Middlemarch by George Eliot (ebook and pdf reader TXT) 📕

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 anyone 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 forefinger in each side-pocket and his head thrown backward, not caring to speak to anybody, though he had been cordially welcomed as a connoissure 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 bootjacks 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 openwork 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 without 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