FOURTEEN ARGUMENTS IN FAVOUR OF MR QUIVERFUL'S CLAIMS
We have most of us heard of the terrible anger of a lioness when,
surrounded by her cubs, she guards her prey. Few of us wish to
disturb the mother of a litter of puppies when mouthing a bone in
the midst of her young family. Medea and her children are familiar
to us, and so is the grief of Constance. Mrs Quiverful, when she
first heard from her husband the news which he had to impart, felt
within her bosom all the rage of a lioness, the rapacity of the
hound, the fury of the tragic queen, and the deep despair of a
bereaved mother.
Doubting, but yet hardly fearing, what might have been the tenor of
Mr Slope's discourse, she rushed back to her husband as soon as the
front door was closed behind the visitor. It was well for Mr Slope
that he had so escaped,--the anger of such a woman, at such a
moment, would have cowed even him. As a general rule, it is highly
desirable that ladies should keep their temper; a woman when she
storms always makes herself ugly, and usually ridiculous also.
There is nothing so odious to man as a virago. Though Theseus loved
an Amazon, he showed his love but roughly; and from the time of
Theseus downward, no man ever wished to have his wife remarkable
rather for forward prowess than retiring gentleness.
Such may be laid down as a general rule; and few women should allow
themselves to deviate from it, and then only on rare occasions. But
if there be a time when a woman may let her hair to the winds, when
she may loose her arms, and scream out trumpet-tongued to the ears
of men, it is when nature calls out within her not for her own
wants, but for the wants of those whom her womb has borne, whom her
breasts have suckled, for those who look to her for their daily
bread as naturally as man looks to his Creator.
There was nothing poetic in the nature of Mrs Quiverful. She was
neither a Medea nor a Constance. When angry, she spoke out her
anger in plain words, and in a tone which might have been modulated
with advantage; but she did so, at any rate, without affectation.
Now, without knowing it, she rose to a tragic vein.
'Well, my dear; we are not to have it.' Such were the words with
which her ears were greeted when she entered the parlour, still hot
from the kitchen fire. And the face of her husband spoke even more
plainly than his words:--"E'en such a man, so faint, so spiritless,
So dull, so dead in look, so woe-begone, Drew Priam's curtain in
the dead of night."
'What!' said she,--and Mrs Siddons could not have put more passion
into a single syllable,--'What! Not have it? Who says so?' And she
sat opposite to her husband, with her elbows on the table, her
hands clasped together, and her coarse, solid, but once handsome
face stretched over it towards him.
She sat as silent as death while he told his story, and very
dreadful to him her silence was. He told it very lamely and badly,
but still in such a manner that she soon understood the whole of
it.
'And so you have resigned it?' said she.
'I have had no opportunity of accepting it,' he replied. 'I had no
witnesses to Mr Slope's offer, even if that offer would bind the
bishop. It was better for me, on the whole, to keep on good terms
with such men than to fight for what I should never get!'
'Witnesses!' she screamed, rising quickly to her feet, and walking
up and down the room. 'Do clergymen require witnesses to their
words? He made the promise in the bishop's name, and if it is to be
broken I'll know the reason why. Did he not positively say that the
bishop had sent him to offer you the place?'
'He did, my dear. But that is now nothing to the purpose.'
'It is everything to the purpose, Mr Quiverful. Witnesses indeed!
And then to talk of your honour being questioned because you wish
to provide for fourteen children. It is everything to the purpose;
and so they shall know, if I scream it into their ears from the
town cross of Barchester.'
'You forget, Letitia, that the bishop has so many things in his
gift. We must wait a little longer. That is all.'
'Wait! Shall we feed the children by waiting? Will waiting put
George and Tom, and Sam, out into the world? Will it enable my poor
girls to give up some of their drudgery? Will waiting make Bessy
and Jane fit even to be governesses? Will waiting pay for the
things we got in Barchester last week?'
'It is all we can do, my dear. The disappointment is as much to me
as to you; and yet, God knows, I feel it more for your sake than my
own.'
Mrs Quiverful was looking full into her husband's face, and saw a
small hot tear appear on each of those furrowed cheeks. This was
too much for her woman's heart. He also had risen, and was standing
with his back to the empty grate. She rushed towards him, and
seizing him in her arms, sobbed aloud upon his bosom.
'Yes, you are too good, too soft, too yielding,' she said at last.
'These men, when they want you, they use you like a cat's-paw; and
when they want you no longer, they throw you aside like an old
shoe. This is twice they have treated you so.'
'In one way this will be for the better,' argued he. 'It will make
the bishop feel that he is bound to do something for me.'
'At any rate, he shall hear of it,' said the lady, again reverting
to her more angry mood. 'At any rate he shall hear of it, and that
loudly; and so shall she. She little knows Letitia Quiverful, if
she thinks I will sit down quietly with the loss after all that
passed between us at the palace. If there's any feeling within her,
I'll make her ashamed of herself,'--and she paced the room again,
stamping the floor as she went with her fat heavy foot.
'Good heavens! What a heart she must have within her to treat in
such a way as this the father of fourteen unprovided children!'
