August 1, 2008
I was sitting
in the coffee shop by myself, reading and laughing aloud.
(from Barchester Towers, Chapter XI, “Mrs. Proudie’s Reception–Concluded,” Anthony Trollope, p. 95 [B&N, 2005]):
[Bertie said,] “They’ve got the sofa into the worst possible part of the room; suppose we move it. Take care, Madeline.”
The sofa had certainly been so placed that those who were behind it found great difficulty in getting out;–there was but a narrow gangway, which one person could stop. This was a bad arrangement, and one which Bertie thought it might be well to improve.“Take care, Madeline,” said he; and turning to the fat rector, added, “Just help me with a slight push.”
The rector’s weight was resting on the sofa, and unwittingly lent all its impetus to accelerate and increase the motion which Bertie intentionally originated. The sofa rushed from its moorings, and ran half way into the middle of the room. Mrs. Proudie was standing with Mr. Slope in front of the signora [i.e. the crippled Madeline], and had been trying to be condescending and sociable; but she was not in the very best of tempers; for she found that, whenever she spoke to the lady, the lady replied by speaking to Mr. Slope. Mr. Slope was a favourite, no doubt; but Mrs. Proudie had no idea of being less thought of than the chaplain. She was beginning to be stately, stiff, and offended, when unfortunately the castor of the sofa, caught itself in her lace train, and carried away there is no saying how much of her garniture. Gathers were heard to go, stitches to crack, plaits to fly open, flounces were seen to fall, and breadths to expose themselves;–a long ruin of rent lace disfigured the carpet, and still clung to the vile wheel on which the sofa moved.
## [a bit later]
“Of course you know my sad story?” [Madeline] continued.
[Bishop Proudie] didn’t know a word of it. He knew, however, or thought he knew, that she couldn’t walk into a room like other people, and so made the most of that. He put on a look of ineffable distress, and said that he was aware how God had afflicted her.
The signora just touched the corner of her eyes with the most lovely of pocket-handkerchiefs. Yes, she said–she had been sorely tried–tried, she thought, beyond the common endurance of humanity; but while her child was left to her, everything was left. “Oh! my lord,” she exclaimed, “you must see that infant–the last bud of a wondrous tree; you must let a mother hope that you will lay your holy hands on her innocent head, and consecrate her for female virtues. May I hope it?” said she, looking into the bishop’s eye, and touching the bishop’s arm with her hand.
The bishop was but a man, and said she might. After all, what was it but a request that he would confirm her daughter?–a request, indeed, very unnecessary to make, as he should do so as a matter of course, if the young lady came forward in the usual way.
“The blood of Tiberius,” said the signora, in all but a whisper, “the blood of Tiberius flows in her veins. She is the last of the Neros!”
The bishop had heard of the last of the Visigoths, and had floating in his brain some indistinct idea of the last of the Mohicans, but to have the last of the Neros thus brought before him for a blessing was very staggering. Still he liked the lady; she had a proper way of thinking, and talked with more propriety than her brother. But who were they? It was now quite clear that that blue madman with the silky beard was not a Prince Vicinironi. The lady was married, and was of course one of the Vicinironi’s by right of her husband. So the bishop went on learning.
“When will you see her?” said the signora with a start.
“See whom?” said the bishop.
“My child,” said the mother.
“What is the young lady’s age?” asked the bishop.
“She is just seven,” said the signora.
“Oh,” said the bishop, shaking his head; “she is much too young–very much too young.”
“But in sunny Italy you know, we do not count by years,” and the signora gave the bishop one of her very sweetest smiles.
“But indeed, she is a great deal too young,” persisted the bishop; “we never confirm before–”
“But you might speak to her; you might let her hear from your consecrated lips, that she is not a castaway because she is a Roman; that she may be a Nero and yet a Christian; that she may owe her black locks and dark cheeks to the blood of the pagan Caesars, and yet herself be a child of grace; you will tell her this, won’t you, my friend?”
The friend said he would[. . . .]
(pp. 97-99)
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