Mr. Slope Bids Farewell to the Palace and Its Inhabitants
We must now take leave of Mr. Slope, and of the bishop 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 fictitious
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 allotted to mortals. The sorrows of our heroes
and heroines, they are your delight, oh public!--their sorrows, or
their sins, or their absurdities; not their virtues, good sense,
and consequent rewards. When we begin to tint our final pages with
_couleur de rose_, as in accordance with fixed 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 apportion out
and dovetail his incidents, dialogues, characters, and descriptive
morsels so as to fit them all exactly into 930 pages, without either
compressing them unnaturally, 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 incompetency and
lameness of our conclusion. We have either become idle and neglected
it, or tedious and overlaboured it. It is insipid or unnatural,
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 mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
I can only say that if some critic who thoroughly 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 confidential
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
victorious in the struggle. They had gone through a competitive
examination of considerable severity, and she had come forth 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, alas, 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 prostrate 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 exertions, and
at once wrote off a letter to a rich sugar-refiner's wife in Baker
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 twitched his mantle 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 definitively 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, reiterating 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, standing
erect before the culprit and raising that terrible forefinger. "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 consorting
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 shamefully 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 dependants from having their morals corrupted by
improper conduct! I am not to save my own daughters from impurity!
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
abominable 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 vindication, 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 indict this
woman--Mrs. Proudie I mean--for defamation 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 circumspect 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 stipend 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 intimacy
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 iniquity 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 allusion
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 longing, lingering look
after the cathedral towers as the train 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 consolation. Mr.
Slope consoled her, and soon found himself settled with much comfort
in the house in Baker Street. He possessed himself, also, before long,
of a church in the vicinity of the Red Road, and became known to fame
as one of the most eloquent preachers and pious clergymen in that part
of the metropolis. 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 vacancy on the bench
of bishops 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
contiguity with Mrs. Proudie's wardrobe. He never again aspired 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 millennium,
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 apprehend 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 averse 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 superannuated
and bestowed on him a pension. As for Mrs. Proudie, our prayers for
her are that she may live forever.