The Chronicles of Barsetshire

by Anthony Trollope

  Once at this period Archdeacon Grantly and Dr. Tempest met each other and discussed the question of Mr. Crawley’s guilt. Both these men were inimical to the present bishop of the diocese, and both had perhaps respected the old bishop beyond all other men. But they were different in this, that the archdeacon hated Dr. Proudie as a partisan—whereas Dr. Tempest opposed the bishop on certain principles which he endeavoured to make clear, at any rate to himself. “Wrong!” said the archdeacon, speaking of the bishop’s intention of issuing a commission—”of course he is wrong. How could anything right come from him or from her? I should be sorry to have to do his bidding.”

  “I think you are a little hard upon Bishop Proudie,” said Dr. Tempest.

  “One cannot be hard upon him,” said the archdeacon. “He is so scandalously weak, and she is so radically vicious, that they cannot but be wrong together. The very fact that such a man should be a bishop among us is to me terribly strong evidence of evil days coming.”

  “You are more impulsive than I am,” said Dr. Tempest. “In this case I am sorry for the poor man, who is, I am sure, honest in the main. But I believe that in such a case your father would have done just what the present bishop is doing—that he could have done nothing else; and as I think that Dr. Proudie is right I shall do all that I can to assist him in the commission.”

  The bishop’s secretary had written to Dr. Tempest, telling him of the bishop’s purpose; and now, in one of the last days of March, the bishop himself wrote to Dr. Tempest, asking him to come over to the palace. The letter was worded most courteously, and expressed very feelingly the great regret which the writer felt at being obliged to take these proceedings against a clergyman in his diocese. Bishop Proudie knew how to write such a letter. By the writing of such letters, and by the making of speeches in the same strain, he had become Bishop of Barchester. Now, in this letter, he begged Dr. Tempest to come over to him, saying how delighted Mrs. Proudie would be to see him at the palace. Then he went on to explain the great difficulty which he felt, and great sorrow also, in dealing with this matter of Mr. Crawley. He looked, therefore, confidently for Dr. Tempest’s assistance. Thinking to do the best for Mr. Crawley, and anxious to enable Mr. Crawley to remain in quiet retirement till the trial should be over, he had sent a clergyman over to Hogglestock, who would have relieved Mr. Crawley from the burden of the church-services—but Mr. Crawley would have none of this relief. Mr. Crawley had been obstinate and overbearing, and had persisted in claiming his right to his own pulpit. Therefore was he the bishop obliged to interfere legally, and therefore was he under the necessity of asking Dr. Tempest to assist him. Would Dr. Tempest come over on the Monday, and stay till the Wednesday?

  The letter was a very good letter, and Dr. Tempest was obliged to do as he was asked. He so far modified the bishop’s proposition that he reduced the sojourn at the palace by one night. He wrote to say that he would have the pleasure of dining with the bishop and Mrs. Proudie on the Monday, but would return home on the Tuesday, as soon as the business in hand would permit him. “I shall get on very well with him,” he said to his wife before he started; “but I am afraid of the woman. If she interferes there will be a row.” “Then, my dear,” said his wife, “there will be a row, for I am told that she always interferes.” On reaching the palace half-an-hour before dinner-time, Dr. Tempest found that other guests were expected, and on descending to the great yellow drawing-room, which was used only on state occasions, he encountered Mrs. Proudie and two of her daughters arrayed in a full panoply of female armour. She received him with her sweetest smiles, and if there had been any former enmity between Silverbridge and the palace, it was now all forgotten. She regretted greatly that Mrs. Tempest had not accompanied the doctor—for Mrs. Tempest also had been invited. But Mrs. Tempest was not quite as well as she might have been, the doctor had said, and very rarely slept away from home. And then the bishop came in and greeted his guest with his pleasantest good humour. It was quite a sorrow to him that Silverbridge was so distant, and that he saw so little of Dr. Tempest; but he hoped that that might be somewhat mended now, and that leisure might be found for social delights—to all which Dr. Tempest said but little, bowing to the bishop at each separate expression of his lordship’s kindness.

