Online reading groups

The Anthony Trollope Society Facebook Group is currently reading Phineas Redux. We have reached Chapter 16 – reading a chapter a day – but the chapters are very short (sometimes only 5 pages) so anyone who wants to join in can easily catch up. The daily chapter discussion enables us to swap thoughts on what we have just read and I always find that I learn something new, or gain greater insights, from the input of everyone reading along.

For those for whom one Trollope is never enough, there will be another group read starting at the beginning of December which will run in parallel with the first. This will be of The Way We Live Now. This seems timely given its subject matter and the state current state of affairs in the world. Trollope’s satire has never been more relevant. This read will, by common consent, include more topical discussion than is normally found in a Trollope group read but in all other respects it will follow the same sort of approach.

To join the read of Phineas Redux you will need to join the Anthony Trollope Society Facebook group. You can contact the group at:

If you want to join the group read of The Way We Live Now please use the Contact Us link above and we will send you an invitation.



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How emancipated is Mrs Rowan?

The case is often made that James Joyce’s women, unlike those of Trollope, writing several decades earlier, are emancipated from social constraints. Molly Bloom, Leopold Bloom’s wife who cheats on him in the novel Ulysses, is held up as an example of this willingness by Joyce to write strong women characters who defy conventional barriers to their self-fulfilment and happiness. Richard Rowan’s partner, Bertha, in the play Exiles, is similarly held up as an example of a woman who is able to exercise freedoms, particularly sexual freedoms, in a liberated way that is ahead of its time.

Bertha, we learn, has gone off into exile from Ireland with Richard Rowan some nine years prior to the action of the play. They have lived abroad and had a son without being married. They have now returned to Dublin and have renewed their friendship with journalist Robert Hand. We see Robert and Bertha kiss. Later Rowan allows Bertha to go off alone to visit Hand and tells her “You have complete liberty to do as you wish”. Rowan’s willingness to allow her to be unfaithful to him is held out as evidence of the freedom she enjoys.

Does this interpretation of Exiles stand up to a close inspection of the text?

If we go back to the decision to leave Ireland and go into exile, this was Richard Rowan’s decision alone. He invites Bertha to accompany him in his exile but makes it clear that if she does so it will not be as his wife. She agrees to this. In effect, he gave her an ultimatum. If you love me and want to be with me then you must leave your home and family and friends and do so without the legal protections that a wife would enjoy under those circumstances. If you love me enough you will accept these terms. And she does. She is cut off from the network of support that she would otherwise have had and becomes absolutely dependent upon him. Looked at in this light, Rowan’s actions appear more like those of an abuser who isolates his victim and places her in a subjugated position, totally under his power.

Bertha points out to Richard that, “You try to turn everyone against me. All is to be for you. I am to appear false and cruel to everyone except to you.”

To which Richard responds with a withering put down, “And you have the courage to say that to me?”

Bertha shows how he has even tried to turn her son against her by making her the only one who disciplines the child so that he plays good cop to her bad cop. “You tried to turn my own child against me…Everyone saw it. Whenever I tried to correct him for the least thing you went on with your folly, speaking to him as if he were a grown-up man. Ruining the poor child, or trying to. Then, of course, I was the cruel mother and only you loved him.”

Richard, cleverly tries to deflect this point, saying, “You know I cannot be severe with a child.” He then goes on to admonish her, “Do not say things you will be sorry for.”

Being the cleverer of the two he is always able to turn her words around and use them against her. She rails at him that, “Because I am simple you think you can do what you like with me.”

We also learn that on the pretext of being open and honest, Rowan has told Bertha when he has been unfaithful to her, seemingly within hours of the event. This would be all very well if both parties were in positions of equal power in the relationship but that is not the case. She is dependent on him financially. It also assumes that they are both equally detached and intellectual about the relationship whereas all the evidence points to Bertha being more emotional and more committed to the relationship. Under those circumstances, to tell her of his infidelities is rather rubbing salt in her wounds.

Richard tells Robert that, “I remember the first time [that I was unfaithful to Bertha]. I came home. It was night. My house was silent. My little son was sleeping in his cot. She, too, was asleep. I wakened her from sleep and told her. I cried beside her bed; and I pierced her heart.”

Robert asks him why he told her and Richard replies. “She must know me as I am.”

Since he is aware that it is painful to her, Richard is, in fact, being yet more cruel. He is deliberately inflicting suffering on Bertha because he understands she wants a monogamous relationship and so forces her to confront the reality of what it is to be in the type of open relationship he wishes it to be. Again, it is his decision that the relationship will be open rather than exclusive, not hers. He cloaks this cruelty with the pretence that it is to be honest and that he does not mind her reciprocating and being unfaithful to him. But even this is adding to the cruelty. To her, who wishes that there should be fidelity in their relationship, his indifference to whether or not she is faithful to him diminishes her sense of self-worth. How can he place value on her if he does not want her to be faithful as she wishes him to be?

Indeed, the way in which he allows her to go about being unfaithful to him is in itself controlling.

First he requires her to reveal details of the first steps that she has allowed Robert to take towards a possible infidelity on her part. He extracts this information in a painful interview in which he grills her, “Well?…I saw it. What else went on?…Did you?…Well?…And then?…And then?…”

Bertha asks him, “Does all this disturb you?…I think you are only pretending you don’t mind.” She surely hopes this is so.

Richard responds, “I knew dear. But I want to find out what he means or feels…”

And therein perhaps lies a clue as to Richard’s motivation in putting Bertha through this painful scene. He wants to know what makes Robert tick. Is this so he can control him and manipulate him too, as he does Bertha? She is like his puppet. She may only be unfaithful when and if he wants her to be and on his terms, with him pulling the strings. It appears he wishes to exercise similar control over the other party, Robert. This accounts for his insisting that he goes to visit Robert at the proposed place for the assignation before Bertha goes. Surely nothing could be a greater passion-killer for a would-be seducer than for the husband to turn up on the doorstep just before the wife.

Richard wants Robert to know that he is found out. Richard confronts Robert at the house where he has arranged to meet Bertha and makes him feel an idiot – Richard immediately confesses, “I must have been mad.”

Richard, of course, has the moral high ground and exploits it ruthlessly to make Robert feel dreadful. Richard speaks loftily and with intellectual detachment saying that, “I wished you not to do anything false or secret against me – against our friendship…not to steal her from me craftily, secretly, meanly – in the dark, in the night – you, Robert, my friend.”

This, as it is calculated to do, makes Robert feel even more sordid than ever. Robert tells Richard, “It is noble of you, Richard, to forgive me like this.”

Having thus ensured that his would be rival feels so bad about what he was planning that it is almost impossible that he should actually go through with it, Richard then withdraws and sees what will happen.

At this point, Bertha and Robert, both aware that Richard is monitoring them, must feel like specimens in Richard’s laboratory taking part in some experiment in human relations with Richard as some sort of scientist exercising god-like control over the whole thing.

No wonder, it turns out that nothing happens.

Each feels impelled to tell Richard what happened – or more to the point – what did not happen between them, when they see him the next morning.

Robert tells Richard “I failed.” He means he failed to win Bertha away from Richard.

Bertha says to Richard, “Do you believe now that I have been true to you? Last night and always?”

Richard responds that, “I have a deep, deep wound of doubt in my soul…I can never know, never in this world.”

Thereby he keeps Bertha hanging on. She can never satisfy his doubts and so must constantly strive to do so. It is all about his ego to which she must be subservient.

