Glencora, she did not establish friendships for political purposes.
Glencora undoubtedly had her political reasons. But Susan Hampshire,
in an interview about the television series in which she played
Glencora, said that politicians' wives told her they considered
Glencora to be the model of the political wife. Lady Glen was a woman
who could flatter Sir Orlando Drought during his visit to Gatherum,
even though she disliked him and knew that her husband had not been
gracious to him.
An advantage of the novelist is the absolute freedom to reveal the
inner workings of the mind, and our understanding of Plantagenet
Palliser, who says so little, is enhanced by such direct disclosures
as his reflection that he had not had a happy day since he took
office, that he had had no gratification, and that he was unconvinced
that he was doing the country any good.
Glencora, on the other hand, is so articulate that she reveals the
inner workings of her mind herself. Some of the last words we hear
from her constitute a quick little aside to her young friend Emily
Wharton:
"Are not politics odd? A few years ago I only barely knew what the
word meant. . . . I suppose it's wrong, but a state of pugnacity
seems to me the greatest bliss we can reach here on earth."
"I shouldn't like to be always fighting."
"That's because you haven't known Sir Timothy Beeswax and two or
three other gentlemen whom I could name. The day will come, I dare
say, when you will care about politics."
In _The Prime Minister_ we reach the culmination of the political
career of two of Trollope's favorite characters, and we learn how
they handled the acquisition and the loss of power. And yet the
memorable part of the book is not the political drama but the
occurrence at the Tenway Junction, when Ferdinand Lopez finishes his
meteoric career by throwing himself under the wheels of the morning
express from Euston to Inverness. As in some of his other works (such
as _Can You Forgive Her?_ in which Plantagenet and Glencora steal
the scenes from the protagonists of the primary plot), the subplot
upstages the primary story line. Lopez preys on the weaknesses of
others (as does Lyndon Johnson in Caro's biography) and shrewdly
makes a place for himself. But it is a place that will not last.
Emily sees the real man she has married after the wedding ceremony
(as Lady Bird Johnson learned that she was to be humiliated in front
of their friends by her husband's peremptory and petty orders).
Perhaps the most unpalatable of Lopez's commands to his wife is his
telling her to "get round" her father in order to satisfy Lopez's
urgent desire for money to cover his losses in speculation in guano.
Lopez's initial conquests include not only the Whartons but even
the Duchess of Omnium, who, still somewhat aggrieved after years of
marriage that she was not allowed to marry the beautiful scoundrel
Burgo Fitzgerald, has a weakness for charming and beautiful young
scoundrels. There are no bounds to Lopez's ambition and effrontery:
having lost an election in the Duke's home borough of Silverbridge
and having had his campaign expenses reimbursed by his father-in-law
Mr. Wharton, he writes the Duke and demands that the five hundred
pounds expenses be paid by the Duke, since his wife had encouraged
him to run for the office and the Duke had compelled her to withdraw
the endorsement of "the Castle." Somewhat to his surprise, Lopez's
letter hits a vulnerable target, and the Duke sends five hundred
pounds.
Nemesis stalks Lopez in the form of the market for guano, which fails
to meet his expectations and requirements, and the steadfast refusal
of Mr. Wharton to send good money after bad. And so to the Tenway
Junction. Like so many others, he thought he could walk on water.
So maybe this is why Trollope has a virtual monopoly on the political
novel (and also the church novel). Scoundrels are more interesting.
But wait; are there scoundrels in politics? Of course there are. This
is where the biographer comes in with the life of Lyndon Johnson.
For better or worse, that story wasn't fiction. One wishes for a
latter-day Anthony Trollope to give us a story of such a towering
figure, unencumbered by the requirements of nonfiction.
THE OLD ORDER PASSETH
THE DUKE'S CHILDREN
Do I identify more with the Duke of Omnium, or with Lord
Silverbridge, as the Duke tells Isabelle Boncassen, "My boy's wife
shall be my daughter in very deed"? Would I be so close to tears
when he gives her his late wife's ring, if I had not known Glencora
through the previous five novels of the Palliser series? _The Duke's
Children_ stands up very well on its own, but its force is clearly
enhanced by its predecessors. While the characters from previous
novels may be received as old friends in new stages of their lives,
their children may be presented as various mixtures of their parents'
personalities. The reader greets the children in the process of
making the transition to adulthood with the pleasure of recognition
of the character traits of the parents.
