The Bishop's Apron - Chapter 14

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Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Chapter fourteen of The Bishop's apron by W. Somerset Maum.
This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter fourteen.
Lord Spratt went to Saint Gregory's vicarage next day. His
sister told him with an acid smile that he would
find Theodore in the best of spirits. By Jove, I

(00:21):
wonder if he'd lend me some money, cried the head
of the family. Who's he been doin? Now? Lady Sophia
had scarcely explained when they heard the Cannon come into
the house. He had been out for ten minutes on
some errand this was an occasion upon which Cannon Spratt
felt that his fellow creatures were very amiable. The world

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was an excellent place, where a combination of uprightness and
of pious ingenuity made the way of the virtuous not
unduly hard. On his way past the dining room, he
looked in to glance at his portrait, which Orchidson had
painted some fifteen years before. It was an extravagant but
when he had the chance to gratify others, the Cannon

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did not count his pence. He had been able to
think of no more pleasing surprise. For his wife on
the tenth anniversary of their wedding day, than to give
her a not unflattering picture of himself. He observed with
satisfaction the strong lines of the hands, the open look
of his blue eyes, and the bold expression of his mouth.
It was a man in whose veins ran a vivacious spirit.

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His whole appearance was so happily self reliant that even
from the painted canvas, spectators gained a feeling of exhilaration.
Cannon Sprat noted how well his shapely head, with the
abundant fair hair, stood out against the purple background. Above.
In the corner, according to his own suggestion, were the

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arms and motto of his family, Malo mori quam fodhari. Yes,
I think he did me justice, thought the canon. I
sometimes fancy the hands are a little too large, but
that may be only the perspective. He smiled to his
own smiling eyes. If I'm ever made a bishop, I
shall be painted again. I think it's a duty one

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owes one's children. I shall be painted by sergeant in
full canonicals, and I shall have an amethyst ring. It's
absurd that we should habitually leave what is indeed part
of the insignia of our office to a foreign church.
The English bishops have just as much right to the
ring of amethyst as the bishops of the Pope. I

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shall have the arms of the sea on the right
hand side, and my own arms on the left. He
had a vivid imagination and already saw this portrait in
the academy on the line it was surrounded by a crowd.
Evidently it would be the picture of the year, for
he felt himself capable of inspiring the painter with his
own vigorous personality. He saw the country cousins and the

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strenuous inhabitants of suburbia turn to their catalogs and read
the right Reverend, the Bishop of Barchester. At the private view,
he saw people recognizing him from the excellent portrait, point
him out to one another. He saw his own little
smile of amusement when he stood perchance for a moment

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in front of it, and the onlookers, with rapid glance,
compared the original with the counterfeit. Already he marked the
dashing brushwork, and he fancied the painter's style suited admirably
with his peculiar characteristics. He liked the shining stiff folds
of black satin, the lawn sleeves, and the delicate lace
of the ruffles, the rich scarlet of his hood. He

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imagined the attitude of proud command which befitted a prince
of the Church, the fearless poise of the head, the
firm face, and the eagle eye. He would look every
inch a bishop. How true it is that some are
born to greatness, he muttered, I shall leave it to
the National Portrait Gallery in my will, And then, if

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he survived his brother, he thought, with a vainglorious tremor
of the describing tablet, Theodore, third Earl Sprat of Beechcombe
and Lord Bishop of Barchester. His cheeks were flushed and
his eyes sparkled for verily he was drunk with pride,
his heart beat so that it was almost painful. With

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swinging step, he sprang up the stairs and danced into
the drawing room like a merry west wind. The second
Earl Sprat, however, was still in the best of health.
Ah My dear brother, I am delighted to see you,
cried the cannon, and his voice rang like a joyous bell.
For once in a way, Theodore I was about to

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ask Sophia, if you had arranged about paden the gaiters. Yet,
ha ha, you will have your little joke Tom. He
had not used this diminutive since his brother succeeded to
the title, and Lady Sophia stared at him with astonishment.
We Sprats have always had a keen sense of humor.
And what does the head of my house think of

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all these matrimonial schemes. I've really half a mind to
follow suit. Who is the charmer now, Thomas? Does she
tread the light fantastic toe in the ballet at the empire?
Or does she carol in a gaiety chorus? I have
an idea that your brother Theodore is mildly facetious to day,
said the other gravely to Lady Sophia. The cannon burst

