Having recently digested such scholarly works as Collapse, Jared Diamond's hefty treatise on How Societies Choose to Fail or Succeed, and American Creation, Joseph Ellis's briefer but more pleasantly enlightening analysis of the Triumphs and Tragedies of the Founding of the Republic -- thus giving the lie to my previously documented addiction to contemporary detective fiction -- I now offer for my readers' edification a commentary on one of the best-kept secrets in English literature, the Victorian novelist, Anthony Trollope.Ellen Moody observes that until recently Trollope commanded little respect from academics, and that, consequently, he is a writer whom readers often discover on their own, unlike required-reading literature course fixtures like Herman Melville, James Joyce, Jane Austen, George Eliot, and William Makepeace Thackeray.
And, in fact, in my four years as an English major at Washington and Lee University in the late sixties, the man's name never surfaced. I stumbled upon him by accident, browsing through another obscure book store, spying the eight-hundred page paperback version of The Way We Live Now hiding in the classics section, remembering the author's name from some subconscious encounter, buying it out of curiosity and an obsession to sample, at least once, all the immortals, watching it lie pristine and intimidating on my bookcase for months, and finally reading it, much to my delight. I shouldn't have been surprised; both Newsweek and the UK Observer rank it as one of the fifty best books of all time.
A scathing expose of social hypocrisy, callous greed, and financial chicanery, the plot of the novel revolves around Auguste Melmotte, a financier recently arrived in London, whose personal wealth and grandiose behavior win him immediate acceptance in high society, despite rumors of his nefarious origins. Among the avaricious aristocrats, ambitious politicians, and envious status seekers ensnared by his schemes are Lady Carbury, who earns the family bread by churning out fatuous potboilers, and her shiftless son Felix, whose gambling, drinking, and poor judgment will bring them both to the brink of ruin, but not before he sets his sights on the hand of Melmotte's daughter, Marie. Meanwhile, Felix's cousin Roger, a gentleman farmer, pursues his sister Henrietta, who prefers Paul Montague, a business associate of Melmotte, who himself is encumbered with an American widow rumored to have shot her husband. When Melmotte's credit collapses and a forgery fails to gain him possession of his daughter's trust fund, his devotees desert him, and he succumbs to a tragic fate.
If Melmotte -- whose empire was a house of cards built on confidence, audacity, and ostentation -- is a modern-day Madoff, the way they lived then is the way we live now; the title defines a Trollopeian universe which is timeless in its conceptualization and universal in its depiction of human nature. While the social mores of Victorian England may be different from ours -- particularly the peculiar rites of courtship -- the characters speak, act, and think, prosper and suffer, rejoice and repine, in ways that are startlingly contemporary. Granted, the pace is leisurely -- part of the beauty of these meandering tales -- but that is because the author takes time to explore every nuance of motivation. Even the most despicable villain emits a glimmer of morality; even the most admired angel is tainted by a blemish or two.
Writes Henry Denker in an introduction to the Alfred A. Knopf 1950 edition of Orley Farm, "What is it about Trollope that warrants our enthusiasm? The plots are neither engrossing nor thrilling." In his Autobiography, Trollope says "that he paid little attention to his plots and relied on his intimate acquaintance with his characters to insure their logical development of the story. Nothing very exciting happens. You can stop almost anywhere, and go on the next evening; but you always want more. The charm is in the vivid reality with which everyday doings are portrayed, in the wholesomeness of it all, and in the little incidental touches of Trollope's humor . . . The reason we like it is because it is obviously unpremeditated, utterly unaffected, usually unexpected; and is always good-humored, never bitter or spiteful."
In the January 1863 issue of National Review, a critic wrote, "More than a million people habitually read Mr. Trollope . . . because the personages in his stories correspond to something in themselves: the hopes, fears, and regrets, are such as they are accustomed to experience; the thoughtfulness is such they can appreciate; the standard of conduct just that to which they are prepared to submit." His stories reinforce the notion that the personal, moral, and emotional problems of day-to-day life are the same ones humans have pondered since the beginning of time, that they are not unique to any family, any culture, any generation.