Lady Glencora, Duchess of Omnium, has died in the interval between
_The Prime Minister_ and _The Duke's Children_, but her influence
persists. She has sanctioned the suit of Francis Tregear, an
impoverished commoner, for the hand of her daughter Lady Mary
without the Duke's knowledge. So here is a variation on the theme of
Glencora's love for the worthless Burgo Fitzgerald, which she never
pretended to give up after her arranged marriage to Plantagenet
Palliser. We find her daughter Lady Mary perhaps less reckless but
even more persistent, and successful, in her chosen love. Tregear has
apparently gotten over his previous love for Lady Mabel Grex, whom
the Duke favors for his son's wife, and Tregear shows himself to be a
more worthy individual than the dissolute Burgo.
Lord Silverbridge sows his wild oats as one would expect of
Glencora's son, but like Prince Hal, he grows appropriately into
recognition of his responsibilities. The reader sees, before the Duke
brings himself to acknowledge it, that Silverbridge makes a wise
choice in his selection of the American Isabelle Boncassen as the
object of his affections.
Gerald, the younger son, plays a lesser role but manages to repent of
some relatively minor offenses: he manages to continue with college
studies, and his gambling debts do not compare in magnitude to those
of his older and more richly endowed brother.
New blood is brought into the family, new faces appear in the story.
The woman who brings a bit of spice is Lady Mabel Grex. She has loved
her childhood friend, Francis Tregear, but she decided that since
they were both penniless, each had better marry for money. (Shades
of Lady Laura Standish!) Tregear goes on to better things, as bees
flit from flower to flower, but Lady Mabel never loses her love.
She reveals herself when she confides to her older companion Miss
Cassewary that Lord Silverbridge would have proposed to her if
she had given him any encouragement, but "I spared him;--out of
sheer downright Christian charity! I said to myself, 'Love your
neighbours.' 'Don't be selfish.' 'Do unto him as you would he should
do unto you,'--that is, think of his welfare. Though I had him in my
net, I let him go. Shall I go to heaven for doing that?"
Isabel Boncassen, her successor in the Duchess of Omnium sweepstakes,
faces different challenges from those that confront Lady Mabel.
Frankly in love with Silverbridge, her disadvantage is one not
readily appreciated on this side of the Atlantic: she is American. As
Lady Mabel is revealed in the above passage, so we see Isabel as she
walks with Silverbridge among the old graves at Matching and hears
him tell her how Sir Guy ran away with half a dozen heiresses.
"Nobody should have run away with me. I have no idea of going on
such a journey except on terms of equality,--just step and step
alike." Then she took hold of his arm and put out one foot. "Are
you ready?"
The action of the story is all carried out by the young people. They
gamble and lose, they fall in love, they run for office, they scheme
and dally, they sin and reform. But the story is really about the one
person who doesn't do anything: the Duke of Omnium. Grieved by the
sudden loss of his wife and forced to deal with issues she would have
addressed--basically, the children--he is forced to learn that where
the children are concerned, even the Duke is far from omnipotent. One
who had stated that he would prefer the House of Commons to the House
of Lords, he is found defending the order and telling his children
of their obligation to marry within their rank. He instructs Miss
Boncassen on the opportunity that the poorest man in England has to
rise by merit to the highest office in the land, and he has long
conversations with Isabel on the advantages of a decimal coinage
system, but it never occurs to him that her wit and beauty should
outweigh the rank of Lady Mabel Grex as qualifications for becoming
his son's wife.
Lest the reader miss the irony, Trollope spells it out in telling the
reader that in his heart of hearts the Duke kept his own family and
his own self entirely apart from his grand theories. "That one and
the same man should have been in one part of himself so unlike the
other part,--that he should have one set of opinions so contrary to
another set,--poor Isabel Boncassen did not understand."
