OXFORD--THE MASTER AND TUTOR OF LAZARUS
Mr Arabin, as we have said, had but a sad walk of it under the
trees of Plumstead churchyard. He did not appear to any of the
family till dinner time, and then he assumed, as far as their
judgment went, to be quite himself. He had, as was his wont, asked
himself a great many questions, and given himself a great many
answers; and the upshot of this was that he had set himself down
for an ass. He had determined that he was much too old and much to
rusty to commence the manouvres of lovemaking; that he had let the
time slip through his hands which should have been used for such
purposes; and that now he must lie on his bed as he had made it.
Then he asked himself whether in truth he did love this woman; and
he answered himself, not without a long struggle, but at last
honestly, that he certainly did love her. He then asked himself
whether he did not also love her money; and he again answered
himself that he did so. But here he did not answer honestly. It was
and ever had been his weakness to look for impure motives for his
own conduct. No doubt, circumstanced as he was, with a small living
and a fellowship, accustomed as he had been to collegiate luxuries
and expensive comforts, he might have hesitated to marry a
penniless woman had he felt ever so strong a predilection for the
woman herself; no doubt Eleanor's fortune put all such difficulties
out of the question; but it was equally without doubt that his love
for her had crept upon him without the slightest idea on his part
that he could ever benefit his own condition by sharing her wealth.
When he had stood on the hearth-rug, counting the pattern, and
counting also the future chances of his own life, the remembrances
of Mrs Bold's comfortable income had not certainly damped his first
assured feeling of love for her. And why should it have done so?
Need it have done so with the purest of men? Be that as it may, Mr
Arabin decided against himself; he decided that it had done so in
his case, and that he was not the purest of men.
He also decided, which was more to his purpose, that Eleanor did
not care a straw for him, and that very probably did not care a
straw for his rival. Then he made up his mind not to think of her
any more, and went on thinking of her till he was almost in a state
to drown himself in the little brook which was at the bottom of the
archdeacon's grounds.
And ever and again his mind would revert to the Signora Neroni, and
he would make comparisons between her and Eleanor Bold, not always
in favour of the latter. The signora had listened to him, and
flattered him, and believed in him; at least she had told him so.
Mrs Bold had also listened to him, but had never flattered him; had
not always believed in him: and now had broken from him in violent
rage. The signora, too, was the more lovely woman of the two, and
had also the additional attraction of her affliction; for to him it
was an attraction.
But he never could have loved the Signora Neroni as he felt that he
now loved Eleanor! and so he flung stones into the brook, instead
of flinging in himself, and sat down on its margin as sad a
gentleman as you shall meet in a summer's day.
He heard the dinner-bell ring from the churchyard, and he knew that
it was time to recover his self possession. He felt that he was
disgracing himself in his own eyes, that he had been idling his
time and neglecting the high duties which he had taken upon himself
to perform. He should have spent the afternoon among the poor at St
Ewold's, instead of wandering about Plumstead, an ancient love-lorn
swain, dejected and sighing, full of imaginary sorrows and
Wertherian grief. He was thoroughly ashamed of himself, and
determined to lose no time in retrieving his character, so damaged
in his own eyes. Thus when he appeared at dinner he was as animated
as ever, and was the author of most of the conversation which
graced the archdeacon's board on that evening. Mr Harding was ill
at ease and sick at heart, and did not care to appear more
comfortable than he really was; what little he did say was said to
his daughter. He thought the archdeacon and Mr Arabin had leagued
together against Eleanor's comfort; and his wish now was to break
away from the pair, and undergo in his Barchester lodgings whatever
Fate had in store for him. He hated the name of the hospital; his
attempt to regain his lost inheritance there had brought upon him
so much suffering. As far as he was concerned, Mr Quiverful was now
welcome to the place.