The typical Trollope novel is at least six hundred pages long and contains three or more plotlines, one of which is always a love plot. Within the first one hundred pages, a young man and a young woman fall in love. But there is always something obstructing the consummation of their union. The woman may have chosen the wrong man first; the man may have a previous engagement; the man or woman may not have the proper parentage or breeding; the couple may have no money; one or both sets of parents may object. These problems are almost always resolved in happy endings.
Other plots involve such wide-ranging subjects as a perjury trial, the collapse of a marriage, bribery, ownership of a valuable necklace, a clergyman accused of theft, and British parliamentary shenanigans; they give Trollope the opportunity to plumb the thematic depths of religion, money, power, politics, woman's rights, and social and domestic philosophy. These plot endings are bittersweet, tragic, redemptive, conflicted.
After The Way We Live Now, I was hooked, and embarked on a crusade to tackle as many of Trollope's forty-eight novels as I could track down, at a comfortable pace of about two a year, starting with the best-known. To date, I have read sixteen, with two more lying in reserve; I actually own a copy of all eighteen, most of which I found hardbound buried in the used stacks at Givens Books, priced at less than $5.00.
In Can You Forgive Her? the first of the six Palliser novels dealing with 19th century British politics, Plantagenet and Glencora Palliser court and marry, Plantagenet launches his political career, and Alice Vavasor and Aunt Greenow must each choose between two suitors.
In Phineas Finn, the handsome, clever, ambitious Irishman becomes a member of Parliament, dallies with the rich and influential Lady Laura Standish but loses her to an unlikeable landowner, courts another heiress, Lady Violet Effingham, only to end up in a duel with her brother, refuses the hand and fortune of the widowed Mme. Max Goesler in favor of his hometown fiancee, and loses his Treasury appointment when the Irish question brings down his party.
In The Eustace Diamonds, Lizzie Greystock, a pathological liar refuses to relinquish the family heirloom to her deceased husband's estate, seeks a new husband among three respectable prospects, and fails to land any of them when the actual theft of the diamonds exposes her having falsely reported them stolen.
In Phineas Redux, young Finn, reelected to Parliament, survives a shooting attempt by the estranged husband of a woman he previously proposed to, is accused of murdering a disappointed politician with whom he quarreled, and is acquitted with the help of the seductive Mme. Goesler, whom he subsequently marries.
In The Prime Minister, Plantagenet Palliser assumes that title, Glencora and Mme. Goesler fulfill their social obligations, and Emily Wharton is swept off her feet by the dishonest share pusher, Ferdinand Lopez, who causes the Prime Minister a great deal of aggravation and comes to a violent end when his duplicity is exposed.
In The Duke's Children, Plantagenet Palliser, grief-stricken by the death of his wife, must deal with the imprudent love affair between his daughter and a penniless suitor, the betrayal of Mrs. Phineas Finn, who supports the daughter, his son's involvement with a shifty racing crook, and his increasing isolation in a world he had previously been accustomed to rule.
In The Warden, the first of The Barcetshire Chronicles, the gentle, beneficent clergyman, Rev. Septimus Harding is caught in a clash between his individual conscience and public sentiment, when a local reformer -- who is courting Harding's daughter -- denounces as church abuse the disparity between Harding's comfortable annual salary and the paltry allowance of the twelve almsmen living in his hospital, ultimately forcing Harding's resignation.
In Barchester Towers, Mrs. Proudie, the wife of the newly-appointed Bishop -- "a tyrant, a bully, a would-be priestess, a very vulgar woman" -- struggles for supremacy in the diocese with the chaplain, the hypocritical Obediah Slope, while the mysterious Madelina Neroni torments Mrs. Proudie with her wicked flirtatiousness and encourages Eleanor Bold, the widowed daughter of Rev. Harding, to rebuff marriage proposals from Slope and Bertie Stanhope, Madelina's spendthrift brother, and marry the brilliant clergyman, Frances Arabin.
