Part 5

Through all this Phineas pursues his career with ambition and charm. The men like him, and the women love him. He makes love to four of the women, including his childhood sweetheart, with varying results. A clandestine duel on a beach in Belgium, ending as happily as any duel can, is the central event of the story, after which our hero shrugs and marches on.

The first to refuse Phineas is Lady Laura Standish. One of Trollope's strong women, she sublimates her political interests and ambitions into a vicarious interest in Phineas's career. Though she is in love with him, they are both poor, and she decides to accept marriage to a wealthy Scot with a large home place in the country and a promising career in Parliament. Unfortunately for Laura, his unbending religious scruples destroy the marriage, affording us insights into the institution of marriage in Victorian times. Eventually she flees to Dresden to escape his lawful demand that she live in the same house with him.

Violet Effingham, beautiful and witty, also refuses a later offer of marriage. She rebels against the oppressive guardianship of her aunt, Lady Baldock, and she is too strong-willed to go along with marriage to Lord Chiltern at the first attempt, having the audacity to propose to him that he pursue a gainful occupation. Violet was shortchanged in the BBC production of _The Pallisers_, in which the strength of her character is sacrificed to the abbreviating demands of film making.

Madame Max Goesler figures in several of the novels as a friend to Lady Glencora and to the Duke of Omnium. Representing the foreign element in the story (and one of the few foreigners whom he presents in a favorable light), she is a wealthy young widow from Vienna, given to making innocent observations about some of the curious English customs. She attracts the elderly Duke of Omnium, who offers to marry her. Lady Glencora fears that this could lead to the birth of a son to the Duke, knocking her little son out of the line of succession to the Duke, and her interview with Madame Max is rather one-sided. Lady Glencora protests that a seventy year old Duke of Omnium "may not do as he pleases, as may another man."

Madame Max replies that his Grace should be allowed to try that question, but she puts this matter aside to assert that she would not degrade any man whom she should marry. On the other hand, she would not willingly do him any injury, and she assures Lady Glencora that her fears for her son are premature--unless Lady Glencora's arguments should drive her to marrying the Duke just to prove she is wrong. "But you had better leave me to settle the matter in my own bosom. You had indeed."

Madame Max bears the burden of offering wise observations on the world around her, acceptable to the reader who pictures her as a beautiful dark-haired young woman. Though she refuses the offer of marriage to the Duke, she remains his friend and offers this assessment of his role in society in refuting Phineas's claim that he is useless to society:

"You believe only in motion, Mr. Finn;--and not at all in quiescence. An express train at full speed is grander to you than a mountain with heaps of snow. I own that to me there is something glorious in the dignity of a man too high to do anything,--if only he knows how to carry that dignity with a proper grace. I think that there should be breasts made to carry stars."

Conversational virtuosity of this order leaves the reader with jaw agape. The English are better at this than we Americans are, as can be seen by tuning in to the prime minister's question and answer sessions on BBC-TV. And the Victorians were better at it than we are. In any event, Madame Max holds her ground with poise and polish, justifying Shirley Robin Letwin's description of her in _The Gentleman in Trollope: Individuality and Moral Conduct_ (The Akadine Press, originally published 1982) as "the most perfect gentleman in Trollope's novels."

This is a picaresque novel that hangs together pretty well, following the hero from one adventure to the next. He meets fair damsels and does battle with dragons, also encountering mentors and would-be mentors who instruct him in _le monde comme il faut_. Surely the author was already planning a sequel, _Phineas Redux_, to rescue the young hero from the oblivion in which this story leaves him. This textbook on politics concludes with the reader waiting for one more lesson: Politicians may retire, but not for long.