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out laughing and jovially rubbed his hands. You must marry money,
my boy. I would like a shot if I could.
What I object to is marrying a wife. One can
never get money in this world without some drawback. Lord
Spratt looked at his brother with a dry smile. How
green and yellow you'd turn, Theodore if I did marry

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my dear Thomas. There's nothing that would please me more,
you will do me the justice to acknowledge that I
have frequently impressed upon you the desirability of marriage. I
look upon it as a duty you owe to your family.
And has the heir presumptive never imagination fitted on his
handsome head, the coronet not draped about himself picturesquely the

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ermine robes. Oh what a humbug you are, Theodore Thomas,
retorted the cannon, Thomas, how can you say such things?
I can honestly say that I have never envied you.
I have never allowed my mind to dwell on the
possibility of surviving you. Lord Spratt gave his brother a
sharp look. I have led a rackety life, Theodore, and

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you have taken great care of yourself. There's every chance
that you'll survive me. By Jupiter, you'll make things hum then.
I do not look upon this as a suitable matter
for jesting, retorted the Cannon, with suave dignity. If Providence
vouchsafes me to a longer life, you may be sure
I will fulfill the duties of my rank earnestly and

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to the best of my ability. And what about the bishopric,
asked Lady Sophia, who knows who knows? He cried, walking
about the room excitedly. I have a presentiment that it
will be offered to me. In that case, I have
a presentiment that you will accept, interrupted his brother. You're
the most ambitious man I have ever known. And if

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I am cried the canon ambition says the Swan of
Avon is the last infirmity of noble minds. And what
is the use of ambition now? When the Church has
been wrongfully shorn of its powers, and the clergy exists
hazardously by sufferance of the vulgar I should have lived
four centuries ago, when the Church was a power in

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the land. Now it offers no scope for a man
of energy. When the tutors were kings of England, a
bishop might rule the country. He might be a great
minister of state, holding the destinies of Europe in the
hollow of his hand. I've come into the world too late.
You may laugh at me, Thomas, but I tell you
I feel in me the power to do great things.

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Sometimes I sit in my chair and I can hardly
bear my inaction. Good Heavens, what is there for me
to do? To preach sermons to a fashionable crowd, to
preside on committees, to go to dinner parties in Mayfair.
With your opportunities, Tom, I should have been Prime Minister
by now, and I'd have made you Archbishop of Canterbury.

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Lady Sophia looked at him, smiling. She admired the mobile
mouth and the flashing eyes. As with vehement gestures, he
flung out his words to the indifferent air. His voice
rang clear and strong. I tell you that I am
born with the heart of a crusader, he exclaimed, striding
about the room as though it were a field of battle.

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In happier times, I would have led the hosts of
the Lord to Jerusalem. Bishops then wore coats of steel,
and they fought with halberd and with sword to gain
the sepulcher of the Lord, their savior. I tell you
that I cannot look at the portrait of Julius the
Pope without thinking that I too have it in me
to ride into action on my charger and crush the

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enemies of the Church. I've come into the world too late,
Lord Spratt, mildly cynical, shrugged his shoulders. Meanwhile, you succeeded
in capturing for Winnie the best partee of the season.
Talk of match making. Mammas, they're nowhere when my brother
Theodore takes the field. When I make up my mind

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to do a thing, I do it. And what about
the socialist? Oh, I think I've settled him, said the
Cannon with a laugh of disdain. What did I tell you, Sophia,
my dear Theodore. I have always thought you a clever man,
she answered, calmly, I've brought you to your knees. I've
humbled your pride. At last. Winnie is going to marry

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Harry Roxham, and Lionel is nearly engaged to Gwendolen Durant.
What would you say if I told you that I
was going to be married too? They both stared at
him with amazement, and he chuckled as he watched their faces.
Are you joking, Theodore? Not in the least. But I'm
not going to to tell you who it is yet.

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I shouldn't be surprised if it were Gwendolen, mused, Lady Sophia,
unless I'm much mistaken, she's a good deal more in
love with you than she is with Lionel. Of course,
one never knows, does one, laughed? The canon on the
other hand, it might be missus fitz Herbert. No, I'm
sure it isn't, replied Lady Sophia with decision. Why because

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she's a sensible woman, and she'd never be such a
fool as to have you wait and see. Then wait
and see. He laughed himself out of the room and
went to his study. Here he laughed again. He had
not seen Missus fitz Herbert since the ball, for on
the following morning she had wired to say that the
grave illness of a friend obliged her to go immediately

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into the country. The Cannon had hesitated whether to write
a letter, but he was prevented by his dread of
ridicule from making protestations of undying affection, and he knew
not what else to say. He contented himself with sending
a telegram I await your return with impatience, Theodore. He

