Linda Tressel by Anthony Trollope

Anthony Trollope’s souvenir from an 1865 trip to Nuremberg was an idea for a different kind of novel. Already famous for his Barsetshire Novels, he was keen to create “a second literary identity”¹ and inhabit a different culture. As an experiment, he published Nina Balatka (1867) and Linda Tressel (1868) anonymously in Blackwood’s Magazine. Neither proved successful, even when reissued as novels under his usually bankable name. While his sensitive exploration of interracial marriage in Nina Balatka remains compelling, Trollope’s lugubrious tale of forced marriage in Linda Tressel is much harder to love.

20-year-old orphan Linda Tressel lives with her Aunt Charlotte in Nuremberg, then in the independent state of Bavaria. Aunt Charlotte is a “virtuous but rigid” Calvinist, who believes any form of physical pleasure to be wicked. I was reminded of The Church of the Quivering Brethren in Cold Comfort Farm, with their tagline, “There’ll be no butter in hell!” Realising that Linda is verging on an old maid by nineteenth-century standards, Aunt Charlotte decrees she should marry their 51-year-old lodger, Peter Steinmarc. Although the women own the house jointly, Aunt Charlotte believes it more natural for a man to be in charge.

Linda has other ideas. She’s been giving the glad eye to Ludovic Valcarm, the local ne’er-do-well who keeps ending up in prison. Whereas Steinmarc comports himself like a grumbling old man, Valcarm is full of charm and vigour. In the excruciating scene where Steinmarc unsuccessfully proposes to Linda, she notices his straggly combover and the giant shoes he wears to protect his corns. In contrast, Valcarm pays a clandestine visit by boat, vaulting into her garden with the help of his giant pole. As in other novels, Trollope’s sexual imagery lacks subtlety.

Rumours of Valcarm’s visit strengthen Steinmarc’s suit. A frantic Aunt Charlotte browbeats her niece into accepting his second proposal, emphasising her worthlessness and good fortune in attracting the attentions of a respectable man. As the authorial voice explains:

“Let her crush herself as it becomes a poor female to do, or let there be some other female to crush her if she lack the strength, the purity, and the religious fervour which such self-crushing requires. Poor Linda Tressel had not much taste for crushing herself, but Providence had supplied her with one who had always been willing to do that work for her.” (204)

Linda had Aunt Charlotte to crush her; in the 21st century, women have the Daily Mail. The rest of the novel is mostly a “will they, won’t they” plot, with the reader earnestly hoping they won’t.

Steinmarc denies Linda any subjectivity. In imagining their married life together, he sees only his will in action, as though the marriage contract guarantees wifely submission. As her resistance grows, he slowly realises what marriage might look like. Yet, he can’t forsake his quarry. Partly because he craves the prize of the house, and partly because he wanted to “let her know how thoroughly she was in his power”. (259) Linda promises, “But you shall fear me. Yes; I will lead you such a life! Peter Steinmarc. I will make you rue the day you first saw me.” (p. 348) It’s hardly Beatrice and Benedick.

Linda vacillates between repulsion and resignation.

“She had almost brought herself to believe that it was good for her heart to be crushed. She has quite brought herself to wish to believe it. She has within her heart no desire for open rebellion against domestic authority. The world was a dangerous, bad world, in which men were dust and women something lower than dust.” (211)

This masochistic streak is, of course, encouraged by Aunt Charlotte, who believes “a girl who loved and was allowed to indulge her love could hardly go to heaven”. (210) Meanwhile, Steinmarc never doubts his privilege:

“He was industrious, patient, and honest with a sort of second-class honesty. He liked to earn what he took though he had a strong bias towards believing that he had earned whatever in any way he might have taken, and after the same fashion he was true with a second-class truth. He was unwilling to deceive; but he was usually able to make himself believe that that which would have been deceit from another to him, was not deceit from him to another.” (257)

In short, he’s a hypocrite. Although utterly repellent, Steinmarc is a successful character study. His opportunism and willingness to exploit his position seem plausible. Trollope’s publisher was less convinced by Aunt Charlotte, writing to him: “You have really no right to say that it was the Calvinistic old jades virtues that caused poor Linda’s sufferings.” (xxi) It’s hard to credit her belief that she was saving her niece’s soul by forcing her to marry a man 30 years her senior. Yet Aunt Charlotte offers a compelling study in certainty. While many of us in the 2020s might struggle to fathom the idea of the religious “elect”, we’re only too familiar with those who never doubt their convictions. Her insistence that, “All life here must be painful, full of toil, and moistened with many tears” (253) is echoed in punishing regimes to which people submit themselves now, such as extreme diets, working 80-hour weeks, or accepting dangerous conspiracy theories. Robert Tracy points out in his introduction that unlike Obadiah Slope in Barchester Towers, Charlotte Staubach is at least sincere in her beliefs - it’s not about gaining advantage. Well, not in this life, anyway.

Linda herself is a sketchy character who Trollope fails to bring to life. The reader gets no sense of her as a person - she’s defined purely in relation to her Aunt and the men who want to possess her. Linda’s infatuation with Ludovic Valcarm is a result of her isolation. Had she been allowed to meet other men, she’d have had a choice beyond the lodger and a man with the audacity to sneak into her house. Indeed, confining Linda to the house is the problem, as that’s exactly where the danger lurks. Linda has so little experience of men, she’s quickly seduced by one with few redeeming qualities and believes this is her only opportunity. For me, the best character is one with only a handful of lines. Childhood friend Fanny Heiss comes to the rescue when Linda gets herself into a pickle. When Aunt Charlotte criticises Fanny’s behaviour as “the wife of an honest God-fearing man,” she responds, “It doesn’t matter whose wife I am … and I am sure Max will say the same as I do.” (335) Trollope should have included more Fanny in the novel, so to speak.

Linda Tressel is more psychological than plot-driven. Unlike his other novels of the period, it’s mostly one scene and features just ten characters. It’s quiet and pared back compared with the bustling tales of Barsetshire. Unfortunately, that gives its faults nowhere to hide. The novel reminded me of the contrast between Tom Robertson’s intimate “cup and saucer” plays of the 1860s, compared with Dion Boucicault’s theatrical spectacles of the 1850s. The conclusion is both disappointing and frustrating. I wish Trollope had been bolder in his experiment. Rather than offering a departure from his more successful novels, he simply transplanted a timid plot to a different setting. Happily, the companion novel Nina Balakta is one of his best. A reminder, then, of the importance of experiments.

Linda Tressel by Anthony Trollope. Oxford World’s Classics edition, with an introduction and notes by Robert Tracy

This post is part of the Trollope Challenge I started back in 2011. Revisiting those posts, I realised I hadn’t reviewed four of the novels. Nearly 15 years later, I’m curling up with a Trollope again.