The Warden

CHAPTER VIII Plumstead Episcopi

The read­er must now be re­quest­ed to vis­it the rec­to­ry of Plum­stead Epis­copi; and as it is as yet still ear­ly morn­ing, to as­cend again with us in­to the bed­room of the archdea­con. The mis­tress of the man­sion was at her toi­let; on which we will not dwell with pro­fane eyes, but pro­ceed in­to a small in­ner room, where the doc­tor dressed and kept his boots and ser­mons; and here we will take our stand, premis­ing that the door of the room was so open as to ad­mit of a con­ver­sa­tion be­tween our rev­erend Adam and his val­ued Eve.

‘It’s all your own fault, archdea­con,’ said the lat­ter. ‘I told you from the be­gin­ning how it would end, and pa­pa has no one to thank but you.’

‘Good gra­cious, my dear,’ said the doc­tor, ap­pear­ing at the door of his dress­ing-​room, with his face and head en­veloped in the rough tow­el which he was vi­olent­ly us­ing; ‘how can you say so? I am do­ing my very best.’

‘I wish you had nev­er done so much,’ said the la­dy, in­ter­rupt­ing him. ‘If you’d just have let John Bold come and go there, as he and pa­pa liked, he and Eleanor would have been mar­ried by this time, and we should not have heard one word about all this af­fair.’

‘But, my dear–’

‘Oh, it’s all very well, archdea­con; and of course you’re right; I don’t for a mo­ment think you’ll ev­er ad­mit that you could be wrong; but the fact is. you’ve brought this young man down up­on pa­pa by buff­ing him as you have done.’

‘But, my love–’

‘And all be­cause you didn’t like John Bold for a broth­er- in-​law. How is she ev­er to do bet­ter? Pa­pa hasn’t got a shilling; and though Eleanor is well enough, she has not at all a tak­ing style of beau­ty. I’m sure I don’t know how she’s to do bet­ter than mar­ry John Bold; or as well in­deed,’ added the anx­ious sis­ter, giv­ing the last twist to her last shoe-​string.

Dr Grant­ly felt keen­ly the in­jus­tice of this at­tack; but what could he say? He cer­tain­ly had buffed John Bold; he cer­tain­ly had ob­ject­ed to him as a broth­er-​in-​law, and a very few months ago the very idea had ex­cit­ed his wrath: but now mat­ters were changed; John Bold had shown his pow­er, and, though he was as odi­ous as ev­er to the archdea­con, pow­er is al­ways re­spect­ed, and the rev­erend dig­ni­tary be­gan to think that such an al­liance might not have been im­pru­dent. Nev­er­the­less, his mot­to was still ‘no sur­ren­der’; he would still fight it out; he be­lieved con­fi­dent­ly in Ox­ford, in the bench of bish­ops, in Sir Abra­ham Hap­haz­ard, and in him­self; and it was on­ly when alone with his wife that doubts of de­feat ev­er be­set him. He once more tried to com­mu­ni­cate this con­fi­dence to Mrs Grant­ly, and for the twen­ti­eth time be­gan to tell her of Sir Abra­ham.

‘Oh, Sir Abra­ham!’ said she, col­lect­ing all her house keys in­to her bas­ket be­fore she de­scend­ed; ‘Sir Abra­ham won’t get Eleanor a hus­band; Sir Abra­ham won’t get pa­pa an­oth­er in­come when he has been wor­ret­ed out of the hos­pi­tal. Mark what I tell you, archdea­con: while you and Sir Abra­ham are fight­ing, pa­pa will lose his prefer­ment; and what will you do then with him and Eleanor on your hands? be­sides, who’s to pay Sir Abra­ham? I sup­pose he won’t take the case up for noth­ing?’ And so the la­dy de­scend­ed to fam­ily wor­ship among her chil­dren and ser­vants, the pat­tern of a good and pru­dent wife.

Dr Grant­ly was blessed with a hap­py, thriv­ing fam­ily. There were, first, three boys, now at home from school for the hol­idays. They were called, re­spec­tive­ly, Charles James, Hen­ry, and Samuel. The two younger (there were five in all) were girls; the el­der, Florin­da, bore the name of the Arch­bish­op of York’s wife, whose god­child she was: and the younger had been chris­tened Grizzel, af­ter a sis­ter of the Arch­bish­op of Can­ter­bury. The boys were all clever, and gave good promise of be­ing well able to meet the cares and tri­als of the world; and yet they were not alike in their dis­po­si­tions, and each had his in­di­vid­ual char­ac­ter, and each his sep­arate ad­mir­ers among the doc­tor’s friends.

