Middlemarch

HAPTER LX.

Good phrases are surely, and ever were, very commendable.
—Justice Shallow.

A few days afterwards—it was already the end of August—there was an
occasion which caused some excitement in Middlemarch: the public, if it
chose, was to have the advantage of buying, under the distinguished
auspices of Mr. Borthrop Trumbull, the furniture, books, and pictures
which anybody might see by the handbills to be the best in every kind,
belonging to Edwin Larcher, Esq. This was not one of the sales
indicating the depression of trade; on the contrary, it was due to Mr.
Larcher’s great success in the carrying business, which warranted his
purchase of a mansion near Riverston already furnished in high style by
an illustrious Spa physician—furnished indeed with such large framefuls
of expensive flesh-painting in the dining-room, that Mrs. Larcher was
nervous until reassured by finding the subjects to be Scriptural. Hence
the fine opportunity to purchasers which was well pointed out in the
handbills of Mr. Borthrop Trumbull, whose acquaintance with the history
of art enabled him to state that the hall furniture, to be sold without
reserve, comprised a piece of carving by a contemporary of Gibbons.

At Middlemarch in those times a large sale was regarded as a kind of
festival. There was a table spread with the best cold eatables, as at a
superior funeral; and facilities were offered for that
generous-drinking of cheerful glasses which might lead to generous and
cheerful bidding for undesirable articles. Mr. Larcher’s sale was the
more attractive in the fine weather because the house stood just at the
end of the town, with a garden and stables attached, in that pleasant
issue from Middlemarch called the London Road, which was also the road
to the New Hospital and to Mr. Bulstrode’s retired residence, known as
the Shrubs. In short, the auction was as good as a fair, and drew all
classes with leisure at command: to some, who risked making bids in
order simply to raise prices, it was almost equal to betting at the
races. The second day, when the best furniture was to be sold,
“everybody” was there; even Mr. Thesiger, the rector of St. Peter’s,
had looked in for a short time, wishing to buy the carved table, and
had rubbed elbows with Mr. Bambridge and Mr. Horrock. There was a
wreath of Middlemarch ladies accommodated with seats round the large
table in the dining-room, where Mr. Borthrop Trumbull was mounted with
desk and hammer; but the rows chiefly of masculine faces behind were
often varied by incomings and outgoings both from the door and the
large bow-window opening on to the lawn.

“Everybody” that day did not include Mr. Bulstrode, whose health could
not well endure crowds and draughts. But Mrs. Bulstrode had
particularly wished to have a certain picture—a “Supper at Emmaus,”
attributed in the catalogue to Guido; and at the last moment before the
day of the sale Mr. Bulstrode had called at the office of the
“Pioneer,” of which he was now one of the proprietors, to beg of Mr.
Ladislaw as a great favor that he would obligingly use his remarkable
knowledge of pictures on behalf of Mrs. Bulstrode, and judge of the
value of this particular painting—“if,” added the scrupulously polite
banker, “attendance at the sale would not interfere with the
arrangements for your departure, which I know is imminent.”

This proviso might have sounded rather satirically in Will’s ear if he
had been in a mood to care about such satire. It referred to an
understanding entered into many weeks before with the proprietors of
the paper, that he should be at liberty any day he pleased to hand over
the management to the subeditor whom he had been training; since he
wished finally to quit Middlemarch. But indefinite visions of ambition
are weak against the ease of doing what is habitual or beguilingly
agreeable; and we all know the difficulty of carrying out a resolve
when we secretly long that it may turn out to be unnecessary. In such
states of mind the most incredulous person has a private leaning
towards miracle: impossible to conceive how our wish could be
fulfilled, still—very wonderful things have happened! Will did not
confess this weakness to himself, but he lingered. What was the use of
going to London at that time of the year? The Rugby men who would
remember him were not there; and so far as political writing was
concerned, he would rather for a few weeks go on with the “Pioneer.” At
the present moment, however, when Mr. Bulstrode was speaking to him, he
had both a strengthened resolve to go and an equally strong resolve not
to go till he had once more seen Dorothea. Hence he replied that he had
reasons for deferring his departure a little, and would be happy to go
to the sale.