Mr Quiverful proceeded to explain that he didn't think that Mrs
Proudie had anything to do with it.
'Don't tell me,' said Mrs Quiverful; 'I know more about it than
that. Doesn't all the world know that Mrs Proudie is bishop of
Barchester, and that Mr Slope is merely her creature? Wasn't it she
that made me the promise just as though the thing was in her own
particular gift? I tell you, it was that woman who sent him over
here to-day because, for some reason of her own, she wants to go
back on her word.'
'My dear, you're wrong--'
'Now, Q, don't be so soft,' she continued. 'Take my word for it,
the bishop knows no more about it than Jemima does.' Jemima was the
two-year old. 'And if you'll take my advice, you'll lose no time in
going over and seeing him yourself.'
Soft, however, as Mr Quiverful might be, he would not allow himself
to be talked out of his opinion on this occasion; and proceeded
with much minuteness to explain to his wife the tone in which Mr
Slope had spoken of Mrs Proudie's interference in diocesan matters.
As he did so, a new idea gradually instilled itself into the
matron's head, and a new course of action presented itself to her
judgement. What if, after all, Mrs Proudie knew nothing of this
visit of Mr Slope's? In that case, might it not be possible that
that lady would still be staunch to her in this matter, still stand
her friend, and, perhaps, possibly carry her through in opposition
to Mr Slope? Mrs Quiverful said nothing as this vague hope occurred
to her, but listened with more than ordinary patience to what her
husband had to say. While he was still explaining that in all
probability the world was wrong in its estimation of Mrs Proudie's
power and authority, she had fully made up her mind as to her
course of action. She did not, however, proclaim her intention. She
shook her head continuously, as he continued his narration; and
when he had completed she rose to go, merely observing that it was
cruel, cruel treatment. She then asked if he would mind waiting for
a late dinner instead of dining at their usual hour of three, and,
having received from him a concession on this point, she proceeded
to carry her purpose into execution.
She determined that she would at once go to the palace; that she
would do so, if possible, before Mrs Proudie could have had an
interview with Mr Slope; and that she would be either submissive,
piteous and pathetic, or indignant violent and exacting, according
to the manner in which she was received.
She was quite confident in her own power. Strengthened as she was
by the pressing wants of fourteen children, she felt that she could
make her way through legions of episcopal servants, and force
herself, if need be, into the presence of the lady who had so
wronged her. She had no shame about it, no mauvaise honte, no dread
of archdeacons. She would, as she declared to her husband, make her
wail heard in the market-place if she did not get redress and
justice. It might be very well for an unmarried young curate to be
shamefaced in such matters; it might be all right that a smug
rector, really in want of nothing, but still looking for better
preferment, should carry out his affairs decently under the rose.
But Mrs Quiverful, with fourteen children, had given over being
shamefaced, and, in some things, had given over being decent. If it
were intended that she should be ill used in the manner proposed by
Mr Slope, it should not be done under the rose. All the world would
know of it.
In her present mood, Mrs Quiverful was not over careful about her
attire. She tied her bonnet under her chin, threw her shawl over
her shoulders, armed herself with the old family cotton umbrella,
and started for Barchester. A journey to the palace was not quite
so easy a thing for Mrs Quiverful as for our friend at Plumstead.
Plumstead is nine miles from Barchester, and Puddingdale is but
four. But the archdeacon could order round his brougham, and his
high-trotting fast bay gelding would take him into the city within
the hour. There was no brougham in the coach-house of Puddingdale
Vicarage, no bay horse in the stables. There was no method of
locomotion for its inhabitants but that which nature had assigned
to man.
Mrs Quiverful was a broad heavy woman, not young, nor given to
walking. In her kitchen, and in the family dormitories, she was
active enough; but her pace and gait were not adapted for the road.
A walk into Barchester and back in the middle of an August day
would be to her a terrible task, if not altogether impracticable.
There was living in the parish about half a mile from the vicarage
on the road to the city, a decent, kindly farmer, well to do as
regards this world, and so far mindful of the next that he attended
his parish church with decent regularity. To him Mrs Quiverful had
before now appealed in some of her more pressing family troubles,
and had not appealed in vain. At his door she now presented
herself, and, having explained to his wife that most urgent
business required her to go at once to Barchester, begged that
Farmer Subsoil would take her thither in his tax-cart. The farmer
did not reject her plan; and, as soon as Prince could be got into
his collar, they started on their journey.
Mrs Quiverful did not mention the purpose of her business, nor did
the farmer alloy his kindness by any unseemly questions. She merely
begged to be put down at the bridge going into the city, and to be
taken up again at the same place in the course of two hours. The
farmer promised to be punctual to his appointment, and the lady,
supported by her umbrella, took the short cut to the close, and in
a few minutes was at the bishop's door.
Hitherto she had felt no dread with regard to the coming interview.
She had felt nothing but an indignant longing to pour forth her
claims, and declare her wrongs, if those claims were not fully
admitted. But now the difficulty of her situation touched her a
little. She had been at the palace once before, but then she went
to give grateful thanks. Those who have thanks to return for
favours received find easy admittance to the halls of the great.
