Middlemarch
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