Susan Gerstein's Blog - Posts Tagged "trollope"

I am somewhat stunned, as if I were emerging from a long journey, a sort of vacation, and I can’t quite believe that I have accomplished what I had set out to do: I have now read the entire "Chronicles of Barsetshire", chronologically, starting with “The Warden” and finishing, after thousands of pages, with the last glimpse of the inhabitants of Barchester at the conclusion of the “Last Chronicle of Barset”, just as their creator Anthony Trollope had meant the encounter to be. What a journey!

I am deeply indebted to a wonderful essay by Adam Gopnik on the subject of Trollope that had appeared last May in The New Yorker, one that had prompted me to go back to these books, some of which I had read over the years individually but not all and certainly not chronologically. In spite of the essay, I had expected it to be somewhat heavy going and perhaps too large a dose of life among the English clerical classes in the 1860s; I had considered myself among those who, described in the essay, prefer the stand-alone novels of Trollope, such as “The Way We Live Now”. But I was wrong. Perhaps ready for a holiday from modernity, I was caught from the very first pages of “The Warden” in the moral dilemma that its central character Septimus Harding, a decent, mild person, finds himself in; and his slow but steely response to the circumstances. The power-plays of shifting nature, the compromises made or not made in the face of a changing power-structure, (in this case within that of the Church establishment); the life of the rural gentry and its relationship with the Church; the role, as ever, that possession of money or lack of it makes in determining one’s role in society and, most especially, its role in the marriage-market, are so brilliantly presented and so contemporary in some of its aspects that it is extremely easy to translate it into the language of life as it is currently lived. The larger scope of politics is merely in the background in these books, (it is the domain of Trollope's other multi- volume work, the Palliser novels) and London, while it makes appearances, is far away; and yet one gets a thorough sense of the entrenched bureaucracy that the government maintains and relies on. Over the course of the six novels that are the components of the chronicles (“The Warden”, “Barchester Towers”, “Doctor Thorne”, “Framely Parsonage”, “The Small House at Allington”, “The Last Chronicle of Barset”), one gets to know an entire fictional universe, with its complicated and shifting relationships, surprising reverses, enmities and loves, moral dilemmas and love affairs that any such universe will provide. We root for some and laugh at some others, and we are often surprised by the unexpected denouements to our expectations, just as in real life. The very leisureliness of the entire enterprise, the slow pace with which it unfolds, is a perfect antidote to the hectic pace of the 21st century, and yet it is very much akin to “the way we live now”.

I’ve had a wonderful couple of months of being immersed in this universe; thank you Adam Gopnik.

We in the United States are in the midst of a surreal period: with the presidential elections coming up in November, one of the two major parties is about to nominate a fraudulent, self-important, clueless clown for the role of Leader of the Western World. As if this Western World had not been in enough trouble already, with epic migrations, a crazed Muslim group re-enacting the 12th century, nations breaking apart instead of joining forces. In the midst of all this, somehow, the United States had seemed an the island of some sanity, with its politics always tending to the center, which, it seems, cannot hold. The nomination of Donald Trump changes everything; even if he, one hopes, cannot actually win, the mere possibility, his very presence in the process had contaminated that process and dirtied all of us.

So, to get away from a world that is too much with us, I decided to do again what I had been doing increasingly in the last several years: re-read something from the past. Anthony Trollope had served the purpose before, so I picked up “The Way We Live Now”, fondly remembered from some thirty years ago when I read it with great pleasure. I did so again. And then, to my astonishment, I came to the section that deals with the nomination of one Mr. Melmotte to become a Member of Parliament, representing the important borough of Westminster. Mr. Melmotte is a fraud purporting to be a vastly wealthy man, ignorant of politics, ignorant of policies, ignorant of everything in fact but the clever handling of money, and in the end even ignorant of that. Reasonable people consider his nomination, strictly on the strength of his supposed vast wealth, a scandal – and yet he is actually elected by the people, who are riled up by a populist campaign. Page after page I am reading of a proposed election in the London of circa 1865 – a century and a half ago! – sentences that, were the name of Trump to replace that of Melmotte, one could be reading as current events. Here are a few examples:

“The friends of (Trump) had a basis of hope, and were enabled to sound premonitory notes of triumph, arising from causes quite external to their party. This support was given, not to the great man’s political opinions, as to which a well-known writer in the newspaper suggested that the great man had probably not as yet given very much attention, to the party questions which divided the country, but to his commercial position.”