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was dining with her that evening to meet certain persons
of note. Since she had not written to postpone the party,
Missus fitz Herbert presumably intended to return to London in
the course of the day. He looked forward to the
meeting with pleasurable excitement. Cannon Sprat was proud of himself.
He had succeeded in all his efforts, and he felt,

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as men at certain times do, that he was in
luck's way. He did not look upon this success as
due to any fortuitous concurrence of things, but rather as
a testimony to his own merit. He was vastly encouraged
and only spoke the truth when he said his presentiment
was vivid that Lord Stonehenge would offer him the bishopric
of Barchester. He was on the top of a wave,

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swimming bravely, and the very forces of the universe conspired
to land him on an episcopal throne. That is how
you tell what stuff a man is made of, he thought,
as he tried in vain to read The good man
has self reliance. He remembered with satisfaction that as soon
as he heard of Bishop Andover's death, he went boldly

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to the tailor and countermanded the trousers he had ordered.
It was a small thing, no doubt, but after all
it was a clear indication of character. Saint Gregory's vicarage
stood at the corner of a square. From the study
cannon Sprat could see the well kept lawn of the
garden and the trees dusty already in the London summer,

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but they seemed fresh and vernal to his enthusiastic eyes.
The air blowing through the open window was very suave. Above,
in the blue sky, little white clouds scampered hurriedly past westward,
and their free motion corresponded with his light, confident spirit.
They too had the happy power which thrilled through every

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nerve of his body, And like theirs, was the vigorous
strength of the blood ud that hustled through his veins.
To the careless who believe in grim chance, it might
have seemed an accident that these clouds were traveling straight
to Barchester, but cannon Sprat thought that nothing in the
world was purposeless. In their direction, he saw an obvious

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and agreeable omen How good life is, he murmured, After all,
if we haven't the scope that our predecessors had, we
have a great deal. The earth is always fresh and young,
full of opportunity to the man who has the courage
to take it. He saw in fancy the towers and
the dark roofs of Barchester. It was an old city

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seated in a fertile plain, surrounded by rich pasture lands
and watered by smiling rivulets. He knew the pompous trees
which adorned its fields, and the meadows bright with buttercups.
He loved the quiet streets and the gabled houses. The
repose was broken only by the gay hurry of market day,
when the farmers led in their cattle and their sheep.

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Already he saw the string of horses brought in for sale,
with straw plaited in their tails, and the crowd of
loungers at the corn exchange. Above all, his fancy lingered
among the gray stones of the cathedral with its lofty knave,
and in the close, with the ancient elms and the careful,
sweet smelling lungs. He thought of the rich service, the

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imposing procession of the clergy, and the magnificent throne carved
by sculptors long forgotten, in which himself would sit so proudly. Oh, yes,
the world is very good, he cried. He was so
immersed in thought that he did not hear Ponsonby come
into the room, and started violently when he heard a
voice behind him. This letter has just come for you, sir.

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He knew at once that it was from Lord Stonehenge,
the certainty came to him with the force of an inspiration,
and his heart beat violently. Very well, he said, put
it on my desk. He turned hale, but did not
move till the servant was gone. He took it with
shaking hands. He was right, for he recognized the official

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paper at last. For some time he looked at the envelope,
but trembled so much that he could not open it.
He grew sick with expectation, and his brain throbbed as
if he would faint. A feeling of thankfulness came into
his heart. Now the cup of his desire was filled.
He held his head for a moment and breathed deeply,

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then slowly cut open the envelope with habitual neatness. He
used a paper knife. Dear cannon Sprang, it is my desire,
if it meet your own wishes, to recommend His Majesty
to appoint you to the deanery of Saint Olfert's vacant
through the impending retirement from illness of doctor Tanner. In

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so doing I can assure you I feel great pleasure
in being able to mark my appreciation of your learning
and sound divinity by offering you a position of greater
dignity and less work. The duties I need not tell
you are commanding in their nature, and I feel sure
you would be able to perform them with great advantage
to the interests of the Church, to which I think

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the course I am taking will be most beneficial, especially
at this critical moment in its history. I have the
honor to be Dear Canon Spratt, yours faithfully, Stonehenge, the
Honorable and Reverend Canon Sprat Saint Gregory's vicarage. The Prime
Minister offered him an obscure, insignificant deanery in the north