Given the autobiographical nature of Joyce’s work, including Exiles, which parallels in many respects Joyce’s own decision to quit Dublin and make a life for himself on the continent, taking Nora Barnacle with him, in much the same way that his character Richard Rowan took Bertha, I wonder whether Joyce would have wished his audience to interpret the relationship between Richard and Bertha as I have done – that is one of emotional abuse by a domineering man over a dependent woman. Or would Joyce have believed the intellectual theorising/justifications which he puts in the mouth of Richard Rowan to explain away his behaviour as the reasonable actions of a man of principles at odds with the society in which he grew up. If it is the former then Joyce would be a remarkable artist willing to portray himself in so poor a light; which makes me suspect there is more than a little of the latter case here. Which in itself leads to the conclusion that Joyce is, like Trollope, a truly remarkable author in that he is able to portray accurately on the page human characters and emotions with psychological depth and accuracy that can only be properly appreciated with the hindsight we enjoy with the benefit of all the developments in understanding of human psychology that have taken place long after their deaths.















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Trollope’s Women: Lady Mason

Trust Me – painting by John Everett Millais, first exhibited in 1862, the year Orley Farm was published in book form having been serialised by Chapman and Hall from March 1861 to October 1862. The painting appears to have been a re-working of the engraving Millais produced for inclusion in the serial publication of the fateful interview between Lady Mason and Sir Peregrine Orme in which she confesses to forging the codicil to her husband’s will.

Mary Johnson was born around 1812. Her grandfather had been in the hardware business and her father had continued in that business but shifted from retail to wholesale – thereby beginning to distance himself from the sordid associations of “trade”. Unfortunately, the business became insolvent around the beginning of the 1830s. Her father died and her mother went to live with her brother, John, in Lancashire.

Sir Joseph Mason was involved in sorting out the financial problems and was attracted to Mary. She was at that time, “very fair – tall, slight, fair, and very quiet – not possessing that loveliness which is generally most attractive to men, because the beauty of which she might boast depended on form rather than the brightness of her eye, or the softness of her cheek and lips. Her face too, even at that age, seldom betrayed emotion, and never showed signs of either anger or of joy. Her forehead was high, and though somewhat narrow, nevertheless gave evidence of considerable mental faculties; nor was the evidence false, for those who came to know Lady Mason well, were always ready to acknowledge that she was a woman of no ordinary power. Her eyes were large and well formed, but somewhat cold. Her nose was long and regular. Her mouth was also very regular, and her teeth perfectly beautiful; but her lips were straight and thin. It would sometimes seem that she was all teeth, and yet it was certain that she never made an effort to show them. The great fault of her face was her chin, which was too small and sharp, thus giving on occasions something of meanness to her countenance.”

Sir Joseph was at that time a widower approaching seventy – forty-five years Mary’s senior – and had a grown up family: a son, also Joseph, then aged about forty and three daughters. Nevertheless, he married the young Mary, much to the disgust of his children, and set up home with her at Orley Farm. The children of his first wife were even more perturbed when the couple had a child, Lucius.

Within a only a couple of years, old Sir Joseph Mason died, leaving Mary a widow in her mid-twenties. In the main body of her husband’s will, all his lands went to his eldest son, while Mary was adequately provided for but no provision was made for Lucius. However, in a codicil, Orley Farm was left to Lucius – contrary to what the eldest son Joseph had understood from his father would happen – and part of the money which was to have gone to Mary was now left to Miriam Usbech (the daughter of his solicitor).

Joseph Mason contested the will at the time but lost the case. Mary proved to be convincing when called upon to testify and won the case in spite of one of the witnesses to the will’s codicil being unable to give a coherent account of its preparation, signing and witnessing.

Mary then retired to a life of quiet widowhood and raised her son to be the owner of the farm when he reached age 21.

It should be stated at this point that Lady Mason forged the codicil.

Trollope made this clear some half way through the novel and in his Autobiography famously said of novel’s plot that therefore “it has the fault of declaring itself, and thus coming to an end too early in the book”. However, in saying this, he omits to mention that the tension in the book arises not out of knowing whether or not Lady Mason committed the forgery but whether or not she will be found out through the efforts of Mr Dockwrath or shielded from justice by Sir Peregrine Orme and the barrister Mr Chaffanbrass. Not incidentally, the reader is as a result also treated to a study in the effects of guilt on the conscience and peace of mind of an otherwise decent person, as Lady Mason suffers remorse – not for having done what she has for the benefit of her son (not herself) but for having to commit a sin to that end.

Looked at objectively, it seems somewhat mean of the aged father to make only “certain moderate provision for the infant, as he had already made moderate provision for his young wife”. Mary’s decision to defraud the elder son, who had already enjoyed possession for some time of the major part of Sir Joseph Mason’s land – the estates of Groby Park – related to only the comparatively much smaller Orley Farm. In this she was perhaps being not only fair but also wise, in as much as this would not be too significant a loss to the elder son and so might be a reasonable thing for the father to have done. Not for Mary the grandiose plots of Lizzie Eustace to make off with the fabulous diamond necklace family heirloom.

In executing her forgery, Mary certainly justified the views of those who thought her clever. She wrote out the codicil as she had written the will itself. She laid the groundwork beforehand – asking her husband before witnesses that he bequeath the farm to her son. In fairness, she almost certainly made these requests in the hope that he would indeed make such a change but she made good use later of these overheard conversations to corroborate her evidence that the codicil was genuine. It was, in many ways, the perfect crime – modest in scope rather than over-ambitious and supported by evidence from at least one reliable, independent source.

Having brought off her crime she then kept a suitably low profile. “Lady Mason had earned the respect of all those around her by the way in which she bore herself in the painful days of the trial, and also in those of her success…she showed no feeling of triumph; she never abused her husband’s relatives…and although, as I have said, many of her neighbours visited her, she did not lay herself out for society. She accepted and returned their attention, but for the most part deemed to be willing that the matter should so rest. The people around by degrees came to know her ways; thy spoke to her when they met her, and occasionally went through the ceremony of a morning call; but did not ask her to their tea-parties, and did not expect to see her at picnic and archery meetings.” How much of this was deliberate and how much the result of her own conscience at having pulled off her fraud is difficult to determine. I suspect there was a mix of calculation and guilt in her chosen mode of life.

At the time of the original court case, towards the end of the 1830s, Mary sought the support of Sir Peregrine Orme,  leading figure in the area. When it appears that the case will be re-opened, she turns to him once more. She flatters him by seeking his advice, as indeed she has done during the intervening years on matters pertaining to Lucius’s education but, as with his advice on the earlier matters, “she did not, consciously, attach any weight to Sir Peregrine’s opinion.” Indeed, she had so arranged things in the past that when she had asked for his advice about the choice of school, she had talked him round to her way of thinking in favour of a less well known private school so that “Sir Peregrine was sure that he had been so sent at his own advice.” Now, twenty years later in the late 1850s, she manipulates him when “What she wanted from Sir Peregrine was countenance and absolute assistance in the day of trouble – not advice.”

Clearly Mary understands Sir Peregrine and like his employees knows how to work him for her own ends. She is certainly capable of identifying clearly her own best interests and seeking to have others act in those interests. She attempted to persuade Miriam Usbeck, whom she had sweetened with the bequest in the forged codicil to her husband’s will, to destroy the paper’s which her father, Sir Joseph Mason’s legal adviser, had left when he died. No doubt she feared that some of the contents might reveal her forgery for what it was. But she did not risk overplaying her hand by attempting to force the issue and as a result the papers were left undisturbed. They would, eventually, come back to haunt her when Miriam’s husband, the shyster lawyer Mr Dockwrath, who had no love for Mary who he knew had tried to persuade Miriam to marry someone else rather than him, was spurred to re-examine them after his supposed mistreatment at the hands of Lucius Mason, who terminated the lease on some fields attached to Orley Farm of which Dockwrath was the tenant.