“. . . it was asserted in newspapers that the country would be absolutely disgraced by his presence in (the election).”

“There was one man who thoroughly believed that the thing at the present moment most essentially necessary to (America’s) glory was the (election of Trump) for (the Presidency). This man was undoubtedly a very ignorant man. He knew nothing of any one political question which had vexed the country for the last half century, -- nothing whatever of the political history which had made (the United States) what it was at the beginning of that half century. He had probably never read a book in his life. He knew nothing of the working of the (Senate), nothing of nationality, -- had no preference whatever for one form of government over another, never having given his mind a moment’s trouble on the subject. He had not even reflected how a despotic monarch or a federal republic might affect himself, and possibly did not comprehend the meaning of those terms. But yet he was fully confident that (the United States) did demand and ought to demand that (Mr. Trump) should be (elected). This man was (Mr. Trump) himself.”

“In this conjunction of his affairs (Mr. Trump) certainly lost his head. He had audacity almost sufficient for the very dangerous game which he was playing; but, as crisis heaped itself upon crisis, he became deficient of prudence. He did not hesitate to speak of himself as the man who ought to (be elected as President), and of those who opposed him as little malignant beings who had mean interests of their own to serve. He went about with (Governor Christie) at his left hand, with a look on his face that seemed to imply that (the Presidency) was not good enough for him.”

“The more arrogant he became the more vulgar he was, till even (Christie) would almost be tempted to rush away to impecuniosity and freedom. Perhaps there were some with whom this conduct had a salutary effect. No doubt arrogance will produce submission; and there are men who take other men at the price those other men put upon themselves. Such persons could not refrain from thinking (Trump) to be mighty because he swaggered; and gave their hinder parts to be kicked merely because he put up his toe.”

“(Trump) was not the first vulgar man whom the Conservatives had taken by the hand, and patted on the back, and told that he was a god.”

“A failure! Of course he’s a failure, whether rich or poor; -- a miserable imposition, a hollow vulgar fraud from beginning to end, -- too insignificant for you and me to talk of, were it not that his position is a sign of the degeneracy of the age. What are we coming to when such as he is an honoured guest at our tables? –You can keep your house free from him, and so can I mine. But we set no example to the nation at large. They who do set the example go to his feasts, and of course are seen at theirs in return. And yet these leaders of the fashion know, -- at any rate they believe, -- that he is what he is because he has been a swindler greater than other swindlers. What follows as a natural consequence? Men reconcile themselves to swindling. Though they themselves mean to be honest, dishonesty of itself is no longer odious to them. Then there comes the jealousy that others should growing rich with the approval of all the world, -- and the natural aptitude to do what all the world approves. It seems to me that the existence of a (Trump) is not compatible with a wholesome state of things in general.”

“the working classes were in favour of (Trump), partly from their love of a man who spends a great deal of money, partly from the belief that he was being ill-used, -- partly, no doubt, from that occult sympathy which is felt for crime, when the crime committed is injurious to the upper classes. Masses of men will almost feel that a certain amount of injustice ought to be inflicted on their betters, so as to make things even.”

I have changed nothing except the names and the office aspired for. I find it bone chilling; and the more so for thirty or so years ago when I read “The Way We Live Now”, I paid scant attention to this whole sub-plot of the novel, treating it as a rather outlandish caricature of British political life.

