We journeyed that day toward Canterbury, a town you, my friends, may or may not have heard of. That it is an English town I need not say, for if it were not would we have been going there? And it is chiefly noted, I remembered, for its archbishop.
This gentleman, I was told by Jellaby on my questioning him, walks directly behind the King’s eldest son, and in front of all the nobles in processions. He is a pastor, but how greatly glorified! He is the final expansion, the last word, of that which in the bud was only a curate. Every English curate, like Buonaparte’s soldiers are said to have done, carries in his handbag the mitre of an archbishop. I can only regard it as a blessing that our Church has not got them, for I for one would find it difficult with this possibility in view ever to be really natural to a curate. As it is I am perfectly natural. With absolute simplicity I show ours his place and keep him to it; and I am equally simple with our Superintendents and General Superintendents, the nearest approach our pure and frugal Church goes to bishops and archbishops. There is nothing glorified about them. They are just respectable elderly men, with God-fearing wives who prepare their dinner for them day by day. “And, Jellaby,” said I, “can as much be said for the wives of your archbishops?”
“No,” said he.
“Another point, then,” said I, with the jesting manner one uses to gild unpalatable truth, “on which we Germans are ahead.”
Jellaby pushed his wisp of hair back and mopped his forehead. From my position at my horse’s head I had called to him as he was walking quickly past me, for I perceived he had my poor gentle little friend in tow and was once again inflicting his society on her. He could not, however, refuse to linger on my addressing him, and I took care to ask him so many questions about Canterbury and its ecclesiastical meaning that Frau von Eckthum was able to have a little rest.
A faint flush showed she understood and appreciated. No longer obliged to exert herself conversationally, as I had observed she was doing when they passed, she dropped into her usual calm and merely listened attentively to all I had to say. But we had hardly begun before Mrs. Menzies-Legh, who was in front, happened to look round, and seeing us immediately added her company to what was already more than company enough, and put a stop to anything approaching real conversation by herself holding forth. No one wanted to hear her; least of all myself, to whom she chiefly addressed her remarks. The others, indeed, were able to presently slip away, which they did to the rear of our column, I think, for I did not see them again; but I, forced to lead my horse, was helpless.
I leave it to you, my friends, to decide what strictures should be passed on such persistency. I cannot help feeling that it was greatly to my credit that I managed to keep within bounds of politeness under such circumstances. One thing, however, is eternally sure: the more a lady pursues, the more a gentleman withdraws, and accordingly those ladies who throw feminine decorum to the winds only defeat their own ends.
I said this—slightly veiled—to Mrs. Menzies-Legh that morning, taking an opportunity her restless and leaping conversation offered to administer the little lesson. No veils, however, were thin enough for her to see through, and instead of becoming red and startled she looked at me through her eyelashes with an air of pretended innocence and said, “But, Baron dear, what is feminine decorum?”
As though feminine decorum or modesty or virtue were things that could be explained in any words decent enough to fit them for a gentleman to use to a lady!
That was a tiring day. Canterbury is a tiring place; at least it would be if you let it. I did not, however, let it tire me. And such a hot place! It is a steaming town with the sun beating down on it, and full of buildings and antiquities one is told one must be longing to look at. After a day’s march in the dust it is not antiquities one longs for, and I watched with some contempt the same hypocritical attitude take possession of the party that had distinguished it at Bodiam.