Framley Parsonage (14 page)

And then, when he had duly marked the path of the line through Borneo, Celebes, and Gilolo, through the Macassar Strait and the Molucca Passage, Mr Harold Smith rose to a higher flight. ‘But what,’ said he, ‘avails all that God
can give to man, unless man will open his hand to receive the gift? And what is this opening of the hand but the process of civilization – yes, my friends, the process of civilization? These South Sea islanders have all that a kind Providence can bestow on them; but that all is as nothing without education. That education and that civilization it is for you to bestow upon them – yes, my friends,
for you; for you, citizens of Barchester as you are.’ And then he paused again, in order that the feet and hands might go to work. The feet and hands did go to work, during which Mr Smith took a slight drink of water.

He was now quite in his element and had got into the proper way of punching the table with his fists. A few words dropping from Mr Sowerby did now and again find their way to his
ears, but the sound of his own voice had brought with it the accustomed charm, and he ran on from platitude to truism, and from truism back to platitude, with an eloquence that was charming to himself.

‘Civilization,’ he exclaimed, lifting up his eyes and hands to the ceiling. ‘O Civilization –’

‘There will not be a chance for us now for the next hour and a half,’ said Mr Supplehouse groaning.

Harold Smith cast one eye down at him, but it immediately flew back to the ceiling.

‘O Civilization! thou that ennoblest mankind and makest him equal to the gods, what is like unto thee?’ Here Mrs Proudie showed evident signs of disapprobation, which no doubt would have been shared by the bishop, had not that worthy prelate been asleep. But Mr Smith continued unobservant; or, at any rate, regardless.

‘What is like unto thee? Thou art the irrigating stream which makest fertile the barren plain. Till thou comest all is dark and dreary; but at thy advent the noontide sun shines out, the earth gives forth her increase; the deep bowels of the rocks render up their tribute. Forms which were dull and hideous become endowed with grace and beauty, and vegetable existence rises to the scale of celestial
life. Then, too, Genius appears clad in a panoply of translucent armour, grasping in his hand the whole terrestrial surface, and making every rood of earth subservient to his purposes; – Genius, the child of Civilization, the mother of the Arts!’

The last little bit, taken from the Pedigree of Progress, had a great success and all Barchester went to work with its hands and feet; – all Barchester,
except that ill-natured aristocratic front-row together with the three arm-chairs at the corner of it. The aristocratic front-row felt itself to be too intimate with civilization to care much about it; and the three arm-chairs, or rather that special one which contained Mrs Proudie, considered that there was a certain heathenness, a pagan sentimentality almost amounting to infidelity, contained
in the lecturer’s remarks, with which she, a pillar of the Church, could not put up, seated as she was now in public conclave.

‘It is to civilization that we must look,’ continued Mr Harold Smith, descending from poetry to prose as a lecturer well knows how, and thereby showing the value of both – ‘for any material progress in these islands; and –’

‘And to Christianity,’ shouted Mrs Proudie,
to the great amazement of the assembled people and to the thorough wakening of the bishop, who, jumping up in his chair at the sound of the well-known voice, exclaimed, ‘Certainly, certainly.’

‘Hear, hear, hear,’ said those on the benches who particularly belonged to Mrs Proudie’s school of divinity in the city, and among the voices was distinctly heard that of a new verger in whose behalf she
had greatly interested herself.

‘Oh, yes, Christianity of course,’ said Harold Smith, upon whom the interruption did not seem to operate favourably.

‘Christianity and Sabbath-day observance,’ exclaimed Mrs Proudie, who now that she had obtained the ear of the public seemed well inclined to keep it. ‘Let us never forget that these islanders can never prosper unless they keep the Sabbath holy.’

Poor Mr Smith, having been so rudely dragged from his high horse, was never able to mount it again, and completed the lecture in a manner not at all comfortable to himself. He had there, on the table before him, a huge bundle of statistics with which he had meant to convince the reason of his hearers after he had taken full possession of their feelings. But they fell very dull and flat. And at
the moment when he was interrupted he was about to explain that that material progress to which he had alluded could not be attained without money; and that it behoved them, the people of Barchester before him, to come forward with their purses like men and brothers. He did also attempt this; but from the moment of that fatal onslaught from the arm-chair, it was clear to him and to every one else,
that Mrs Proudie was now the hero of the hour. His time had gone by, and the people of Barchester did not care a straw for his appeal.