Yet, in spite of Trollope making clear to the reader that Mary can be determined to act to protect her own and her son’s interests and to do so in the subtle, indirect ways open to a woman rather than by the direct and open means more generally available to a man, he manages to retain our sympathies for her. He does this by showing the stress she undergoes.

After Sir Peregrine leaves her, “As soon as the door was closed behind him Lady Mason seated herself in her accustomed chair, and all trace of the smile vanished from her face. She was alone now, and could allow her countenance to be a true index of her mind. If such was the case her heart surely was very sad. She sat there perfectly still for nearly an hour, and during the whole of that time there was a look of agony on her brow. Once or twice she rubbed her hands across her forehead, brushing back her hair, and showing, had there been anyone by to see it, that there was many a grey lock there mixed with the brown hairs. Had there been anyone by, she would, it may be surmised, have been more careful.” This observation of the great stress under which she is acting now the second crisis has come upon her (indeed under which she has been acting all these years) is telling. Trollope means us to feel for her in her distress.

She was carried through the first great crisis by her youthful energy and determination to act in the interests of her baby son. We are told that “Sir Peregrine could not but remember as he looked at her during all those law proceedings, when an attack was made, not only on her income but on her honesty, she had never seemed to tremble. She had always been constant to herself, even when things had appeared to be going against her. But years passing over her head since that time had perhaps told upon her courage.” Her fortitude in the original court case is made to sound wholly admirable even though we later learn it was all built on a lie. And so her weakening now is made to appear both natural and to invite our sympathy.

It is intriguing to consider Mary’s relationships with both her husband – forty-five years her senior – and Sir Peregrine Orme – twenty-five years her senior – who proposes marriage to her when she is 47 and he is in his seventies. She turns the latter down, even though it might save her from further legal issues.

When talking to Sir Peregrine Orme of her first marriage she tells him, “I have known but little love. He – Sir Joseph – was my master rather than my husband. He was a good master, and I served him truly – except in that one thing. But I never loved him.”

Is she looking for a father figure rather than a flesh and blood husband? Does her own father’s premature ruin and death leave her in need of such a man in her life to replace him (arguably with a more solid foundation that might make him more reliable when her father had, in effect, let her down and failed to support her as he would have been expected to do). Given their ages, it is unlikely that either Sir Joseph Mason or Sir Peregrine Orme (had she married him) would have been sexually demanding. Her physical “duties” as a wife would not have been onerous. I wonder whether she feared sex and this was in part why she remained an unattached widow even though, as a financially secure twenty-something year old woman, she would have been a good catch for men of her own age and why she deliberately attached herself to older men.

Indeed, it is an intriguing facet of Lady Mason’s character that she is able to inspire the loyalty of not only Sir Peregrine but also of another older man, her lawyer Mr Furnival – a family man of fifty-five, whose wife is convinced that his devotion to Lady Mason’s cause has it its root an amorous attraction to his client – when we are told that “[i]t is impossible to conceive that a lady so staid in her manner should be guilty of flirting”. Yet Mr Furnival after an interview with her “and seeing that she wept, and seeing that she was beautiful, and feeling that in her grief and in her beauty she had come to him for aid, his heart was softened towards her, and he put out his arms as though he would take her to his heart – as a daughter. ‘Dearest friend,’ he said, ‘trust me that no harm shall come to you.’ ‘I will trust you, she said, gently stopping the motion of his arm.”

In spite of the explicit caveat that the lawyer’s feelings were paternal, the desire to hold her is there and we must remember that though “[s]he was now forty seven years of age, and had a son who had reached a man’s estate; and yet she had more of a woman’s beauty at this present time than when she stood at the alter with Sir Joseph Mason. The quietness and repose of her manner suited her years and her position; age had given fullness to her tall form.” In short she is a desirable woman and recognises this in herself so that she is ready to fend off the attempt to hold her. It is unasked for and, perhaps, physically discomforting to her – whether on the grounds of her personal sensibilities or purely on the grounds of social propriety – but she is sufficiently worldly to recognise that if handled with delicacy and tact that attraction may be turned to her purposes.

Of the men in her life, only her son does not give way to her influence. But then he is young and, being her son, not subjected by her to “the soft meekness about her, an air of feminine dependence, a proneness to lean and almost to cling as she leaned, which might have been felt as irresistible by any man.” He is fresh out of the private education and German University which his mother had selected for him. As is to be expected in a man of his age, he is sure of the rightness of his opinions, but holds to scientific principles and sets out with much energy to make a go of the business of running Orley Farm. In this he is very different from the typical young men who feature in many of Trollope’s novels. He is not distracted by the entertainments of hunting or horse-racing at which so many of Trollope’s young men seem to lose their money and get into debt. He is, in fact, remarkably steady and constant. And his moral compass seems to be set right. When he discovers he has inherited the farm through his mother’s forgery he at first refuses to believe this of her but, when convinced, after being temporarily unmanned by the enormity of the blow to his ambitions, does what can only be regarded as the decent and honest thing – he makes over the farm to his step-brother whose rightful title he has no wish to dispute once he knows the truth. Some commentators have criticised Lucius as a prig – though, given his father and elder step-brother might be similarly charged it is at least arguable that any priggishness he gets is inherited on his father’s side – but to me his actions throughout seem to reflect on a good, sound up-bringing by his mother. Trollope concludes that Lucius “will be stern [to his mother]…But he will not desert her; he will do his duty by her…In that respect he us a good young man…He is one of those who seem by nature created to bear adversity. No trouble or sorrow would I think crush him.” Of how few men can this be said. He is a credit to his mother and, that, to me indicates that she has been a good mother to him notwithstanding her attempts on his behalf to defraud his older brother of his rightful inheritance.

It is in a similar vein that Lady Mason, having at first accepted Sir Peregrine Orme’s offer of marriage – recognising with self-interest that it provided her with greater protection against the effects of the renewed legal case against her, subsequently broke off the engagement. She could not allow her past conduct, when raked up, to besmirch the good name of an honourable man who had always been steadfast in her cause. She therefore went to him and, when she had no other means to force him to agree to the end of their engagement, she confessed her guilt to him.

If the civil case which the young Lady Mason underwent in the 1830s proved she was a woman with a backbone, then the public humiliation of facing a criminal trial in her late forties proved too much for her spirit. Her conscience had been gnawing away at her for years and she finally gave way. Although she spoke out clearly to plead “Not Guilty” at the beginning of her trial she would not have been capable of testifying with the firmness she had done as a young mother and was not called as a witness in her own defence. Even though the jury finds her Not Guilty, she is convicted in the court of her own conscience and can stand the strain no longer. She tells Sir Peregrine, “I sometimes wonder at my own calmness. I wonder that I can live. But, believe me, that never for a moment do I forget what I have done. I would have poured out for [Lucius] my blood like water, if it would have served him; but instead of that I have given him cause to curse me till the day of his death. Though I still live, and eat, and sleep, I think of that always. The remembrance is never away from me. They bid those who repent put on sackcloth, and cover themselves with ashes. That is my sackcloth, and it is very sore. Those thoughts are ashes to me, and they are very bitter between my teeth.” She is indeed wracked with guilt but, it is as much for the ruin she believes she has brought down upon her son, for whose benefit the crime was committed, as for the relatively insignificant financial harm she did to his step-brother. Her life has been brought down by the excess of motherly love which led her to act in a way that she knew to be wrong. As she takes herself into voluntary exile, “her thoughts ran back over the whole course of her life. Early in her days, when the world was yet beginning to her, she had done one evil deed, and from that time up to those days of her trial she had been the victim of one incessant struggle to appear before the world as though the deed had not been done – to appear innocent of it before the world, but, beyond all things, innocent of it before her son. For twenty years she had striven with a labour that had been all but unendurable; and now she had failed”.

