Lady Glencora and to the Duke of Omnium. Representing the foreign
element in the story (and one of the few foreigners whom he presents
in a favorable light), she is a wealthy young widow from Vienna,
given to making innocent observations about some of the curious
English customs. She attracts the elderly Duke of Omnium, who offers
to marry her. Lady Glencora fears that this could lead to the birth
of a son to the Duke, knocking her little son out of the line of
succession to the Duke, and her interview with Madame Max is rather
one-sided. Lady Glencora protests that a seventy year old Duke of
Omnium "may not do as he pleases, as may another man."
Madame Max replies that his Grace should be allowed to try that
question, but she puts this matter aside to assert that she would not
degrade any man whom she should marry. On the other hand, she would
not willingly do him any injury, and she assures Lady Glencora that
her fears for her son are premature--unless Lady Glencora's arguments
should drive her to marrying the Duke just to prove she is wrong.
"But you had better leave me to settle the matter in my own bosom.
You had indeed."
Madame Max bears the burden of offering wise observations on the
world around her, acceptable to the reader who pictures her as a
beautiful dark-haired young woman. Though she refuses the offer
of marriage to the Duke, she remains his friend and offers this
assessment of his role in society in refuting Phineas's claim that he
is useless to society:
"You believe only in motion, Mr. Finn;--and not at all in
quiescence. An express train at full speed is grander to you than
a mountain with heaps of snow. I own that to me there is something
glorious in the dignity of a man too high to do anything,--if only
he knows how to carry that dignity with a proper grace. I think
that there should be breasts made to carry stars."
Conversational virtuosity of this order leaves the reader with jaw
agape. The English are better at this than we Americans are, as can
be seen by tuning in to the prime minister's question and answer
sessions on BBC-TV. And the Victorians were better at it than we
are. In any event, Madame Max holds her ground with poise and
polish, justifying Shirley Robin Letwin's description of her in _The
Gentleman in Trollope: Individuality and Moral Conduct_ (The Akadine
Press, originally published 1982) as "the most perfect gentleman in
Trollope's novels."
This is a picaresque novel that hangs together pretty well, following
the hero from one adventure to the next. He meets fair damsels and
does battle with dragons, also encountering mentors and would-be
mentors who instruct him in _le monde comme il faut_. Surely the
author was already planning a sequel, _Phineas Redux_, to rescue the
young hero from the oblivion in which this story leaves him. This
textbook on politics concludes with the reader waiting for one more
lesson: Politicians may retire, but not for long.
A CUNNING WOMAN
THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS
Lizzie Eustace is beautiful and clever, and she has no intention of
parting with her late husband's gift to her, the Eustace Diamonds.
But does she really have them? And where are they? This well
constructed mystery is one of those Trollope novels which deserves to
be better known and more widely read. (Others in this list include
_The Last Chronicle of Barset_, _The Duke's Children_, and _Orley
Farm_.) Lizzie has been compared to Becky Sharp, the prime mover
in William Makepeace Thackeray's _Vanity Fair_; Trollope actually
invites such comparison, describing her early in the book as an
"opulent and aristocratic Becky Sharp."
Like Becky, Lizzie attracts admirers. "Sometimes I think her the most
beautiful woman I ever saw in the world," says the obviously smitten
Frank Greystock in describing Lizzie Eustace.
But Becky casts a wider net, as described by a servant: "'Miss
B., they are all infatyated about that young woman,' Firkin
replied. . . . 'I can't tell for where nor for why; and I think
somethink has bewidged everybody.'"
Lizzie does not succeed so widely, and she shows that she doesn't
really understand everyone, as when she overplays her hand on first
meeting her prospective mother-in-law, Lady Fawn. Lizzie had heard
that a sermon was read every Sunday evening at Fawn Court, and that
therefore Lady Fawn must be very religious. So it was quite natural
for her to stretch her hand toward a book on Lady Fawn's table,
claiming it as her guide to remind her of her duty to her noble
husband. Lady Fawn, finding the book to be the Bible, replied
that she could hardly do better--"but there was more of censure
than of eulogy in the tone of her voice." We are told later that
Lady Fawn was left with not a word to say in behalf of her future
daughter-in-law, saying nothing about the little scene with the
Bible, but never forgetting it.