From these causes the lecture was over full twenty minutes earlier than any one had expected, to the great delight of Messrs Sowerby and Supplehouse, who, on that evening, moved and carried a vote of thanks to Mrs Proudie. For they had gay doings yet before they
went to their beds.

‘Robarts, here one moment,’ Mr Sowerby said, as they were standing at the door of the Mechanics’ Institute. ‘Don’t you go off with Mr and Mrs Bishop. We are going to have a little supper at the Dragon of Wantly, and after what we have gone through
upon my word we want it. You can tell one of the palace servants to let you in.’

Mark considered the proposal wistfully. He would
fain have joined the supper-party had he dared; but he, like many others of his cloth, had the fear of Mrs Proudie before his eyes.

And a very merry supper they had; but poor Mr Harold Smith was not the merriest of the party.

I
T
was, perhaps, quite as well on the whole for Mark Robarts, that he did not go to that supper-party. It was eleven o’clock before they sat down, and nearly two before the gentlemen were in bed. It must be remembered that he had to preach, on the coming Sunday morning, a charity sermon on behalf of a mission to Mr Harold Smith’s islanders; and, to tell the truth,
it was a task for which he had now very little inclination.

When first invited to do this, he had regarded the task seriously enough, as he always did regard such work, and he completed his sermon for the occasion before he left Framley; but, since that, an air of ridicule had been thrown over the whole affair, in which he had joined without much thinking of his own sermon, and this made him
now heartily wish that he could choose a discourse upon any other subject.

He knew well that the very points on which he had most insisted, were those which had drawn most mirth from Miss Dunstable and Mrs Smith, and had oftenest provoked his own laughter; and how was he now to preach on those matters in a fitting mood, knowing, as he would know, that those two ladies would be looking at him,
would endeavour to catch his eye, and would turn him into ridicule as they had already turned the lecturer?

In this he did injustice to one of the ladies, unconsciously. Miss Dunstable, with all her aptitude for mirth, and we may almost fairly say for frolic, was in no way inclined to ridicule religion or anything which she thought to appertain to it. It may be presumed that among such things
she did not include Mrs Proudie, as she was willing enough to laugh at that lady; but Mark, had he known her better, might have been sure that she would have sat out his sermon with perfect propriety.

As it was, however, he did feel considerable uneasiness; and in the morning he got up early with the view of seeing what
might be done in the way of emendation. He cut out those parts which referred
most specially to the islands, – he rejected altogether those names over which they had all laughed together so heartily, – and he inserted a string of general remarks, very useful, no doubt, which he flattered himself would rob his sermon of all similarity to Harold Smith’s lecture. He had, perhaps, hoped, when writing it, to create some little sensation; but now he would be quite satisfied
if it passed without remark.

But his troubles for that Sunday were destined to be many. It had been arranged that the party at the hotel should breakfast at eight, and start at half-past eight punctually, so as to enable them to reach Chaldicotes in ample time to arrange their dresses before they went to church. The church stood in the grounds, close to that long formal avenue of lime-trees,
but within the front gates. Their walk therefore, after reaching Mr Sowerby’s house, would not be long.

Mrs Proudie, who was herself an early body, would not hear of her guest – and he a clergyman – going out to the inn for his breakfast on a Sunday morning. As regarded that Sabbath-day journey to Chaldicotes, to that she had given her assent, no doubt with much uneasiness of mind; but let them
have as little desecration as possible. It was, therefore, an understood thing that he was to return with his friends; but he should not go without the advantage of family prayers and family breakfast. And so Mrs Proudie on retiring to rest gave the necessary orders, to the great annoyance of her household.

