Chronicles of Barsetshire - Complete Edition (All 6 Books in One Edition). Anthony Trollope
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man that is in the wrong almost invariably conquers the man that is in the right, and invariably despises him.
A man must be an idiot or else an angel who, after the age of forty, shall attempt to be just to his neighbours. Many like the Lady Margaretta have learnt their lesson at a much earlier age. But this of course depends on the school in which they have been taught.
Poor Miss Thorne was altogether overcome. She knew very well that she had been ill-treated, and yet she found herself making apologies to Lady De Courcy. To do her ladyship justice, she received them very graciously and allowed herself, with her train of daughters, to be led towards the lawn.
There were two windows in the drawing-room wide open for the countess to pass through, but she saw that there was a woman on a sofa, at the third window, and that that woman had, as it were, a following attached to her. Her ladyship therefore determined to investigate the woman. The De Courcy’s were hereditarily shortsighted, and had been so for thirty centuries at least. So Lady De Courcy, who when she entered the family had adopted the family habits, did as her son had done before her and, taking her glass to investigate the Signora Neroni, pressed in among the gentlemen who surrounded the couch and bowed slightly to those whom she chose to honour by her acquaintance.
In order to get to the window she had to pass close to the front of the couch, and as she did so she stared hard at the occupant. The occupant, in return, stared hard at the countess. The countess, who, since her countess-ship commenced, had been accustomed to see all eyes not royal, ducal, or marquesal fall before her own, paused as she went on, raised her eyebrows, and stared even harder than before. But she had now to do with one who cared little for countesses. It was, one may say, impossible for mortal man or woman to abash Madeline Neroni. She opened her large, bright, lustrous eyes wider and wider, till she seemed to be all eyes. She gazed up into the lady’s face, not as though she did it with an effort, but as if she delighted in doing it. She used no glass to assist her effrontery and needed none. The faintest possible smile of derision played round her mouth, and her nostrils were slightly dilated, as if in sure anticipation of her triumph. And it was sure. The Countess De Courcy, in spite of her thirty centuries and De Courcy Castle and the fact that Lord De Courcy was grand master of the ponies to the Prince of Wales, had not a chance with her. At first the little circlet of gold wavered in the countess’s hand, then the hand shook, then the circlet fell, the countess’s head tossed itself into the air, and the countess’s feet shambled out to the lawn. She did not, however, go so fast but what she heard the signora’s voice, asking:
“Who on earth is that woman, Mr. Slope?”
“That is Lady De Courcy.”
“Oh, ah. I might have supposed so. Ha, ha, ha. Well, that’s as good as a play.”
It was as good as a play to any there who had eyes to observe it and wit to comment on what they observed.
But the Lady De Courcy soon found a congenial spirit on the lawn. There she encountered Mrs. Proudie, and as Mrs. Proudie was not only the wife of a bishop but was also the cousin of an earl, Lady De Courcy considered her to be the fittest companion she was likely to meet in that assemblage. They were accordingly delighted to see each other. Mrs. Proudie by no means despised a countess, and as this countess lived in the county and within a sort of extensive visiting distance of Barchester, she was glad to have this opportunity of ingratiating herself.
“My dear Lady De Courcy, I am so delighted,” said she, looking as little grim as it was in her nature to do. “I hardly expected to see you here. It is such a distance, and then, you know, such a crowd.”
“And such roads, Mrs. Proudie! I really wonder how the people ever get about. But I don’t suppose they ever do.”
“Well, I really don’t know, but I suppose not. The Thornes don’t, I know,” said Mrs. Proudie. “Very nice person, Miss Thorne, isn’t she?”
“Oh, delightful, and so queer; I’ve known her these twenty years. A great pet of mine is dear Miss Thorne. She is so very strange, you know. She always makes me think of the Eskimos and the Indians. Isn’t her dress quite delightful?”
“Delightful,” said Mrs. Proudie. “I wonder now whether she paints. Did you ever see such colour?”
“Oh, of course,” said Lady De Courcy; “that is, I have no doubt she does. But, Mrs. Proudie, who is that woman on the sofa by the window? Just step this way and you’ll see her, there —” and the countess led her to a spot where she could plainly see the signora’s well-remembered face and figure.
She did not however do so without being equally well seen by the signora. “Look, look,” said that lady to Mr. Slope, who was still standing near to her; “see the high spiritualities and temporalities of the land in league together, and all against poor me. I’ll wager my bracelet, Mr. Slope, against your next sermon that they’ve taken up their position there on purpose to pull me to pieces. Well, I can’t rush to the combat, but I know how to protect myself if the enemy come near me.”
But the enemy knew better. They could gain nothing by contact with the Signora Neroni, and they could abuse her as they pleased at a distance from her on the lawn.
“She’s that horrid Italian woman, Lady De Courcy; you must have heard of her.”
“What Italian woman?” said her ladyship, quite alive to the coming story. “I don’t think I’ve heard of any Italian woman coming into the country. She doesn’t look Italian, either.”
“Oh, you must have heard of her,” said Mrs. Proudie. “No, she’s not absolutely Italian. She is Dr. Stanhope’s daughter — Dr. Stanhope the prebendary — and she calls herself the Signora Neroni.”
“Oh-h-h-h!” exclaimed the countess.
“I was sure you had heard of her,” continued Mrs. Proudie. I don’t know anything about her husband. They do say that some man named Neroni is still alive. I believe she did marry such a man abroad, but I do not at all know who or what he was.
“Oh-h-h-h!” exclaimed the countess, shaking her head with much intelligence, as every additional “h” fell from her lips. “I know all about it now. I have heard George mention her. George knows all about her. George heard about her in Rome.”
“She’s an abominable woman, at any rate,” said Mrs. Proudie.
“Insufferable,” said the countess.
“She made her way into the palace once, before I knew anything about her, and I cannot tell you how dreadfully indecent her conduct was.”
“Was it?” said the delighted countess.
“Insufferable,” said the prelatess.
“But why does she lie on a sofa?” asked Lady De Courcy.
“She has only one leg,” replied Mrs. Proudie.
“Only one leg!” said Lady De Courcy, who felt to a certain degree dissatisfied that the signora was thus incapacitated. “Was she born so?”
“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Proudie — and her ladyship felt some what recomforted by the assurance —“she had two. But that Signor Neroni beat her, I believe, till she was obliged to have one amputated. At any rate, she entirely lost the use of it.”
“Unfortunate creature!” said the countess, who herself knew something of matrimonial trials.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Proudie, “one would pity her in spite of her past bad conduct, if she now knew how to behave herself. But she does not. She is the most insolent creature I ever put my eyes on.”
“Indeed she is,” said Lady De Courcy.
“And her conduct with men is so abominable that she is not fit to be admitted into any lady’s drawing-room.”
“Dear me!” said the countess, becoming again excited, happy and merciless.
“You saw that man standing near her — the clergyman with the red hair?”
“Yes,