The view across the Avon to the cathedral spire
Once again, we found ourselves in Salisbury, staying at the atmospheric Rose & Crown hostelry with its beautiful green sward leading down to the Avon. The view above is from our ground-floor bedroom, looking across the river to the spire of the cathedral. It is but a few minutes walk, across the Grade I listed Old Harnham Bridge, which dates back to the 1200s, to reach the cathedral close.
One has to pass by this plaque, which relates to the building below.
Of course, the book I took with me was Anthony Trollope's The Warden, the first in what became known as the author's Barchester series. So, I sat out on that green sward and read one of my favourite novels for, perhaps, the fifth or sixth time. I won't chart the story, slim as it is. If you have read the book, it is probably more than once; if you haven't, hie thee down to the nearest bookshop or pester Amazon or Ebay. You are otherwise missing a few pleasurable hours. I can't afford a first edition (it's on the Internet at £5,797, £3,275 and £2,976); but, I have a lovely 1976 first printing of the Folio Society's edition, in its slipcase. Julian Symons' Introduction is a useful refresher, reminding us that although Trollope in his old age said that Barset was Somerset, it was more likely a blend of three or four western counties. Barchester itself, Trollope averred, was Winchester, but the novel was conceived during a visit to Salisbury in 1851. The actual writing began a year later, but for several reasons it was not published until January 1855. Originally entitled The Precentor, it was his fourth published novel - it made only £9. 2s. 6d. by the end of the first year. It was clearly planned as a single work, not as the first part of a series. Symons may be right in labelling the book a minor work by a major novelist, but the memorable figures in it were, as it were, being given a trial run [and the author] realised their possibilities, and began to understand the extent of his own talents. I was not keen on Peter Reddick's illustrations.
Can I just share some of the author's superb character sketches and shafts of humour? So Trollopian!
Who could lie basking in the cloisters of Salisbury (as I did this week), and gaze on Jewel's library and that unequalled spire, without feeling that bishops should sometimes be rich!
The bishop did not whistle: we believe that they lose the power of doing so on being consecrated; and that in these days one might as easily meet a corrupt judge as a whistling bishop; but he looked as though he would have done so, but for his apron.
It is indeed a matter of thankfulness that neither the historian nor the novelist hears all that is said by their heroes or heroines, or how would three volumes or twenty suffice! In the present case so little of this sort have I overheard, that I live in hopes of finishing my work within 300 pages, and of completing that pleasant task - a novel in one volume...
John Bold has all the ardour and all the self-assurance of a Danton, and hurls his anathemas against time-honoured practices with the violence of a French Jacobin.
Mary Bold was older than her brother, and, at the time of our story, was just over thirty. She was not an unattractive young woman, though by no means beautiful. Her great merit was the kindliness of her disposition. She was not very clever, nor very animated, nor had she apparently the energy of her brother; but she was guided by a high principle of right and wrong; her temper was sweet, and her faults were fewer in number than her virtues.
Archdeacon Grantly in the world never lays aside that demeanour which so well becomes him. He has all the dignity of an ancient saint with the sleekness of a modern bishop; he is always the same; he is always the archdeacon; unlike Homer, he never nods...
As the archdeacon stood up to make his speech, erect in the middle of that little square, he looked like an ecclesiastical statue placed there, as a fitting impersonation of the church militant here on earth; his shovel hat, large, new, and well-pronounced, a churchman's hat in every inch, declared the profession as plainly as does the Quaker's broad brim; his heavy eyebrows, large open eyes, and full mouth and chin expressed the solidity of his order; the broad chest, amply covered with fine cloth, told how well to do was its estate; one hand ensconced within his pocket evinced the practical hold which our mother church keeps on her temporal possessions; and the other, loose for action, was ready to fight if need be in her defence; and, below these, the decorous breeches, and neat black gaiters showing so admirably that well-turned leg, betokened the decency, the outward beauty and grace of our church establishment.
The Bishop, though he had never been an active man, was one whose qualities had rendered him dear to all who knew him. He was the very opposite to his son; he was a bland and a kind old man, opposed by every feeling to authoritative demonstrations and episcopal ostentation.
Sir Abraham Haphazard was a tall thin man, with hair prematurely grey, but bearing no other sign of age; he had a slight stoop, in his neck rather than his back, acquired by his constant habit of leaning forward as he addressed various audiences. He might be fifty years old, and would have looked young for his age, had not constant work hardened his features, and given him the appearance of a machine with a mind. His face was full of intellect, but devoid of natural expression...with him success alone was praiseworthy, and he knew none so successful as himself.
And the Warden, Septimus Harding? - is a small man, now verging on sixty years, but bearing few of the signs of age; his hair is rather grizzled, though not grey; his eye is very mild, but clear and bright, though the double glasses which are held swinging from his hand, unless when fixed upon his nose, show that time has told upon his sight; his hands are delicately white, and both hands and feet are small; he always wears a black frock coat, black knee-breeches, and black gaiters, and somewhat scandalises some of his more hyper-critical brethren by a black neck-handkerchief.
Even in the short time of our acquaintance, I felt I knew them all quite well.
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Earlier in the year, I rewatched the first couple of episodes of the BBC's Barchester Towers - delivered in the days when that institution produced good quality drama.
I will leave comment on Alan Rickman's Obadiah Slope for another time, as he does not figure in The Warden. I found both Mary Bold and Eleanor Harding played well by Barbara Flynn and Janet Maw; rather like I imagined the characters to be. David Gwillim was a good casting for John Bold, as was Joseph O'Conor for Bunce. The problem with Nigel Hawthorne's Dr. Grantly is that the actor nowadays is indelibly linked with his portrayal of Humphrey Appleby in Yes Minister. However, he gave a decent rendering of the Archdeacon. George Costigan was a solid Tom Towers and Michael Aldridge a splendid Sir Abraham Haphazard. I would not have cast Donald Pleasence as Mr. Harding. Pleasence was squat rather than small. There was a real Mr Harding, who lived in our tiny Somerset village in the late 1950s - thin, courteous, smallish and clearly a gentleman. He was my choice!
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