Will was in a defiant mood, his consciousness being deeply stung with
the thought that the people who looked at him probably knew a fact
tantamount to an accusation against him as a fellow with low designs
which were to be frustrated by a disposal of property. Like most people
who assert their freedom with regard to conventional distinction, he
was prepared to be sudden and quick at quarrel with any one who might
hint that he had personal reasons for that assertion—that there was
anything in his blood, his bearing, or his character to which he gave
the mask of an opinion. When he was under an irritating impression of
this kind he would go about for days with a defiant look, the color
changing in his transparent skin as if he were on the qui vive,
watching for something which he had to dart upon.

This expression was peculiarly noticeable in him at the sale, and those
who had only seen him in his moods of gentle oddity or of bright
enjoyment would have been struck with a contrast. He was not sorry to
have this occasion for appearing in public before the Middlemarch
tribes of Toller, Hackbutt, and the rest, who looked down on him as an
adventurer, and were in a state of brutal ignorance about Dante—who
sneered at his Polish blood, and were themselves of a breed very much
in need of crossing. He stood in a conspicuous place not far from the
auctioneer, with a fore-finger in each side-pocket and his head thrown
backward, not caring to speak to anybody, though he had been cordially
welcomed as a connoissure by Mr. Trumbull, who was enjoying the
utmost activity of his great faculties.

And surely among all men whose vocation requires them to exhibit their
powers of speech, the happiest is a prosperous provincial auctioneer
keenly alive to his own jokes and sensible of his encyclopedic
knowledge. Some saturnine, sour-blooded persons might object to be
constantly insisting on the merits of all articles from boot-jacks to
“Berghems;” but Mr. Borthrop Trumbull had a kindly liquid in his veins;
he was an admirer by nature, and would have liked to have the universe
under his hammer, feeling that it would go at a higher figure for his
recommendation.

Meanwhile Mrs. Larcher’s drawing-room furniture was enough for him.
When Will Ladislaw had come in, a second fender, said to have been
forgotten in its right place, suddenly claimed the auctioneer’s
enthusiasm, which he distributed on the equitable principle of praising
those things most which were most in need of praise. The fender was of
polished steel, with much lancet-shaped open-work and a sharp edge.

“Now, ladies,” said he, “I shall appeal to you. Here is a fender which
at any other sale would hardly be offered with out reserve, being, as I
may say, for quality of steel and quaintness of design, a kind of
thing”—here Mr. Trumbull dropped his voice and became slightly nasal,
trimming his outlines with his left finger—“that might not fall in with
ordinary tastes. Allow me to tell you that by-and-by this style of
workmanship will be the only one in vogue—half-a-crown, you said? thank
you—going at half-a-crown, this characteristic fender; and I have
particular information that the antique style is very much sought after
in high quarters. Three shillings—three-and-sixpence—hold it well up,
Joseph! Look, ladies, at the chastity of the design—I have no doubt
myself that it was turned out in the last century! Four shillings, Mr.
Mawmsey?—four shillings.”

“It’s not a thing I would put in my drawing-room,” said Mrs. Mawmsey,
audibly, for the warning of the rash husband. “I wonder at Mrs.
Larcher. Every blessed child’s head that fell against it would be cut
in two. The edge is like a knife.”

“Quite true,” rejoined Mr. Trumbull, quickly, “and most uncommonly
useful to have a fender at hand that will cut, if you have a leather
shoe-tie or a bit of string that wants cutting and no knife at hand:
many a man has been left hanging because there was no knife to cut him
down. Gentlemen, here’s a fender that if you had the misfortune to hang
yourselves would cut you down in no time—with astonishing
celerity—four-and-sixpence—five—five-and-sixpence—an appropriate thing
for a spare bedroom where there was a four-poster and a guest a little
out of his mind—six shillings—thank you, Mr. Clintup—going at six
shillings—going—gone!” The auctioneer’s glance, which had been
searching round him with a preternatural susceptibility to all signs of
bidding, here dropped on the paper before him, and his voice too
dropped into a tone of indifferent despatch as he said, “Mr. Clintup.
Be handy, Joseph.”

“It was worth six shillings to have a fender you could always tell that
joke on,” said Mr. Clintup, laughing low and apologetically to his next
neighbor. He was a diffident though distinguished nurseryman, and
feared that the audience might regard his bid as a foolish one.