In Doctor Thorne, Frank Gresham falls in love with the doctor's niece, Mary, much against the wishes of his mother, who wants him to marry for money, since the Gresham estate is heavily mortgaged to the ruthless millionaire -- and habitual drunk -- Sir Roger Scatcherd; Sir Roger's demise -- along with that of his son, also an alcoholic -- paves the way for the revelation of Mary's true parentage (she is Sir Roger's illegitimate niece), her inheritance of great wealth, and her marriage to Frank.
In Framley Parsonage, the new vicar, Mark Robarts, faces public humiliation when an unscrupulous Member of Parliament refuses to repay two notes Robarts has foolishly guaranteed, while his lower-class sister Lucy overcomes the objections of the snobbish Lady Lufton to marriage to her son by her tender ministrations to the long-suffering wife of the penurious curate, Josiah Crawley.
In The Small House at Arrington, Lily Bart, who lives with her widowed mother and sister rent-free on her uncle's property, spurns the the attentions of the young "hobbledehoy" Johnny Eames in favor of the caddish Augustus Crosbie, who jilts her and suffers a loveless marriage to the more respectable Lady Alexandrina de Courcy; Eames himself cruelly flirts with Amelia, whose mother runs a seedy boarding house.
In The Last Chronicle of Barset, the penniless Josiah Crawley is accused of stealing a cheque, and hardly knows whether he is guilty or not; his daughter Grace is courted by the son of the Archdeacon, who doesn't think she is worthy of him, in either social status or wealth; and Mrs. Proudie meets her match and her fate in a dramatic confrontation with Mr. Crawley and Dr. Tempest.
In He Knew He Was Right, Louis Trevelyan, is incited to insane jealousy when his wife Emily disobeys him and entertains an old family friend with a philandering reputation; he kidnaps their son, flees to Italy, descends into further madness, is pursued by his wife, and eventually returns to England where he dies -- a victim of delusion and self-inflicted suffering; meanwhile, Hugh Stanbury, a struggling journalist, courts Emily's sister, while his wealthy spinster Aunt tries to promote a match between his sister Dorothy and an insufferable clergyman before blessing her marriage to the charming nephew of her former fiance.
In Rachael Ray, Luke Rowan goes to Baslehurst to protect his interest in the family brewery, falls in love with Rachael Ray, much to the chagrin of Mrs. Tappitt, who wants him to marry one of her own daughters, and to the dismay of Rachael's mother and sister, who don't think him sufficiently pious.
These summaries bring me to Orley Farm, my most recent Trollopeian treat -- a captivating tale of forgery, perjury, revenge, guilt, sacrifice, love, compassion, and justice, replete with memorable characterizations, dramatic confrontations, and vivid set-pieces -- like traveling salesmen exchanging ripostes in the "commercial room" of a popular inn; prospective lovers awakening to each other's charms at an innocent country-manor Christmas party; and fox hunters leaping over double barriers, or falling from their mounts to suffer injuries critical to the furtherance of romance.
The story opens twenty years after a bitterly fought court case confirmed the codicil to the will of Joseph Mason of Groby Park. That will left his estate to his elder son, also Joseph, but the codicil -- in the handwriting of his much younger second wife, and sworn to by three witnesses, two of whom are still alive -- left Orley Farm to her, Lady Mary Mason, and her infant son.
Now the son, Lucius, having come of age and desiring to implement modern scientific farming methods, informs Samuel Dockwrath that he must vacate the two fields on the Orley Farm property that Lady Mason has been renting to him for a nominal sum. "Terribly aggrieved," and well aware of the circumstances of the original case -- his deceased father-in-law was old Mason's attorney and one of the witnesses to the codicil -- Dockwrath, himself an attorney, vows revenge -- in spite of the many kindnesses Lady Mason has bestowed upon his wife and their sixteen children. But "there are men who take special delight in abusing those special friends whom their wives best love, and Mr. Dockwrath was one of those."