As described above, however, Becky Sharp was capable of sweeping
through a household. A governess in Crawley Hall (which she refers to
as Humdrum Hall), she assists elderly Sir Pitt Crawley so effectively
that he later proposes marriage to her. She is in love with Sir
Pitt's second son, Rawdon Crawley, and she makes it a point to attend
faithfully upon Sir Pitt's spinster sister, supplanting her dame
de compagnie, Miss Briggs, so completely that her imitations of
Briggs's weeping snuffle and her manner of using her handkerchief are
performed so well that Miss Crawley "became quite cheerful."
Becky Sharp shows herself as a mistress of all she surveys, whereas
Lizzie succeeds only with the men whom she targets. Lady Fawn and her
daughters were not so easily taken in. On the other hand, Thackeray
shows Becky to have an easier field--the "Vanity Fair" of foolish
mortals, trusting and benighted souls, easily duped. Thackeray, like
Dickens, entertains us much like Becky entertained Miss Crawley, by
mockery; and their mockery spared very few. Trollope, on the other
hand, may have had more respect for people in general; his portraits,
though they did include "warts and all," were less caricatures than
realistic renderings.
Lizzie stars in one of Trollope's memorable scenes, "The Diamonds are
Seen in Public." Her fiancé Lord Fawn, troubled about the diamonds,
has written a letter forbidding her to keep the diamonds, saying
they belong rightfully to her late husband's family. They arrive
separately at a party given by Lady Glencora, not having communicated
in the three weeks since Lord Fawn's letter. She wears the diamonds,
which "seemed to outshine all the jewellery in the room. . . . The
only doubt might be whether paste diamonds might not better suit her
character." Lord Fawn confronts her as soon as he sees her, but no
ears hear the inconsequential words they speak to each other. Lady
Eustace joins Lord Fawn in a quadrille, dances with no one else,
and very soon asks him to get her carriage for her. Taking her
seat, she tells him, "You had better come to me soon." And thus does
Lady Eustace savor her triumph of displaying the diamonds at Lady
Glencora's house.
This may have been the high point for Lizzie. Her one goal in life
was to keep the diamonds, and all else was sacrificed to this
goal. It is not so much that she has an overall strategy; rather,
she constantly improvises from one point to the next, keeping
(supposedly) the diamonds locked up in an iron box.
Of course the diamonds are at risk--not only from Mr. Camperdown, the
Eustace family lawyer who is as determined to recover the diamonds
for the family as Lizzie is to keep them, but also from thieves in
the night. When Lizzie goes to her late husband's ancestral castle
in Scotland, she surrounds herself with unscrupulous friends, runs
through her potential suitors, and loses her diamonds. On the first
attempt at the diamonds, the thieves get an empty iron box, while
Lady Eustace retains the jewels "in her own keeping." Not being one
to blurt out the truth at the first opportunity, however, Lizzie does
not tell the police that she still has the diamonds, and she digs
herself deeper and deeper into her deception until it carries the
name of perjury.
As Lizzie sins, so is she punished, not by the law, but by the irony
of fate, receiving a proposal of marriage by Mr. Joseph Emilius,
described in words which we now find difficult to forgive: "a nasty,
greasy, lying, squinting Jew preacher." This follows his assertions
that he is the greatest preacher of the day and can move masses.
Lizzie knows he is grossly exaggerating his assets, but "A man, to
be a man in her eyes, should be able to swear that all his geese are
swans." When he demands an answer to his proposal of marriage, Lizzie
answers him in kind, making a speech that matches his in length,
protesting that after losing "the dearest husband that a woman had
ever worshipped," she had once thought of matrimony with a man of
high rank for the sake of her child. But he had proved unworthy of
her, she discloses with a scornful expression as she declares that
she can no longer be willing to consider another marriage. "Upon
hearing this, Mr. Emilius bowed low, and before the street-door was
closed against him had begun to calculate how much a journey to
Scotland would cost him."