  There were guests there that evening who did not often sit at the bishop’s table. The archdeacon and Mrs. Grantly had been summoned from Plumstead, and had obeyed the summons. Great as was the enmity between the bishop and the archdeacon, it had never quite taken the form of open palpable hostility. Each, therefore, asked the other to dinner perhaps once every year; and each went to the other, perhaps, once in two years. And Dr. Thorne from Chaldicotes was there, but without his wife, who in these days was up in London. Mrs. Proudie always expressed a warm friendship for Mrs. Thorne, and on this occasion loudly regretted her absence. “You must tell her, Dr. Thorne, how exceedingly much we miss her.” Dr. Thorne, who was accustomed to hear his wife speak of her dear friend Mrs. Proudie with almost unmeasured ridicule, promised that he would do so. “We are sorry the Lufton’s couldn’t come to us,” said Mrs. Proudie—not alluding to the dowager, of whom it was well known that no earthly inducement would have sufficed to make her put her foot within Mrs. Proudie’s room—”but one of the children is ill, and she could not leave him.” But the Greshams were there from Boxall Hill, and the Thornes from Ullathorne, and, with the exception of a single chaplain, who pretended to carve, Dr. Tempest and the archdeacon were the only clerical guests at the table. From all which Dr. Tempest knew that the bishop was anxious to treat him with special consideration on the present occasion.

  The dinner was rather long and ponderous, and occasionally almost dull. The archdeacon talked a good deal, but a bystander with an acute ear might have understood from the tone of his voice that he was not talking as he would have talked among friends. Mrs. Proudie felt this, and understood it, and was angry. She could never find herself in the presence of the archdeacon without becoming angry. Her accurate ear would always appreciate the defiance of episcopal authority, as now existing in Barchester, which was concealed, or only half concealed, by all the archdeacon’s words. But the bishop was not so keen, nor so easily roused to wrath; and though the presence of his enemy did to a certain degree cow him, he strove to fight against the feeling with renewed good-humour.

  “You have improved so upon the old days,” said the archdeacon, speaking of some small matter with reference to the cathedral, “that one hardly knows the old place.”

  “I hope we have not fallen off,” said the bishop, with a smile.

  “We have improved, Dr. Grantly,” said Mrs. Proudie, with great emphasis on her words. “What you say is true. We have improved.”

  “Not a doubt about that,” said the archdeacon. Then Mrs. Grantly interposed, strove to change the subject, and threw oil upon the waters.

  “Talking of improvements,” said Mrs. Grantly, “what an excellent row of houses they have built at the bottom of High Street. I wonder who is to live in them?”

  “I remember when that was the very worst part of the town,” said Dr. Thorne.

  “And now they’re asking seventy pounds apiece for houses which did not cost above six hundred each to build,” said Mr. Thorne of Ullathorne, with that seeming dislike of modern success which is evinced by most of the elders of the world.

  “And who is to live in them?” asked Mrs. Grantly.

  “Two of them have been already taken by clergymen,” said the bishop, in a tone of triumph.

  “Yes,” said the archdeacon, “and the houses in the Close which used to be the residences of the prebendaries have been leased out to tallow-chandlers and retired brewers. That comes of the working of the Ecclesiastical Commission.”

  “And why not?” demanded Mrs. Proudie.

  “Why not, indeed, if you like to have tallow-chandlers next door to you?” said the archdeacon. “In the old days, we would sooner have had our brethren near to us.”

  “There
is nothing, Dr. Grantly, so objectionable in a cathedral town as a lot of idle clergymen,” said Mrs. Proudie.

  “It is beginning to be a question to me,” said the archdeacon, “whether there is any use in clergymen at all for the present generation.”

  “Dr. Grantly, those cannot be your real sentiments,” said Mrs. Proudie. Then Mrs. Grantly, working hard in her vocation as a peacemaker, changed the conversation again and began to talk of the American war. But even that was made a matter of discord on church matters—the archdeacon professing an opinion that the Southerners were Christian gentlemen, and the Northerners infidel snobs; whereas Mrs. Proudie had an idea that the Gospel was preached with genuine zeal in the Northern States. And at each such outbreak the poor bishop would laugh uneasily, and say a word or two to which no one paid much attention. And so the dinner went on, not always in the most pleasant manner for those who preferred continued social good-humour to the occasional excitement of a half-suppressed battle.

  Not a word was said about Mr. Crawley. When Mrs. Proudie and the ladies left the dining-room, the bishop strove to get up a little lay conversation. He spoke to Mr. Thorne about his game, and to Dr. Thorne about his timber, and even to Mr. Gresham about his hounds. “It is not so very many years, Mr. Gresham,” said he, “since the Bishop of Barchester was expected to keep hounds himself,” and the bishop laughed at his own joke.