And the archdeacon was not very lively. The poor dean's illness was
of course discussed in the first place. Dr Grantly did not mention
Mr Slope's name in connexion with the expected event of Dr
Trefoil's death; he did not wish to say anything about Mr Slope
just at present, nor did he wish to make known his own sad
surmises; but the idea that his enemy might possibly become Dean of
Barchester made him very gloomy. Should such an even take place,
such a dire catastrophe come about, there would be an end to his
life as far as his life was connected with the city of Barchester.
He must give up all his old haunts, all his old habits, and live
quietly as a retired rector at Plumstead. It had been a severe
trial for him to have Dr Proudie in the palace; but with Mr Slope
also in the deanery, he felt that he should be unable to draw his
breath in Barchester close.
Thus it came to pass that in spite of the sorrow at his heart, Mr
Arabin was apparently the gayest of the party. Both Mr Harding and
Mrs Grantly were in a slight degree angry with him on account of
his want of gloom. To the one it appeared as though he were
triumphing at Eleanor's banishment, and to the other that he was
not affected as he should have been by all the sad circumstances of
the day, Eleanor's obstinacy, Mr Slope's success, and the poor
dean's apoplexy. And so they were all at cross purposes.
Mr Harding left the room almost together with the ladies, and the
archdeacon opened his heart to Mr Arabin. He still harped upon the
hospital. 'What did that fellow mean,' said he, 'by saying in his
letter to Mrs Bold, that if Mr Harding would call on the bishop it
would be all right? Of course I would not be guided by anything he
might say; but still it may be well that Mr Harding should see the
bishop. It would be foolish to let the thing slip through our
fingers because Mrs Bold is determined to make a fool of herself.'
Mr Arabin hinted that he was not quite so sure that Mrs Bold would
make a fool of herself. He said that he was not convinced that she
did regard Mr Slope so warmly as she was supposed to do. The
archdeacon questioned and cross-questioned him about this, but
elicited nothing; and at least remained firm in his own conviction
that he was destined, malgre lui, to be the brother-in-law of Mr
Slope. Mr Arabin strongly advised that Mr Harding should take no
step regarding the hospital in connexion with, or in consequence
of, Mr Slope's letter. 'If the bishop really means to confer the
appointment on Mr Harding,' argued Mr Arabin, 'he will take care to
let him have some other intimation than a message conveyed through
a letter to a lady. Were Mr Harding to present himself at the
palace he might merely be playing Mr Slope's game;' and thus it was
settled that nothing should be done till the great Dr Gwynne's
arrival, or at any rate without that potentate's sanction.
It was droll how these men talked of Mr Harding as though he were a
puppet, and planned their intrigues and small ecclesiastical
manouvres without dreaming of taking him into their confidence.
There was a comfortable house and income in question, and it was
very desirable, and certainly very just, that Mr Harding should
have them; but that, at present, was not the main point; it was
expedient to beat the bishop, and if possible to smash Mr Slope. Mr
Slope had set up, or was supposed to have set up, a rival
candidate. Of all things the most desirable would have been to have
had Mr Quiverful's appointment published to the public, and then
annulled by the clamour of an indignant world, loud in the defence
of Mr Harding's rights. But of such an event the chance was small;
a slight fraction only of the world would be indignant, and that
fraction would be one not accustomed to loud speaking. And then the
preferment had in a sort of way been offered to Mr Harding, and had
in a sort of way been refused by him.
Mr Slope's wicked, cunning hand had been peculiarly conspicuous in
the way in which this had been brought to pass, and it was the
success of Mr Slope's cunning which was so painfully grating the
feelings of the archdeacon. That which of all things he most
dreaded was that he should be out-generalled by Mr Slope: and just
at present it appeared probable that Mr Slope would turn his flank,
steal a march on him, cut off his provisions, carry his strong town
by a coup de main, and at last beat him thoroughly in a regular
pitched battle. The archdeacon felt that his flank had been turned
when desired to wait on Mr Slope instead of the bishop, that a
march had been stolen when Mr Harding was induced to refuse the
bishop's offer, that his provisions would be cut off when Mr
Quiverful got the hospital, that Eleanor was the strong town doomed
to be taken, and that Mr Slope, as Dean of Barchester, would be
regarded by all the world as the conqueror in that final conflict.