Charles James was an ex­act and care­ful boy; he nev­er com­mit­ted him­self; he well knew how much was ex­pect­ed from the el­dest son of the Archdea­con of Barch­ester, and was there­fore mind­ful not to mix too freely with oth­er boys. He had not the great tal­ents of his younger broth­ers, but he ex­ceed­ed them in judg­ment and pro­pri­ety of de­meanour; his fault, if he had one, was an over-​at­ten­tion to words in­stead of things; there was a thought too much fi­nesse about him, and, as even his fa­ther some­times told him, he was too fond of a com­pro­mise.

The sec­ond was the archdea­con’s favourite son, and Hen­ry was in­deed a bril­liant boy. The ver­sa­til­ity of his ge­nius was sur­pris­ing, and the vis­itors at Plum­stead Epis­copi were of­ten amazed at the mar­vel­lous man­ner in which he would, when called on, adapt his ca­pac­ity to ap­par­ent­ly most un­con­ge­nial pur­suits. He ap­peared once be­fore a large cir­cle as Luther the re­former, and de­light­ed them with the per­fect man­ner in which he as­sumed the char­ac­ter; and with­in three days he again as­ton­ished them by act­ing the part of a Ca­puchin fri­ar to the very life. For this last ex­ploit his fa­ther gave him a gold­en guinea, and his broth­ers said the re­ward had been promised be­fore­hand in the event of the per­for­mance be­ing suc­cess­ful. He was al­so sent on a tour in­to De­von­shire; a treat which the lad was most anx­ious of en­joy­ing. His fa­ther’s friends there, how­ev­er, did not ap­pre­ci­ate his tal­ents, and sad ac­counts were sent home of the per­ver­si­ty of his na­ture. He was a most coura­geous lad, game to the back­bone.

It was soon known, both at home, where he lived, and with­in some miles of Barch­ester Cathe­dral, and al­so at West­min­ster, where he was at school, that young Hen­ry could box well and would nev­er own him­self beat; oth­er boys would fight while they had a leg to stand on, but he would fight with no leg at all. Those back­ing him would some­times think him crushed by the weight of blows and faint with loss of blood, and his friends would en­deav­our to with­draw him from the con­test; but no, Hen­ry nev­er gave in, was nev­er weary of the bat­tle. The ring was the on­ly el­ement in which he seemed to en­joy him­self; and while oth­er boys were hap­py in the num­ber of their friends, he re­joiced most in the mul­ti­tude of his foes.

His re­la­tions could not but ad­mire his pluck, but they some­times were forced to re­gret that he was in­clined to be a bul­ly; and those not so par­tial to him as his fa­ther was, ob­served with pain that, though he could fawn to the mas­ters and the archdea­con’s friends, he was im­pe­ri­ous and mas­ter­ful to the ser­vants and the poor.

But per­haps Samuel was the gen­er­al favourite; and dear lit­tle Soapy, as he was fa­mil­iar­ly called, was as en­gag­ing a child as ev­er fond moth­er pet­ted. He was soft and gen­tle in his man­ners, and at­trac­tive in his speech; the tone of his voice was melody, and ev­ery ac­tion was a grace; un­like his broth­ers, he was cour­te­ous to all, he was af­fa­ble to the low­ly, and meek even to the very scullery-​maid. He was a boy of great promise, mind­ing his books and de­light­ing the hearts of his mas­ters. His broth­ers, how­ev­er, were not par­tic­ular­ly fond of him; they would com­plain to their moth­er that Soapy’s ci­vil­ity all meant some­thing; they thought that his voice was too of­ten lis­tened to at Plum­stead Epis­copi, and ev­ident­ly feared that, as he grew up, he would have more weight in the house than ei­ther of them; there was, there­fore, a sort of agree­ment among them to put young Soapy down. This, how­ev­er, was not so easy to be done; Samuel, though young, was sharp; he could not as­sume the stiff deco­rum of Charles James, nor could he fight like Hen­ry; but he was a per­fect mas­ter of his own weapons, and con­trived, in the teeth of both of them, to hold the place which he had as­sumed. Hen­ry de­clared that he was a false, cun­ning crea­ture; and Charles James, though he al­ways spoke of him as his dear broth­er Samuel, was not slow to say a word against him when op­por­tu­ni­ty of­fered. To speak the truth, Samuel was a cun­ning boy, and those even who loved him best could not but own that for one so young he was too adroit in choos­ing his words, and too skilled in mod­ulat­ing his voice.

