Doctor Thorne, Anthony Trollope [best book reader .txt] 📗

remaining relic of certain

daily services [1] which the Church in olden days enjoined: nones,

complines, and vespers were others. Of the nones and complines we

have happily got quit; and it might be well if we could get rid of

the dinner-graces also. Let any man ask himself whether, on his own

part, they are acts of prayer and thanksgiving—and if not that, what

then?

 

[Footnote 1: It is, I know, alleged that graces are said

before dinner, because our Saviour uttered a blessing before

his last supper. I cannot say that the idea of such analogy

is pleasing to me.]

 

When the large party entered the dining-room one or two gentlemen

might be seen to come in from some other door and set themselves at

the table near to the duke’s chair. These were guests of his own, who

were staying in the house, his particular friends, the men with whom

he lived: the others were strangers whom he fed, perhaps once a year,

in order that his name might be known in the land as that of one who

distributed food and wine hospitably through the county. The food

and wine, the attendance also, and the view of the vast repository

of plate he vouchsafed willingly to his county neighbours;—but it

was beyond his good nature to talk to them. To judge by the present

appearance of most of them, they were quite as well satisfied to be

left alone.

 

Frank was altogether a stranger there, but Mr Athill knew every one

at the table.

 

“That’s Apjohn,” said he: “don’t you know, Mr Apjohn, the attorney

from Barchester? he’s always here; he does some of Fothergill’s law

business, and makes himself useful. If any fellow knows the value of

a good dinner, he does. You’ll see that the duke’s hospitality will

not be thrown away on him.”

 

“It’s very much thrown away upon me, I know,” said Frank, who could

not at all put up with the idea of sitting down to dinner without

having been spoken to by his host.

 

“Oh, nonsense!” said his clerical friend; “you’ll enjoy yourself

amazingly by and by. There is not such champagne in any other house

in Barsetshire; and then the claret—” And Mr Athill pressed his lips

together, and gently shook his head, meaning to signify by the motion

that the claret of Gatherum Castle was sufficient atonement for any

penance which a man might have to go through in his mode of obtaining

it.

 

“Who’s that funny little man sitting there, next but one to Mr de

Courcy? I never saw such a queer fellow in my life.”

 

“Don’t you know old Bolus? Well, I thought every one in Barsetshire

knew Bolus; you especially should do so, as he is such a dear friend

of Dr Thorne.”

 

“A dear friend of Dr Thorne?”

 

“Yes; he was apothecary at Scarington in the old days, before Dr

Fillgrave came into vogue. I remember when Bolus was thought to be a

very good sort of doctor.”

 

“Is he—is he—” whispered Frank, “is he by way of a gentleman?”

 

“Ha! ha! ha! Well, I suppose we must be charitable, and say that he

is quite as good, at any rate, as many others there are here—” and

Mr Athill, as he spoke, whispered into Frank’s ear, “You see there’s

Finnie here, another Barchester attorney. Now, I really think where

Finnie goes Bolus may go too.”

 

“The more the merrier, I suppose,” said Frank.

 

“Well, something a little like that. I wonder why Thorne is not here?

I’m sure he was asked.”

 

“Perhaps he did not particularly wish to meet Finnie and Bolus. Do

you know, Mr Athill, I think he was quite right not to come. As for

myself, I wish I was anywhere else.”

 

“Ha! ha! ha! You don’t know the duke’s ways yet; and what’s more,

you’re young, you happy fellow! But Thorne should have more sense; he

ought to show himself here.”

 

The gormandizing was now going on at a tremendous rate. Though the

volubility of their tongues had been for a while stopped by the first

shock of the duke’s presence, the guests seemed to feel no such

constraint upon their teeth. They fed, one may almost say, rabidly,

and gave their orders to the servants in an eager manner; much more

impressive than that usual at smaller parties. Mr Apjohn, who sat

immediately opposite to Frank, had, by some well-planned manoeuvre,

contrived to get before him the jowl of a salmon; but, unfortunately,

he was not for a while equally successful in the article of sauce. A

very limited portion—so at least thought Mr Apjohn—had been put on

his plate; and a servant, with a huge sauce tureen, absolutely passed

behind his back inattentive to his audible requests. Poor Mr Apjohn

in his despair turned round to arrest the man by his coat-tails; but

he was a moment too late, and all but fell backwards on the floor. As

he righted himself he muttered an anathema, and looked with a face of

anguish at his plate.