Dr Gwyinne was the Deus ex machina who was to come down upon the
Barchester stage, and bring about deliverance from these terrible
evils. But how can melodramatic denouments be properly brought
about, how can vice and Mr Slope be punished, and virtue and the
archdeacon be rewarded, while the avenging god is laid up with the
gout? In the mean time evil may be triumphant, and poor innocence,
transfixed to the earth by an arrow from Dr Proudie's quiver, may
be dead upon the ground, not to be resuscitated even by Dr Gwynne.
Two or three days after Eleanor's departure, Mr Arabin went to
Oxford, and soon found himself closeted with the august head of his
college. It was quite clear that Dr Gwynne was not very sanguine as
to the effects of his journey to Barchester, and not over anxious
to interfere with the bishop. He had had the gout but was very
nearly convalescent, and Mr Arabin at once saw that had the mission
been one of which the master thoroughly approved, he would before
this have been at Plumstead.
As it was, Dr Gwynne was resolved to visiting his friend, and
willingly promised to return to Barchester with Mr Arabin. He could
not bring himself to believe that there was any probability that Mr
Slope would be made Dean of Barchester. Rumour, he said, had
reached even his ears not at all favourable to that gentleman's
character, and he expressed himself strongly of the opinion that
any such appointment was quite out of the question. At this stage
of the proceedings, the master's right-hand man, Tom Staple, was
called in to assist at the conference. Tom Staple was the Tutor of
Lazarus, and moreover a great man at Oxford. Though universally
known by a species of nomenclature as very undignified. Tom Staple
was one who maintained a high dignity in the University. He was, as
it were, the leader of the Oxford tutors, a body of men who
consider themselves collectively as being by very little, if at
all, second in importance to the heads themselves. It is not always
the case that the master, or warden, or provost, or principal can
hit it off exactly with his tutor. A tutor is by no means
indisposed to have a will of his own. But at Lazarus they were
great friends and firm allies at the time of which we are writing.
Tom Staple was a hale strong man of about forty-five; short in
stature, swarthy in face, with strong sturdy black hair, and crisp
black beard, of which very little was allowed to show itself in the
shape of whiskers. He always wore a white neckcloth, clean indeed,
but not tied with that scrupulous care which now distinguishes some
of our younger clergy. He was, of course, always clothed in a
seemly suit of solemn black. Mr Staple was a decent cleanly liver,
not over addicted to any sensuality; but nevertheless a somewhat
warmish hue was beginning to adorn his nose, the peculiar effect,
as his friends averred, of a certain pipe of port introduced into
the cellars of Lazarus the very same year in which the tutor
entered in as a freshman. There was also, perhaps with a little
redolence of port wine, as it were the slightest possible twang, in
Mr Staple's voice.
In these days Tom Staple was not a very happy man; University
reform had long been his bugbear, and now was his bane. It was not
with him as with most others, an affair of politics, respecting
which, when the need existed, he could, for parties' sake or on
behalf of principle, maintain a certain amount of necessary zeal;
it was not with him a subject for dilettante warfare, and courteous
common-place opposition. To him it was life and death. He would
willingly have been a martyr in the cause, had the cause admitted
of martyrdom.
At the present day, unfortunately, public affairs will allow of no
martyrs, and therefore it is that there is such a deficiency of
zeal. Could gentlemen of L 10,000 a year have died on their own
door-steps in defence of protection, no doubt some half-dozen
glorious old baronets would have so fallen, and the school of
protection would at this day have been crowded with scholars. Who
can fight strenuously in any combat in which there is no danger?
Tom Staple would have willingly been impaled before a Committee of
the House, could he by such self-sacrifice have infused his own
spirit into the component members of the hebdomadal board.
Tom Staple was one of those who in his heart approved of the credit
system which had of old been in vogue between the students and
tradesmen of the University. He knew and acknowledged to himself
that it was useless in these degenerate days publicly to contend
with the Jupiter on such a subject. The Jupiter had undertaken to
rule the University, and Tom Staple was well aware that the Jupiter
was too powerful for him. But in secret, and among his safe
companions, he would argue that the system of credit was an ordeal
good for young men to undergo.
