MRS PROUDIE'S RECEPTION--COMMENCED
The bishop and his wife had only spent three or four days in
Barchester on the occasion of their first visit. His lordship had,
as we have seen, taken his seat on his throne; but his demeanour
there, into which it had been his intention to infuse much
hierarchical dignity, had been a good deal disarranged by the
audacity of his chaplain's sermon. He had hardly dared to look his
clergy in the face, and to declare by the severity of his
countenance that in truth he meant all that his factotum was saying
on his behalf; nor yet did he dare throw Mr Slope over, and show to
those around him that he was no party to the sermon, and would
resent it.
He had accordingly blessed his people in a shambling manner, not at
all to his own satisfaction, and had walked back to his palace with
his mind very doubtful as to what he would say to his chaplain on
the subject. He did not remain long in doubt. He had hardly doffed
his lawn when the partner of all his toils entered his study, and
exclaimed even before she had seated herself--
'Bishop, did you ever hear a more sublime, more spirit-moving, more
appropriate discourse than that?'
'Well, my love; ha-hum-he!' The bishop did not know what to say.
'I hope, my lord, you don't mean to say you disapprove?'
There was a look about the lady's eye which did not admit of my
lord's disapproving at that moment. He felt that if he intended to
disapprove, it must be now or never; but he also felt that it could
not be now. It was not in him to say to the wife of his bosom that
Mr Slope's sermon was ill-timed, impertinent and vexatious.
'No, no,' replied the bishop. 'No, I can't say I disapprove--a very
clever sermon and very well intended, and I dare say will do a
great deal of good.' This last praise was added, seeing that what
he had already said by no means satisfied Mrs Proudie.
'I hope it will,' said she. 'I am sure it was well deserved. Did
you ever in your life, bishop, hear anything so like play-acting as
the way in which Mr Harding sings the litany? I shall beg Mr Slope
to continue a course of sermons on the subject till all that is
altered. We will have at any rate, in our cathedral, a decent,
godly, modest morning service. There must be no more play-acting
here now;' and so the lady rang for lunch.
This bishop knew more about cathedrals and deans, and precentors
and church services than his wife did, and also more of the
bishop's powers. But he thought it better at present to let the
subject drop.
'My dear,' said he, 'I think we must go back to London on Tuesday.
I find that my staying here will be very inconvenient to the
Government.'
The bishop knew that to this proposal his wife would not object;
and he also felt that by thus retreating from the ground of battle,
the heat of the fight might be got over in his absence.
'Mr Slope will remain here, of course,' said the lady.
'Oh, of course,' said the bishop.
Thus, after less than a week's sojourn in his palace, did the
bishop fly from Barchester; nor did he return to it for two months,
the London season being then over. During that time Mr Slope was
not idle, but he did not again assay to preach in the cathedral. In
answer to Mrs Proudie's letters, advising a course of sermons, he
had pleaded that he would at any rate wish to put off such an
undertaking till she was there to hear them.
He had employed his time in consolidating a Proudie and Slope
party--or rather a Slope and Proudie party, and he had not employed
his time in vain. He did not meddle with the dean and chapter,
except by giving them little teasing intimations of the bishop's
wishes about this and the bishop's feelings about that, in a manner
which was to them sufficiently annoying, but which they could not
resent. He preached once or twice in a distant church in the
suburbs of the city, but made no allusion to the cathedral service.
He commenced the establishment of the 'Bishop of Barchester's
Sabbath-day Schools,' gave notice of a proposed 'Bishop of
Barchester Young Men's Sabbath Evening Lecture Room,'--and wrote
three or four letters to the manager of the Barchester branch
railway, informing him how anxious the bishop was that the Sunday
trains should be discontinued.
At the end of two months, however, the bishop and the lady
reappeared; and as a happy harbinger of their return, heralded
their advent by the promise of an evening party on the largest
scale. The tickets of invitation were sent out from London--they
were dated from Bruton Street, and were dispatched by the odious
Sabbath-breaking railway, in a huge brown paper parcel to Mr Slope.
Everybody calling himself a gentleman, or herself a lady, within
the city of Barchester, and a circle of two miles round it, was
included. Tickets were sent to all the diocesan clergy, and also to
many other persons of priestly note, of whose absence the bishop,
or at least the bishop's wife, felt tolerably confident. It was
intended, however, to be a thronged and noticeable affair, and
preparations were made for receiving some hundreds.