Meanwhile Joseph had brought a trayful of small articles. “Now,
ladies,” said Mr. Trumbull, taking up one of the articles, “this tray
contains a very recherchy lot—a collection of trifles for the
drawing-room table—and trifles make the sum of human things—nothing
more important than trifles—(yes, Mr. Ladislaw, yes, by-and-by)—but
pass the tray round, Joseph—these bijoux must be examined, ladies. This
I have in my hand is an ingenious contrivance—a sort of practical
rebus, I may call it: here, you see, it looks like an elegant
heart-shaped box, portable—for the pocket; there, again, it becomes
like a splendid double flower—an ornament for the table; and now”—Mr.
Trumbull allowed the flower to fall alarmingly into strings of
heart-shaped leaves—“a book of riddles! No less than five hundred
printed in a beautiful red. Gentlemen, if I had less of a conscience, I
should not wish you to bid high for this lot—I have a longing for it
myself. What can promote innocent mirth, and I may say virtue, more
than a good riddle?—it hinders profane language, and attaches a man to
the society of refined females. This ingenious article itself, without
the elegant domino-box, card-basket, &c., ought alone to give a high
price to the lot. Carried in the pocket it might make an individual
welcome in any society. Four shillings, sir?—four shillings for this
remarkable collection of riddles with the et caeteras. Here is a
sample: ‘How must you spell honey to make it catch lady-birds?
Answer—money.’ You hear?—lady-birds—honey money. This is an amusement
to sharpen the intellect; it has a sting—it has what we call satire,
and wit without indecency. Four-and-sixpence—five shillings.”

The bidding ran on with warming rivalry. Mr. Bowyer was a bidder, and
this was too exasperating. Bowyer couldn’t afford it, and only wanted
to hinder every other man from making a figure. The current carried
even Mr. Horrock with it, but this committal of himself to an opinion
fell from him with so little sacrifice of his neutral expression, that
the bid might not have been detected as his but for the friendly oaths
of Mr. Bambridge, who wanted to know what Horrock would do with blasted
stuff only fit for haberdashers given over to that state of perdition
which the horse-dealer so cordially recognized in the majority of
earthly existences. The lot was finally knocked down at a guinea to Mr.
Spilkins, a young Slender of the neighborhood, who was reckless with
his pocket-money and felt his want of memory for riddles.

“Come, Trumbull, this is too bad—you’ve been putting some old maid’s
rubbish into the sale,” murmured Mr. Toller, getting close to the
auctioneer. “I want to see how the prints go, and I must be off soon.”

“Immediately, Mr. Toller. It was only an act of benevolence which
your noble heart would approve. Joseph! quick with the prints—Lot 235.
Now, gentlemen, you who are connoissures, you are going to have a
treat. Here is an engraving of the Duke of Wellington surrounded by his
staff on the Field of Waterloo; and notwithstanding recent events which
have, as it were, enveloped our great Hero in a cloud, I will be bold
to say—for a man in my line must not be blown about by political
winds—that a finer subject—of the modern order, belonging to our own
time and epoch—the understanding of man could hardly conceive: angels
might, perhaps, but not men, sirs, not men.”

“Who painted it?” said Mr. Powderell, much impressed.

“It is a proof before the letter, Mr. Powderell—the painter is not
known,” answered Trumbull, with a certain gaspingness in his last
words, after which he pursed up his lips and stared round him.

“I’ll bid a pound!” said Mr. Powderell, in a tone of resolved emotion,
as of a man ready to put himself in the breach. Whether from awe or
pity, nobody raised the price on him.

Next came two Dutch prints which Mr. Toller had been eager for, and
after he had secured them he went away. Other prints, and afterwards
some paintings, were sold to leading Middlemarchers who had come with a
special desire for them, and there was a more active movement of the
audience in and out; some, who had bought what they wanted, going away,
others coming in either quite newly or from a temporary visit to the
refreshments which were spread under the marquee on the lawn. It was
this marquee that Mr. Bambridge was bent on buying, and he appeared to
like looking inside it frequently, as a foretaste of its possession. On
the last occasion of his return from it he was observed to bring with
him a new companion, a stranger to Mr. Trumbull and every one else,
whose appearance, however, led to the supposition that he might be a
relative of the horse-dealer’s—also “given to indulgence.” His large
whiskers, imposing swagger, and swing of the leg, made him a striking
figure; but his suit of black, rather shabby at the edges, caused the
prejudicial inference that he was not able to afford himself as much
indulgence as he liked.