 

“Anything the matter, Apjohn?” said Mr Fothergill, kindly, seeing

the utter despair written on the poor man’s countenance; “can I get

anything for you?”

 

“The sauce!” said Mr Apjohn, in a voice that would have melted a

hermit; and as he looked at Mr Fothergill, he pointed at the now

distant sinner, who was dispensing his melted ambrosia at least ten

heads upwards, away from the unfortunate supplicant.

 

Mr Fothergill, however, knew where to look for balm for such wounds,

and in a minute or two, Mr Apjohn was employed quite to his heart’s

content.

 

“Well,” said Frank to his neighbour, “it may be very well once in a

way; but I think that on the whole Dr Thorne is right.”

 

“My dear Mr Gresham, see the world on all sides,” said Mr Athill,

who had also been somewhat intent on the gratification of his own

appetite, though with an energy less evident than that of the

gentleman opposite. “See the world on all sides if you have an

opportunity; and, believe me, a good dinner now and then is a very

good thing.”

 

“Yes; but I don’t like eating it with hogs.”

 

“Whish-h! softly, softly, Mr Gresham, or you’ll disturb Mr Apjohn’s

digestion. Upon my word, he’ll want it all before he has done. Now, I

like this kind of thing once in a way.”

 

“Do you?” said Frank, in a tone that was almost savage.

 

“Yes; indeed I do. One sees so much character. And after all, what

harm does it do?”

 

“My idea is that people should live with those whose society is

pleasant to them.”

 

“Live—yes, Mr Gresham—I agree with you there. It wouldn’t do for me

to live with the Duke of Omnium; I shouldn’t understand, or probably

approve, his ways. Nor should I, perhaps, much like the constant

presence of Mr Apjohn. But now and then—once in a year or so—I do

own I like to see them both. Here’s the cup; now, whatever you do, Mr

Gresham, don’t pass the cup without tasting it.”

 

And so the dinner passed on, slowly enough as Frank thought, but

all too quickly for Mr Apjohn. It passed away, and the wine came

circulating freely. The tongues again were loosed, the teeth being

released from their labours, and under the influence of the claret

the duke’s presence was forgotten.

 

But very speedily the coffee was brought. “This will soon be over

now,” said Frank, to himself, thankfully; for, though he be no means

despised good claret, he had lost his temper too completely to enjoy

it at the present moment. But he was much mistaken; the farce as yet

was only at its commencement. The duke took his cup of coffee, and so

did the few friends who sat close to him; but the beverage did not

seem to be in great request with the majority of the guests. When the

duke had taken his modicum, he rose up and silently retired, saying

no word and making no sign. And then the farce commenced.

 

“Now, gentlemen,” said Mr Fothergill, cheerily, “we are all right.

Apjohn, is there claret there? Mr Bolus, I know you stick to the

Madeira; you are quite right, for there isn’t much of it left, and my

belief is there’ll never be more like it.”

 

And so the duke’s hospitality went on, and the duke’s guests drank

merrily for the next two hours.

 

“Shan’t we see any more of him?” asked Frank.

 

“Any more of whom?” said Mr Athill.

 

“Of the duke?”

 

“Oh, no; you’ll see no more of him. He always goes when the coffee

comes. It’s brought in as an excuse. We’ve had enough of the light of

his countenance to last till next year. The duke and I are excellent

friends; and have been so these fifteen years; but I never see more

of him than that.”

 

“I shall go away,” said Frank.

 

“Nonsense. Mr de Courcy and your other friend won’t stir for this

hour yet.”

 

“I don’t care. I shall walk on, and they may catch me. I may be

wrong; but it seems to me that a man insults me when he asks me to

dine with him and never speaks to me. I don’t care if he be ten times

Duke of Omnium; he can’t be more than a gentleman, and as such I

am his equal.” And then, having thus given vent to his feelings in

somewhat high-flown language, he walked forth and trudged away along

the road towards Courcy.

 

Frank Gresham had been born and bred a Conservative, whereas the

Duke of Omnium was well known as a consistent Whig. There is no one

so devoutly resolved to admit of no superior as your Conservative,

born and bred, no one so inclined to high domestic despotism as your

thoroughgoing consistent old Whig.

 

When he had proceeded about six miles, Frank was picked up by his

friends; but even then his anger had hardly cooled.

 

“Was the duke as civil as ever when you took your leave of him?” said

he to his cousin George, as he took his seat on the drag.

 

“The juke was jeuced jude wine—lem me tell you that, old fella,”

hiccupped out the Honourable George, as he touched up the leader

under the flank.