The bad men, said he, and the weak and worthless, blunder into
danger and burn their feet; but the good men, they who have any
character, they who have that within them which can reflect credit
in their Alma Mater, they come through scatheless. What merit will
there be to a young man to get through safely, if he guarded and
protected and restrained like a school-boy? By so doing, the period
of the ordeal is only postponed, and the manhood of the man will be
deferred from the age of twenty to that of twenty-four. If you bind
him with leading-strings at college, he will break loose while
eating for the bar in London; bind him there, and he will break
loose afterwards, when he is a married man. The wild oats must be
sown somewhere. 'Twas thus that Tom Staple would argue of young
men; not, indeed, with much consistency, but still with some
practical knowledge of the subject gathered from long experience.
And now Tom Staple proffered such wisdom as he had for the
assistance of Dr Gwynne and Mr Arabin.
'Quite out of the question,' said he, arguing that Mr Slope could
not possibly be made the new Dean of Barchester.
'So I think,' said the master. 'He has no standing, and, if all I
hear be true, very little character.'
'As to character,' said Tom Staple, 'I don't think much of that.
They rather like loose parsons for deans; a little fast living, or
a dash of infidelity, is no bad recommendation to a cathedral
close. But they couldn't make Mr Slope; the last two deans have
been Cambridge men; you'll not show me an instance of their making
three men running from the same University. We don't get out share,
and never shall, I suppose; but we must at least have one out of
the three.'
'These sort of rules are all gone out by now,' said Mr Arabin.
'Everything has gone by, I believe,' said Tom Staple. 'The cigar
has been smoked out, and we are the ashes.'
'Speak for yourself, Staple,' said the master.
'I speak for all,' said the tutor stoutly. 'It is coming to that,
that there will be no life left anywhere in the country. No one is
any longer fit to rule himself, or those belonging to him. The
Government is to find us all in everything, and the press is to
find the Government. Nevertheless, Mr Slope won't be Dean of
Barchester.'
'And who will be the warden of the hospital?' said Mr Arabin.
'I hear that Mr Quiverful is already appointed,' said Tom Staple.
'I think not,' said the master. 'And I think, moreover, that Dr
Proudie will not be so short-sighted as to run against such a rock;
Mr Slope should himself have sense enough to prevent it.'
'But perhaps Mr Slope may have no objection to see his patron on a
rock,' said the suspicious tutor.
'What could he get by that?' asked Mr Arabin.
'It is impossible to see the doubles of such a man,' said Mr
Staple. 'It seems quite clear that Bishop Proudie is altogether in
his hands, and it is equally clear that he has been moving heaven
and earth to get this Mr Quiverful into the hospital, although he
must know that such an appointment would be most damaging to the
bishop. It is impossible to understand such a man, and dreadful to
think,' added Mr Staple, sighing deeply, 'that the welfare and
fortunes of good men may depend on his intrigues.'
Dr Gwynne or Mr Staple were not in the least aware, nor even was Mr
Arabin that this Mr Slope, of whom they were talking, had been
using his utmost efforts to put their own candidate into the
hospital; and that in lieu of being a permanent in the palace, his
own expulsion therefrom had been already decided on by the high
powers of the diocese.
'I'll tell you what,' said the tutor, 'if this Quiverful is thrust
into the hospital and Dr Trefoil must die, I should not wonder if
the Government were to make Mr Harding Dean of Barchester. They
would feel bound to do something for him after all that was said
when he resigned.'
Dr Gwynne at the moment made no reply to this suggestion; but it
did not the less impress itself on his mind. If Mr Harding could
not be warden of the hospital, why should he not be Dean of
Barchester?
And so the conference ended without any very fixed resolution, and
Dr Gwynne and Mr Arabin prepared for their journey to Plumstead on
the morrow.