Such is not always the case with men, or even women, who have
favours to beg. Still less easy is access for those who demand the
fulfilment of promises already made.
Mrs Quiverful had not been slow to learn the ways of the world. She
knew all this, and she knew also that her cotton umbrella and all
but ragged shawl would not command respect in the eyes of the
palace servants. If she were too humble, she knew well that she
would never succeed. To overcome by imperious overbearing with such
a shawl as hers upon her shoulders, and such a bonnet on her head,
would have required a personal bearing very superior to that which
nature had endowed her. Of this also Mrs Quiverful was aware. She
must make it known she was the wife of a gentleman and a clergyman,
and must yet condescend to conciliate.
The poor lady knew but one way to overcome these difficulties at
the very threshold of her enterprise, and to this she resorted. Low
as were the domestic funds at Puddingdale, she still retained
possession of a half-crown, and this she sacrificed to the avarice
of Mrs Proudie's metropolitan sesquipedalian serving-man. She was,
she said, Mrs Quiverful of Puddingdale, the wife of the Rev. Mr
Quiverful. She wished to see Mrs Proudie. It was indeed quite
indispensible that she should see Mrs Proudie. James Fitzplush
looked worse than dubious, did not know whether his lady were out,
or engaged, or in her bed-room; thought it most probable that she
was subject to one of these or to some cause that would make her
invisible; but Mrs Quiverful could sit down in the waiting-room,
while inquiry was being made of Mrs Proudie.
'Look here, man,' said Mrs Quiverful; 'I must see her;' and she put
her card and half-crown--think of it, my reader, think of it; her
last half-crown--into the man's hand, and sat herself down on a
chair in the waiting-room.
Whether the bribe carried the day, or whether the bishop's wife
really chose to see the vicar's wife, it boots not now to inquire.
The man returned, and begging Mrs Quiverful to follow him, ushered
her into the presence of the mistress of the diocese.
Mrs Quiverful at once saw that her patroness was in a smiling
humour. Triumph sat throned upon her brow, and all the joys of
dominion hovered about her curls. Her lord had that morning
contested with her a great point. He had received an invitation to
spend a couple of days with the archbishop. His soul longed for the
gratification. Not a word, however, in his grace's note alluded to
the fact that he was a married man; and, if he went at all, he must
go alone. This necessity would have presented an insurmountable bar
to the visit, or have militated against the pleasure, had he been
able to go without reference to Mrs Proudie. But this he could not
do. He could not order his portmanteau to be packed, and start with
his own man, merely telling the lady of his heart that he would
probably be back on Saturday. There are men--may we not rather say
monsters?--who do such things; and there are wives--may we not
rather say slaves?--who put up with such usage. But Dr and Mrs
Proudie were not among the number.
The bishop with some beating about the bush, made the lady
understand that he very much wished to go. The lady, without any
beating about the bush, made the bishop understand that she
wouldn't hear of it. It would be useless here to repeat the
arguments that were used on each side, and needless to record the
result. Those who are married will understand very well how the
battle was lost and won; and those who are single will never
understand it till they learn the lesson which experience alone can
give. When Mrs Quiverful was shown into Mrs Proudie's room, that
lady had only returned a few minutes from her lord. But before she
left him she had seen the answer to the archbishop's note written
and sealed. No wonder that her face was wreathed with smiles as she
received Mrs Quiverful.
She instantly spoke of the subject which was so near the heart of
her visitor. 'Well, Mrs Quiverful,' said she, 'is it decided yet
when you are to move to Barchester?'
'That woman', as she had an hour or two since been called, became
instantly re-endowed with all the graces that can adorn a bishop's
wife. Mrs Quiverful immediately saw that her business was to be
piteous, and that nothing was to be gained by indignation; nothing,
indeed, unless she could be indignant in company with her
patroness.
'Oh, Mrs Proudie,' she began, 'I fear we are not to move to
Barchester at all.'
'Why not?' said the lady sharply, dropping at a moment's notice her
smiles and condescension, and turning with her sharp quick way to
business which she saw at a glance was important.
And then Mrs Quiverful told her tale. As she progressed in the
history of her wrongs she perceived that the heavier she leant upon
Mr Slope the blacker became Mrs Proudie's brow, but that such
blackness was not injurious to her own cause. When Mr Slope was at
Puddingdale vicarage that morning she had regarded him as the
creature of the lady-bishop; now she perceived that they were
enemies. She admitted her mistake to herself without any pain or
humiliation. She had but one feeling, and that was confined to her
family. She cared little how she twisted and turned among these
new-comers at the bishop's palace as long as she could twist her
husband into the warden's house. She cared not which was her friend
or which was her enemy, if only she could get this preference which
she so sorely wanted.
She told her tale, and Mrs Proudie listened to it almost in
silence. She told how Mr Slope had cozened her husband into
resigning his claim, and had declared that it was the bishop's will
that none but Mr Harding should be warden. Mrs Proudie's brow
became blacker and blacker. At last she started from her chair, and
begging Mrs Quiverful to sit and wait for her return, marched out
of the room.
'Oh, Mrs Proudie, it's for fourteen children--for fourteen
children.' Such was the burden that fell on her ear as she closed
the door behind her.