  “Your lordship shall have them back at the palace next season,” said young Frank Gresham, “if you will promise to do the county justice.”

  “Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the bishop. “What do you say, Mr. Tozer?” Mr. Tozer was the chaplain on duty.

  “I have not least objection in the world, my lord,” said Mr. Tozer, “to act as second whip.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll find them an expensive adjunct to the episcopate,” said the archdeacon. And then the joke was over; for there had been a rumour, now for some years prevalent in Barchester, that Bishop Proudie was not liberal in his expenditure. As Mr. Thorne said afterwards to his cousin the doctor, the archdeacon might have spared that sneer. “The archdeacon will never spare the man who sits in his father’s seat,” said the doctor. “The pity of it is that men who are so thoroughly different in all their sympathies should ever be brought into contact.” “Dear, dear,” said the archdeacon, as he stood afterwards on the rug before the drawing-room fire, “how many rubbers of whist I have seen played in this room.” “I sincerely hope that you will never see another played here,” said Mrs. Proudie. “I’m quite sure that I shall not,” said the archdeacon. For this last sally his wife scolded him bitterly on their way home. “You know very well,” she said, “that the times are changed, and that if you were Bishop of Barchester yourself you would not have whist played in the palace.” “I only know,” said he, “that when we had the whist we had some true religion along with it, and some good sense and good feeling also.” “You cannot be right to sneer at others for doing what you would do yourself,” said his wife. Then the archdeacon threw himself sulkily into the corner of his carriage, and nothing more was said between him and his wife about the bishop’s dinner-party.

  Not a word was spoken that night at the palace about Mr. Crawley; and when that obnoxious guest from Plumstead was gone, Mrs. Proudie resumed her good-humour towards Dr. Tempest. So intent was she on conciliating him that she refrained even from abusing the archdeacon, whom she knew to have been intimate for very many years with the rector of Silverbridge. In her accustomed moods she would have broken forth in loud anger, caring nothing for old friendships; but at present she was thoughtful of the morrow, and desirous that Dr. Tempest should, if possible, meet her in a friendly humour when the great discussion as to Hogglestock should be opened between them. But Dr. Tempest understood her bearing, and as he pulled on his night-cap made certain resolutions of his own as to the morrow’s proceedings. “I don’t suppose she will dare to interfere,” he had said to his wife; “but if she does, I shall certainly tell the bishop that I cannot speak on the subject in her presence.”

  At breakfast on the following morning there was no one present but the bishop, Mrs. Proudie, and Dr. Tempest. Very little was said at the meal. Mr. Crawley’s name was not mentioned, but there seemed to be a general feeling among them that there was a task hanging over them which prevented any general conversation. The eggs were eaten and the coffee was drunk, but the eggs and the coffee disappeared almost in silence. When these ceremonies had been altogether completed, and it was clearly necessary that something further should be done, the bishop spoke: “Dr. Tempest,” he said, “perhaps you will join me in my study at eleven. We can then say a few words to each other about the unfortunate matter on which I shall have to trouble you.” Dr. Tempest said he would be punctual to his appointment, and then the bishop withdrew, muttering something as to the necessity of looking at his letters. Dr. Tempest took a newspaper in his hand, which had been brought in by a servant, but Mrs. Proudie did not allow him to read it. “Dr. Tempest,” she said, “this is a matter of most vital importance. I am quite sure that you feel that it is so.”

  “What matter, madam?” said the doctor.

  “This terrible affair of Mr. Crawley’s. If something be not done the whole diocese will be disgraced.” Then she waited for an answer, but receiving none she was obliged to continue. “Of the poor man’s guilt there can, I fear, be no doubt.” Then there was another pause, but still the doctor made no answer. “And if he be guilty,” said Mrs. Proudie, resolving that she would ask a question that must bring forth some reply, “can any experienced clergyman think that he can be fit to preach from the pulpit of a parish church? I am sure that you must agree with me, Dr. Tempest? Consider the souls of the people!”

  “Mrs. Proudie,” said he, “I think that we had better not discuss the matter.”

  “Not discuss it?”

  “I think that we had better not do so. If I understand the bishop aright, he wishes that I should take some step in the matter.”

  “Of course he does.”

  “And therefore I must decline to make it a matter of common conversation.”