In searching through his father-in-law's papers, Dockwrath discovers a second deed signed by the same witnesses on the same date, suggesting a possible forgery of the codicil. He travels to the home of Joseph Mason the younger to inform him of his suspicions, urge him to reopen the case, and hire Dockwrath to represent him. He could not have found a more receptive client.
Mason "was a bad man in that he could never forget and never forgive. His mind and heart were equally harsh and hard and inflexible. He was a man who considered that it behooved him as a man to resent all injuries, and to have his pound of flesh in all cases . . . He wanted nothing that belonged to any one else, but he could not endure that aught should be kept from him which he believed to be his own. . . He had always believed that [Lady Mason] had defrauded him . . . There had been no day in his life on which he would not have ruined her, had it been in his power to do so."
Mason's wife is no less an object of the author's scorn, "a woman one can thoroughly despise, and even hate," a hypocrite who typifies the "true spirit of parsimony. It is from the backs and bellies of other people that savings are made with the greatest constancy and the most satisfactory results . . . On matters eatable and drinkable . . . did Mrs. Mason [so] operate, going as far as she dared towards starving her husband. But nevertheless she would feed herself in the middle of the day, having a roast fowl with bread sauce in her own room."
Lady Mason's trusted confidante is Mr. Furnival, who had been employed as junior counsel in the original case -- "and that acquaintance had ripened into friendship, and now flourished in full vigor -- to Mrs. Furnival's great sorrow and disturbance." For success had corrupted Mr. Furnival. "As a poor man . . . [he] had been an excellent husband, going forth in the morning to his work, struggling through the day, and then returning to his meager dinner and his long evenings of unremitting drudgery." But now "he, at the age of fifty-five, was running after strange goddesses," or so his wife imagines, and imbibing healthy doses of the port wine he had formerly disdained.
Lady Mason rushes to Mr. Furnival's chambers seeking his assistance should Dockwrath decide to prosecute his case; overcome by her tears Mr. Furnival embraces the agitated woman -- in which position they are discovered when Mrs. Furnival unexpectedly bursts into the office. Her worst fears seem confirmed, yet they are ultimately false -- "unconcealed and undeserved jealousy on the part of a wife" being "as disagreeable" as any of the drawbacks of matrimony. The narrator informs us that "a propensity to rob Mrs. Furnival of her husband's affection had not hitherto" been one of Lady Mason's faults, and "that while Mr. Furnival liked his client because she was good-looking . . . there was nothing more to it than that."
Mr. Furnival's interview with Lady Mason introduces the central theme of the novel -- the effect of her guilt or innocence on the other major characters. Lady Mason's excessive grief at Dockwrath's discovery of "some old paper," and her curious suggestion that Mr. Furnival offer Dockwrath a bribe to keep him quiet arouses his own suspicions. "Nothing could be more natural than her anxiety, supposing her to be aware of some secret which would condemn her if discovered; -- but nothing more unnatural if there were no such secret."
And then Mr. Furnival reflects that such a forgery would not be terrible, but in fact wonderful. "Could it be possible that she, soft, beautiful, graceful as she was now, all but a girl as she had been then, could have done it unaided, by herself? . . . and forged that will, signatures and all . . . so skillfully as to have baffled lawyers and jurymen and resisted the eager greed of her cheated kinsman?"
Later, Mr. Furnival wishes "he knew the truth in the matter . . . and for a moment or two he thought he would ask her the question." But that was impossible, because a confession of her guilt would require restitution and "would be incompatible with that innocence before the world which it was necessary she should maintain. Moreover, he must be able to proclaim aloud his belief in her innocence; and how could he do that, knowing her to be guilty -- knowing that she also knew he had such knowledge?"
Lady Mason's son, Lucius, is irate when he hears rumors implicating his mother. He visits Dockwrath, calling him a "mean low vile scoundrel." He sits in silence with his mother, never for a moment suspecting her of wrongdoing, "but under these circumstances, he cannot understand how she could consent to endure without resistance the indignities which were put upon her." He goes to Furnival, who advises him to "do nothing and say nothing."