The Duke must decide whether to give his blessing to two marriages to
which he has been unalterably opposed. And his guide and counselor in
these issues is his late wife's best friend, Mrs. Phineas Finn, the
former Madame Max Goesler. Stubborn and taciturn, he is not an easy
pupil. And she must first overcome his anger when he discovers that
she had not come immediately to him when Lady Mary told her of her
engagement to Mr. Tregear. Of course his late wife had first sinned
in this way, but Marie Goesler Finn is the scapegoat for Glencora
just as Alice Vavasor had been when Glencora insisted on walking in
the priory ruins on a cold night, despite Alice's objections, and
caught cold. Mrs. Finn refuses to be shunned by the Duke, becomes his
confidante, and she continues in her role as the only character in
the entire Palliser series who is always right. Married to Phineas
Finn, who had once refused her own proposal of marriage to him, we
see very little of their interaction in married life. But in her role
as best friend to Glencora, we saw her as a voice of reason when
Glencora was flighty, and later as one who would rouse the phlegmatic
Duke to deal appropriately with Silverbridge's and Lady Mary's
choices.
This interview occurs near the midway point of the novel, and with
this the reader can guess that in the end the Duke will permit the
marriage and even ask Mr. Tregear what his Christian name is. But
this is a political novel. Back to business. After all, entire
chapters are devoted to the maneuvers by which Sir Timothy Beeswax
attempts to maintain his power with the Conservative government.
Again we see politics as it is. The moves are not too complex for a
Trollope novel, but they are too complex for a brief review. Suffice
it to say that no government lasts forever, and the Duke is obliged
to deal with political adversity. It isn't easy for him; but it
is not for nothing that the Duke is one of Trollope's favorite
creations.
A pleasant book. England moves on. A segment of the Liberal
Party finds itself obliged to become more liberal than had been
anticipated. The Palliser series comes to an end, and the readers
(especially those of us who have developed a sentimental attachment
to this seemingly aloof family) are entertained.
RUINS, RUIN, AND RUINED
THE MACDERMOTS OF BALLYCLORAN
I've never cared very much for junkyard photography. By this I mean
rusty plows, abandoned automobiles, houses falling in, storefronts
with broken glass. Of course ruins always have a certain appeal; the
remains of an old well can be seen beside a trail leading down toward
the river from my house. Who knows what happened around that old
site? But rust and ruin have a limited appeal. Anthony Trollope
encountered the ruins of an old country house on a visit to Drumsna,
Ireland, in 1843, while working for the Post Office. As recorded
in his autobiography, "It was one of the most melancholy spots I
ever visited . . . and while I was still among the ruined walls
and decayed beams I fabricated the plot of _The Macdermots of
Ballycloran_." The story that resulted from this visit might do very
well to pass away a dull afternoon riding through the country; but
I found the leisurely pace of the six hundred page novel tedious.
Ruins, ruin, and ruined.
This was Trollope's first novel. He was twenty-eight years old, and
he had been in Ireland five years, traveling through the countryside
as a clerk to a postal surveyor. One of the primary rules for writers
is to write about what one knows about, and he did that. But he would
have never survived as an author on forty-six more such novels. Over
the next decade he was to write two more rather indifferent novels
and then begin _The Warden_, the first of the Barsetshire novels
and predecessor to _Barchester Towers_, his best known work. It's
one thing for a writer to have the requisite skills; it's another
thing--whether by chance or design--to hit upon a subject or a
character that will "take off." Writers are sometimes surprised by
what the public likes and what it doesn't. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
looked upon Sherlock Holmes as a distraction from his higher calling
as a writer of historical novels, until he realized that Holmes was
his meal ticket. Few readers know anything about his historical
novels. And for Trollope, the worlds of _Barchester Towers_ and the
Pallisers secured his place in English literature.
But back to the dreary world of the Macdermots. First, be warned that
their story, which doesn't start very well, doesn't end well, either,
as a visitor to the ruins of their country house might suspect. Larry
Macdermot, reigning patriarch, is on the verge of losing his house,
his property and his mind. His daughter Feemy is seduced by the
English revenue agent. Larry's son Thady, the central focus of
the story, has a violent encounter with Feemy's lover when she is
reluctant to elope with him. It's an unhappy time for the clan.