“Who is it you’ve picked up, Bam?” said Mr. Horrock, aside.

“Ask him yourself,” returned Mr. Bambridge. “He said he’d just turned
in from the road.”

Mr. Horrock eyed the stranger, who was leaning back against his stick
with one hand, using his toothpick with the other, and looking about
him with a certain restlessness apparently under the silence imposed on
him by circumstances.

At length the “Supper at Emmaus” was brought forward, to Will’s immense
relief, for he was getting so tired of the proceedings that he had
drawn back a little and leaned his shoulder against the wall just
behind the auctioneer. He now came forward again, and his eye caught
the conspicuous stranger, who, rather to his surprise, was staring at
him markedly. But Will was immediately appealed to by Mr. Trumbull.

“Yes, Mr. Ladislaw, yes; this interests you as a connoissure, I
think. It is some pleasure,” the auctioneer went on with a rising
fervor, “to have a picture like this to show to a company of ladies and
gentlemen—a picture worth any sum to an individual whose means were on
a level with his judgment. It is a painting of the Italian school—by
the celebrated Guydo, the greatest painter in the world, the chief of
the Old Masters, as they are called—I take it, because they were up to
a thing or two beyond most of us—in possession of secrets now lost to
the bulk of mankind. Let me tell you, gentlemen, I have seen a great
many pictures by the Old Masters, and they are not all up to this
mark—some of them are darker than you might like and not family
subjects. But here is a Guydo—the frame alone is worth pounds—which
any lady might be proud to hang up—a suitable thing for what we call a
refectory in a charitable institution, if any gentleman of the
Corporation wished to show his munificence. Turn it a little, sir?
yes. Joseph, turn it a little towards Mr. Ladislaw—Mr. Ladislaw, having
been abroad, understands the merit of these things, you observe.”

All eyes were for a moment turned towards Will, who said, coolly, “Five
pounds.” The auctioneer burst out in deep remonstrance.

“Ah! Mr. Ladislaw! the frame alone is worth that. Ladies and gentlemen,
for the credit of the town! Suppose it should be discovered hereafter
that a gem of art has been amongst us in this town, and nobody in
Middlemarch awake to it. Five guineas—five seven-six—five ten. Still,
ladies, still! It is a gem, and ‘Full many a gem,’ as the poet says,
has been allowed to go at a nominal price because the public knew no
better, because it was offered in circles where there was—I was going
to say a low feeling, but no!—Six pounds—six guineas—a Guydo of the
first order going at six guineas—it is an insult to religion, ladies;
it touches us all as Christians, gentlemen, that a subject like this
should go at such a low figure—six pounds ten—seven—”

The bidding was brisk, and Will continued to share in it, remembering
that Mrs. Bulstrode had a strong wish for the picture, and thinking
that he might stretch the price to twelve pounds. But it was knocked
down to him at ten guineas, whereupon he pushed his way towards the
bow-window and went out. He chose to go under the marquee to get a
glass of water, being hot and thirsty: it was empty of other visitors,
and he asked the woman in attendance to fetch him some fresh water; but
before she was well gone he was annoyed to see entering the florid
stranger who had stared at him. It struck Will at this moment that the
man might be one of those political parasitic insects of the bloated
kind who had once or twice claimed acquaintance with him as having
heard him speak on the Reform question, and who might think of getting
a shilling by news. In this light his person, already rather heating to
behold on a summer’s day, appeared the more disagreeable; and Will,
half-seated on the elbow of a garden-chair, turned his eyes carefully
away from the comer. But this signified little to our acquaintance Mr.
Raffles, who never hesitated to thrust himself on unwilling
observation, if it suited his purpose to do so. He moved a step or two
till he was in front of Will, and said with full-mouthed haste, “Excuse
me, Mr. Ladislaw—was your mother’s name Sarah Dunkirk?”