Believing his client guilty, Mr. Furnival resolves to stand by her to the end. He rationalizes the "bitter malicious justice" of Joseph Mason "as more criminal than any crime of which Lady Mason may have been guilty." Her pale face, the soft tone of her voice, the tear in her eye, all have a mesmerizing effect on this middle-aged man. For, our narrator tells us, although "the body dries up and withers away, and the bones grow old; [and] the brain too becomes decrepit, as do the sight, hearing, and the soul . . . the heart that is tender once remains tender to the last."
In her distress, Lady Mason finds further comfort in the attentions of Sir Peregrine Orme, a fine English gentleman, seventy years old, master of the Cleeve, the neighboring estate, where he resides with the widow of his son, Mrs. Orme, and his grandson, also Peregrine.
"A man singularly devoid of suspicion, in whose estimation the ungentlemanly Joseph Mason did not rank high," Sir Peregrine offers his services and his home to Lady Mason -- "as sure of her innocence as he is of his own." Her grief at her situation brings tears from his own eyes; her head falls upon his shoulder; they embrace, and leaning over, he kisses her on the lips. As Lady Mason hastens to her chamber, Sir Peregine asks himself, "Why should I not?" Why should he not make her his wife?
And he does propose -- after first telling Mrs. Orme, who, although fearful such a marriage will injure the old man's reputation, says that, if it will make him happy, she will say nothing against it. And of course Lady Mason accepts him, fully aware that her friend Mrs. Orme and young Peregrine, the old man's heir, may come to hate her, that Mr. Furnival may take offense, and that her own son Lucius, will greatly dislike this second marriage. Yet "a great necessity for assistance had come upon her. It was necessary that she should bind men to her cause, men powerful in the world and able to fight her battle with strong arms."
At least she decides to postpone the nuptials until her trial is decided -- with its potential for "disgrace and ruin, and an utter overthrow."
"The idea that their fathers and mothers should marry and enjoy themselves is always a thing horrible to be thought of in the minds of the rising generation." And so Lucius Mason and young Peregrine Orme are outraged by this May-December romance, and conspire to abort it.
Nor does Mr. Furnival approve, declaring "Oh, indeed," when informed by Sir Peregrine of his great purpose. Whereas previously he has looked forward to "the idea of washing" Lady Mason from her probable guilt, "this dragging down of another -- and such another -- head into the vortex of ruin and misery was horrible to him." And, "had anyone told him that he was jealous of the preference shown by his client to Sir Peregrine, he would have fumed with anger, and thought he was fuming justly. But such in truth was the case," though "he had formed no idea that the woman would become his mistress."
Sir Peregrine's successful courtship contrasts with the failure of his grandson to win the hand of the graceful yet staid Madeline Staveley -- not yet perfect in her beauty, says the author, though a safe prophecy is "that she will some day become so." Madeline is the daughter of Judge Staveley -- "one of the best men in the world, revered on the bench, and loved by all men" -- master of another country estate, Noningsby, where the novel's major subplot will unfold -- the love affair between Madeline and the outspoken attorney, Felix Graham -- "by no means a handsome man . . . but full of enthusiasm," and later recruited to help defend Lady Mason.
Young Peregrine is hopelessly in love with Madeline, yet struck dumb by her beauty -- though "he had never yet feared to speak out in any presence . . . But now [at Noningsby] he stood there looking and longing, and could not summons courage to go up and address a few words to this young girl . . . Twice or thrice during the last few days he had essayed to speak to her, but his words had seemed dull and vapid, and to himself they had appeared childish." Thus, it is hardly surprising that, when he asks her to be his wife, her answer is "No, no, no."
"It had never entered her head that she had an admirer in him . . . He had never said a word to her that had taught her to regard him as a possible lover; and now that he was an actual lover . . . she knew not how to speak . . . All her ideas too, as to love . . . were confounded by this abruptness. She would have thought . . . that all speech of love should be very delicate; that love should grow slowly, and then be whispered softly, doubtingly, and with infinite care. Even if she had loved him, or had she been in a way towards loving him, such violence as this would have frightened her and scared her love away."