The two lit­tle girls Florin­da and Grizzel were nice lit­tle girls enough, but they did not pos­sess the strong ster­ling qual­ities of their broth­ers; their voic­es were not of­ten heard at Plum­stead Epis­copi; they were bash­ful and timid by na­ture, slow to speak be­fore com­pa­ny even when asked to do so; and though they looked very nice in their clean white muslin frocks and pink sash­es, they were but lit­tle no­ticed by the archdea­con’s vis­itors.

What­ev­er of sub­mis­sive hu­mil­ity may have ap­peared in the gait and vis­age of the archdea­con dur­ing his col­lo­quy with his wife in the sanc­tum of their dress­ing-​rooms was dis­pelled as he en­tered his break­fast-​par­lour with erect head and pow­er­ful step. In the pres­ence of a third per­son he as­sumed the lord and mas­ter; and that wise and tal­ent­ed la­dy too well knew the man to whom her lot for life was bound, to stretch her au­thor­ity be­yond the point at which it would be borne. Strangers at Plum­stead Epis­copi, when they saw the im­pe­ri­ous brow with which he com­mand­ed si­lence from the large cir­cle of vis­itors, chil­dren, and ser­vants who came to­geth­er in the morn­ing to hear him read the word of God, and watched how meek­ly that wife seat­ed her­self be­hind her bas­ket of keys with a lit­tle girl on each side, as she caught that com­mand­ing glance; strangers, I say, see­ing this, could lit­tle guess that some fif­teen min­utes since she had stout­ly held her ground against him, hard­ly al­low­ing him to open his mouth in his own de­fence. But such is the tact and tal­ent of wom­en!

And now let us ob­serve the well-​fur­nished break­fast-​par­lour at Plum­stead Epis­copi, and the com­fort­able air of all the be­long­ings of the rec­to­ry. Com­fort­able they cer­tain­ly were, but nei­ther gor­geous nor even grand; in­deed, con­sid­er­ing the mon­ey that had been spent there, the eye and taste might have been bet­ter served; there was an air of heav­iness about the rooms which might have been avoid­ed with­out any sac­ri­fice of pro­pri­ety; colours might have been bet­ter cho­sen and lights more per­fect­ly dif­fused; but per­haps in do­ing so the thor­ough cler­ical as­pect of the whole might have been some­what marred; at any rate, it was not with­out am­ple con­sid­er­ation that those thick, dark, cost­ly car­pets were put down; those em­bossed, but som­bre pa­pers hung up; those heavy cur­tains draped so as to half ex­clude the light of the sun: nor were these old-​fash­ioned chairs, bought at a price far ex­ceed­ing that now giv­en for more mod­ern goods, with­out a pur­pose. The break­fast-​ser­vice on the ta­ble was equal­ly cost­ly and equal­ly plain; the ap­par­ent ob­ject had been to spend mon­ey with­out ob­tain­ing bril­lian­cy or splen­dour. The urn was of thick and sol­id sil­ver, as were al­so the tea-​pot, cof­fee-​pot, cream-​ew­er, and sug­ar-​bowl; the cups were old, dim drag­on chi­na, worth about a pound a piece, but very de­spi­ca­ble in the eyes of the unini­ti­at­ed. The sil­ver forks were so heavy as to be dis­agree­able to the hand, and the bread-​bas­ket was of a weight re­al­ly formidable to any but ro­bust per­sons. The tea con­sumed was the very best, the cof­fee the very black­est, the cream the very thick­est; there was dry toast and but­tered toast, muffins and crum­pets; hot bread and cold bread, white bread and brown bread, home-​made bread and bak­ers’ bread, wheat­en bread and oat­en bread; and if there be oth­er breads than these, they were there; there were eggs in nap­kins, and crispy bits of ba­con un­der sil­ver cov­ers; and there were lit­tle fish­es in a lit­tle box, and dev­illed kid­neys friz­zling on a hot-​wa­ter dish; which, by the bye, were placed close­ly con­tigu­ous to the plate of the wor­thy archdea­con him­self. Over and above this, on a snow-​white nap­kin, spread up­on the side­board, was a huge ham and a huge sir­loin; the lat­ter hav­ing laden the din­ner ta­ble on the pre­vi­ous evening. Such was the or­di­nary fare at Plum­stead Epis­copi.

