester, when they saw Sir Roger, Closerstil and Mr Romer saunter down the High Street, arm in arm, declared that it was all up with poor Moffat; but others, in whose head the bump of veneration52 was strongly pronounced, whispered to each other that great shibboleth53 — the name of the Duke of Omnium — and mildly asserted it to be impossible that the duke’s nominee54 should be thrown out.
Our poor friend the squire did not take much interest in the matter except in so far that he liked his son-inlaw to be in Parliament. Both the candidates were in his eye equally wrong in their opinions. He had long since recanted those errors of his early youth, which had cost him his seat for the county, and had abjured55 the De Courcy politics. He was staunch enough as a Tory now that his being so would no longer be of the slightest use to him; but the Duke of Omnium, and Lord de Courcy, and Mr Moffat were all Whigs; Whigs, however, differing altogether in politics from Sir Roger, who belonged to the Manchester school, and whose pretensions56, through some of those inscrutable twists in modern politics which are quite unintelligible57 to the minds of ordinary men outside the circle, were on this occasion secretly favoured by the high Conservative party.
How Mr Moffat, who had been brought into the political world by Lord de Courcy, obtained the weight of the duke’s interest I never could exactly learn. For the duke and the earl did not generally act as twin-brothers on such occasions.
There is a great difference in Whigs. Lord de Courcy was a Court Whig, following the fortunes, and enjoying, when he could get it, the sunshine of the throne. He was a sojourner58 at Windsor, and a visitor at Balmoral. He delighted in gold sticks, and was never so happy as when holding some cap of maintenance or spur of precedence with due dignity and acknowledged grace in the presence of all the Court. His means had been somewhat embarrassed by early extravagance; and, therefore, as it was to his taste to shine, it suited him to shine at the cost of the Court rather than at his own.
The Duke of Omnium was a Whig of a very different calibre. He rarely went near the presence of majesty59, and when he did so, he did it merely as a disagreeable duty incident to his position. He was very willing that the Queen should be queen so long as he was allowed to be Duke of Omnium. Nor had he begrudged60 Prince Albert any of his honours till he was called Prince Consort61. Then, indeed, he had, to his own intimate friends, made some remark in three words not flattering to the discretion62 of the Prime Minister. The Queen might be queen so long as he was Duke of Omnium. Their revenues were about the same, with the exception, that the duke’s were his own, and he could do what he liked with them. This remembrance did not unfrequently present itself to the duke’s mind. In person, he was a plain, thin man, tall, but undistinguished in appearance, except that there was a gleam of pride in his eye which seemed every moment to be saying, ‘I am the Duke of Omnium’. He was unmarried, and, if report said true, a great debauchee; but if so he had always kept his debaucheries decently away from the eyes of the world, and was not, therefore, open to that loud condemnation63 which should fall like a hailstorm round the ears of some more open sinners.
Why these two mighty64 nobles put their heads together in order that the tailor’s son should represent Barchester in Parliament, I cannot explain. Mr Moffat, was, as has been said, Lord de Courcy’s friend; and it may be that Lord de Courcy was able to repay the duke for his kindness, as touching65 Barchester, with some little assistance in the county representation.
The next arrival was that of the Bishop66 of Barchester. A meek67, good, worthy68 man, much attached to his wife, and somewhat addicted69 to his ease. She, apparently70, was made in a different mould, and by her energy and diligence atoned71 for any want of those qualities which might be observed in the bishop himself. When asked his opinion, his lordship would generally reply by saying —‘Mrs Proudie and I think so and so.’ But before that opinion was given, Mrs Proudie would take up the tale, and she, in her more concise72 manner, was not wont to quote the bishop as having at all assisted in the consideration of the subject. It was well known in Barsetshire that no married pair consorted73 more closely or more tenderly together; and the example of such conjugal74 affection among persons in the upper classes is worth mentioning, as it is believed by those below them, and too often with truth, that the sweet bliss of connubial75 reciprocity is not so common as it should be among the magnates of the earth.