All these events did not go unnoticed by the gods on Mount
Olympus--in this case, the Pallisers and their friends at Matching
Priory. The Pallisers were less involved in this story than in any
of the other five novels in the Palliser series. Lady Glencora had
intervened a bit, and she had not been wise in choosing sides (a
tendency which was to recur in her favoritism of the villain Lopez in
_The Prime Minister_), and she had called on Lady Eustace to offer
her support. But none of the other gods and goddesses challenged
her. "It was understood that Lady Glencora was not to be snubbed,
though she was very much given to snubbing others. She had attained
this position for herself by a mixture of beauty, rank, wealth,
and courage;--but the courage had, of the four, been her greatest
mainstay." None at Matching were more entertained, however, than the
greatest god of all, the old Duke of Omnium. The old duke was in his
last days, and "It was admitted by them all that the robbery had been
a godsend in the way of amusing the duke."
The Duke was not alone in his enjoyment of the adventures of Lizzie
Eustace. The little vixen has provided pleasant diversion for many
readers; she continues to amuse.
HOW THE WOMEN TOOK CARE OF PHINEAS
PHINEAS REDUX
Perhaps the story of Phineas Finn just wouldn't fit into one novel,
at least not within the limits of Trollope Standard Time, in which
no nuance of thought or motive is left unexplored. Hence, _Phineas
Redux_. Phineas (as he was known to many of his acquaintances even
under the formal conventions of Victorian England) is no more heroic
in the second novel than in the first. Would these two novels rank
higher in our consciousness if the protagonist had been less flawed?
Perhaps. But Phineas's penchant for muddling through without much
in the way of strength or resolution is essential to the story. And
even though the reader may lose patience with Phineas at times, his
foibles and fallibility provide the necessary pinch of charm to this
story of political gamesmanship and matrimonial maneuvering.
The familiar characters of _Phineas Finn_ carry on for us. Mary
Flood Jones Finn is missing, her early death having freed Phineas
to return to London as a widower and resume his career and his old
friendships--especially those with women. The page brightens whenever
the Duchess of Omnium or Madame Max Goesler appear.
Why are these women so delightful? Bright, irreverent, saucy, the
Duchess uses her lofty position in society as a springboard for
making things happen. She appears and reappears in several novels in
the Palliser series, sometimes as the prime mover and always as a
breath of fresh air. (She even makes a cameo appearance in _Miss
Mackenzie_, an unrelated story.) In _Phineas Redux_ she adopts
Phineas as a favorite and meddles in his fate, most prominently when
she promotes his candidacy for office in opposition to the ambitions
of Mr. Bonteen, whom she lures into exposing himself as a boor when
her wine prompts him to make some inappropriate speeches at a dinner
party. How did the author pass up the opportunity to give us the
details of this dialogue? (Simon Raven's screenplay for the BBC
television series remedies this omission, showing the viewer exactly
how Mr. Bonteen destroyed his career.)
We see the Duchess at work when she initiates her project of
promoting the status of Mr. Finn, telling the Duke of St. Bungay that
he must find some place for him. In vain does he protest that he
never interferes. "Why, Duke, you've made more cabinets than any man
living."
She undertakes to promote the marriage prospects of her husband's
cousin Adelaide Palliser by making imaginative use of an unclaimed
legacy that can be used to remedy the young couple's poverty. She
volunteers to intervene in Lord Chiltern's irate assertion that foxes
are being poisoned at the Duke's behest. When she offers her money to
get Phineas acquitted of the accusation of murdering Mr. Bonteen, the
attorney, Mr. Low, is unsuccessful in persuading her that this would
be immoral, illegal, and ineffective. "The more money you spend," she
says, "the more fuss you make. And the longer a trial is about and
the greater the interest, the more chance a man has to escape. If a
man is tried for three days you always think he'll get off, but if it
lasts ten minutes he is sure to be convicted and hung. I'd have Mr.
Finn's trial made so long that they never could convict him."
And what if he should be convicted?
"I'd buy up the Home Secretary. It's very horrid to say so, of
course, Mr. Low; and I dare say there is nothing wrong ever done
in Chancery. But I know what Cabinet Ministers are. If they could
get a majority by granting a pardon they'd do it quick enough."
She also provides opportunities for her friend Marie Goesler to put
herself in the way of Phineas Finn in another match-making venture.
And in all these projects she succeeds.
How much help does Madame Max (Marie) Goesler need? Not much, though
she accepts the assistance. We have already seen Madame Goesler
outface Lady Glencora (before she became Duchess), mocking Glencora
when she makes a clumsy effort to dissuade Marie from pursuing a
marriage with the old Duke, which would potentially disinherit her
oldest son. And in this novel she again takes the high ground with
Glencora, winning the love and another proposal from the dying Duke
but turning him down, and then refusing the fortune and jewels
bequeathed her by the old Duke (except for one little ring she says
she will always wear).