I was, however, then and now, most impressed by Trollope the feminist. He is the anti-Austen: whereas his novels do have the “marriage plot”, as they must in mid-nineteenth century, his take on romance is jaundiced to say the least. Very few people end up with objects of their passionate love, which is often made to seem a foolish quest. Marie Melmotte, the heiress who at the beginning of the tale is an oppressed mouse of a person, helpless subject in Melmotte’s grandiose plans, grows through painful trial and error into a self-possessed young woman whose eventual marriage is a business proposition convenient to herself. Lady Carbury, the very voice of anti-romance, learns to appreciate a dependable friend. The country “wench” Ruby Ruggles’ foolish fantasies of a glamorous lover come to nothing and she succumbs to the sensible swain who can give her a home. The one “romance” carried through to its conclusion involves a man whose previous affair follows him and interferes with his aspirations for the love of a proper young lady. The former love, an American woman, thrown over but still hoping to re-kindle the dying embers of the past, is given the best lines and I think all of Trollope’s sympathies. Much is made of her independence, financial and otherwise: she is a grown up person taking matters into her own hands. She loses her battle; however one can’t help but feel that exchanging her for the dewy-eyed young ninny will have its regrets for her faithless lover, while she, undoubtedly, will make an interesting life for herself.

Hurray for Anthony Trollope, contemporary novelist!

The Presidential election coming up this November continues to produce an atmosphere in this country the likes of which have not been experienced in our lifetime, perhaps ever. There are historians and students of American political life who claim that a similar kind of rage, ugly public outbursts, polarization and insults have occurred in the 19th century; that the Know Nothing party in the middle of that century was along the lines of the current Republican candidate and his mindless, enraged followers; but certainly in the nearly sixty years I had lived in the United States nothing like this had ever happened. More importantly: nothing like this would have been imaginable. Donald Trump’s primary campaign, begun more than a year ago, was initially treated as a joke; today he had engulfed and is the nominee for President of one of the two major political parties of the most powerful country on Earth, a country that is assumed to be a force for the good in a troubled world. An ignorant, vicious fool had gathered an angry, “know nothing”, anarchist and often violent segment of the electorate that worship his crude appeal to their worst instincts. – At this moment, the only hope civilization has is that come November, his adherents will prove to be a minimal presence at the polls and that Trumpism will be soundly beaten by a sane electorate and disappear into history and ridicule as did the Know Nothings of long ago.

This is all very painful, and to take my mind off current events I retreat into re-reading books I have loved in the past, as anyone reading my posts would guess by now. After finding wonderful parallels to the Trump candidacy in Anthony Trollope's "The Way We Live Now", I am now deeply into his Palliser novels, the so-called “political novels”, six volumes of which had been written over a period from the mid 1860s to 1879 and take place in London and various parts of Great Britain. These books abound in detailed descriptions of parliamentary fights between the Conservative and the Progressive forces about monetary policy, the ballot -- at first for propertied men, then for all men, and finally for universal suffrage; they depict the slow grinding of wheels that lead, step by step, to achieving results that are ultimately beneficial to the country. They depict the lazy, venal and roguish among the politicians, but they also depict the dedicated, the hard working and the idealistic, with the latter group ultimately winning its goals. The position of women who at this period are debarred from the vote and from all roles in public life are front and center in the narrative. There are, as in all civilized political processes, steps forward, and sometimes steps backward. Democracy is messy and slow. Achieving change needs dedicated work and a push from the electorate, but it comes eventually. During the changes of and in government, during the impassioned arguments ongoing in Parliament and the private and public enmities among the various factions and individuals, the tone remains civilized. If there are insults intended, they are cloaked in flowery language that allows the participants to reverse themselves and re-align with each other as needed. It is a great pleasure to follow this process a century and a half later, for much of it is very familiar and much feels as far away as King Arthur’s time.

It is also personally fascinating how different the books seem to me now than they did thirty or so years ago on first reading. Then I paid minimal attention to the political content and vastly more to the private lives of the protagonists. Politics was a mere background to the affairs of Lady Glencora, her husband Plantagenet Palliser, Phineas Finn, Madame Max Goesler, Laura Standish, her brother Chiltern, her disastrous marriage – all still fascinating, but now somehow what goes on in Parliament has become more important.

