Middlemarch George Eliot (essential reading txt) 📖

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, etc., 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 ceteras. Here is a sample: ‘How must you spell honey to make it catch ladybirds? Answer⁠—money.’ You hear?⁠—ladybirds⁠—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.”

“Immediately, 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 connoissures, 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 everyone 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 connoissure, I think. It is some pleasure,” the auctioneer went on with a rising fervor, “to have a picture like this to show to a company of ladies and gentlemen⁠—a picture worth any sum to an individual whose means were on a level with his judgment. It is a painting of the Italian school⁠—by the celebrated Guydo, the greatest painter in the world, the chief of the Old Masters, as they are called⁠—I take it, because they were up to a thing or two beyond most of us⁠—in possession of secrets now lost to the bulk of mankind. Let me tell you, gentlemen, I have seen a great many pictures by the Old Masters, and they are not all up to this mark⁠—some of them are darker than you might like and not family subjects. But here is a Guydo⁠—the frame alone is worth pounds⁠—which any lady might be proud to hang up⁠—a suitable thing for what we call a refectory in a charitable institution, if any gentleman of the Corporation wished to show his munificence. Turn it