A CUNNING WOMAN

THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS

Lizzie Eustace is beautiful and clever, and she has no intention of parting with her late husband's gift to her, the Eustace Diamonds. But does she really have them? And where are they? This well constructed mystery is one of those Trollope novels which deserves to be better known and more widely read. (Others in this list include _The Last Chronicle of Barset_, _The Duke's Children_, and _Orley Farm_.) Lizzie has been compared to Becky Sharp, the prime mover in William Makepeace Thackeray's _Vanity Fair_; Trollope actually invites such comparison, describing her early in the book as an "opulent and aristocratic Becky Sharp."

Like Becky, Lizzie attracts admirers. "Sometimes I think her the most beautiful woman I ever saw in the world," says the obviously smitten Frank Greystock in describing Lizzie Eustace.

But Becky casts a wider net, as described by a servant: "'Miss B., they are all infatyated about that young woman,' Firkin replied. . . . 'I can't tell for where nor for why; and I think somethink has bewidged everybody.'"

Lizzie does not succeed so widely, and she shows that she doesn't really understand everyone, as when she overplays her hand on first meeting her prospective mother-in-law, Lady Fawn. Lizzie had heard that a sermon was read every Sunday evening at Fawn Court, and that therefore Lady Fawn must be very religious. So it was quite natural for her to stretch her hand toward a book on Lady Fawn's table, claiming it as her guide to remind her of her duty to her noble husband. Lady Fawn, finding the book to be the Bible, replied that she could hardly do better--"but there was more of censure than of eulogy in the tone of her voice." We are told later that Lady Fawn was left with not a word to say in behalf of her future daughter-in-law, saying nothing about the little scene with the Bible, but never forgetting it.

As described above, however, Becky Sharp was capable of sweeping through a household. A governess in Crawley Hall (which she refers to as Humdrum Hall), she assists elderly Sir Pitt Crawley so effectively that he later proposes marriage to her. She is in love with Sir Pitt's second son, Rawdon Crawley, and she makes it a point to attend faithfully upon Sir Pitt's spinster sister, supplanting her dame de compagnie, Miss Briggs, so completely that her imitations of Briggs's weeping snuffle and her manner of using her handkerchief are performed so well that Miss Crawley "became quite cheerful."

Becky Sharp shows herself as a mistress of all she surveys, whereas Lizzie succeeds only with the men whom she targets. Lady Fawn and her daughters were not so easily taken in. On the other hand, Thackeray shows Becky to have an easier field--the "Vanity Fair" of foolish mortals, trusting and benighted souls, easily duped. Thackeray, like Dickens, entertains us much like Becky entertained Miss Crawley, by mockery; and their mockery spared very few. Trollope, on the other hand, may have had more respect for people in general; his portraits, though they did include "warts and all," were less caricatures than realistic renderings.

Lizzie stars in one of Trollope's memorable scenes, "The Diamonds are Seen in Public." Her fiancé Lord Fawn, troubled about the diamonds, has written a letter forbidding her to keep the diamonds, saying they belong rightfully to her late husband's family. They arrive separately at a party given by Lady Glencora, not having communicated in the three weeks since Lord Fawn's letter. She wears the diamonds, which "seemed to outshine all the jewellery in the room. . . . The only doubt might be whether paste diamonds might not better suit her character." Lord Fawn confronts her as soon as he sees her, but no ears hear the inconsequential words they speak to each other. Lady Eustace joins Lord Fawn in a quadrille, dances with no one else, and very soon asks him to get her carriage for her. Taking her seat, she tells him, "You had better come to me soon." And thus does Lady Eustace savor her triumph of displaying the diamonds at Lady Glencora's house.

This may have been the high point for Lizzie. Her one goal in life was to keep the diamonds, and all else was sacrificed to this goal. It is not so much that she has an overall strategy; rather, she constantly improvises from one point to the next, keeping (supposedly) the diamonds locked up in an iron box.

