Chapter Chapter 60 · Chapter 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 connoiss_ure_ 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.”

“_Im_mediately, 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 connoiss_ures_, 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 connoiss_ure_, 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 munifi_cence_. 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.