Trollope is, as ever, a compassionate author, forgiving of his creation’s weaknesses. He writes, “For Lady Mason let us hope that the day will come in which she also may once again trick her beams in some modest, unassuming way, and that for her the morning may even yet be sweet with a glad warmth.” His verdict on her is kinder than her own.






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Exotic Trollope: Mid-Victorian fiction between displacement and dominion

Dr Luca Caddia, assistant curator of the Keats-Shelley House in Rome gave the Trollope Society’s 30th annual lecture.

He began by conceding that when we think ofTrollope, “exotic” is not the term which immediately springs to mind.Trollope enjoys an almost unparalleled reputation as a chronicler of the English middle class society of the Victorian age but it is only with recent works by academics such as John McCourt and Simon Grennan (focussing on Trollope’s Irish and Australian novels respectively) that this narrow view has been challenged in literary criticism.

Dr Caddia divided his talk into two sections: the first considering Trollope’s treatment of tourist themes with particular reference to stories set in the middle east; the second considering colonial themes with an emphasis on Australian settings. The former tend to be earlier in Trollope’s career and draw humour from the unpreparedness of the British traveller abroad. The latter are generally from later in his career and feature better prepared settlers.

Previous criticism of Trollope’s fiction with foreign settings tended to emohadise his oerceived patronising view of the foreign “other” contrasting it with a British model.

However, in Trollope’s time, Britain was building enormous wealth through global trade and, in the aftermath of the upheavals in Europe in the post-Napoleonic era, the growing affluent middlevkasses were venturing further afield. Experience of the near and middle east was no longer confined to the business and merchant classes.

Trollope travelled extensively himself and wrote from experience. He may well have shared the sense that the exotic scenes of the imagination were preferable to the often squalid and mundane realities. Thisus evident in stories such as The Unprotected Female at the Pyramids and the novel The Bertrams. The latter deals with the disappointments of the unsuccessful and mediocre, personifued in George Bertram. He goes to the Holy Land in search of inspiration to reach a decision on his future course in life and finds the experience dails to live up to expectations. In a very modern take on the traveller’s outlook, his timein Jerusalem is reduced to almost a checklist of sites to visit none of which inspires him till he visits the Mount of Olives outside the city and is suddenly struck by the oerspective this gives him, not only of the distant city, but also on his own life.

Dr Caddia went on to explain that the critical views of Trollope’s writing fsiled to acvord adequate respect to his ability to convey accurately local customs and that Trollope would sometimes compare these favourably with English customs. He observed that bith Christian and Muslim faiths as practised in the middle east showed greater self-sacrifice and devotion than found in England. Yet the inhibited Brits abroad are unable to ket go and participate even when they recognise this.

Frequently Trollope portrays his middle aged male protagonists ending the tale in a state of acute embarrassment -as when the man in The Banks of the Jordan belatedly discovers his young companion is not the boy he thought but a woman. The intimacy of the conversations and experiences he could share with a boy are impossible to share with a female companion.

Trollope, it seems, is highlighting the inability of the British to cope with the “other”.

In the later novels, men go abroad to seek their fortune. John Caldigate sees the eponymous hero go to Australia and make his fortune. Trollope observes that on board ship, normal society rules are relaxed but the outsider, which is what Caldigate is on his return to the UK, must conform to English expectations once more. In fact, Trollope somewhat ducks this issue, allowing Caldigate to fade out of the story for some 18 chapters after he is found guilty of bigamy and imprisoned. This contrasts sharply with the earlier portrait of the suffering of Phineas Finn when imprisoned during his trial in Phineas Redux.

Yet in Harry Heathcote of Gangoil, Trollope actually creates a new type of hero for this novel. Although a gentleman by birth, he does not act as an English gentleman ought to act. He is impulsive and quick to anger. He is essentially a man of action.

In this way Trollope treats the “colonist” who transforms the foreign land he settles to his own vision very differently from the passive “tourist”.

By the time Trollope wrote his dystopian sci-fi novel The Fixed Period, set in a late twentieth century British Pacific island colony, he is writing of liberty from conventional rules which is largely a mental state rather than a physical state.

In this, Dr Caddia concluded, Trollope’s exitic fiction moves beyond the treatment of the “other” as a tourist encounter in a short holiday, beyond a state of colonial exile from the homeland, to a state which the protagonist can face and change so that it ceases to be so completely “other”.

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Wilkie Collins: The Lighthouse

Wilkie Collins wrote The Lighthouse, his two act play, in 1855, about the same time that Anthony Trollope published his third novel, The Warden. The play is itself based on Collins’s own short story Gabriel’s Morning, which he wrote in response to seeing the Eddystone lighthouse while in Cornwall. The story revolves around the reactions of three lighthouse keepers, trapped in the lighthouse for weeks by bad weather which has delayed the arrival of their supply vessel, to the involvement of one of their number in a crime some years previously which he reveals inadvertantly as his mind wanders in the delerium brought on by their desparate starvation.

The play was first performed by Charles Dickens and his friends in an amateur production at Dickens’s home, Tavistock House. The cast was Dickens, Wilkie Collins, Augustus Egg (the famous painter and regular companion of Dickens and Collins on their hiking -and other less salubrious – expeditions), Mark Lemon (founding editor of Punch satirical magazine), Georgine Hogarth (Dickens’s sister-in-law), Naomi Dickens (Charles’s eldest daughter) and John Foster, with Dickens’s son Charlie responsible for special effects such as the noises off for the storm. Although technically an amateur company, through Dickens’s connections they drew on west end theatre expertise to support the production. The painted backdrop, measuring some 3 metres by 4 metres, was by leading marine artist Clarkson Frederick Stanfield.

The play was performed on two nights, opening on 18th June 1855, plus a dress rehearsal in front of the family, and the 25 seats were over-subscribed. It is not clear precisely who was in the audience on these two nights but regular attendees at such amateur theatricals put on by Dickens included Alfred Lord Tennyson, William Cavendish – Duke of Devonshire  and reformer Baroness Angela Burdett-Coutts. Anthony Trollope was also sometimes in the audience for these amateur productions in later years but is unlikely to have been in the charmed circle who received invitations in 1855 as he had yet to make his mark in London’s literary society. Reviews were favourable with Dickens and Lemon singled out for particular praise for their “display of passion”. Wilkie himself was thought to be somewhat less convincing.

The staged reading of the play on Saturday 14th October by the Speakeasy Players, preceded by an introduction by Jak Stringer, was the first public performance of the play for 146 years. The modern audience greeted this Victorian melodrama with enthusiasm, joining in with applause, laughter and gasps of horror at appropriate points. The dramatic climax of the first act, when the name of the ship foundering on the lighthouse rock is revealed to be the same as the victim of the crime all those years previously brought a genuine shiver down my spine.