And yet I have nev­er found the rec­to­ry a pleas­ant house. The fact that man shall not live by bread alone seemed to be some­what for­got­ten; and no­ble as was the ap­pear­ance of the host, and sweet and good-​na­tured as was the face of the host­ess, tal­ent­ed as were the chil­dren, and ex­cel­lent as were the viands and the wines, in spite of these at­trac­tions, I gen­er­al­ly found the rec­to­ry some­what dull. Af­ter break­fast the archdea­con would re­tire, of course to his cler­ical pur­suits. Mrs Grant­ly, I pre­sume, in­spect­ed her kitchen, though she had a first-​rate house­keep­er, with six­ty pounds a year; and at­tend­ed to the lessons of Florin­da and Grizzel, though she had an ex­cel­lent gov­erness with thir­ty pounds a year: but at any rate she dis­ap­peared: and I nev­er could make com­pan­ions of the boys. Charles James, though he al­ways looked as though there was some­thing in him, nev­er seemed to have much to say; and what he did say he would al­ways un­say the next minute. He told me once that he con­sid­ered crick­et, on the whole, to be a gen­tle­man­like game for boys, pro­vid­ed they would play with­out run­ning about; and that fives, al­so, was a seem­ly game, so that those who played it nev­er heat­ed them­selves. Hen­ry once quar­relled with me for tak­ing his sis­ter Grizzel’s part in a con­test be­tween them as to the best mode of us­ing a wa­ter­ing-​pot for the gar­den flow­ers; and from that day to this he has not spo­ken to me, though he speaks at me of­ten enough. For half an hour or so I cer­tain­ly did like Sam­my’s gen­tle speech­es; but one gets tired of hon­ey, and I found that he pre­ferred the more ad­mir­ing lis­ten­ers whom he met in the kitchen-​gar­den and back precincts of the es­tab­lish­ment; be­sides, I think I once caught Sam­my fib­bing.

On the whole, there­fore, I found the rec­to­ry a dull house, though it must be ad­mit­ted that ev­ery­thing there was of the very best.

Af­ter break­fast, on the morn­ing of which we are writ­ing, the archdea­con, as usu­al, re­tired to his study, in­ti­mat­ing that he was go­ing to be very busy, but that he would see Mr Chad­wick if he called. On en­ter­ing this sa­cred room he care­ful­ly opened the pa­per case on which he was wont to com­pose his favourite ser­mons, and spread on it a fair sheet of pa­per and one part­ly writ­ten on; he then placed his ink­stand, looked at his pen, and fold­ed his blot­ting pa­per; hav­ing done so, he got up again from his seat, stood with his back to the fire-​place, and yawned com­fort­ably, stretch­ing out vast­ly his huge arms and open­ing his burly chest. He then walked across the room and locked the door; and hav­ing so pre­pared him­self, he threw him­self in­to his easy-​chair, took from a se­cret draw­er be­neath his ta­ble a vol­ume of Ra­belais, and be­gan to amuse him­self with the wit­ty mis­chief of Pa­nurge; and so passed the archdea­con’s morn­ing on that day.

He was left undis­turbed at his stud­ies for an hour or two, when a knock came to the door, and Mr Chad­wick was an­nounced. Ra­belais re­tired in­to the se­cret draw­er, the easy-​chair seemed know­ing­ly to be­take it­self off, and when the archdea­con quick­ly un­did his bolt, he was dis­cov­ered by the stew­ard work­ing, as usu­al, for that church of which he was so use­ful a pil­lar. Mr Chad­wick had just come from Lon­don, and was, there­fore, known to be the bear­er of im­por­tant news.

‘We’ve got Sir Abra­ham’s opin­ion at last,’ said Mr Chad­wick, as he seat­ed him­self.

‘Well, well, well!’ ex­claimed the archdea­con im­pa­tient­ly.