Is Madame Goesler too good to be true? She is presented as a young
woman, about thirty-two years of age, the same age as Phineas Finn.
But she is miles beyond Phineas in maturity and capability. And not
only that. Wisdom. Her utterances come across as the wisdom of the
ages. In urging Phineas to accept an appointment to the cabinet, she
says, "Your foot must be on the ladder before you can get to the top
of it."
Madame Max never seems to make a mistake. She handles the attentions
of the Duke impeccably, and she manages her relationship with
Lady Glencora with wit and consummate skill. Maybe our greatest
reservation about her judgment has to do with her steadfast
preference for Phineas Finn. But one can hardly doubt the happiness
of the favored couple. There is little reason to doubt that Phineas
can handle prosperity.
And Phineas Finn: not exactly a hobbledehoy. His gift of gab permits
him to sail through social challenges. Perhaps his success with the
ladies gives him self confidence. But the reader grits his teeth as
Phineas allows himself to be sucked into a foolish quarrel with Mr.
Bonteen. And we share Madame Max's counsel to him at the end when he
is offered office and cannot bring himself to accept. His density is
more believable than Madame Max's wisdom. But here the critic is at
odds with the enthusiastic reader who cheers her on.
And what of poor Lady Laura, the other woman who loves Phineas?
None of Trollope's women appear more true to life. She pays a long
and bitter price for having sacrificed herself to bring financial
solvency to her family by a marriage to a lord who ultimately proves
himself to be crazy. She bares her soul to Phineas, who gamely
attempts to bring temporary solace to a grieving woman. But how can
she ever be comforted? Poor Phineas. Many readers may conclude that
he does as well as a kind-hearted Irishman can do.
The climax of the story is Phineas's trial for murder, a device that
lends pace and urgency to the story. In some respects the case is
handled like that of Mr. Crawley in _The Last Chronicle of Barset_,
in which a trip to the continent is heroically taken by an advocate
for the accused, bringing back evidence that breaks open the
case--though it is not necessarily essential.
One more thing: Trollope's touch in portraying the professional
lawyer is as entertaining a presentation of the creed of the Law as
one can hope for. Mr. Chaffanbrass, who is to defend Phineas Finn,
has no interest in knowing the truth about the murderer, despite
being told that the public wants to know. "[T]he public is ignorant."
The public should want to know the truth about the evidence about
the murder. "Now the last man to give us any useful insight into the
evidence is the prisoner himself. In nineteen cases out of twenty a
man tried for murder in this country committed the murder for which
he is tried."
After meeting Phineas Finn, Chaffanbrass maintains that he never
expresses an opinion of guilt or innocence of a client until the
trial is over. In a four-hour speech he argues persuasively for
Phineas's innocence, though he reflects over a pint of port wine in
a small room afterward that he privately believes him to be guilty.
"But to no human being had he expressed this opinion; nor would he
express it--unless his client should be hung."
Though perhaps not among the best few of Trollope's novels, why
should _Phineas Redux_ not be rated among the very good ones? The
difficulty of such a judgment lies in the even quality of many of the
contenders. I would give this one a "very good" rating.
"ARE NOT POLITICS ODD?"
THE PRIME MINISTER
Religion and politics--the two spheres of human activity to
be approached with caution, if not to be avoided, in polite
conversation--are the subjects forming the basis of Anthony
Trollope's two series of novels, the Barsetshire series and the
Palliser series. No other writer of his stature has touched these
areas on such a scale. Perhaps others have avoided them simply
because they haven't been interested. Trollope was certainly
interested in politics; he even ran for the House for Commons once,
was defeated and was disillusioned. His interest in church affairs
and church politics was less personal, though he did maintain his own
personal theology.
His abiding interest in politics is evident in _The Prime Minister_,
fifth in the series of the six Palliser novels. My recollection of
the story from twenty-five years ago is mainly of Ferdinand Lopez, so
that when he threw himself under a train at the Tenway Junction, I
assumed that the book must be over. But no, we had the loose ends of
the fate of his widow, Emily Wharton Lopez, to dispose of; and the
main plot thread, that of the prime minister, the Duke of Omnium, to
be concluded.