Of course the diamonds are at risk--not only from Mr. Camperdown, the Eustace family lawyer who is as determined to recover the diamonds for the family as Lizzie is to keep them, but also from thieves in the night. When Lizzie goes to her late husband's ancestral castle in Scotland, she surrounds herself with unscrupulous friends, runs through her potential suitors, and loses her diamonds. On the first attempt at the diamonds, the thieves get an empty iron box, while Lady Eustace retains the jewels "in her own keeping." Not being one to blurt out the truth at the first opportunity, however, Lizzie does not tell the police that she still has the diamonds, and she digs herself deeper and deeper into her deception until it carries the name of perjury.

As Lizzie sins, so is she punished, not by the law, but by the irony of fate, receiving a proposal of marriage by Mr. Joseph Emilius, described in words which we now find difficult to forgive: "a nasty, greasy, lying, squinting Jew preacher." This follows his assertions that he is the greatest preacher of the day and can move masses. Lizzie knows he is grossly exaggerating his assets, but "A man, to be a man in her eyes, should be able to swear that all his geese are swans." When he demands an answer to his proposal of marriage, Lizzie answers him in kind, making a speech that matches his in length, protesting that after losing "the dearest husband that a woman had ever worshipped," she had once thought of matrimony with a man of high rank for the sake of her child. But he had proved unworthy of her, she discloses with a scornful expression as she declares that she can no longer be willing to consider another marriage. "Upon hearing this, Mr. Emilius bowed low, and before the street-door was closed against him had begun to calculate how much a journey to Scotland would cost him."

All these events did not go unnoticed by the gods on Mount Olympus--in this case, the Pallisers and their friends at Matching Priory. The Pallisers were less involved in this story than in any of the other five novels in the Palliser series. Lady Glencora had intervened a bit, and she had not been wise in choosing sides (a tendency which was to recur in her favoritism of the villain Lopez in _The Prime Minister_), and she had called on Lady Eustace to offer her support. But none of the other gods and goddesses challenged her. "It was understood that Lady Glencora was not to be snubbed, though she was very much given to snubbing others. She had attained this position for herself by a mixture of beauty, rank, wealth, and courage;--but the courage had, of the four, been her greatest mainstay." None at Matching were more entertained, however, than the greatest god of all, the old Duke of Omnium. The old duke was in his last days, and "It was admitted by them all that the robbery had been a godsend in the way of amusing the duke."

The Duke was not alone in his enjoyment of the adventures of Lizzie Eustace. The little vixen has provided pleasant diversion for many readers; she continues to amuse.

HOW THE WOMEN TOOK CARE OF PHINEAS

PHINEAS REDUX

Perhaps the story of Phineas Finn just wouldn't fit into one novel, at least not within the limits of Trollope Standard Time, in which no nuance of thought or motive is left unexplored. Hence, _Phineas Redux_. Phineas (as he was known to many of his acquaintances even under the formal conventions of Victorian England) is no more heroic in the second novel than in the first. Would these two novels rank higher in our consciousness if the protagonist had been less flawed? Perhaps. But Phineas's penchant for muddling through without much in the way of strength or resolution is essential to the story. And even though the reader may lose patience with Phineas at times, his foibles and fallibility provide the necessary pinch of charm to this story of political gamesmanship and matrimonial maneuvering.

The familiar characters of _Phineas Finn_ carry on for us. Mary Flood Jones Finn is missing, her early death having freed Phineas to return to London as a widower and resume his career and his old friendships--especially those with women. The page brightens whenever the Duchess of Omnium or Madame Max Goesler appear.

Why are these women so delightful? Bright, irreverent, saucy, the Duchess uses her lofty position in society as a springboard for making things happen. She appears and reappears in several novels in the Palliser series, sometimes as the prime mover and always as a breath of fresh air. (She even makes a cameo appearance in _Miss Mackenzie_, an unrelated story.) In _Phineas Redux_ she adopts Phineas as a favorite and meddles in his fate, most prominently when she promotes his candidacy for office in opposition to the ambitions of Mr. Bonteen, whom she lures into exposing himself as a boor when her wine prompts him to make some inappropriate speeches at a dinner party. How did the author pass up the opportunity to give us the details of this dialogue? (Simon Raven's screenplay for the BBC television series remedies this omission, showing the viewer exactly how Mr. Bonteen destroyed his career.)