‘Oh, it’s as long as my arm,’ said the oth­er; ‘it can’t be told in a word, but you can read it’; and he hand­ed him a copy, in heav­en knows how many spun-​out fo­lios, of the opin­ion which the at­tor­ney-​gen­er­al had man­aged to cram on the back and sides of the case as orig­inal­ly sub­mit­ted to him.

‘The up­shot is,’ said Chad­wick, ‘that there’s a screw loose in their case, and we had bet­ter do noth­ing. They are pro­ceed­ing against Mr Hard­ing and my­self, and Sir Abra­ham holds that, un­der the word­ing of the will, and sub­se­quent ar­range­ments legal­ly sanc­tioned, Mr Hard­ing and I are on­ly paid ser­vants. The de­fen­dants should have been ei­ther the Cor­po­ra­tion of Barch­ester, or pos­si­bly the chap­ter of your fa­ther.’

‘W-​hoo!’ said the archdea­con; ’so Mas­ter Bold is on the wrong scent, is he?’

‘That’s Sir Abra­ham’s opin­ion; but any scent al­most would be a wrong scent. Sir Abra­ham thinks that if they’d tak­en the cor­po­ra­tion, or the chap­ter, we could have baf­fled them. The bish­op, he thinks, would be the surest shot; but even there we could plead that the bish­op is on­ly a vis­itor, and that he has nev­er made him­self a con­sent­ing par­ty to the per­for­mance of oth­er du­ties.’

‘That’s quite clear,’ said the archdea­con.

‘Not quite so clear,’ said the oth­er. ‘You see the will says, “My lord, the bish­op, be­ing gra­cious­ly pleased to see that due jus­tice be done.” Now, it may be a ques­tion whether, in ac­cept­ing and ad­min­is­ter­ing the pa­tron­age, your fa­ther has not ac­cept­ed al­so the oth­er du­ties as­signed. It is doubt­ful, how­ev­er; but even if they hit that nail–and they are far off from that yet–the point is so nice, as Sir Abra­ham says, that you would force them in­to fif­teen thou­sand pounds’ cost be­fore they could bring it to an is­sue! and where’s that sum of mon­ey to come from?’

The archdea­con rubbed his hands with de­light; he had nev­er doubt­ed the jus­tice of his case, but he had be­gun to have some dread of un­just suc­cess on the part of his en­emies. It was de­light­ful to him thus to hear that their cause was sur­round­ed with such rocks and shoals; such caus­es of ship­wreck un­seen by the lands­man’s eye, but vis­ible enough to the keen eyes of prac­ti­cal law mariners. How wrong his wife was to wish that Bold should mar­ry Eleanor! Bold! why, if he should be ass enough to per­se­vere, he would be a beg­gar be­fore he knew whom he was at law with!

‘That’s ex­cel­lent, Chad­wick–that’s ex­cel­lent! I told you Sir Abra­ham was the man for us’; and he put down on the ta­ble the copy of the opin­ion, and pat­ted it fond­ly.

‘Don’t you let that be seen, though, archdea­con.’

‘Who?-I!-not for worlds,’ said the doc­tor.

‘Peo­ple will talk, you know, archdea­con.’

‘Of course, of course,’ said the doc­tor.

‘Be­cause, if that gets abroad, it would teach them how to fight their own bat­tle.’

‘Quite true,’ said the doc­tor.

‘No one here in Barch­ester ought to see that but you and I, archdea­con.’

‘No, no, cer­tain­ly no one else,’ said the archdea­con, pleased with the close­ness of the con­fi­dence; ‘no one else shall.’

‘Mrs Grant­ly is very in­ter­est­ed in the mat­ter, I know,’ said Mr Chad­wick.

Did the archdea­con wink, or did he not? I am in­clined to think he did not quite wink; but that with­out such, per­haps, un­seem­ly ges­ture he com­mu­ni­cat­ed to Mr Chad­wick, with the cor­ner of his eye, in­ti­ma­tion that, deep as was Mrs Grant­ly’s in­ter­est in the mat­ter, it should not pro­cure for her a pe­rusal of that doc­ument; and at the same time he part­ly opened the small draw­er, above spo­ken of, de­posit­ed the pa­per on the vol­ume of Ra­belais, and showed to Mr Chad­wick the na­ture of the key which guard­ed these hid­den trea­sures. The care­ful stew­ard then ex­pressed him­self con­tent­ed. Ah! vain man! he could fas­ten up his Ra­belais, and oth­er things se­cret, with all the skill of Bramah or of Chubb; but where could he fas­ten up the key which solved these me­chan­ical mys­ter­ies? It is prob­able to us that the con­tents of no draw­er in that house were un­known to its mis­tress, and we think, more­over, that she was en­ti­tled to all such knowl­edge.