Lopez sticks in the memory as one who creates himself on a basis of
audacity, charm, and freedom from any moral restraints. We meet him
as a suitor for the hand of Emily Wharton, daughter of a wealthy
barrister; he preys on her brother Everett and through him finds
entrée to dinner at the Whartons' house. Both his social and
financial careers are leveraged on slender bases that eventually
collapse but support him long enough to make a sensational run. He
is similar in many ways to Augustus Melmotte, who makes a larger run
through the established circles of Victorian England in _The Way We
Live Now_, Trollope's larger portrayal of contemporary mores written
a year earlier in 1874.
A case might be made that the House of Commons is the major character
in the novel. We are told that although the House is sometimes led
and influenced by one of its members, the House during the ministry
of the Duke of Omnium had no Prime Minister sitting among its members
and was essentially on its own. Plantagenet Palliser had been obliged
to leave the House of Commons for the House of Lords when his uncle's
death made him the new Duke of Omnium, and we can hardly doubt
the new Duke when he says that he would rather be a Member of the
House of Commons than Duke of Omnium. It is not that the Duke was a
charismatic leader of his fellows in the House. On the contrary, he
was a patient workman, doing his homework and presenting lengthy
accounts of the state of the Treasury. But without even that
presence, the House first labored under the leadership of Sir Orlando
Drought, whom the Prime Minister offended by his lack of interest
in Sir Orlando's opinions. After the resignation of Sir Orlando,
the Prime Minister was represented by Mr. Monk, a more congenial
colleague. But the House grew restless under a Prime Minister who
made no attempt to be friendly to any of its members and eventually
shucked him off. All this was foreseen and observed by the Duke of
St. Bungay, old and wise, whose counsel the younger Duke could not
always bring himself to heed.
But although the House plays its anthropomorphic role by default in
the absence of a powerful and ambitious Prime Minister, this Prime
Minister is Plantagenet Palliser, Duke of Omnium. Trollope considered
him one of his three greatest characters, and in this story he
reaches the peak of his political career. Another of Trollope's trio
of favorites, Lady Glencora, Duchess of Omnium, reaches the height of
her own ambition as wife of the Prime Minister. (The third was Mr.
Crawly in _The Last Chronicle of Barset_.) How would this portrayal
fare as an isolated novel rather than as the linchpin in a series of
six lengthy works? Perhaps an experiment should be conducted in which
a class reads _The Prime Minister_ with no previous exposure to the
Pallisers and another class reads the series straight through. Would
there be enough unpaid volunteers for such an experiment? I think
that those already familiar with the Pallisers would have keener
appreciation for their portrayal in power. Here we see the Duke
accept the position of Prime Minister with reluctance, suffer
through the slings and arrows of criticism, and then face the issue
of whether he should resign. And Lady Glencora pitches in with
enthusiasm to the project of entertaining those who are of any
importance to her husband's success, despite his objections and
refusal to participate in the effort. She encourages the villain
Lopez, who becomes a thorn in their sides, and she pulls back from
her adopted role as the Hostess with the Mostest.
Robert Caro has been compared to Trollope for his delineation of men
and politics in a recent multivolume biography of Lyndon Johnson.
This similarity is particularly apparent in Caro's description
of Coke Stevenson, Lyndon Johnson's opponent in the race for the
US Senate in Texas in 1948. Stevenson had served as governor of
Texas and despite his disdain for politics, he had received record
majorities in his gubernatiorial campaigns. He was a scrupulously
honest public servant, but he was also a proud man, too proud to
stoop to indulging in a personal attack on a political opponent.
Johnson knew this, and he capitalized on it.
Reading this, I thought to myself: I know about proud men in
politics. I know about Plantagenet Palliser. Perhaps one of the most
telling portraits is that painted by his wife as she tells her friend
Mrs. Finn that if he should hear treason being plotted against him,
he would stop up his ears with his fingers. "He is all trust, even
when he knows that he is being deceived. He is honor complete from
head to foot."
This is not to say that Coke Stevenson was a latter day Plantagenet
Palliser. But the similarities between the detailed portrayals of
the historical Coke Stevenson and the fictional Plantagenet Palliser
serve to validate the authenticity of the fictional predecessor. Both
even had similar political wives.