I am just finishing the second volume, “Phineas Finn”, so I have a long way to go, and I am sure to have more to say about this series of books, but meanwhile I am immensely grateful that once again I have managed to come up with the right antidote to “current events”. Surely I will still be reading about the Pallisers et. al. come November when we go to the polls here and hope to soundly defeat the forces of unreason and bigotry.

There must be thousands of volumes published, PhD theses hidden in University libraries, seminars conducted, on the subject of a glaring omission in Victorian novels of the one taboo subject: sex. There are multitudes of these beloved nineteenth century novels, some slight, some huge and spilling into many volumes, some charming, some thought provoking, some heart-rending. Many contain versions of the eternal verities. The relationships among the characters, their inner lives, their shifting power positions vis-à-vis each other are minutely described. The Marriage Plot abounds: many of the novels are about what happens behind the closed doors, i.e. sex. And yet, there is never, never any overt reference to it: danced around, alluded to, winked at – but not spoken of in direct terms.

Not being a scholar myself, merely a devoted reader of Thackeray, Jane Austen, George Eliot, Dickens, Thomas Hardy, Trollope and company, I have always accepted this as a given. The occasional scholarly article I encountered here and there would give explanations, mostly the obvious one of Victorian repression – and by Victorian an entire era is alluded to that includes the pre-Victorian decades as well as its immediate Edwardian coda – and I was perfectly willing to leave it at that. One knows that while the serious authors would not touch the subject with a bargepole, there was extensive consumption of erotica; the two genres simply existed in utterly separated spheres. It is understood that there was a literary underground, and that “gentlemen” of the period could and would easily obtain extremely kinky erotic literature – one wonders how many women did – and yet none of it ever spilled over into the work of respected writers.

I came to muse about this while being deeply immersed in the Palliser books of Anthony Trollope. These six immense volumes of interconnected novels, as well as the stand-alone “The Way We Live Now” somehow beg the question: what did happen behind those closed doors? One does not ask this question while reading Jane Austen, where the occasional extra-marital sexual relationship does occur (and is usually severely punished), but the plotlines are so clearly about innocence triumphant and are constructed with such flawless perfection that it would be improper to even consider what might have happened between Lydia Bennett and Wickham, or Maria Bertram and Henry Crawford after they ran off together. But some clearer allusion to the disastrous marriage of Dorothea Brooke and The Reverend Casaubon in George Eliot’s “Middlemarch” might clarify the relationship beyond the intellectual incompatibility. Thomas Hardy’s “Far From the Madding Crowd” fairly cries out for some allusion of what had actually happened between the protagonists. In the very first Palliser novel, “Can You Forgive Her”, the character of George Vavasor and his role in Alice Vavasor’s life would be much clearer if his shady relationships with -- we can only guess – a prostitute or two were described in less oblique terms. One would love to know a little more of the intimate lives of Lady Glencora and Plantagenet Palliser, or of the physical abhorrence that must have been at least one of the reasons for the breakup of the dreadful marriage of Lady Laura Standish and Robert Kennedy. The marriage market calls for all sorts of prices to be paid, in and out of bed; but we never learn of the part that takes place in bed. It is all very well when the object of the novel is to take a dewy young girl and an upstanding young man across obstacles to the altar; but in novels that take us beyond that moment into real life, a little more information could be useful. Not that I am complaining; I find the nineteenth century novels, the Trollope ones in particular since I am presently enveloped in them, a wonderful way to enter a different world, and perhaps the veil they keep over the most private aspects of their characters’ lives are part of the delight.

In fact I am thinking how this taboo about sex had lasted well into the thirties, forties, fifties of the twentieth century, less in literature than in movies. I remember both reading and seeing “Gone With the Wind” and being shocked when Rhett carries Scarlett up the staircase in a scene that implies ravishment and stops at the bedroom door. The furthest we got before the rules were abandoned and liberation from taboos had taken place by the middle of the twentieth century was a passionate kiss. Perhaps it was better that way?