And now there arose considerable agitation among the Grantleyites
whether or not they would attend the bidding. The first feeling
with them all was to send the briefest excuses both for themselves
and their wives and daughters. But by degrees policy prevailed over
passion. The archdeacon perceived that he would be making a false
step if he allowed the cathedral clergy to give the bishop just
ground of umbrage. They all met in conclave and agreed to go. The
old dean would crawl in, if it were but for half an hour. The
chancellor, treasurer, archdeacon, prebendaries, and minor canons
would all go, and would take their wives. Mr Harding was especially
bidden to go, resolving in his heart to keep himself removed from
Mrs Proudie. And Mrs Bold was determined to go, though assured by
her father that there was no necessity for such a sacrifice on her
part. When all Barchester was to be there, neither Eleanor nor Mary
Bold understood why they should stay away. Had they not been
invited separately? And had not a separate little note from the
chaplain couched in the most respectful language, been enclosed
with the huge episcopal card?
And the Stanhopes would be there, one and all. Even the lethargic
mother would so far bestir herself on such an occasion. They had
only just arrived. The card was at the residence waiting for them.
No one in Barchester had seen them; and what better opportunity
could they have of showing themselves to the Barchester world? Some
few old friends, such as the archdeacon and his wife, had called,
and had found the doctor and his eldest daughter; but the elite of
the family were not yet known.
The doctor indeed wished in his heart to prevent the signora from
accepting the bishop's invitation; but she herself had fully
determined that she would accept it. If her father was ashamed of
having his daughter carried into a bishop's palace, she had no such
feeling.
'Indeed, I shall,' she said to her sister who had greatly
endeavoured to dissuade her, by saying that the company would
consist wholly of parsons and parsons' wives. 'Parsons, I suppose,
are much the same as other men, if you strip them of their black
coats; and as to their wives, I dare say they won't trouble me. You
may tell papa I don't mean to be left at home.'
Papa was told, and felt that he could do nothing but yield. He also
felt that it was useless of him now to be ashamed of his children.
Such as they were, they had become such under his auspices; as he
had made his bed, so he must lie upon it; as he had sown his seed,
so must he reap his corn. He did not indeed utter such reflections
in such language, but such was the gist of his thoughts. It was not
because Madeline was a cripple that he shrank from seeing her made
one of the bishop's guests; but because he knew that she would
practise her accustomed lures, and behave herself in a way that
could not fail of being distasteful to the propriety of
Englishwomen. These things had annoyed but not shocked him in
Italy. There they had shocked no one; but here in Barchester, here
among his fellow parsons, he was ashamed that they should be seen.
Such had been his feelings, but he repressed them. What if his
brother clergymen were shocked! They could not take it from his
preferment because the manners of his married daughter were too
free.
La Signora Neroni had, at any rate, no fear that she would shock
anybody. Her ambition was to create a sensation, to have parsons at
her feet, seeing that the manhood of Barchester consisted mainly of
parsons, and to send, if possible, every parson's wife home with a
green fit of jealousy. None could be too old for her, and hardly
any too young. None too sanctified, and none too worldly. She was
quite prepared to entrap the bishop himself, and then to turn up
her nose at the bishop's wife. She did not doubt of success, for
she had always succeeded; but one thing was absolutely necessary,
she must secure the entire use of a sofa.
The card sent to Dr and Mrs Stanhope and family, had been sent in
an envelope, having on the cover Mr Slope's name. The signora soon
learnt that Mrs Proudie was not yet at the palace, and that the
chaplain was managing everything. It was much more in her line to
apply to him than to the lady, and she accordingly wrote to him the
prettiest little billet in the world. In five lines she explained
everything, declared how impossible it was for her not to be
desirous to make the acquaintance of such persons as the bishop of
Barchester and his wife, and she might add also of Mr Slope,
depicted her own grievous state, and concluded by being assured
that Mrs Proudie would forgive her extreme hardihood in petitioning
to be allowed to be carried to a sofa. She then enclosed one of her
beautiful cards. In return she received as polite an answer from Mr
Slope--a sofa should be kept in the large drawing-room, immediately
at the top of the grand stairs, especially for her use.
And now the day of the party had arrived. The bishop and his wife
came down from town, only on the morning of the eventful day, as
behoved such great people to do; but Mr Slope had toiled day and
night to see that everything should be in right order. There had
been much to do. No company had been seen in the palace since
heaven knows when. New furniture had been required, new pots and
pans, new cups and saucers, new dishes and plates. Mrs Proudie had
first declared that she would condescend to nothing so vulgar as
eating and drinking; but Mr Slope had talked, or rather written her
out of economy!--bishops should be given to hospitality, and
hospitality meant eating and drinking. So the supper was conceded;
the guests, however, were to stand as they consumed it.