But the arrival even of the bishop and his wife did not make the place cheerful to Frank Gresham, and he began to long for Miss Dunstable, in order that he might have something to do. He could not get on at all with Mr Moffat. He had expected that the man would at once have called him Frank, and that he would have called the man Gustavus; but they did not even get beyond Mr Moffat and Mr Gresham. ‘Very hot in Barchester, today, very,’ was the nearest approach to conversation which Frank could attain76 with him; and as far as he, Frank, could see, Augusta never got much beyond it. There might be tete-a-tete meetings between them, but, if so, Frank could not detect when they took place; and so, opening his heart at last to the Honourable George, for the want of a better confidant, he expressed his opinion that his future brother-inlaw was a muff.
‘A muff — I believe you too. What do you think now? I have been with him and Nearthewinde in Barchester these three days past, looking up the electors’ wives and daughters, and that kind of thing.’
‘I say, if there is any fun in it you might as well take me with you.’
‘Oh, there is not much fun; they are mostly so slobbered and dirty. A sharp fellow in Nearthewinde, and knows what he is about well.’
‘Does he look up the wives and daughters too?’
‘Oh, he goes on every tack77 just as it’s wanted. But there was Moffat, yesterday, in a room behind the milliner’s shop near Cuthbert’s Gate; I was with him. The woman’s husband is one of the choristers and an elector, you know, and Moffat went to look for his vote. Now, there was no one there when we got there but the three young women, the wife, that is, and her two girls — very pretty women they are too.’
‘I say, George, I’ll go and get the chorister’s vote for Moffat; I ought to do it as he’s to be my brother-inlaw.’
‘But what do you think Moffat said to the women?’
‘Can’t guess — he didn’t kiss them, did he?’
‘Kiss any of them? No; but he begged to give them his positive assurance as a gentleman that if he was returned to Parliament he would vote for an extension of the franchise78, and the admission of the Jews into the Parliament.’
‘Well, he is a muff,’ said Frank.
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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muzzles
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| 枪口( muzzle的名词复数 )； （防止动物咬人的）口套； （四足动物的）鼻口部； （狗）等凸出的鼻子和口 | |
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muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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puissant
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| adj.强有力的 | |
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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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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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jades
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| n.玉，翡翠（jade的复数形式）v.（使）疲（jade的第三人称单数形式） | |
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contiguity
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| n.邻近，接壤 | |
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pilferer
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| n.小偷 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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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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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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sieve
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| n.筛，滤器，漏勺 | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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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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downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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belie
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| v.掩饰，证明为假 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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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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naively
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| adv. 天真地 | |
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perspicuity
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| n.（文体的）明晰 | |
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perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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mincing
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| adj.矫饰的；v.切碎；切碎 | |
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conviviality
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| n.欢宴，高兴，欢乐 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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canvassing
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| v.（在政治方面）游说( canvass的现在分词 )；调查（如选举前选民的）意见；为讨论而提出（意见等）；详细检查 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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internecine
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| adj.两败俱伤的 | |
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veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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shibboleth
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| n.陈规陋习；口令；暗语 | |
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nominee
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| n.被提名者；被任命者；被推荐者 | |
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abjured
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| v.发誓放弃( abjure的过去式和过去分词 )；郑重放弃（意见）；宣布撤回（声明等）；避免 | |
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pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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sojourner
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| n.旅居者，寄居者 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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begrudged
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| 嫉妒( begrudge的过去式和过去分词 )； 勉强做； 不乐意地付出； 吝惜 | |
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consort
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| v.相伴；结交 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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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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addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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atoned
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的过去式和过去分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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concise
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| adj.简洁的，简明的 | |
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consorted
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| v.结伴( consort的过去式和过去分词 )；交往；相称；调和 | |
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conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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connubial
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| adj.婚姻的，夫妇的 | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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tack
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| n.大头钉；假缝，粗缝 | |
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franchise
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| n.特许，特权，专营权，特许权 | |
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