It wasn't a happy time for Ireland, either, and the great potato
famine hadn't even started yet. The English of that day were not very
interested in reading about the details of daily life of the people
whom they were oppressing. Trollope, on the other hand, was a young
man just beginning to achieve some success and self-confidence in his
voluntary exile to serve among these impoverished people. He used his
skills to portray them with accuracy and even with sympathy, even
though he was a loyal son of England and man of his times and felt
no obligation to accord them any more than token respect. Describing
Father Cullen, he writes, "He felt towards Keegan all the abhorrence
which a very bigoted and ignorant Roman Catholic could feel towards a
Protestant convert." An accurate account, perhaps, but could such a
frank sentence be written today?
The plot is well laid out, and the story is well told, but the
reader is required to plow through the Irish dialect--"'Yer honer
won't be afther taking an innocent boy like me,' began Tim, 'that
knows nothing at all at all about it.'" This is fair enough--the
reader knows he's reading about a different country in a different
century--but it does take a bit of adjustment.
Trollope loved sporting scenes, usually fox hunting, and in this one
we have a horse race scene, described in the words of the spectators
much like the scene at Ascot Opening Day in _My Fair Lady_: "There
they go--Hurroo! They're off. Faix, there's Playful at her tricks
already--by dad she'll be over the ropes!"
The pace of the book is leisurely, a common feature of Victorian
novels. On the morning after a wedding, the reader is wondering
whether any mischief came to Captain Ussher, and whether he survived
the night after "the boys" had threatened to put him under the sod.
But such concerns must be suspended for an account of how several
of the characters felt about things. After four and a half pages
of Thady's reflections, he happens to meet Ussher in the road, and
the reader surmises that Ussher was not killed. We can see where
minimalist fiction came from.
Another source of tedium is that the three Macdermots have hardly
any redeeming features--a sleazy lot, with whom it is difficult to
sympathize.
But one does find evidence of Trollope's facility to entertain. He
excels in introductory summaries of his characters. About Feemy,
whose mother and grandmother had died early, we are told:
Whatever her feelings were,--and for her mother they were
strong,--the real effect of this was, that she was freed from the
restraint and constant scolding of two stupid women at a very
early age; consequently she was left alone with her father and her
brother, neither of whom were at all fitting guides for so wayward
a pupil. . . . Her father had become almost like the tables and
chairs in the parlour, only much less useful and more difficult to
move.
The trial scene near the end of the book is well done; Trollope
excelled in trial scenes, particularly in _Orley Farm_ and _Phineas
Redux_. When he introduces Mr. Allewinde, he shows us his frustration
in attempting to examine Pat Brady, a reluctant witness whose literal
responses remind today's reader of "Who's on First?"
The most successful comic interlude is that of the duel between Jonas
Brown and Counsellor Webb, two of the three magistrates who hear the
case of Thady Macdermot and differ on the question of his guilt. When
he receives a response to his challenge, Mr. Brown's two sons comfort
him by telling him not to worry about his legs because Webb will
fire high. "The shoulder's the spot," unless he takes him on the
head--"which wouldn't be so pleasant," and he'd rather take his
chances with a chap that fired low. The other brother disagrees.
"The low shot's the death-shot. Why, man, if you did catch a ball
in the head, you'd get over it--if it was in the mouth, or cheek,
or neck, or anywhere but the temple; but your body's all over
tender bits. May heaven always keep lead out of my bowels--I'd
sooner have it in my brains."
As luck would have it, Brown catches a ball in the seat of his pants,
causing a bloody and inconvenient wound about an eighth of an inch
deep.
This is the closest thing to a happy ending in the book. This
reviewer's recommendation: Read the review. Skip the book.
THE IRISH AS OTHERS SEE THEM
THE KELLYS AND THE O'KELLYS
If you live in an age of political incorrectness, you may as well
take advantage of it. So Anthony Trollope might have told himself,
had he enjoyed the advantage of looking into the future to our
present age of political correctness. _The Kellys and the O'Kellys_
would not survive the scrutiny of present standards. "Faix, I b'lieve
his chief failing at present's fur sthrong dhrink!" Transcription of
the Irish forms of speech warns the present day reader to be wary;
this is something that may be unfair to the Irish. Uncle Remus fell
victim to such concerns and disappeared from view in 1986 when Disney
removed _Song of the South_ from circulation, and the glimpses of the
subservient blacks that we have in older films indicate that those
who use language in a distinctive way can be vulnerable to being
presented in a demeaning fashion.