Of course the world of theatrical drama has moved on from Wilkie’s gothic Victorian melodrama but this re-staging showed that there was a core of gripping psychological truth which he conveyed a century and a half ago that retains its power to grip an audience willing to enter into the spirit of its original production.

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Wilkie Collins in Penzance


I am looking forward to seeing the first full reading in 146 years of The Lighthouse by Trollope’s contemporary, Wilkie Collins, which is taking place tomorrow evening at The Acorn Theatre in Penzance.

Written in 1855, Wilkie Collins presented Charles Dickens with his first original drama, The Lighthouse, which was inspired by his sighting of the Eddystone Lighthouse, while on his travels in Cornwall. Collins created a tense, psychological drama employing elements of crime and the supernatural, familiar to readers of Collins’s fiction.

The plays opening night was the18th June at Tavistock House, with Collins and Dicken’s taking the lead parts and their family and friends making up the rest of the cast, it was a very hot ticket of its time.

The play will be preceded by what is billed as “a lively performance lecture” by Wilkie Collins expert Jak Stringer, followed by a reading of the play by the Speakeasy Players.
This event will be the first FULL reading of The Lighthouse for 146 years and aims to recreate its opening night in the nursery of Charles Dickens’s home, where the audience can immerse themselves in a very Victorian evening.

I understand that a few tickets remain so if you fancy a trip to Cornwall in the footsteps of Wilkie Collins then go to the theatre’s online box office: Acorn Theatre Penzance Box Office

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Trollope’s Women: Madeline Neroni

La Signora Madeline Vesey Neroni – nata Stanhope, played by Susan Hampshire in the 1982 BBC production The Barchester Chronicles.

Madeline Neroni’s role in Barchester Towers is rather like that of Clint Eastwood in a Spaghetti Western: the stranger with the mysterious past who rides into town and, when the gun-smoke clears, the bad guy lies vanquished at his feet, the good guy has got the girl, and law and order has been restored to the town. Then, with the job done, he rides out into the sunset, disappearing forever from the townsfolks’ lives.

So Madeline Neroni is brought into Barchester as part of her father’s household when he is summoned from the shores of Lake Como in Italy by Bishop Proudie to resume his clerical duties which he had abandoned some twelve years earlier on the pretext of requiring the sunnier climes for his health, though as we learn in Framley Parsonage this is mere diplomatic cover for financial difficulties which led to him fleeing creditors for a cheaper place to live. By the end of the novel, Madeline has exposed to the world the conniving Obadiah Slope for the hypocrite he is – effectively running him out of town as a result – and been instrumental in engineering the match between Eleanor Bold and the Reverend Francis Arabin. She then departs with her father and the Stanhope family once more to the distant shores of Lake Como.

In fulfilling this function, Madeline is also yin to Eleanor Bold’s yang; a complementary mirror image providing a shady, manipulative alter-ego to Eleanor’s open, transparent straightforwardness.

It can be no coincidence that they are much the same age – Madeline is 28 at the time when Barchester Towers is set in about 1850 and Eleanor is perhaps a couple of years older. The reader is invited to see parallels in the two characters. Indeed, Arabin is trapped by Madeline into making a direct comparison of the two of them. When he tells her that “Mrs Bold is a very beautiful woman, and as intelligent as beautiful.” She turns this upon him as a veiled slight to herself, “‘And you really have the effrontery to tell me this,’ she said, ‘to tell me, who, as you very well know, set up to be a beauty myself, and who am at this very moment taking such an interest in your affairs, you really have the effrontery to tell me that Mrs Bold is the most beautiful woman you know.’ ‘I did not say so,’ said Mr Arabin; ‘you are more beautiful -‘ ‘Ah, come now, that is something like. I thought you could not be so unfeeling.’ ‘You are more beautiful, perhaps more clever.’  Arabin is about to go on further about Eleanor but Madeline shuts him down and will not hear it. She has achieved her objective.

Kate Lawson, in her paper, Abject and Defiled: Signora Neroni’s Body and the Question of Domestic Violence in Barchester Towers, for the Victorian Review draws attention to the contrast between the past marriages of the two women. “Madeline Stanhope Neroni’s married life is represented as antithetical to Eleanor Bold’s lost domestic paradise.” The Neroni marriage is, by implication, the setting for domestic violence which is cut short by the husband’s attempts to desert the wife and, ultimately by her own subsequent fleeing from the husband to return to the shelter of her father’s house. The Bold marriage was happy and ended by his premature death. Both women are, therefore, in a post-married state albeit, when it suits her, Madeline invokes her continued married state to frustrate would be suitors who are in danger of getting too close to her (physically or psychologically).

An obvious similarity between the two women is that both are pursued by Mr Slope, though for very different reasons. Eleanor is still grieving for her first husband and is less worldly than Madeline, so remains blissfully unaware of Mr Slope’s intentions until late in the story, whereby hangs much of the plot’s tension and humour, whereas Madeline is very consciously seeking to entrap the clergyman whose double standards she has, with her finely tuned street-wise senses, quickly identified.

Madeline has acquired this worldly wisdom through a series of romantic escapades in Italy from the age of seventeen to twenty-one. In these she has “become famous for adventures in which her character was just not lost, and had destroyed the hearts of a dozen cavaliers without once being touched in her own. Blood had flowed in quarrels about her charms, and she heard of these encounters with pleasurable excitement. It had been told of her that on one occasion she had stood by in disguise of a page, and had seen her lover fall.” These thrill-seeking endeavours have left her cynical, particularly about the willingness of men to lie and flatter in pursuit of female conquests, and cold-hearted. So much so, that I would attribute this callousness to a fear of being hurt again, if she actually were to commit herself to a relationship, given that the last of these adventures was her relationship with the ne-er-do-well Paulo Neroni who bedded her, wed her when she was too obviously pregnant by him, then promptly abandoned her and his responsibilities to his child.

Trollope says that “she married the very worst of those who sought her hand…When the moment came for doing so she probably had no alternative.” Given that she turns up on her family’s doorstep with her daughter six months after the date of the marriage there is little doubt left in the reader’s mind that Madeline had flouted convention and indulged in pre-marital sex.

For this breach of acceptable norms of society, she suffers her punishment in the form of a physical disability. Melanie Moore in her article on Barchester Towers for 19th Century Disability Cultures and Contexts notes that “As with many nineteenth century novels, Madeline’s physical defect is linked to her transgressive sexuality – a physical manifestation of dubious morality… and the novel seems to frame the injury as due punishment for succumbing to pre-marital sex.”  Such divine retribution is frequently found in Victorian novels for women who sin against society’s rules in this way. Indeed, it is almost a convention of 19th century literature that they should (even though men suffer no such punishment for their indiscretions). No doubt this is partly to preserve the morals of the young, impressionable, female readers.

However, Madeline also, notably, displays contempt for society norms in her lack of respect for those who normally commanded respect from inferiors. She alone of all those present, laughs out loud at Mrs Proudie’s humiliation owing to the accident with her dress caused by Madeline’s brother Bertie moving the sofa on which Madeline is reclining. She also laughs audibly – specifically within the hearing of Lady de Courcy – when she gets the better of her in a confrontation at the Ullathorne Sports Day.

There is also a sense that Madeline’s malicious attempts to seduce all the men who come within her orbit is revenge for the treatment she received at the hands of her husband – a determination that in future no man shall ever get the better of her again.

