1832: George Fitzartur, Bishop of St Germoglio
Awoke, mercifully, alive—no small triumph given the dinner at Lord P——’s last night, where the claret was wickedly Protestant. The maid knocked at half‑seven; I allowed her to enter at eight, which is to say, on time. One must cultivate leisure as a theological example.
A brief inward prayer—to the effect that moderation might this morning resemble appetite—then a glance at my reflection. I find the years have treated me with benevolence; my features remain composed in that agreeable compromise between holiness and digestion. A bishop ought to look like a moral poem wearing flesh.
The bath steamed invitingly. My valet, Blandy (a man of uncertain faith but reliable towels), poured lavender oil with a devotion rare in clergymen. I lay in the warmth composing mentally my sermon for Sunday: on stewardship, perhaps? Or humility—it always pleases the rich to hear how well they endure wealth. I must remember to quote Marcus Aurelius or possibly Tacitus, whichever one wrote about virtue in adversity.
Dressed for morning business: purple waistcoat, modest ring, gaiters discreetly asserting authority. Breakfast followed—a moral event. Pigeon pie, eggs, toast, coffee, and for contrast, the Bible open beside the marmalade. I find that nothing dignifies indulgence like adjacency to Scripture. Read a passage (I believe from Deuteronomy): “The fat of the land is thine.” Quite so.
At nine, attended to ecclesiastical correspondence. The Archbishop writes with the same incoherence as revelation. I replied, respectfully this time, affirming support for the new Poor Law while suggesting that poverty, properly appreciated, strengthens character far more cheaply than education. My secretary applauded the phrasing, though only after I reminded him.
Half ten: received three curates. I find curates resemble kittens—inevitably earnest, alarmingly disposable. They brought petitions for additional funds to repair a roof in Germoglio East. I explained, paternal but firm, that leaks are Heaven’s ventilation and that piety should never feel entirely dry. They left pale but instructed.
A visit next from Mr Groats, banker and lay moralist. He inquired how the Church might invest in new railway ventures. I advised against “imprudent speculation,” and then quietly purchased shares myself. I see no contradiction: prudence requires a demonstration of risk undertaken by qualified individuals—namely me.
At noon, light luncheon—pheasant, biscuits, and the theological monthly The True Bee, which warns against the contagion of skepticism. I admire insects of conviction. Finished with a modest glass of sherry (medical) and reflection on mortality (brief).
Preparations for the Duke’s ball began after luncheon. My cousin Edward (the 41st of the line, alas, and thoroughly aware of it) insists upon my attendance to bless both event and champagne. “To steady our moral ship,” he said when inviting me last week, though I suspect he means to steady his creditors. Still, a bishop’s appearance reassures the timid and terrifies the reformers. I have found no more efficient social ministry.
The carriage ordered for six; a dozen footmen selected for theological grandeur rather than competence. Their livery gleams—plum and gold, the colours of redemption with interest. I changed from my preaching coat to the ceremonial ensemble: silk robes of episcopal black trimmed in strategic humility. My mirror approved.
At four, one more meeting—the diocesan committee on Education. These worthies still believe that knowledge and virtue should coincide. I reminded them gently that excessive instruction leads to argument, and argument to revolution. They murmured agreement, bless them, like a well‑fed congregation. Resolution passed to “consider” the matter further: our synodical equivalent of burial.
Five o’clock. Studied my cousin’s spiritual constitution in preparation for the evening. The Duke fancies himself shy, which is his word for invincible pride. He keeps, I am told, a seraglio somewhere in the east wing—excellent for tourism but awkward for catechism. One must be tactful; sin in a relative feels almost familial.
Six. The carriage drew up—a miracle of springs and upholstery. I entered with the sigh proper to a man bearing a necessary cross of social duty. The footmen lined the steps like decorative conscience. Down the frost‑stiff lanes we went: horses modestly magnificent, wheels hissing over wealth. Passed several parsons trudging home from evensong; they blessed me, possibly in protest.
Arrived at the Hall a quarter before eight. Already light exploded from every window as if virtue itself had been mistaken for combustion. The butler, Blandy, met me with a reverence I consider almost scriptural. I inquired after the household’s spiritual health; he replied, “Excellent, my lord,” which must in part be true, since none of them have died recently.
Inside, the company lifted glasses and expectations. The Duchess approached—gracious, and in a gown so theological it clearly believed in miracles. She thanked me for coming; I thanked her for existing. Conversation proceeded across carpets of alarming cost. I reminded several young viscounts that gambling corrodes the soul, and then asked mildly which tables showed the most success.
At nine, supper. I sat near the centre, the moral north. The chef (a terrible foreigner who insists cuisine abolishes sin) produced such arrangements of game and pastry that I almost converted. I commended every dish as evidence of divine complexity. The wine—claret from the Duke’s own cellars—required episcopal supervision; I obliged abundantly.
Later, dancing. I decline to move rhythmically in public, on grounds of theological decorum, but offered blessings to passing waltzers with a benevolent hand and, I hope, an ambiguous smile. To each partner I murmured, “Moderation,” which they took for flirtation. Even a bishop must not let intentions obstruct influence.
About ten, the Duke vanished—an old habit during entertainments, much discussed by guards and gossip. Someone whispered of a private engagement upstairs; I offered to lead a brief prayer for his wellbeing, which diverted speculation into gratitude. Affection is best employed as disguise.
The ball persisted till after midnight. I distributed commendations like indulgences: to the Duchess for sobriety, to the orchestra for perseverance, to the guests for existing at all. The candles sputtered penitently while I discoursed briefly on light as the soul’s metaphor. My hearers, mistaking irony for wisdom, applauded.
Departed at one. Outside, frost sharpening nicely, moon smug as doctrine. My coachman asked if we should take the long road to avoid the marsh. I reminded him the Lord protects His elect and instructed him to proceed directly. We reached the episcopal palace forty minutes later, unmolested except by conscience.
Now, sitting before the fire, glass in hand, I record the day’s blessings: good health, superior food, the respect of inferiors, and only minor temptation—manageable luxuries all. Tomorrow I shall preach on Christian restraint. I am well qualified.
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