2.11BSD/share/learn/vi/longtext

                       BARCHESTER TOWERS

                       Anthony Trollope


In the latter days of July in the year 185-, a most important
question was for ten days hourly asked in the cathedral city of
Barchester, and answered every hour in various ways -- Who was to
be the new bishop?

   The death of old Dr. Grantly, who had for many years filled
that chair with meek authority, took place exactly as the minis-
try of Lord ----- was going to give place to that of Lord -----.
The illness of the good old man was long and lingering, and it
became at last a matter of intense interest to those concerned
whether the new appointment should be made by a conservative or
liberal government.

   It was pretty well understood that the outgoing premier had
made his selection and that if the question rested with him, the
mitre would descend on the head of Archdeacon Grantly, the old
bishop's son.  The archdeacon had long managed the affairs of the
diocese, and for some months previous to the demise of his father
rumour had confidently assigned to him the reversion of his
father's honours.

   Bishop Grantly died as he had lived, peaceably, slowly,
without pain and without excitement.  The breath ebbed from him
almost imperceptibly, and for a month before his death it was a
question whether he were alive or dead.

   A trying time was this for the archdeacon, for whom was
designed the reversion of his father's see by those who then had
the giving away of episcopal thrones.  I would not be understood
to say that the prime minister had in so many words promised the
bishopric to Dr. Grantly.  He was too discreet a man for that.
There is a proverb with reference to the killing of cats, and
those who know anything either of high or low government places
will be well aware that a promise may be made without positive
words and that an expectant may be put into the highest state of
encouragement, though the great man on whose breath he hangs may
have done no more than whisper that "Mr. So-and-so is certainly a
rising man."

   Such a whisper had been made, and was known by those who heard
it to signify that the cures of the diocese of Barchester should
not be taken out of the hands of the archdeacon.  The then prime
minister was all in all at Oxford, and had lately passed a night
at the house of the Master of Lazarus.  Now the Master of Lazarus
-- which is, by the by, in many respects the most comfortable as
well as the richest college at Oxford -- was the archdeacon's
most intimate friend and most trusted counsellor.  On the occa-
sion of the prime minister's visit, Dr. Grantly was of course
present, and the meeting was very gracious.  On the following
morning Dr. Gwynne, the master, told the archdeacon that in his
opinion the thing was settled.

   At this time the bishop was quite on his last legs; but the
ministry also were tottering.  Dr. Grantly returned from Oxford,
happy and elated, to resume his place in the palace and to con-
tinue to perform for the father the last duties of a son, which,
to give him his due, he performed with more tender care than was
to be expected from his usual somewhat worldly manners.

   A month since, the physicians had named four weeks as the out-
side period during which breath could be supported within the
body of the dying man.  At the end of the month the physicians
wondered, and named another fortnight.  The old man lived on wine
alone, but at the end of the fortnight he still lived, and the
tidings of the fall of the ministry became more frequent.  Sir
Lamda Mewnew and Sir Omicron Pie, the two great London doctors,
now came down to lunch in the episcopal dining-room, whispered to
the archdeacon their own private knowledge that the ministry must
fall with five days.  The son returned to his father's room and,
after administering with his own hands the sustaining modicum of
madeira, sat down by the bedside to calculate his chances.

   The ministry were to be out within five days: his father was
to be dead within -- no, he rejected that view of the subject.
The ministry were to be out, and the diocese might probably be
vacant at the same period.  there was much doubt as to the names
of the men who were to succeed to power, and a week must elapse
before a cabinet was formed.  Would not vacancies be filled by
the outgoing men during this week?  Dr. Grantly had a kind of
idea that such would be the case but did not know, and then he
wondered at his own ignorance on such a question.

   He tried to keep his mind away from the subject, but he could
not.  The race was so very close, and the stakes were so very
high.  He then looked at the dying man's impassive, placid face.
There was no sign there of death or disease; it was something
thinner than of yore, somewhat grayer, and the deep lines of age
more marked; but, as far as he could judge, life might yet hang
there for weeks to come.  Sir Lamda Mewnew and Sir Omicron Pie
had thrice been wrong, and might yet be wrong thrice again.  The
old bishop slept during twenty of the twenty-four hours, but dur-
ing the short periods of his waking moments, he knew both his son
and his dear old friend, Mr. Harding, the archdeacon's father-
in-law, and would thank them tenderly for their care and love.
Now he lay sleeping like a baby, resting easily on his back, his
mouth just open, and his few gray hairs straggling from beneath
his cap; his breath was perfectly noiseless, and his thin, wan
hand, which lay above the coverlid, never moved.  Nothing could
be easier than the old man's passage from this world to the next.

   But by no means easy were the emotions of him who sat there
watching.  He knew it must be now or never.  He was already over
fifty, and there was little chance that his friends who were now
leaving office would soon return to it.  No probable British
prime minister but he who was now in, he who was so soon to be
out, would think of making a bishop of Dr. Grantly.  Thus he
thought long and sadly, in deep silence, and then gazed at that
still living face, and then at last dared to ask himself whether
he really longed for his father's death.

   The effort was a salutary one, and the question was answered
in a moment.  The proud, wishful, worldly man sank on his knees
by the bedside and, taking the bishop's hand within his own,
prayed eagerly that his sins might be forgiven him.