Trollope refers to Madeline as both a “siren” and a “basilisk” – a mythical creature whose mere glance is sufficient to kill. Certainly, she is notable for her meaningful looks. When Lady de Courcy attempts to stare her down, “she stared hard at the occupant [of the couch]. The occupant in return stared hard at the countess. The countess who since her countess-ship had been accustomed to see all eyes, not royal, ducal or marquesal, fall before her own paused as she went on, raised her eyebrows , and stared even harder than before. But she had now to do with one who cared little for countesses. It was, one may say, impossible for mortal man to abash Madeline Neroni.  She opened her large bright lustrous eyes wider and wider, till she seemed to be all eyes. She gazed up into the lady’s face, not as though she did it with an effort, but as if she delighted in doing it…The faintest possible smile of derision played around her mouth, and her nostrils were slightly dilated, as if in sure anticipation of her triumph. And it was sure.” It is clear that Madeline is physically excited by the contest – Trollope’s description implies a state of arousal that is almost sexual in its intensity.

Madeline is, in fact, arguably Trollope’s most sexual character even though, conventionally, a “cripple” in Victorian literature is sexless (or reduced to that state for past sins of a sexual nature such as Madeline’s). They are, therefore, the objects of pity rather than lust. It is a master-stroke by Trollope to write against these expectations of his readership and to provide Madeline with her alluring “siren” quality.

Trollope introduces Madeline by saying she “had been a great beauty. We need not say had been, for she was never more beautiful than at the time of which we write, though her person had for many years been disfigured by an accident.” We then learn that “the beauty of her face was uninjured, and that beauty was of a peculiar kind. Her copious rich brown hair was worn in Grecian bandeaux round her head, displaying as much as possible of her forehead and cheeks. Her forehead, though rather low, was very beautiful from its perfect contour and pearly whiteness. Her eyes were long and large, and marvellously bright…The eyelashes were long and perfect…Her nose and mouth and teeth and chin and neck and bust were perfect, much more so at twenth-eight than they had been at eighteen.”

She was perfectly well aware of the effect she had on men, in spite of her injuries, and exploited it to the full. She was, however, equally adept at playing the trump card of her disabilities to invoke pity where she felt this might be a more suitable approach, as when she turned her attentions to Mr Thorne, who had set his mind against her from the outset based on what he had heard of her history. “Mr Thorne had heard perhaps more of the antecedents of his guest than his sister had done, and had not as yet undergone the power of the signora’s charms…She had contrived to detain him, to get him near to her on the sofa, and at last to make him seat himself on a chair close to her beautiful arm. The fish took the bait, was hooked, and caught, and landed. Within that ten minutes he had heard the whole of the signora’s history in such strains as she chose to use in telling it. He learnt from the lady’s own lips the whole of the mysterious tale…He discovered that the beautiful creature lying before him had been more sinned against than sinning. She owned to him that she had been weak, confiding and indifferent to the world’s opinion, and that she had therefore been ill-used deceived and evil spoken of.  She had spoken to him of her mutilated limb, her youth destroyed in its fullest bloom, her beauty robbed of its every charm, her life blighted, her hopes withered; and as she did so, a tear dropped from her eye to her cheek. She had told him of these things and asked for his sympathy. What could a good-natured genial Anglo-Saxon Squire Thorne do but promise to sympathise with her?”

It is likely that for many men who approaached her the twin impediments of her being married and disabled made her a “safe” object for their flirtations – Victorian thinking, in public at least, having not encompassed the possibility that a disability is in fact no bar to sexual feelings and to the expression of these drives. If only they knew what they were taking on.

Indeed, far from hiding her disability, Madeline positively flaunts it – albeit doing so by creating a public spectacle whenever she appears in such a way that all attention is drawn to her as she is carried in – often by up to four supporters, usually including servants or her current “slave” – Mr Slope feels obliged to attend to her though he is not privileged to actually support her entrance to the Proudie gathering. Naturally Madeline enters late in the proceedings whenever possible so as to make her grand entrance. “At last a carriage dashed up to the hall steps with a very different manner of approach from that of any other vehicle that had been there that evening. A perfect commotion took place.” Madeline indeed made great efforts in preparing for such occasions to maximise the impact even down to arranging where she is to be seated beforehand and, which way she will be facing so that she might dress accordingly to show off her assets to their best advantage – including not least among those assets, her disabled limb. Exquisitely covered from sight and so left to the imaginations of those present who invariably exaggerated. “She has got no legs, papa.” “Nonsense, she has legs, but she can’t use them.” “She has only one leg.” “She had two. But that Signor Neroni beat her, I believe, till she was obliged to have one amputated. At any rate she has entirely lost the use of it.”

This last, rather acid – one might describe it as “bitchy” – comment from Mrs Proudie, made to Lady De Courcy, causes the latter to reflect, “‘Unfortunate creature!’ said the countess, who herself knew something of matrimonial trials.” In this brief exchange Trollope hints that behind the rather malicious gossip there is a recognition that there may be a common thread of domestic violence inflicted on wives by their husbands that is experienced in even the most socially distinguished households. It is explored no further – to do so would be impossible in a novel written as ostensibly family entertainment but its very mention, even in passing, would not have been overlooked by the more attentive reader. Trollope, even at this relatively early stage in his career, appears willing to reflect in his work sides of the middle class life that other authors did not – or only dealt with in more polemical works for a more restricted audience.

As Suzanne Rintoul points out in her article The Mysterious Woman and Her Legs: Scrutinizing the Disabled Body in Barchester Towers in the journal of Nineteenth Century Gender Studies, Madeline’s “conspicuous refusal to use her legs, and her careful arrangement of her dress, emphasise both her deformities and the fact that they cannot be seen. Madeline’s attempts to conceal her body thus complement her efforts to draw attention to it.” In this, Madeline consciously or sub-consciously (and I suspect she is smart enough for it to be the former) makes use of the power of the unknown to exercise a fascinating effect on an audience. Her very immobility on a sofa in the centre (note – not in some corner) of any gathering makes her the focal point and centre of attention – which she craves.

This pose of immobility is an assertion or assumption by Madeline of high status. She is carried by servants rather as earlier generations of the wealthy were carried about in sedan chairs. Jennifer Janechek in her article Dombey and Son for 19th Century Disability Cultures and Contexts points out that “Patronized primarily by the wealthier classes of society, the sedan chair received much negative attention from the public….in part because the public viewed the technology as demeaning to the chairmen [who carried them].” There is thus a subtext of resentment against a disabled person who conflates her need for physical assistance with an element of showmanship which Trollope taps into in his readership. He explains that “She had still frequented the opera at Milan; she had still been seen occasionally in the salons of the noblesse; she had caused herself to be carried  in and out from her carriage, and that in such a manner as in no wise to disturb her charms, disarrange her dress, or expose her deformities.” In spite of being comparatively poor (and wholly dependent on her family) she gives the impression of status through the trappings of conspicuous consumption (in its modern not its Victorian sense) and achieves this through imposing upon those of lower status. This showing off for effect and attention seeking clearly embarrassed her father who when she arrived at the Proudie’s soiree “retired into the furthest corner, where he might not see her entrance.”

I would go further and suggest that Madeline is Trollope’s response to Mrs Skewton in Dombey and Son, published less than a decade before Barchester Towers in 1848. Dickens describes his character noting that, “The discrepancy between Mrs Skewton’s fresh enthusiasm of words and forlornly faded manner, was hardly less observable than that between her age, which was about seventy, and her dress, which would have been youthful for twenty-seven. Her attitude in the wheeled chair (which she never varied) was one in which she had been taken in a barouche, some fifty years before, by a then fashionable artist who had appended to his published sketch the name of Cleopatra…Mrs Skewton was a beauty then, and bucks threw wine-glasses over their heads by the dozens in her honour.” It is not difficult to imagine Madeline as that posing Cleopatra. And when you add in the presence of Mrs Skewton’s constant companion, her unmarried daughter, it is possible to see in this young woman’s fate a foreshadowing of what may also befall Madeline’s own daughter – “the last of the blood of the emperors”. Was Trollope inspired by the Dickens characters to re-imagine them in the guise of their younger selves transplanted into contemporary society?