On the other hand, Lady Mason, when importuned by Sir Peregrine, barely hesitates.
Young Peregrine unwittingly becomes the instrument by which Madeline is attracted to another man. During a fox hunt, Felix Graham's horse fails to negotiate a double jump and ditch, throws his rider, and rolls over him, breaking Graham's right arm and two ribs. Noble Peregrine abandons the hunt to care for his friend.
It is while recuperating from his injuries, laid up in a private bedroom at Noningsby, that Felix wins the love of Madeline, ironically while speaking fewer words to her than even Peregrine. Madeline's feelings are warmed by thoughts of the poor invalid, and the burgeoning romance is abetted by the match-making housekeeper, Mrs. Baker, who leaves the bedroom door open, so Madeline can steal a peek while passing in the hall.
Felix must first dispose of a young woman whom he is in the process of moulding to be his wife.
"The operation takes some ten years, at the end of which the moulded bride regards her lord as an old man." Trollope observes that the ordinary plan is better, and safer. "Dance with a girl three times, and if you like the light in her eye and the tone of the voice with which she, breathless, answers your little questions about horseflesh and music -- about affairs masculine and feminine -- then take the leap in the dark. There is danger, no doubt; but the moulded wife is, I think, more dangerous."
The problem conveniently resolves itself when "the subject of the experiment," Mary Snow, catches the eye of another man.
A second subplot involves the antics of the gregarious tradesman, Mr. Moulder -- who never appears without a glass of wine in one hand and piece of meat in the other -- in promoting a match between his wife's brother, John Kenneby, and the well-established widow, Mrs. Smiley, and, since Kenneby was one of the witnesses to the Mason codicil twenty years ago, in counseling him on his upcoming testimony at Lady Mason's trial. While this comical portrait of middle class daily life is meant to contrast with that of the aristocracy at Noningsby and the Cleeves, in some respects the solemn proceedings there are no less humorous.
Unable to resist the blandishments of young Peregrine -- who warns that "old family friends would look down on his grandfather and ridicule him were he to make this marriage" -- and of Mr. Furnival -- who now believes the verdict will go against her and further disgrace the baronet -- Lady Mason decides to break off her engagement to Sir Peregrine.
And so, it is at this point, a little over half way through the novel, that the story turns, in a climactic scene. When Lady Mason says to her betrothed, "It is impossible that we should be married," he protests. "For the world's talk, which will last some month or two, I care nothing," he says. "In doing this I shall gratify my own heart, and also serve you in your great troubles." Lady Mason, torn between her dependence on Sir Peregrine and her desire not to dishonor him, rises above her own self-interest and makes a courageous sacrifice. "I am guilty," she says. "Guilty of all with which they charge me . . . I forged the will. I did it all. I am guilty."
After her confession, Lady Mason feels that "all of evil, all of punishment that she had ever anticipated, had now fallen upon her." But "neither would the mountains crush her, nor would the earth take her in. There was her burden, and she must bear it to the end."
Staunchly supportive of Lady Mason in her agony is the equally heroic Mrs. Orme, Sir Peregrine's daughter-in-law. Informed of her friend's crime, she is forgiving. "The guilt of twenty years ago did not strike her senses so vividly as the abject misery of the present day. There was no pity in her bosom for Joseph Mason when she heard the story, but she was full of pity for her who had committed the crime. It was twenty years ago, and had not the sinner repented?" Mrs. Orme, "pure and high, so shielded from the world's impurity that nothing ignoble might touch her . . . took [Lady Mason] to her heart" and forgave her.
While Sir Peregrine does not think it right that Lady Mason should remain at the Cleeve -- where she might contaminate "the one cherished lady of his household" -- Mrs. Orme convinces him otherwise. "Who else is there that can stand by her now? What other woman?" she says. "What are love and friendship if they cannot stand against such trials as this?"
