Barchester Towers Anthony Trollope (iphone ebook reader .TXT) 📖

returned your passion? What would you think if I bound you even by a lover’s oath to do daily penance at this couch of mine? What can I give in return for a man’s love? Ah, dear friend, you have not realized the conditions of my fate.”

Mr. Slope was not on his knees all this time. After his declaration of love, he had risen from them as quickly as he thought consistent with the new position which he now filled, and as he stood was leaning on the back of his chair. This outburst of tenderness on the signora’s part quite overcame him and made him feel for the moment that he could sacrifice everything to be assured of the love of the beautiful creature before him, maimed, lame, and already married as she was.

“And can I not sympathize with your lot?” said he, now seating himself on her sofa and pushing away the table with his foot.

“Sympathy is so near to pity!” said she. “If you pity me, cripple as I am, I shall spurn you from me.”

“Oh, Madeline, I will only love you,” and again he caught her hand and devoured it with kisses. Now she did not draw it from him, but sat there as he kissed it, looking at him with her great eyes, just as a great spider would look at a great fly that was quite securely caught.

“Suppose Signor Neroni were to come to Barchester,” said she. “Would you make his acquaintance?”

“Signor Neroni!” said he.

“Would you introduce him to the bishop, and Mrs. Proudie, and the young ladies?” said she, again having recourse to that horrid quizzing voice which Mr. Slope so particularly hated.

“Why do you ask such a question?” said he.

“Because it is necessary that you should know that there is a Signor Neroni. I think you had forgotten it.”

“If I thought that you retained for that wretch one particle of the love of which he was never worthy, I would die before I would distract you by telling you what I feel. No! Were your husband the master of your heart, I might perhaps love you, but you should never know it.”

“My heart again! How you talk. And you consider then that if a husband be not master of his wife’s heart, he has no right to her fealty; if a wife ceases to love, she may cease to be true. Is that your doctrine on this matter, as a minister of the Church of England?”

Mr. Slope tried hard within himself to cast off the pollution with which he felt that he was defiling his soul. He strove to tear himself away from the noxious siren that had bewitched him. But he could not do it. He could not be again heart free. He had looked for rapturous joy in loving this lovely creature, and he already found that he met with little but disappointment and self-rebuke. He had come across the fruit of the Dead Sea, so sweet and delicious to the eye, so bitter and nauseous to the taste. He had put the apple to his mouth, and it had turned to ashes between his teeth. Yet he could not tear himself away. He knew, he could not but know, that she jeered at him, ridiculed his love, and insulted the weakness of his religion. But she half-permitted his adoration, and that half-permission added such fuel to his fire that all the fountain of his piety could not quench it. He began to feel savage, irritated, and revengeful. He meditated some severity of speech, some taunt that should cut her, as her taunts cut him. He reflected as he stood there for a moment, silent before her, that if he desired to quell her proud spirit, he should do so by being prouder even than herself; that if he wished to have her at his feet suppliant for his love, it behoved him to conquer her by indifference. All this passed through his mind. As far as dead knowledge went, he knew, or thought he knew, how a woman should be tamed. But when he essayed to bring his tactics to bear, he failed like a child. What chance has dead knowledge with experience in any of the transactions between man and man? What possible chance between man and woman? Mr. Slope loved furiously, insanely and truly, but he had never played the game of love. The signora did not love at all, but she was up to every move of the board. It was Philidor pitted against a schoolboy.

And so she continued to insult him, and he continued to bear it.

“Sacrifice the world for love!” she said in answer to some renewed vapid declaration of his passion. “How often has the same thing been said, and how invariably with the same falsehood!”

“Falsehood,” said he. “Do you say that I am false to you? Do you say that my love is not real?”

“False? Of course it is false, false as the father of falsehood⁠—if indeed falsehoods need a sire and are not self-begotten since the world began. You are ready to sacrifice the world for love? Come let us see what you will sacrifice. I care nothing for nuptial vows. The wretch, I think you were kind enough to call him so, whom I swore to love and obey is so base that he can only be thought of with repulsive disgust. In the council chamber of my heart I have divorced him. To me that is as good as though aged lords had gloated for months over the details of his licentious life. I care nothing for what the world can say. Will you be as frank? Will you take me to your home as your wife? Will you call me Mrs. Slope before bishop, dean, and prebendaries?” The poor tortured wretch stood silent, not knowing what to say. “What! You won’t do that. Tell me, then, what part of the world is it that you will sacrifice for my charms?”

“Were you free to marry,