Having described Madeline’s egoism, it cannot be ignored that by some caprice of her own she chooses to act against her own best financial interests and champion the cause of Francis Arabin as a rival to her own, worthless brother Bertie Stanhope, as potential suitor for the hand of the wealthy widow, Eleanor Bold.

Her motivation for this apparent altruism seems to stem from her response to his reaction when she turns her attentions to him after having “had almost enough of Mr Slope, though she could not quite resist the fun of driving a very sanctimonious clergyman to madness by a desperate and ruinous passion. Mr Thorne had fallen too easily to give much pleasure in the chase. His position as a man of wealth might make his alliance of value, but as a lover he was very second-rate…But Mr Arabin was game of another sort.” Her clear insight into the workings of his mind reveals to her an innocence about him which she is little accustomed to finding in men of the world. She toys with him and “She expected a compliment from her admirer, but she was rather grateful than otherwise by finding that he did not pay it.” He is incapable of the empty flirting that she normally received from men and so he interests her as a person. So much so that she determines to assist him in his rather diffident attempts to woo Eleanor. No doubt he would have refused her assistance had she offered it directly, though she does advise him to pursue Eleanor and points out to him that Eleanor is clearly interested in him (with insightful reading of Eleanor’s body language). Nevertheless, by subterfuge, she ensures that Eleanor learns from her, in no uncertain terms, how strong Arabin’s feelings are for Eleanor. She ends by telling Eleanor, “What I tell you is God’s own truth; and it is for you to use it as may be best for your own happiness. But you must not betray me. He knows nothing of this. He knows nothing of my knowing his inmost heart. He is simple as a child in these matters. He told me his secret in a thousand ways because he could not dissemble”.  Ultimately, Madeline, whose whole life has been a web of dissembling – whether her own or that of others – comes to care for Arabin and Eleanor because they neither of them dissemble. She is a paradox.

I am now going to turn, belatedly you might suggest, to the most important sentence in Barchester Towers concerning Madeline. All that has gone before, and all of the academic and literary commentary on Madeline and her role in the novel is predicated on the statements it contains which are accepted at face value, unquestioningly. Even the notable reader against the grain, Professor John Sutherland, the Lord Norcliffe Professor Emeritus of Modern English Literature at University College London, whose writings include Is Heathcliff a Murderer?  and Can Jane Eyre be Happy?, and whose careful trawlings through Victorian novels for quirks and anomalies which expose either carelessness on the part of the author or else hitherto overlooked and potentially subversive hidden meanings, has made no mention of the ramifications of this sentence in his own introduction to Barchester Towers for the British Library’s Discovering Literature: Romantics and Victorians series of articles.

“She had fallen, she said, in ascending a ruin, and had fatally injured the sinews of her knee; so fatally, that when she stood she lost eight inches of her accustomed height; so fatally, that when she essayed to move, she could only drag herself painfully along, with protruding hip and extended foot, in a manner less graceful than that of a hunchback.”

Now the Victorians in general, and Trollope in particular, did not go in for the concept of the unreliable narrator. So if Trollope says something is so, we, as readers, may take it as so. Provided, of course, that we are sufficiently in tune with his style to identify his extensive use of irony as a tool of his satire when writing of things of which he disapproved to any degree. He did not use the modern device of the inverted commas to flag his use of a word to mean its opposite – think of the irritating visual tic of drawing such inverted commas in the air in mid-conversation to emphasise when this is being done now. So when he refers to Madeline as “a cripple” (my inverted comes to indicate a quotation from the novel!) readers might be forgiven for taking him at his word.

But is that justified in this case? Sometimes Trollope highlights his use of irony by using such absurd exaggeration that it is nigh on impossible to overlook his intention for his readers to interpret what he means as the direct opposite of what he writes.

So I am going to take a leaf from Professor Sutherland’s book and examine that sentence closely.

Firstly, it begins with the words “she said”. Everything that comes after it is what Madeline has said. It could be argued that the later clauses, separated from the initial clause in which those words appear, could be regarded as separate sentences with full stops rather than semi-colons used for punctuation (though they would lack verbs and so would be unusual though not impossible as sentences). However, it would be a more reasonable interpretation to understand that all of those things said in that sentence were said, in more or less so many words, by Madeline.

From this, academics and literary critics have gone on to link this sentence with Madeline’s separation from her husband about which she refuses to give details and he is conveniently out of the way and can give no version of events himself and conclude that her claim that the injuries are the result of a fall is a lie to cover up the fact that she was beaten by her husband. Trollope gives further weight to this interpretation by citing precisely that possible cause amongst the many rumours and half-truths which float around Barchester society about Madeline.

This requires the reader to accept the first part of what she says as at best a euphemism (did her husband push her) or was it a downright lie (he did something worse and deliberately injuring her directly himself) but at the same time to accept as gospel truth the second part of the sentence, the precise nature of her injuries. It seems to me that such a reading is either selective or even a wilful mis-interpretation.

So what are we to make of a claim to have suffered soft tissue damage (sinews may be ligaments or tendons) in one knee (not both) which reduces her height by eight inches. In a woman of average height this represents a huge change. There is no mention of any skeletal damage (broken bones) which might account for such a loss in height. Indeed, it would require shattering of bones, followed by appalling post traumatic care – leaving the bones unset etc) in both legs to give rise to such a loss of height. Indeed, total amputation of one leg would give rise to no significant loss in height if she were to stand with the aid of a stick, for example, on her remaining leg.

Furthermore, any such catastrophic injury was sufficiently recovered for her to flee her husband and return to her family with her baby some six months after the couple went to Rome following their “prolonged honeymoon”.  It is difficult to conceive of her having sustained such injuries while pregnant and it not having put the baby’s life at risk so the timing of the “fall” would seem unlikely to have been at the very start of that six month period. She has therefore had to recover from her injuries, for which she has not received adequate care so that they remain permanent and disabling, sufficient to travel within a period of less than six months. This is stretching credulity.

Which begs the question: is Trollope stretching credulity here through carelessness or through deliberate choice to draw attention to the fact that Madeline’s testimony is unreliable (about either or both of the extent of her injuries and their consequences, or their cause)?

To me, it seems, if we are to accept that Madeline was not honest with her family about the cause of her injuries (and academics and literary critics universally do accept this) then we must also call into question how accurate is her description of those injuries. Otherwise, why did Trollope make them so incredible?

I can hear Professor Nick Shrimpton even as I write saying that such compressions of time are part of the writer of fictions art and quoting the dual timescales Shakespeare employs in Othello – events which would require weeks or months to pass if they were to unfold naturally are compressed into three days without any complaint from the audience which manages to hold both incompatible timescales in its head without suffering any cognitive dissonance. But Trollope had no need to require such mental juggling on the part of his readers. He could have inserted a longer, more credible time period for the events Madeline describes without any impact on the narrative of his novel. I must therefore conclude that he chose deliberately to describe an unfeasibly short period of six months so that Madeline’s testimony should be called into question.

Which leads us to wonder to what extent she exaggerated her injuries and why.