Sir Peregrine is less forgiving but still conflicted. In spite of Lady Mason's sin, "was he not under a deep obligation to her -- under the very deepest? Had she not saved him from a worse disgrace -- saved him at the cost of all that was left to herself? Was he not still bound to stand by her? And did he not still love her?"
He considers informing Mr. Furnival of what he now knows, but hesitates, realizing that to do so would risk the latter's deserting his client. He goes to Joseph Mason's lawyer, Mr. Round, seeking a compromise, a means by which the case might be quietly settled, and suggests that Lady Mason might be amenable to surrendering the property, an offer Mr. Round must decline but which convinces him of her guilt.
With the load placed upon his back "too heavy to be borne," Sir Pergrine confines himself to his house, listless, "for the few days that remained to him in this world . . . contented to abandon the turmoils and troubles of life." He expresses a desire to turn over complete management of his estate to his grandson, but young Peregrine protests: "You should never give up as long as you live . . . one should always say to oneself, No surrender." A foolish falsehood, responds the baronet, whose "heart and spirit and body have all surrendered."
Back at Noningsby, Lady Staveley is promoting Peregrine as the proper match for her daughter. He "was fair and handsome . . . bright of eye and smooth of skin, good-natured . . . a young man to be loved by all the world, and -- incidentally -- the heir to a baronetcy and a grand estate." On the other hand, Felix Graham was "hideously ugly . . . not soft and pleasant . . . heir to nothing, and as people of his own he had none in particular."
Madeline's father, the Judge, is less Victorian in his view of young love. He admires Madeline for preferring "mind over matter . . . wit and intellect and power of expression" over "good looks and rank and worldly prosperity." To facilitate matters and encourage Felix, he promises 5000 pounds to Madeline upon her marriage.
With Lady Mason's guilt no longer in doubt, her trial becomes the vehicle by which Trollope explores the morality of a legal profession committed to exonerating her. While Mr. Furnival's enthusiasm falters under the burden of the truth, and he must fight the battle without belief -- "the sorriest task which ever fell to the lot of man" -- and Felix Graham confronts his own demons, for two other barristers engaged in the defense, Mr. Chaffanbrass and Solomon Aram, "the escape of a criminal under their auspices would of course be a matter of triumph."
Trollope leaves no doubt where his sentiments lie. "I cannot understand how any gentleman can be willing to use his intellect for the propagation of untruth, and to be paid for it."
As the trial approaches, Lady Mason's anguish intensifies. Implored by Mrs. Orme to reveal the truth to her son, she refuses; she has done it all for him, and she is tormented by the thought that now "he should be doomed to suffer so deeply for her sin." Lucius, firmly convinced of her innocence, finds her stubborn silence disconcerting; against his will, bowing to her wishes, he harnesses his impulse to act and speak in her defense.
Lady Mason yearns to be true and honest -- "to go back and cleanse herself of the poison of her deed . . . But that task of cleansing oneself is not an easy one; the waters of that Jordan in which it is needful to wash are scalding hot."
Trollope depicts the trial as a contest of opposing wit and rhetoric, and makes much of the common practice of attorneys' abusing their opponents' witnesses, in order to impugn their testimony. Chaffanbras exposes Dockwrath's selfish motive when he elicits an admission that he will regain the tenancy of Orley Farm should it revert to Joseph Mason -- much to the disgust of a disillusioned Felix Graham. In his mind the "iniquities and greed" of Dockwrath have nothing to do with the validity of the long-lost documents he discovered.
In cross-examining John Kenneby, witness to the twenty-year old codicil, Mr. Furnival so browbeats and confuses him that he is reduced to not remembering anything. His associate, Chaffanbras, is less successful with the other witness, the former chambermaid. Bridget Bolster. "He could not force her to contradict herself . . or to utter words of which she herself did not know the meaning. . . He could not make a fool out of her, and therefore he would make her out to be a rogue," one who had been bribed by the prosecutors with a hearty breakfast and a thimbleful of brandy.