We see the Duchess at work when she initiates her project of promoting the status of Mr. Finn, telling the Duke of St. Bungay that he must find some place for him. In vain does he protest that he never interferes. "Why, Duke, you've made more cabinets than any man living."

She undertakes to promote the marriage prospects of her husband's cousin Adelaide Palliser by making imaginative use of an unclaimed legacy that can be used to remedy the young couple's poverty. She volunteers to intervene in Lord Chiltern's irate assertion that foxes are being poisoned at the Duke's behest. When she offers her money to get Phineas acquitted of the accusation of murdering Mr. Bonteen, the attorney, Mr. Low, is unsuccessful in persuading her that this would be immoral, illegal, and ineffective. "The more money you spend," she says, "the more fuss you make. And the longer a trial is about and the greater the interest, the more chance a man has to escape. If a man is tried for three days you always think he'll get off, but if it lasts ten minutes he is sure to be convicted and hung. I'd have Mr. Finn's trial made so long that they never could convict him."

And what if he should be convicted?

"I'd buy up the Home Secretary. It's very horrid to say so, of course, Mr. Low; and I dare say there is nothing wrong ever done in Chancery. But I know what Cabinet Ministers are. If they could get a majority by granting a pardon they'd do it quick enough."

She also provides opportunities for her friend Marie Goesler to put herself in the way of Phineas Finn in another match-making venture. And in all these projects she succeeds.

How much help does Madame Max (Marie) Goesler need? Not much, though she accepts the assistance. We have already seen Madame Goesler outface Lady Glencora (before she became Duchess), mocking Glencora when she makes a clumsy effort to dissuade Marie from pursuing a marriage with the old Duke, which would potentially disinherit her oldest son. And in this novel she again takes the high ground with Glencora, winning the love and another proposal from the dying Duke but turning him down, and then refusing the fortune and jewels bequeathed her by the old Duke (except for one little ring she says she will always wear).

Is Madame Goesler too good to be true? She is presented as a young woman, about thirty-two years of age, the same age as Phineas Finn. But she is miles beyond Phineas in maturity and capability. And not only that. Wisdom. Her utterances come across as the wisdom of the ages. In urging Phineas to accept an appointment to the cabinet, she says, "Your foot must be on the ladder before you can get to the top of it."

Madame Max never seems to make a mistake. She handles the attentions of the Duke impeccably, and she manages her relationship with Lady Glencora with wit and consummate skill. Maybe our greatest reservation about her judgment has to do with her steadfast preference for Phineas Finn. But one can hardly doubt the happiness of the favored couple. There is little reason to doubt that Phineas can handle prosperity.

And Phineas Finn: not exactly a hobbledehoy. His gift of gab permits him to sail through social challenges. Perhaps his success with the ladies gives him self confidence. But the reader grits his teeth as Phineas allows himself to be sucked into a foolish quarrel with Mr. Bonteen. And we share Madame Max's counsel to him at the end when he is offered office and cannot bring himself to accept. His density is more believable than Madame Max's wisdom. But here the critic is at odds with the enthusiastic reader who cheers her on.

And what of poor Lady Laura, the other woman who loves Phineas? None of Trollope's women appear more true to life. She pays a long and bitter price for having sacrificed herself to bring financial solvency to her family by a marriage to a lord who ultimately proves himself to be crazy. She bares her soul to Phineas, who gamely attempts to bring temporary solace to a grieving woman. But how can she ever be comforted? Poor Phineas. Many readers may conclude that he does as well as a kind-hearted Irishman can do.