As we have seen no-one actually sees Madeline’s injured leg which is why there is so much ill-informed gossip and speculation about the extent of her injuries. However, Trollope does not qualify this by saying that no-one outside the family had seen her legs. In fact, it is not even clear whether Charlotte, Madeline’s older sister and the person in the family who takes care of all matters both practical and financial has seen Madeline’s injuries. Could Madeline have concealed her legs from everyone, including servants. It seems unlikely but we do not know from Trollope’s text.

However, we may speculate that there must be some form of physical abuse at the hands of her husband to have provoked her to leave him. This would be an admission of defeat in a contest of wills between the husband and wife. Madeline would be unlikely to tolerate being bested by a brute of a husband. If he were unfaithful then so too could she be unfaithful – and probably even more flagrantly (at least within the confines of their own knowledge of each other’s affairs) so as to put one over on him. So I conclude that she must have suffered intolerable physical abuse from her husband for Madeline to admit defeat and give up the fight. Therefore, it is probable that she had some injury though not, for the reasons outlined already, so great as she made out to her family.

Why then might she exaggerate the extent of her injuries?

Firstly, as the apparently injured party in a marital breakdown, who must throw herself upon the support of her family (even though we know with hindsight from Framley Parsonage that her father was struggling financially – and with three grown up children and a grand-daughter to support going forward this is understandable), it would help her cause to talk up the extent of the injuries done to her rather than talk them down.

Secondly, it would be consistent with her innate egoism to make much of her injuries so as to ensure that she is the centre of attention. At the age of twenty-two, as she would have then been, and with her thrill-seeking personality, it is to be expected that she would do so.

And once she set out on this line, what reason would she have for stopping or indeed even playing down her injuries later? Her family was too poor to re-launch her into the high society which she craved. She must therefore fall back on the use (abuse?) of people’s pity for her, as she did with Squire Thorne, to secure her comfort and needs.

There is also a third possible and very much contemporary reason, to which the desire to exaggerate her injuries might be attributed. Evidence of physical abuse might be necessary in support of any legal proceedings for divorce or custody of the child (see note 1). Although married in Italy, Madeline, as a British citizen, might have given consideration to the possibility of divorce under English law. In the 1840s, when the events of her marriage and separation took place, the law on divorce was very rigid and heavily biased in favour of the man. Marriage was regarded as a sacrament of the church and divorce was considered in the ecclesiastical courts rather than the main civil courts. For a man, the grounds for divorcing his wife could be based on her adultery alone, but for a wife, this was not of itself sufficient grounds. In order to obtain a divorce “a vinoulo matrimony” (what we would regard as a divorce permitting subsequent remarriage) rather than “a mensa et thoro” (which is more what we would call a legal separation and which did not allow for remarriage), required the woman to prove an “aggravated enormity” in addition to adultery on the part of the husband. Causing her permanent disability might satisfy this requirement and enable Madeline to obtain a divorce should she choose to seek one.

I am not suggesting that Madeline intended to seek a divorce, indeed she derived much room for manoeuvre with would-be admirers such as Mr Slope from her ambiguous position in this respect – living separately from her husband but still legally married to him. She would not, therefore, have need to incur the expense and potentially adverse public exposure that divorce proceedings (which at this time required an Act of Parliament to be concluded so that in 1857 for example there were only three divorces in the UK) would entail. Nevertheless, as a very intelligent and worldly woman, Madeline might, even at a young age, have seen the advantage of at least preparing the ground, just in case she might need to use it later. Such foresight on her part implies a high degree of Machiavellian planning ahead but it is not inconsistent with her behaviour in other aspects of her life and dealings with people.

 I am therefore of the view that Madeline’s injuries were not so catastrophic as she made out. I believe Trollope quite deliberately describes injuries so gross as to be incredible (in terms of their extent, their improbable nature, and impossible apparent recovery time) so that we are expected to understand that they cannot be as he explicitly states. Madeline, we are therefore supposed to understand, is exaggerating for her own ends and does so, with consummate expertise, to perfection throughout the events described.

She then, along with her daughter, disappears from Barsetshire at the end of the novel, never to return. We hear in Doctor Thorne that her father has died – which must have occurred not too long after the family removed itself once more to Italy. The surviving family members, Mrs Stanhope, Madeline and her older sister, the resourceful Charlotte, Madeline’s daughter and, if he is still sponging off his father as are the two grown up daughters, Madeline’s younger brother Bertie (whose artwork would never support him and whose attempts to woo the rich widow Eleanor Bold were ultimately undermined by Madeline), would then have been forced to survive on the small sum which Mrs Stanhope had independently of her husband. . This could not have sustained them in anything like the standard to which they would wish to be accustomed, even in Italy, so I suspect they would have been forced to live upon their wits.

In Madeline’s case, I do not think this would have proved too great a challenge. I am confident that it would not be long before she hooked another sucker like Squire Thorne who would provide for her and her daughter. Who knows, if he proved slightly more of a challenge than the old Squire, and maybe saw through her sufficiently to earn her respect, then she might even apply her wit and worldy wisdom so as to make both of them happy. For I am sure that she is acutely aware that her present state, as described in Barchester Towers, is not conducive to her self-respect and happiness. Her moral compass is not so far off kilter as that of her, on the surface, nicer, but actually more conniving, sister Charlotte. Why else would she have acted so apparently out of character, and against her own best financial interests and those of her family, by promoting Eleanor’s and Mr Arabin’s happiness over her brother Bertie’s self-serving needs?


Charles Dickens, Dombey and Son
Jennifer Janechek, Dombey and Son, 19th Century Disability Cultures and Contexts,(
Kate Lawson, Abject and Defiled: Signora Neroni’s Body and the Question of Domestic Violence in Barchester Towers, Victorian Review Vol 21 Issue 1 (Summer 1995) Victorian Studies Association of Western Canada
Melina Moore, Barchester Towers, 19th Century Disability Cultures and Contexts, (
Suzanne Rintoul, The Mysterious Woman and Her Legs: Scrutininzing the Disabled Body in Barchester Towers, Nineteenth Century Gender Studies Issue 7.1 (Spring 2011) (
John Sutherland, Barchester Towers, Discovering Literature: Romantics and Victorians (
Anthony Trollope, Barchester Towers
Anthony Trollope, Doctor Thorne
Anthony Trollope, Framley Parsonage
The London Times, 23 May 1853 (

Note 1: The Royal Commission on Divorce and Matrimonial Causes was set up in 1850 to look into the operation of the laws on divorce. Its findings were reported in 1853 (e.g. in The London Times of 23 May 1853) and led to the Matrimonial Causes Act of 1857 which, inter alia, altered marriage from a religious sacrament to a legal contract between the husband and wife and provided statutory grounds for divorce which, while still, favouring the man, enshrined a number of grounds for divorce for a wife including cruelty by the husband even where he was not also committing adultery! These developments would have provided a backdrop to the state of marriage while Trollope was writing Barchester Towers which was, as John Sutherland does point out in his introduction, an explicitly contemporary novel of the 1850s unlike the work of many of his fellow authors of the time. Discussions of such matters may well, therefore, have subtly influenced Trollope’s writing and, it is conceivable, that discussions along similar lines foreshadowing these legal changes, would have been taking place for some time before the setting up of the Royal Commission – political will to make changes always following on some time later than the rise of the issue to be addressed in public discourse – and so would quite possibly have within the knowledge of the educated middle classes, such as Madeline, during the mid-1840s when her marital troubles took place.


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