It was a triumph, however small. "As for himself, Mr. Chaffanbras knew well enough that she had spoken nothing but the truth. But had he so managed that the truth might be made to look like falsehood, -- or at any rate to have a doubtful air? If he had done that, he had succeeded in the occupation of his life, and was indifferent to his own triumph."
With stunning eloquence, Mr. Furnival recaptures his old fire when he rises in defense of his client -- a second time. He dismisses Kenneby as possessing a "mind so inconsequential, he literally did not know truth from falsehood," and Bridget Bolster as unworthy of belief, "who had come into court drilled and instructed to make one point-blank statement and stick to it."
As evidence of Lady Mason's character, he commands the gentlemen of the jury to notice the presence of her loving friend, Mrs. Orme, and her devoted son, Lucius. He asks them "whether so fair a life is compatible with the idea of a guilt so foul?" and how they could believe "that such a deed [requiring such skilled artifice] was done by a young wife, of whom all that you know is that her conduct in every other respect had been beyond all praise!" They must sympathize with her, and "think what she must have suffered in being dragged here and subjected to the gaze of all the country as a suspected felon."
He has no doubt that they will pronounce her not guilty. "And yet as he sat down he knew that she had been guilty . . . and, knowing that, he had been able to speak as though her innocence were a thing of course. That those witnesses had spoken truth he also knew, and yet he had been able to hold them up to the execration of all around them as though they had committed the worst of crimes from the foulest of motives! And more than this, stranger than this, worse than this, -- when the legal world knew -- as the legal world would soon know -- that all this had been so, the legal world found no fault with Mr. Furnival, conceiving that he had done his duty by his client in a manner becoming an English barrister and an English gentleman."
The unpleasant task of disclosing the truth to Lucius falls to the indomitable Mrs. Orme. "I do not believe it. I cannot believe it," he says, before sinking into his own misery, hardly considering, "as he should have done, that mother's love which had led to all this guilt . . . It was not only that she had beggared him . . . but she had doomed him to a life of disgrace which no effort of his own could wipe away."
Despite his affliction, he resolves to be always near her, although he cannot give solace, affirming the maxim: "Of all the virtues with which man can endow himself, surely none other is so odious as that justice which can teach itself to look down upon mercy almost as a vice!"
The lawyers have done their duty; the jury returns a verdict of "Not guilty." Yet Lucius cannot abide the stigma of his mother's sin. He surrenders to his half brother, Joseph Mason of Groby Park, all his claim to Orley Farm, and, in doing so, relinquishes the hand of the witty, coquettish Sophia Furnival, daughter of the attorney, who had previously accepted his marriage proposal but now finds it necessary to renege, her betrothed having been stripped of his reputation and his inheritance.
Nor can Sir Pergrine's undying love for Lady Mason overcome his better judgment. "He was as a child who knows that a coveted treasure is beyond his reach, but still covets it, still longs for it, hoping against hope that it may yet be his own. It seemed to him that he might yet regain his old vitality if he could wind his arm once more about her waist, and press her to his side, and call her his own. It would be so sweet to forgive her . . ."
But he cannot offend the laws of society. As Mrs. Orme says, while they may forgive, other will not do so. Espousing his love, Sir Peregrine bids Lady Mason "Farewell."
As she departs the stage, though a sinner, she has earned our sympathy, and the narrator's, who, he says, has "learned to forgive her, and to feel that . . . [he] too could have regarded her as a friend."
She and her son flee to Germany. The vindictive Joseph Mason tries but fails to reopen criminal proceedings against her for forgery. Sir Peregrine pines away, never returning "to that living life which had been his before he had taken up the battle for Lady Mason . . . waiting patiently . . . till death should come to him." The only marriage consummated is that between the mismatched, but happy, Noningsby couple, Felix Graham and Madeline Staveley.
Like a glass of fine wine, another Trollopeian treat has been toasted, tasted, aerated, savored, and sipped, until the last swallow leaves one thirsting for more. And just as there is always another bottle to be uncorked, so too, after a sweet sixteen, there still remain thirty-one more virgin Trollopeian treasures to be unearthed. And, if that's not enough, one can always start over.
