THE PALLISER NOVELS & THE CHRONICLES OF BARSETSHIRE: Complete Series. Anthony Trollope
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you?” said she. “Is not the blood in your veins as warm as his? Does not your pulse beat as fast? Has not God made you a man and intended you to do a man’s work here, ay, and to take a man’s wages also?”
Mr. Arabin sat ruminating, rubbing his face, and wondering why these things were said to him, but he replied nothing. The signora went on:
“The greatest mistake any man ever made is to suppose that the good things of the world are not worth the winning. And it is a mistake so opposed to the religion which you preach! Why does God permit his bishops one after another to have their five thousands and ten thousands a year if such wealth be bad and not worth having? Why are beautiful things given to us, and luxuries and pleasant enjoyments, if they be not intended to be used? They must be meant for someone, and what is good for a layman surely cannot be bad for a clerk. You try to despise these good things, but you only try—you don’t succeed.”
“Don’t I?” said Mr. Arabin, still musing, not knowing what he said.
“I ask you the question: do you succeed?”
Mr. Arabin looked at her piteously. It seemed to him as though he were being interrogated by some inner spirit of his own, to whom he could not refuse an answer, and to whom he did not dare to give a false reply.
“Come, Mr. Arabin, confess; do you succeed? Is money so contemptible? Is worldly power so worthless? Is feminine beauty a trifle to be so slightly regarded by a wise man?”
“Feminine beauty!” said he, gazing into her face, as though all the feminine beauty in the world were concentrated there. “Why do you say I do not regard it?”
“If you look at me like that, Mr. Arabin, I shall alter my opinion—or should do so, were I not of course aware that I have no beauty of my own worth regarding.”
The gentleman blushed crimson, but the lady did not blush at all. A slightly increased colour animated her face, just so much so as to give her an air of special interest. She expected a compliment from her admirer, but she was rather gratified than otherwise by finding that he did not pay it to her. Messrs. Slope and Thorne, Messrs. Brown, Jones, and Robinson, they all paid her compliments. She was rather in hopes that she would ultimately succeed in inducing Mr. Arabin to abuse her.
“But your gaze,” said she, “is one of wonder, not of admiration. You wonder at my audacity in asking you such questions about yourself.”
“Well, I do rather,” said he.
“Nevertheless, I expect an answer, Mr. Arabin. Why were women made beautiful if men are not to regard them?”
“But men do regard them,” he replied.
“And why not you?”
“You are begging the question, Madame Neroni.”
“I am sure I shall beg nothing, Mr. Arabin, which you will not grant, and I do beg for an answer. Do you not as a rule think women below your notice as companions? Let us see. There is the Widow Bold looking round at you from her chair this minute. What would you say to her as a companion for life?”
Mr. Arabin, rising from his position, leaned over the sofa and looked through the drawing-room door to the place where Eleanor was seated between Bertie Stanhope and Mr. Slope. She at once caught his glance and averted her own. She was not pleasantly placed in her present position. Mr. Slope was doing his best to attract her attention, and she was striving to prevent his doing so by talking to Mr. Stanhope, while her mind was intently fixed on Mr. Arabin and Madame Neroni. Bertie Stanhope endeavoured to take advantage of her favours, but he was thinking more of the manner in which he would by and by throw himself at her feet than of amusing her at the present moment.
“There,” said the signora. “She was stretching her beautiful neck to look at you, and now you have disturbed her. Well, I declare I believe I am wrong about you; I believe that you do think Mrs. Bold a charming woman. Your looks seem to say so, and by her looks I should say that she is jealous of me. Come, Mr. Arabin, confide in me, and if it is so, I’ll do all in my power to make up the match.”
It is needless to say that the signora was not very sincere in her offer. She was never sincere on such subjects. She never expected others to be so, nor did she expect others to think her so. Such matters were her playthings, her billiard table, her hounds and hunters, her waltzes and polkas, her picnics and summer-day excursions. She had little else to amuse her, and therefore played at lovemaking in all its forms. She was now playing at it with Mr. Arabin, and did not at all expect the earnestness and truth of his answer.
“All in your power would be nothing,” said he, “for Mrs. Bold is, I imagine, already engaged to another.”
“Then you own the impeachment yourself.”
“You cross-question me rather unfairly,” he replied, “and I do not know why I answer you at all. Mrs. Bold is a very beautiful woman, and as intelligent as beautiful. It is impossible to know her without admiring her.”
“So you think the widow a very beautiful woman?”
“Indeed I do.”
“And one that would grace the parsonage of St. Ewold’s.”
“One that would well grace any man’s house.”
“And you really have the effrontery to tell me this,” said she; “to tell me, who, as you very well know, set up to be a beauty myself, and who am at this very moment taking such an interest in your affairs, you really have the effrontery to tell me that Mrs. Bold is the most beautiful woman you know.”
“I did not say so,” said Mr. Arabin; “you are more beautiful—”
“Ah, come now, that is something like. I thought you could not be so unfeeling.”
“You are more beautiful, perhaps more clever.”
“Thank you, thank you, Mr. Arabin. I knew that you and I should be friends.”
“But—”
“Not a word further. I will not hear a word further. If you talk till midnight you cannot improve what you have said.”
“But Madame Neroni, Mrs. Bold—”
“I will not hear a word about Mrs. Bold. Dread thoughts of strychnine did pass across my brain, but she is welcome to the second place.”
“Her place—”
“I won’t hear anything about her or her place. I am satisfied, and that is enough. But Mr. Arabin, I am dying with hunger; beautiful and clever as I am, you know I cannot go to my food, and yet you do not bring it to me.”
This at any rate was so true as to make it necessary that Mr. Arabin should act upon it, and he accordingly went into the dining-room and supplied the signora’s wants.
“And yourself?” said she.
“Oh,” said he, “I am not hungry. I never eat at this hour.”
“Come, come, Mr. Arabin, don’t let love interfere with your appetite. It never does with mine. Give me half a glass more champagne and then go to the table. Mrs. Bold will do me an injury if you stay talking to me any longer.”
Mr. Arabin did as he was bid. He took her plate and glass from her and, going into the dining-room, helped himself to a sandwich from the crowded table and began munching it in a corner.
As he was doing so Miss Thorne, who had hardly sat down for a moment, came into the room and, seeing him standing, was greatly distressed.
“Oh, my dear Mr. Arabin,” said she, “have you never sat down yet? I am so distressed. You of all men, too.”
Mr. Arabin assured her that he had only just come into the room.
“That is the very reason why you should lose no more time. Come, I’ll make room for you. Thank’ee, my dear,” she said,