Anthony Trollope

One of my less onerous resolutions for 2010 was to read all the Palliser novels, and my work is now done. In contrast with the inherent conservatism of its predecessor, The Duke’s Children (1880) is all about the necessity of change. The novel opens with the death of the Duchess of Omnium (formerly Lady Glencora Palliser), thereby signalling that nothing will ever be the same again. The Duke’s grief is compounded by the behaviour of his children, who all privilege inclination over duty, seeking happiness rather than strategic advantage. His daughter, Lady Mary, becomes engaged to a penniless aspiring MP; son and heir, Lord Silverbridge, is sent down from Oxford for painting the Dean’s house red and then falls in love with the American granddaughter of a dock-worker; and younger son Gerald makes a dent in the considerable family fortune through his fondness for cards and horses. ...

As I’m forever complaining about Trollope’s obsession with pure heroines, it’s only fair to commend him for using John Caldigate (1879) to question a man’s right to a sexual past. Caldigate is the archetypal Victorian ne’er do well. Graduating from Cambridge with eye-watering debts, he is obliged to try his luck in the Australian goldfields. On the long voyage to the Antipodes he amuses himself with Euphemia Smith, a feisty widow who is no better than she ought to be. She explains her attraction to him thus: ...

Banking scandals, corporate greed, and social irresponsibility – who says Trollope isn’t relevant? The Way We Live Now (1875) is perhaps his darkest novel and is markedly different from the rest of his oeuvre. This probably explains why it is often sidelined and not given the attention it deserves. I’ve written many times before that readers tended to punish Trollope for experimenting with different styles, but his willingness to try new ideas is what makes him so interesting as a writer. Often referred to as the most “Dickensian” of Trollope’s novels, The Way We Live Now is a scathing attack on the dwindling morality of the mid-Victorian period and the “commercial profligacy of the age”. The glittering cast of characters is headed by Augustus Melmotte, an entrepreneur of dubious provenance who seeks social advantage through his immense wealth. There are marked similarities with Ferdinand Lopez, anti-hero of The Prime Minister. Melmotte angles to pair his timorous daughter Marie with an aristocrat who can confer respectability and lineage upon his house. ...

We all know Trollope was no feminist, but Is He Popenjoy? (1878) is the only novel in which he openly attacks the nascent women’s rights movement. He revels in imaginary meetings in Marylebone, organised by the Rights of Women Institute for the Relief of the Disabilities of Females (known more succinctly and disparagingly as ‘Disabilities’). Presiding over this august group are the unsubtly-named Lady Selina Protest, Baroness Bannman, who has a “considerable moustache”, Dr Olivia Q. Fleabody, and Ju Mildmay. Mildmay is aunt to Lord George Germain, whose unhappy young wife Mary attends the meetings, prompted by curiosity and dissatisfaction. There she sees: ...

Stephen King once rudely referred to the first Palliser novel as Can You Finish It? It’s certainly true that Trollope wasn’t known for his brevity, and this handsome new OUP edition of Can You Forgive Her? is 700 pages long. However, Trollope grapples with an ambitious range of political and social themes and, in so doing, presents a compelling and provocative narrative. The central question raised is ‘What should a woman do with her life?’ and it is examined through expertly drawn characters who all make very different choices. Alice Vavasor is a young woman with an independent fortune who has ended up engaged to a stuffed shirt by the name of John Grey. Although eminently respectable, Grey (as his name suggests) is interested mainly in propriety and is ill-suited to a wife who seems likely to prove a handful. Alice’s cousin and quondam lover George predicts: “He’d make an upper servant of her; very respectable, no doubt, but still only an upper servant.” ...

A comment from a fellow Trollope enthusiast has prompted me to post an update on the Trollope Challenge. I finished my 47th and final novel in November last year, although was too frantically busy to write any reviews. Anyway, the experience was a Mixed Bag, although immensely enjoyable. Trollope was an extremely varied writer, both in terms of subject matter and quality. With the emphasis invariably on the Palliser novels and Barsetshire Chronicles, it’s easy to forget that he was a great experimenter in style and setting. ...

Having recently drawn attention to Trollope’s less successful works, it seems only fair to trumpet one of his finer novels. The Golden Lion of Granpère (1872) is a short but perfectly-formed tale of love and unreasonable patriarchs, set against a richly-drawn backdrop of provincial France. The Lion d’Or is a small town hotel, owned by the ambitious Michel Voss. He lives there with his son George, his second wife and her niece, Marie Bromar. Perhaps inevitably, Marie and George fall in love, thereby incurring the Jehovah-like wrath of Michel. He believes that each of them could make a more advantageous marriage, conferring greater wealth and influence upon the family. After consent to the couple’s engagement is refused unequivocally, George stomps off in a fit of pique to another town, remaining on non-speakers with his family for a whole year. ...

Following last week’s paean to Trollope’s moments of brilliance, I must now turn the papal eye on his less successful efforts. It’s not to say that the novels listed below are without merit, rather that they left me either unmoved or very cross. So, here are the stinkers, in no particular order: The Belton Estate Trollope is at his most reprehensible in this novel, carefully delineating the wrongs of women, but then desperately clinging to the status quo of primogeniture and wifely submission. ...

The opening of Ralph the Heir (1871) is marred slightly by a preponderance of Ralph Newtons. One is heir to the estate of Newton Priory and thoroughly unworthy of the honour; the other is his cousin, an affectionate and scholarly type who everyone would prefer to inherit the family wealth. In anticipation of his fortune, Bad Ralph has racked up a considerable debt to his breechesmaker, the ambitious Mr Neefit. Eyeing the prospect of social advantage, Neefit pledges to write off the debt and provide a £20,000 dowry if Ralph agrees to marry his daughter, Polly. He waxes lyrical as to her advantages and youthful charms: “There ain’t no mistake there, Mr. Newton; no paint; no Madame Rachel; no made beautiful for ever! It’s human nature what you see there, Mr. Newton.” Poor Polly has no interest in her impecunious suitor, protesting: “I’m not going to be given away, you know, like a birthday present, out of a shop. There’s nobody can give me away, father,–only myself.” She knows her place, and her own mind. ...

Sir Harry Hotspur of Humblethwaite (1871) is Trollope’s most comfortless novel, and also the one with the most alliterative title (almost impossible to pronounce reliably after half a glass of sherry). Following the tragic death of his son and heir, Sir Harry Hotspur is forced to rewrite his will. The glorious title must go to his cousin, a useless article called George Hotspur, but Sir Henry is determined that he shouldn’t also get his wealth. He bequeaths all his property to daughter Emily, hoping that she will marry a decent chap prepared to take his wife’s name. Alas, Emily is a feisty minx who refuses to marry the chinless wonder her parents have chosen, instead falling in love with the feckless George. ...