The climax of the story is Phineas's trial for murder, a device that lends pace and urgency to the story. In some respects the case is handled like that of Mr. Crawley in _The Last Chronicle of Barset_, in which a trip to the continent is heroically taken by an advocate for the accused, bringing back evidence that breaks open the case--though it is not necessarily essential.

One more thing: Trollope's touch in portraying the professional lawyer is as entertaining a presentation of the creed of the Law as one can hope for. Mr. Chaffanbrass, who is to defend Phineas Finn, has no interest in knowing the truth about the murderer, despite being told that the public wants to know. "[T]he public is ignorant." The public should want to know the truth about the evidence about the murder. "Now the last man to give us any useful insight into the evidence is the prisoner himself. In nineteen cases out of twenty a man tried for murder in this country committed the murder for which he is tried."

After meeting Phineas Finn, Chaffanbrass maintains that he never expresses an opinion of guilt or innocence of a client until the trial is over. In a four-hour speech he argues persuasively for Phineas's innocence, though he reflects over a pint of port wine in a small room afterward that he privately believes him to be guilty. "But to no human being had he expressed this opinion; nor would he express it--unless his client should be hung."

Though perhaps not among the best few of Trollope's novels, why should _Phineas Redux_ not be rated among the very good ones? The difficulty of such a judgment lies in the even quality of many of the contenders. I would give this one a "very good" rating.

"ARE NOT POLITICS ODD?"

THE PRIME MINISTER

Religion and politics--the two spheres of human activity to be approached with caution, if not to be avoided, in polite conversation--are the subjects forming the basis of Anthony Trollope's two series of novels, the Barsetshire series and the Palliser series. No other writer of his stature has touched these areas on such a scale. Perhaps others have avoided them simply because they haven't been interested. Trollope was certainly interested in politics; he even ran for the House for Commons once, was defeated and was disillusioned. His interest in church affairs and church politics was less personal, though he did maintain his own personal theology.

His abiding interest in politics is evident in _The Prime Minister_, fifth in the series of the six Palliser novels. My recollection of the story from twenty-five years ago is mainly of Ferdinand Lopez, so that when he threw himself under a train at the Tenway Junction, I assumed that the book must be over. But no, we had the loose ends of the fate of his widow, Emily Wharton Lopez, to dispose of; and the main plot thread, that of the prime minister, the Duke of Omnium, to be concluded.

Lopez sticks in the memory as one who creates himself on a basis of audacity, charm, and freedom from any moral restraints. We meet him as a suitor for the hand of Emily Wharton, daughter of a wealthy barrister; he preys on her brother Everett and through him finds entrée to dinner at the Whartons' house. Both his social and financial careers are leveraged on slender bases that eventually collapse but support him long enough to make a sensational run. He is similar in many ways to Augustus Melmotte, who makes a larger run through the established circles of Victorian England in _The Way We Live Now_, Trollope's larger portrayal of contemporary mores written a year earlier in 1874.

A case might be made that the House of Commons is the major character in the novel. We are told that although the House is sometimes led and influenced by one of its members, the House during the ministry of the Duke of Omnium had no Prime Minister sitting among its members and was essentially on its own. Plantagenet Palliser had been obliged to leave the House of Commons for the House of Lords when his uncle's death made him the new Duke of Omnium, and we can hardly doubt the new Duke when he says that he would rather be a Member of the House of Commons than Duke of Omnium. It is not that the Duke was a charismatic leader of his fellows in the House. On the contrary, he was a patient workman, doing his homework and presenting lengthy accounts of the state of the Treasury. But without even that presence, the House first labored under the leadership of Sir Orlando Drought, whom the Prime Minister offended by his lack of interest in Sir Orlando's opinions. After the resignation of Sir Orlando, the Prime Minister was represented by Mr. Monk, a more congenial colleague. But the House grew restless under a Prime Minister who made no attempt to be friendly to any of its members and eventually shucked him off. All this was foreseen and observed by the Duke of St. Bungay, old and wise, whose counsel the younger Duke could not always bring himself to heed.