To the great annoyance, at least, of her servants! The bishop himself did not make his
appearance till a much later hour. He in all things now supported his wife’s rule; in all things now, I say; for there had been a moment, when in the first flush and pride of his episcopacy other ideas had filled his mind. Now, however, he gave no opposition to that good woman with whom Providence had blessed him; and in return for such conduct that good woman administered in all things to his little
personal comforts. With what surprise did the bishop now look back upon that unholy war which he had once been tempted to wage against the wife of his bosom?

Nor did any of the Miss Proudies show themselves at that early
hour. They, perhaps, were absent on a different ground. With them Mrs Proudie had not been so successful as with the bishop. They had wills of their own which became stronger
and stronger every day. Of the three with whom Mrs Proudie was blessed one was already in a position to exercise that will in a legitimate way over a very excellent young clergyman in the diocese, the Rev. Optimus Grey; but the other two, having as yet no such opening for their powers of command, were perhaps a little too much inclined to keep themselves in practice at home.

But at half-past
seven punctually Mrs Proudie was there, and so was the domestic chaplain; so was Mr Robarts, and so were the household servants, – all excepting one lazy recreant. ‘Where is Thomas?’ said she of the Argus eyes, standing up with her book of family prayers in her hand. ‘So please you, ma’am, Tummas be bad with the tooth-ache.’ ‘Tooth-ache!’ exclaimed Mrs Proudie; but her eyes said more terrible things
than that. ‘Let Thomas come to me before church.’ And then they proceeded to prayers. These were read by the chaplain, as it was proper and decent that they should be; but I cannot but think that Mrs Proudie a little exceeded her office in taking upon herself to pronounce the blessing when the prayers were over. She did it, however, in a clear, sonorous voice, and perhaps with more personal dignity
than was within the chaplain’s compass.

Mrs Proudie was rather stern at breakfast, and the Vicar of Framley felt an unaccountable desire to get out of the house. In the first place she was not dressed with her usual punctilious attention to the proprieties of her high situation. It was evident that there was to be a further toilet before she sailed up the middle of the cathedral choir. She had
on a large loose cap with no other strings than those which were wanted for tying it beneath her chin, a cap with which the household and the chaplain were well acquainted, but which seemed ungracious in the eyes of Mr Robarts after all the well-dressed holiday doings of last week. She wore also a large, loose, dark-coloured wrapper, which came well up round her neck, and which was not buoyed out,
as were her dresses in general, with an under mechanism of petticoats. It clung to her closely, and added to the inflexibility of her general appearance. And then she had encased her feet in large carpet
slippers, which no doubt were comfortable, but which struck her visitor as being strange and unsightly.

‘Do you find a difficulty in getting your people together for early morning-prayers?’ she
said, as she commenced her operations with the teapot.

‘I can’t say that I do,’ said Mark. ‘But then we are seldom so early as this.’

‘Parish clergymen should be early, I think,’ said she. ‘It sets a good example in the village.’

‘I am thinking of having morning-prayers in the church,’ said Mr Robarts.

‘That’s nonsense,’ said Mrs Proudie, ‘and usually means worse than nonsense. I know what
that comes to. If you have three services on Sunday and domestic prayers at home, you do very well.’ And so saying she handed him his cup.

‘But I have not three services on Sunday, Mrs Proudie.’

‘Then I think you should have. Where can the poor people be so well off on Sundays as in church? The bishop intends to express a very strong opinion on this subject in his next charge; and then I am
sure you will attend to his wishes.’

To this Mark made no answer, but devoted himself to his egg.

‘I suppose you have not a very large establishment at Framley?’ asked Mrs Proudie.

‘What, at the parsonage?’

‘Yes; you live at the parsonage, don’t you?’

‘Certainly – well; not very large, Mrs Proudie; just enough to do the work, make things comfortable, and look after the children.’

‘It is
a very fine living,’ said she; ‘very fine. I don’t remember that we have anything so good ourselves, – except it is Plumstead, the archdeacon’s place. He has managed to butter his bread pretty well.’

‘His father was Bishop of Barchester.’

‘Oh, yes, I know all about him. Only for that he would barely have risen to be an archdeacon, I suspect. Let me see; yours is 8oo
l
., is it not, Mr Robarts?
And you such a young man! I suppose you have insured your life highly.’