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of Wales for an instant. Cannon Spratt could not understand.
It seemed impossible, it seemed preposterous. He thought it must
be a mistake, and carefully read the letter again. The
overthrow of all his hopes came upon him at the
moment of his greatest exultation, and the blow was greater
than he could bear. Two scalding tears rose in his eyes,

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and heavily, painfully rolled down his cheeks. They fell on
the letter and made two little wet smudges. The disappointment
was so great that he could not be angry. He
was utterly crushed and then, in the revulsion from his
high spirits, he was overwhelmed with despair. He asked pitifully

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whether he had all along misjudged himself. The Prime Minister
did not think him fit for important office, but sought
to satisfy his claims by an empty honor, such as
he might give to a man who perhaps had deserved well,
but whose powers were now decrepit. That post of dignity
was but a decent grave. Suddenly, with the vain man's

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utter self abasement, Cannon Sprat saw himself as he thought
others might see him, mediocre, pompous, self assertive, verbose. He
heard the mocking words of the envious Theodore Spratt is
shelved at all events. He'll be out of harm's way
at Saint Alferd's, and it's just the sort of thing
that'll suit him to tyrannize over provincial old ladies. And

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others would be astonished, and say, one would have thought
that pushing man would have pushed himself into something better
than that. Again, the Cannon thought of all he might
have done, and the pictures of the future, like scoffing devils,
came once more before his mind. He could not help
the tears for a while, leaning over his desk with

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his hands pressed to his burning eyes, he surrendered, unresisting
to his weakness. The tall spires and the somber roofs
of Barchester returned to his vivid fancy, and all that
he had lost seemed twice as beautiful. The humiliation was unbearable.
He hated and despised himself. He was petty and mean,

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and his pride, his boastfulness, his overbearing spirit, uprose against
him in reproach. Who was he thus to have contemned
his fel He had imagined himself clever, wise and brilliant,
and the world had laughed in its sleeve at his presumption.
He blushed, now, blushed so that he felt his face

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burn at the thought that all this time people had
despised him. He had lived in a fool's paradise, rejoicing
in the admiration of his fellows, and he had been
an object of derision. It had been self admiration only,
and the world had taken him, as did Lord Stonehenge,
for the mediocre son of a clever father. Even his

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brother had told him repeatedly that he was pretentious and vulgar,
and He thought it only the sneer of a man
who could not appreciate great qualities. A thousand imps danced
in his brain with mockery and with malicious gibes. In
every key, from shrill to horse. He heard their scornful laughter.
I won't take it, he cried, jumping up suddenly. I'll

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remain where I am. I'm strong and young. Still, I
feel as vigorous as if I were twenty. I don't
want their honors. But then he hesitated and sank again
helplessly into his chair. Was it not his duty to
accept the promotion which was offered him? Had he a
right to refuse? What? Was he but a servant of God?

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And might it not be his will that he should
go to this deanery? He hated the idea, and feared
the cold, dullness of Saint Olfert's. But yet, with something
in him of English Puritanism, the very fact that it
was so distasteful seemed an argument in its favor. Am
I fit to hold a great London parish? He asked despairingly.

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I'm growing old. Each year I shall be less active
and less versatile? Ought I not to make way for younger?
Better men. He strove to drive away the thought, but
could not. Some voice, the voice of conscience, perhaps, told
him it was his duty to accept this offer. Oh
God help me, he cried, broken at length and submissive.

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I know not what to do. Guide me and teach
me to do thy will. Presently he fell on his
knees humbly and prayed. Now there was nothing in him
of the confident priest, nor of the proud and self
assertive man. He was but an abject penitent, confessing in
broken words, tremulous and halting his utter weakness. O Lord,

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give me a wholly contented frame, he cried, Make me
to desire nothing but how best to fulfill thy holy will.
Save me from worldly, ambitious thoughts. I am weak and cowardly,
and my sins have been very great, and I know
that I am unfitted for a great position. When he
rose to his feet with a sigh, he read Stonehenge's

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letter for the third time, he took it in his
hand and went to Lady Sophia. He felt that from
her he would gain help. He was so crushed, so changed,
that he needed another's guidance. For once in his life,
he could not make up his mind but when she
saw him, Lady Sophia was seized with astonishment. His spirited

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face seemed wan and lifeless. The lines stood out, and
his eyes were very tired. He appeared, on a sudden
to be an old man. His upright carriage was gone,
and he walked listlessly with stooping shoulders. Theodore, what on
earth's the matter? She cried. He handed her the letter, and,

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in a voice still broken with emotion, said, Stonehenge doesn't
think I'm fit to be a bishop. He's offered me
a Welsh deanery, but you won't accept it. He bowed
his head, looking at her with an appeal that was
almost childlike. I'm not sure whether I have the right
to refuse. What does he mean by saying that the

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duties are commanding in their nature? He means nothing, answered
the Cannon, shrugging his shoulders scornfully. He's merely fielding the
pill with fine phrases. Oh, Sophia, I don't want to go.
I don't want to bury myself in that inglorious idleness.
I feel in me the power to do so much more,
and Saint Alfrid's offers me nothing. It's a sleepy, sordid place.