There were four rooms opening into each other on the first floor of
the house, which were denominated the drawing-rooms, the
reception-room, and Mrs Proudie's boudoir. In olden days one of
these had been Bishop Grantly's bed-room, and another his common,
sitting-room and study. The present bishop, however, had been moved
down into a back parlour, and had been given to understand that he
could very well receive his clergy in the dining-room, should they
arrive in too large a flock to be admitted to his small sanctum. He
had been unwilling to yield, but after a short debate had yielded.
Mrs Proudie's heart beat high as she inspected her suite of rooms.
They were really very magnificent, or at least would be so by
candlelight; and they had nevertheless been got up with commendable
economy. Large rooms when full of people, and full of light look
well, because they are large, and are full, and are light. Small
rooms are those which require costly fittings and rich furniture.
Mrs Proudie knew this, and made the most of it; she had therefore a
huge gas lamp with a dozen burners hanging from each of the
ceilings.
People were to arrive at ten, supper was to last from twelve to
one, and at half-past one everybody was to be gone. Carriages were
to come in at the gate in the town and depart at the gate outside.
They were desired to take up at a quarter before one. It was
managed excellently, and Mr Slope was invaluable.
At half-past nine the bishop and his wife and their three daughters
entered the great reception-room, and very grand and very solemn
they were. Mr Slope was down-stairs giving the last orders about
the wine. He well understood that curates and country vicars with
their belongings did not require so generous an article as the
dignitaries of the close. There is a useful gradation in such
things, and Marsala at 20s a dozen did very well for the exterior
supplementary tables in the corner.
'Bishop,' said the lady, as his lordship sat himself down, 'don't
sit on that sofa, if you please; it is to be kept separate for a
lady.'
The bishop jumped up and seated himself on a cane-bottomed chair.
'A lady?' he inquired meekly; 'do you mean one particular lady, my
dear?'
'Yes, bishop, one particular lady,' said his wife, disdaining to
explain.
'She has got no legs, papa,' said the youngest daughter, tittering.
'No legs!' said the bishop, opening his eyes.
'Nonsense, Netta, what stuff you talk,' said Olivia. 'She has got
legs, but she can't use them. She has always to be kept lying down,
and three or four men carry her about everywhere.'
'Laws, how odd!' said Augusta. 'Always carried about by four men!
I'm quite sure I wouldn't like it. Am I right behind, mama? I feel
as if I was open;' and she turned her back to her anxious parent.
'Open! To be sure you are,' said she, 'and a yard of petticoat
strings hanging out. I don't know why I pay such high wages to Mrs
Richards, if she can't take the trouble to see whether or no you
are fit to be looked at,' and Mrs Proudie poked the strings here,
and twitched the dress there, and gave her daughter a shove and a
shake, and then pronounced it all right.
'But,' rejoined the bishop, who was dying with curiosity about the
mysterious lady and her legs, 'who is it that is to have the sofa?
What is her name, Netta?'
A thundering rap at the front door interrupted the conversation.
Mrs Proudie stood up and shook herself gently, and touched her cap
on each side as she looked in the mirror. Each of the girls stood
on tiptoe, and re-arranged the bows on their bosoms; and Mr Slope
rushed up stairs three steps at a time.
'But who is it, Netta?' whispered the bishop to his youngest
daughter.
'La Signora Madeline Vesey Neroni,' whispered back the daughter;
'and mind you don't let any one sit upon the sofa.'
'La Signora Madeline Vicinironi!' muttered, to himself, the
bewildered prelate. Had he been told that the Begum of Oude was to
be there, or Queen Pomara of the Western Isles, he could not have
been more astonished. La Signora Madeline Vicinironi, who, having
no legs to stand on, had bespoken a sofa in his drawing-room!--who
could she be? He however could now make no further inquiry, as Dr
and Mrs Stanhope were announced. They had been sent on out of the
way a little before the time, in order that the signora might have
plenty of time to get herself conveniently packed into the
carriage.
The bishop was all smiles for the prebendary's wife, and the
bishop's wife was all smiles for the prebendary. Mr Slope was
presented, and was delighted to make the acquaintance of one of
whom he had heard so much. The doctor bowed very low, and then
looked as though he could not return the compliment as regarded Mr
Slope, of whom, indeed, he had heard nothing. The doctor, in spite
of his long absence, knew an English gentleman when he saw him.
And then the guests came in shoals; Mr and Mrs Quiverful and their
three grown daughters. Mr and Mrs Chadwick and their three
daughters. The burly chancellor and his wife and clerical son from
Oxford. The meagre little doctor without encumbrance. Mr Harding
with Eleanor and Miss Bold. The dean leaning on a gaunt spinster,
his only child now living with him, a lady very learned in stones,
ferns, plants, and vermin, and who had written a book about petals.