Will, starting to his feet, moved backward a step, frowning, and saying
with some fierceness, “Yes, sir, it was. And what is that to you?”

It was in Will’s nature that the first spark it threw out was a direct
answer of the question and a challenge of the consequences. To have
said, “What is that to you?” in the first instance, would have seemed
like shuffling—as if he minded who knew anything about his origin!

Raffles on his side had not the same eagerness for a collision which
was implied in Ladislaw’s threatening air. The slim young fellow with
his girl’s complexion looked like a tiger-cat ready to spring on him.
Under such circumstances Mr. Raffles’s pleasure in annoying his company
was kept in abeyance.

“No offence, my good sir, no offence! I only remember your mother—knew
her when she was a girl. But it is your father that you feature, sir. I
had the pleasure of seeing your father too. Parents alive, Mr.
Ladislaw?”

“No!” thundered Will, in the same attitude as before.

“Should be glad to do you a service, Mr. Ladislaw—by Jove, I should!
Hope to meet again.”

Hereupon Raffles, who had lifted his hat with the last words, turned
himself round with a swing of his leg and walked away. Will looked
after him a moment, and could see that he did not re-enter the
auction-room, but appeared to be walking towards the road. For an
instant he thought that he had been foolish not to let the man go on
talking;—but no! on the whole he preferred doing without knowledge from
that source.

Later in the evening, however, Raffles overtook him in the street, and
appearing either to have forgotten the roughness of his former
reception or to intend avenging it by a forgiving familiarity, greeted
him jovially and walked by his side, remarking at first on the
pleasantness of the town and neighborhood. Will suspected that the man
had been drinking and was considering how to shake him off when Raffles
said—

“I’ve been abroad myself, Mr. Ladislaw—I’ve seen the world—used to
parley-vous a little. It was at Boulogne I saw your father—a most
uncommon likeness you are of him, by Jove! mouth—nose—eyes—hair turned
off your brow just like his—a little in the foreign style. John Bull
doesn’t do much of that. But your father was very ill when I saw him.
Lord, lord! hands you might see through. You were a small youngster
then. Did he get well?”

“No,” said Will, curtly.

“Ah! Well! I’ve often wondered what became of your mother. She ran away
from her friends when she was a young lass—a proud-spirited lass, and
pretty, by Jove! I knew the reason why she ran away,” said Raffles,
winking slowly as he looked sideways at Will.

“You know nothing dishonorable of her, sir,” said Will, turning on him
rather savagely. But Mr. Raffles just now was not sensitive to shades
of manner.

“Not a bit!” said he, tossing his head decisively. “She was a little
too honorable to like her friends—that was it!” Here Raffles again
winked slowly. “Lord bless you, I knew all about ’em—a little in what
you may call the respectable thieving line—the high style of
receiving-house—none of your holes and corners—first-rate. Slap-up
shop, high profits and no mistake. But Lord! Sarah would have known
nothing about it—a dashing young lady she was—fine boarding-school—fit
for a lord’s wife—only Archie Duncan threw it at her out of spite,
because she would have nothing to do with him. And so she ran away from
the whole concern. I travelled for ’em, sir, in a gentlemanly way—at a
high salary. They didn’t mind her running away at first—godly folks,
sir, very godly—and she was for the stage. The son was alive then, and
the daughter was at a discount. Hallo! here we are at the Blue Bull.
What do you say, Mr. Ladislaw?—shall we turn in and have a glass?”

“No, I must say good evening,” said Will, dashing up a passage which
led into Lowick Gate, and almost running to get out of Raffles’s reach.

He walked a long while on the Lowick road away from the town, glad of
the starlit darkness when it came. He felt as if he had had dirt cast
on him amidst shouts of scorn. There was this to confirm the fellow’s
statement—that his mother never would tell him the reason why she had
run away from her family.

Well! what was he, Will Ladislaw, the worse, supposing the truth about
that family to be the ugliest? His mother had braved hardship in order
to separate herself from it. But if Dorothea’s friends had known this
story—if the Chettams had known it—they would have had a fine color to
give their suspicions a welcome ground for thinking him unfit to come
near her. However, let them suspect what they pleased, they would find
themselves in the wrong. They would find out that the blood in his
veins was as free from the taint of meanness as theirs.