‘But,’ said Mr Chad­wick, ‘we must, of course, tell your fa­ther and Mr Hard­ing so much of Sir Abra­ham’s opin­ion as will sat­is­fy them that the mat­ter is do­ing well.’

‘Oh, cer­tain­ly–yes, of course,’ said the doc­tor.

‘You had bet­ter let them know that Sir Abra­ham is of opin­ion that there is no case at any rate against Mr Hard­ing; and that as the ac­tion is word­ed at present, it must fall to the ground; they must be non­suit­ed, if they car­ry it on; you had bet­ter tell Mr Hard­ing, that Sir Abra­ham is clear­ly of opin­ion that he is on­ly a ser­vant, and as such not li­able–or if you like it, I’ll see Mr Hard­ing my­self.’

‘Oh, I must see him to­mor­row, and my fa­ther too, and I’ll ex­plain to them ex­act­ly so much–you won’t go be­fore lunch, Mr Chad­wick: well, if you will, you must, for I know your time is pre­cious’; and he shook hands with the dioce­san stew­ard, and bowed him out.

The archdea­con had again re­course to his draw­er, and twice read through the essence of Sir Abra­ham Hap­haz­ard’s law- en­light­ened and law-​be­wil­dered brains. It was very clear that to Sir Abra­ham, the jus­tice of the old men’s claim or the jus­tice of Mr Hard­ing’s de­fence were ideas that had nev­er pre­sent­ed them­selves. A le­gal vic­to­ry over an op­pos­ing par­ty was the ser­vice for which Sir Abra­ham was, as he imag­ined, to be paid; and that he, ac­cord­ing to his lights, had dili­gent­ly laboured to achieve, and with prob­able hope of suc­cess. Of the in­tense de­sire which Mr Hard­ing felt to be as­sured on fit au­thor­ity that he was wrong­ing no man, that he was en­ti­tled in true eq­ui­ty to his in­come, that he might sleep at night with­out pangs of con­science, that he was no rob­ber, no spoil­er of the poor; that he and all the world might be open­ly con­vinced that he was not the man which The Jupiter had de­scribed him to be; of such long­ings on the part of Mr Hard­ing, Sir Abra­ham was en­tire­ly ig­no­rant; nor, in­deed, could it be looked on as part of his busi­ness to grat­ify such de­sires. Such was not the sys­tem on which his bat­tles were fought, and vic­to­ries gained. Suc­cess was his ob­ject, and he was gen­er­al­ly suc­cess­ful. He con­quered his en­emies by their weak­ness rather than by his own strength, and it had been found al­most im­pos­si­ble to make up a case in which Sir Abra­ham, as an an­tag­onist, would not find a flaw.

The archdea­con was de­light­ed with the close­ness of the rea­son­ing. To do him jus­tice, it was not a self­ish tri­umph that he de­sired; he would per­son­al­ly lose noth­ing by de­feat, or at least what he might lose did not ac­tu­ate him; but nei­ther was it love of jus­tice which made him so anx­ious, nor even main­ly so­lic­itude for his fa­ther-​in-​law. He was fight­ing a part of a nev­er-​end­ing bat­tle against a nev­er-​con­quered foe–that of the church against its en­emies.

He knew Mr Hard­ing could not pay all the ex­pense of these do­ings: for these long opin­ions of Sir Abra­ham’s, these caus­es to be plead­ed, these speech­es to be made, these var­ious courts through which the case was, he pre­sumed, to be dragged. He knew that he and his fa­ther must at least bear the heav­ier por­tion of this tremen­dous cost; but to do the archdea­con jus­tice, he did not re­coil from this. He was a man fond of ob­tain­ing mon­ey, greedy of a large in­come, but open-​hand­ed enough in ex­pend­ing it, and it was a tri­umph to him to fore­see the suc­cess of this mea­sure, al­though he might be called on to pay so dear­ly for it him­self.