  “Common conversation, Dr. Tempest! I should be the last person in the world to make it a matter of common conversation. I regard this as by no means a common conversation. God forbid that it should be a common conversation. I am speaking now very seriously with reference to the interests of the Church, which I think will be endangered by having among her active servants a man who has been guilty of so base a crime as theft. Think of it, Dr. Tempest. Theft! Stealing money! Appropriating to his own use a cheque for twenty pounds which did not belong to him! And then telling such terrible falsehoods about it! Can anything be worse, anything more scandalous, anything more dangerous? Indeed, Dr. Tempest, I do not regard this as any common conversation.” The whole of this speech was not made at once, fluently, or without a break. From stop to stop Mrs. Proudie paused, waiting for her companion’s words; but as he would not speak she was obliged to continue. “I am sure that you cannot but agree with me, Dr. Tempest?” she said.

  “I am quite sure that I shall not discuss it with you,” said the doctor, very brusquely.

  “And why not? Are you not here to discuss it?”

  “Not with you, Mrs. Proudie. You must excuse me for saying so, but I am not here to discuss any such matter with you. Were I to do so, I should be guilty of a very great impropriety.”

  “All these things are in common between me and the bishop,” said Mrs. Proudie, with an air that was intended to be dignified, but which nevertheless displayed her rising anger.

  “As to that I know nothing, but they cannot be in common between you and me. It grieves me much that I should have to speak to you in such a strain, but my duty allows me no alternative. I think, if you will permit me, I will take a turn round the garden before I keep my appointment with his lordship.” And so saying he escaped from the lady without hearing her further remonstrance.

  It still wanted an hour to the time named by the bisho
p, and Dr. Tempest used it in preparing for his withdrawal from the palace as soon as his interview with the bishop should be over. After what had passed he thought he would be justified in taking his departure without bidding adieu formally to Mrs. Proudie. He would say a word or two, explaining his haste, to the bishop; and then, if he could get out of the house at once, it might be that he would never see Mrs. Proudie again. He was rather proud of his success in their late battle, but he felt that, having been so completely victorious, it would be foolish in him to risk his laurels in the chance of another encounter. He would say not a word of what had happened to the bishop, and he thought it probable that neither would Mrs. Proudie speak of it—at any rate till after he was gone. Generals who are beaten out of the field are not quick to talk of their own repulses. He, indeed, had not beaten Mrs. Proudie out of the field. He had, in fact, himself run away. But he had left his foe silenced; and with such a foe, and in such a contest, that was everything. He put up his portmanteau, therefore, and prepared for his final retreat. Then he rang his bell and desired the servant to show him to the bishop’s study. The servant did so, and when he entered the room the first thing he saw was Mrs. Proudie sitting in an arm-chair near the window. The bishop was also in the room, sitting with his arms upon the writing-table, and his head upon his hands. It was very evident that Mrs. Proudie did not consider herself to have been beaten, and that she was prepared to fight another battle. “Will you sit down, Dr. Tempest?” she said, motioning him with her hand to a chair opposite to that occupied by the bishop. Dr. Tempest sat down. He felt that at the moment he had nothing else to do, and that he must restrain any remonstrance that he might make till Mr. Crawley’s name should be mentioned. He was almost lost in admiration of the woman. He had left her, as he thought, utterly vanquished and prostrated by his determined but uncourteous usage of her; and here she was, present again on the field of battle as though she had never been even wounded. He could see that there had been words between her and the bishop, and that she had carried a point on which the bishop had been very anxious to have his own way. He could perceive at once that the bishop had begged her to absent herself and was greatly chagrined that he should not have prevailed with her. There she was—and as Dr. Tempest was resolved that he would neither give advice nor receive instructions respecting Mr. Crawley in her presence, he could only draw upon his courage and his strategy for the coming warfare. For a few moments no one said a word. The bishop felt that if Dr. Tempest would only begin, the work on hand might be got through, even in his wife’s presence. Mrs. Proudie was aware that her husband should begin. If he would do so, and if Dr. Tempest would listen and then reply, she might gradually make her way into the conversation; and if her words were once accepted then she could say all that she desired to say; then she could play her part and become somebody in the episcopal work. When once she should have been allowed liberty of speech, the enemy would be powerless to stop her. But all this Dr. Tempest understood quite as well as she understood it, and had they waited till night he would not have been the first to mention Mr. Crawley’s name.