Of course these were not the concerns of a fledgling nineteenth
century English writer who had spent five years in Ireland with the
postal service. One would suspect that the intended target audience
resided in England, not in Ireland. (This, his second novel, did
not sell well anywhere.) Features of Irish life are described to
inform the reading public in England, and those who did read it were
surely entertained as well. The description of an Irish kitchen is
accompanied, in the Folio Edition, by a full-page pen-and-ink drawing
which features a pig, two chickens, and two ragged old men sitting on
the floor, all of whom are described in detail.
Here we see Trollope discovering his comic gift. The tone of the
story is that of a cartoon comedy, Looney Tunes perhaps, with
rascally villains and seemingly inept heroes who seem destined to be
taken in by dastardly schemers. Lord Cashel, for instance, is shown
in the role of the wicked lord of the manor who only dimly suspects
how unlikely it is that any of his plots and plans will succeed. He
seizes an opportunity to refuse to allow one of the heroes of the
story, Lord Ballindine (Frank O'Kelly), to see Fanny Wyndham, the
object of his affection, who happens to be Lord Cashel's ward. Lord
Cashel has other plans for Fanny, who has come into an inheritance
that would wipe out the debts incurred by Lord Cashel's prodigal
son Lord Kilcullen. Fanny must marry his son! He is only slightly
bothered by Fanny's spirited vow to see her lover Frank O'Kelly
anyway, but despite his concern about her determination, he remains
confident in his own powers. As his plot unravels, one expects the
standard melodramatic line, "Curses! Foiled again!"
The most evil villain, though, is Barry Lynch, limited by his
sister's existence to only half of his late father's estate. He
daydreams about how his worries would all be washed away if his
sister should only be in some way detached from her worldly cares.
The English reader might view with detached amusement the schemes of
a profligate drunken young Irish lord who is staggered to learn that
his sister's acute illness might not be fatal, after all, and that
she might rise again to displace him.
There can be no sympathy for the dehumanized arch villain of this
dark comedy, described as having no residual feelings of human
kindness. Surely he can bribe the doctor to see to it that she
succumbs. And the reader can only smile as he calculates further what
payment he must offer, and then how he can get out of paying it.
On the other side of the moral ledger, the two heroes of the
story--Martin Kelly and Frank O'Kelly--are shown as young men
with good hearts. Martin is a young farmer who rents from several
landlords, including Lord Ballindine (Frank O'Kelly). At one point in
the story Lord Ballindine, a recovering prodigal in his own right,
is in need of three hundred pounds and thinks that his renter Martin
Kelly would be able to lend it to him. Martin hesitates, saying that
he has the money but had been thinking of using it in another way,
which would clear the way for him to marry Anty Lynch, sister of the
infamous Barry. Frank backs off, saying that he had forgotten about
Martin's "matrimonial speculation," and he advises him that though he
needs the cash, Martin had better keep it. But Martin says that his
mother could let him have the money on the security of the house, in
order that his Lordship should not be short of cash.
Thank goodness these two young Irishmen have good hearts; they need
them for redemption. Both of them make no bones about their plans to
marry for money. Though each maintains that he really loves the lady
of his choice, they both freely admit that it was the money that
first attracted them. Would Trollope have granted such a blot on the
escutcheon of one of his young English heroes?
Trollope's previous work, which was also his debut novel, told of the
fall of an old Irish family, _The Macdermots of Ballycloran_, with
little levity to relieve it. _The Kellys and the O'Kellys_, on the
other hand, is a comic novel. One may wonder whether Trollope is
laughing with the Irish or at them. The general impression is one of
affection, with a sharp eye for entertaining foibles. We must follow
a knotty skein of debts and obligations in a discussion of how Jerry
Blake got a pair of breeches to wear for Lord Ballindine's hunt. The
leather had to be purchased in Tuam, and an assistant tailor had to
leave his mother's wake and stay up all night sewing. The tailor,
however, had a long-standing debt for his garden, and the landlord
was a distant relation of Jerry Blake. So the long and tangled circle
is closed, and Jerry gets his breeches.