Trollope Update

Of all novelists in any country, Trollope best understands the role of money. Compared with him even Balzac is a romantic. -- W. H. Auden

The further I read into Can You Forgive Her?, the more I see what Auden means (although I think he over-states the case just a bit; I'd say that it was a draw between Trollope and Balzac on this point). Trollope is not utterly without sentimentality, but his warmer passages tend to focus on Nation and Service and other abstractions. On the subject of personal relationships, and the paramount role that money plays in them, he is altogether harder. (He is scarcely unaware of the sexual aspects, either, although as a "proper" Victorian he has to be less explicit about them. But they are certainly implied.)

It is refreshing to encounter a 19th century novelist who can have his heroine sensibly comment:

"It seems to me, papa, that there is a great deal of false feeling about this matter of money in marriage, -- or rather, perhaps, a great deal of pretended feeling. Why should I be angry with a man for wishing to get that for which every man is struggling?"

This is one of Alice Vavasor's most lucid analytic moments. She in fact spends much of her time on analytic thinking, but she frequently mis-times her use of it. Those who find her a trying protagonist, as many readers have, are undoubtedly reacting not just to her frequent indecision and changeability, which I have commented on before, but to the fact that she almost invariably regrets her decisions once she does make them, and as the novel progresses, the regrets set in almost immediately with no lag time. One wonders that she doesn't notice that she might as well do the opposite of everything she decides, as that should on the example of all her experiences lead to a much better result!

In Chapter 48, Lady Glencora practically begs our Alice to accompany her to a grand party. This would mean a great deal to her and scarcely put out Alice at all. Nonetheless, Alice refuses her repeatedly over the course of their morning's conversation, only to do a mental about-face practically the minute Glencora is out the door:

Alice regretted, -- regretted deeply that she had not consented to go with her cousin. After all, of what importance had been her objection when compared with the cause for which her presence had been desired? Doubtless she would have been uncomfortable at Lady Monk's house; but could she not have borne some hour or two of discomfort on her friend's behalf? But, in truth, it was only after Lady Glencora had left that she began to understand the subject fully...

And so it goes, not just the more-or-less unhelpful clarity after the fact, but also the selfishness and solipsism of Alice's decision-making process. Can You Stand Her?

This only makes the novel that much more interesting.