A wonderful woman in her way was Miss Trefoil. Mr Finnie, the
attorney, with his wife, was to be seen, much to the dismay of many
who had never met him in a drawing-room before. The five Barchester
doctors were all there, and old Scalpen, the retired apothecary and
toothdrawer, who was first taught to consider himself as belonging
to the higher orders by the receipt of the bishop's card. Then came
the archdeacon and his wife, with their elder daughter Griselda, a
slim pale retiring girl of seventeen, who kept close to her mother,
and looked out on the world with quiet watchful eyes, one who gave
promise of much beauty when time should have ripened it.
And so the room became full, and knots were formed, and every new
comer paid his respects to my lord and passed on, not presuming to
occupy too much of the great man's attention. The archdeacon shook
hands very heartily with Dr Stanhope, and Mrs Grantly seated
herself by the doctor's wife. And Mrs Proudie moved about with well
regulated grace, measuring out the quantity of her favours to the
quality of her guests, just as Mr Slope had been doing with the
wine. But the sofa was still empty, and five-and-twenty ladies and
five gentlemen had been courteously warned off it by the mindful
chaplain.
'Why doesn't she come?' said the bishop to himself. His mind was so
preoccupied with the signora, that he hardly remembered how to
behave himself en bishop.
At last a carriage dashed up to the hall steps with a very
different manner of approach from that of any other vehicle that
had been there that evening. A perfect commotion took place. The
doctor, who heard it as he was standing in the drawing-room, knew
that his daughter was coming, and retired to the furthest corner,
where he might not see her entrance. Mrs Proudie parked herself up,
feeling that some important piece of business was in hand. The
bishop was instinctively aware, that La Signora Vicinironi was come
at last, and Mr Slope hurried to the hall to give his assistance.
He was, however, nearly knocked down and trampled on by the cortege
that he encountered on the hall steps. He got himself picked up as
well as he could, and followed the cortege up stairs. The signora
was carried head foremost, her head being the care of her brother
and an Italian man-servant who was accustomed to the work; her feet
were in the care of the lady's maid and the lady's Italian page;
and Charlotte Stanhope followed to see that all was done with due
grace and decorum. In this manner they climbed easily into the
drawing-room, and a broad way through the crowd having been opened,
the signora rested safely on her couch. She had sent a servant
beforehand to learn whether it was a right or a left hand sofa, for
it required that she should dress accordingly, particularly as
regarded her bracelets.
And very becoming her dress was. It was white velvet, without any
other garniture than rich white lace worked with pearls across her
bosom, and the same round the armlets of her dress. Across her brow
she wore a band of red velvet, on the centre of which shone a
magnificent Cupid in mosaic, the tints of whose wings were of the
most lovely azure, and the colour of his chubby cheeks the clearest
pink. On the one arm which her position required her to expose she
wore three magnificent bracelets, each of different stones. Beneath
her on the sofa, and over the cushion and head of it, was spread a
crimson silk mantle or shawl, which went under her whole body and
concealed her feet. Dressed as she was and looking as she did, so
beautiful and yet so motionless, with the pure brilliancy of her
white dress brought out and strengthened by the colour beneath it,
with that lovely head, and those large bold bright staring eyes, it
was impossible that either man or woman should do other than look
at her.
Neither man nor woman for some minutes did do other.
Her bearers too were worthy of note. The three servants were
Italian, and though perhaps not peculiar in their own country, were
very much so in the palace at Barchester. The man, especially
attracted notice, and created a doubt in the mind of some whether
he were a friend or a domestic. The same doubt was felt as to
Ethelbert. The man was attired in a loose-fitting common black
cloth morning coat. He had a jaunty well-pleased clean face, on
which no atom of beard appeared, and he wore round his neck a loose
black silk neckhandkerchief. The bishop assayed to make him a bow,
but the man, who was well-trained, took no notice of him, and
walked out of the room, quite at his ease, followed by the woman
and the boy.
Ethelbert Stanhope was dressed in light blue from head to foot. He
had on the loosest possible blue coat, cut square like a shooting
coat, and very short. It was lined with silk of azure blue. He had
on a blue satin waistcoat, a blue handkerchief which was fastened
beneath his throat with a coral ring, and very loose blue trousers
which almost concealed his feet. His soft glossy beard was softer
and more glossy than ever.
The bishop, who had made one mistake, thought that he also was a
servant, and therefore tried to make way for him to pass. But
Ethelbert soon corrected the error.