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I might as well be buried alive. I don't want
to leave London. His voice was so pitiful that Lady
Sophia was touched. She saw that he wanted her to
persuade him to stay in town, and yet his conscience
troubled him. I'm only a servant of the church, he said.
I don't know that I have the right to refuse
to go where I am sent. Perhaps he's not far

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wrong in thinking that it's all I'm good for. Oh Sophia,
I'm so unhappy. She realized how much it meant for
that bold spirit thus to humble itself. He paid a
heavy price for his vanity. He was like a child
in her hands, needing consolation and support. She began to
speak to him gently. She suggested that the offer of

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this deanery signified only that Lord Stonehenge, feeling he owed
something to the son of the late Lord Chancellor, had
been unable, on account of other claims, to give him
the bishopric. From the observation of long years, she had
learned on what points Theodore most prided himself. In the past.
This knowledge had been used to give admonishing stabs, and

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now she took them one by one, she appealed skillfully
to his prepossessions with well directed flattery, Calling to his
mind past triumphs and compliments paid him by the great
ones of the earth, she caused him little by little
to gather courage. Presently, she saw the hopeless expression of
the mouth give way to a smile of pleasure, and

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a new confidence came into his eyes. His very back
was straightened in the new uprightness with which he held himself,
she perceived that her subtle words were taking due effect.
At last, she reminded him of his work at Saint Gregory's.
You're a figure in London, she said, you have power
and influence. For my part, I have wondered that you

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contemplated leaving it for an obscure country town like Barchester.
I shouldn't have been at all surprised if you'd refused
the bishopric. He breathed more freely, and with his quick
and happy optimism, began already to see things more genially. Besides,
we sprats are somebody in the world, concluded Lady Sophia,
with a smile, the faint irony of which he did

(25:29):
not see. I don't think you would show a proper
spirit if you allowed yourself to be trampled on. Ah, Sophia,
I knew at the bottom of your heart you were
as proud of your stock as I. You're quite right.
I owe it to my family as well as to myself,
not to allow them to thrust me into obscurity. I

(25:50):
shall refuse the deanery, Sophia, and Lord Stonehenge can go
to the devil, she added quietly. Cannon Sprat smiled with
all his old vivacity. Sophia, I thank you. It is
not right that I should say such things, but you
have entirely expressed my sentiments. Why don't you sit down

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and write the letter at once? Without answering, the Canon
seated himself and presently showed to Lady Sophia for her
approval the following reply, Dear Lord Stonehenge, I have weighed
your very considerate proposal most anxiously, and have given full
weight to what you urge. I fully appreciate the kind

(26:32):
motive which offered me the opportunity of removing to a
position both of leisure and of dignity. I am sure
you will not think that I have lightly set aside
the offer made me. But I am doubtful whether my
health would stand the asperities of a Welsh climate. And
I have to consider that a very great assistance to
me in the performance of my present duties is derived

(26:54):
from the complete knowledge of my work in London. I
fear that I might find the distant enough untried labors
of Saint Olferd's less congenial. And I feel that without
some very strong counterbalancing reason, it is not desirable that
I should leave plans which I have begun but scarcely
matured here in the metropolis. Believe me to be with

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very grateful thanks, dear Lord Stonehenge, your faithful and obedient servant,
Theodore Sprat. Lady Sophia smiled when she read that last sentence,
in which he wisely left himself an escape whereby he might,
with dignity abandon London if a bishopric in the future
were offered to him. Obviously, the comfortable hope had returned

(27:38):
that in the end his merits would receive their just reward.
She gave back the letter. I think it will do capitally,
she said. Now, if I were you, I'd go out
for a stroll. So I will, Sophia. He replied, I
shall never forget your encouragement. I confess I was very
much cast down. Much to her surprise, he kissed her affectionately,

(28:03):
and then said, as I have nowhere particular to go,
I shall just walk along to Savilerow and order two
pairs of trousers. End of Chapter fourteen