I've just begun reading Trollope's autobiography, and I'm searching for insight on how he got to be such a fine observer of character as evidenced in
Barchester Towers. From reading only so far as his youth and education, I've found a few clues. One, he was a lonely boy, set aside from the boys at school by his family's poverty. He said of those times,
I suffered horribly! I could make no stand against [his fellow's cruelty]. I had no friend to whom I could pour out my sorrows. I was big, and awkward, and ugly, and, I have no doubt, sulked about in a most unattractive manner. Of course, I was ill-dressed and dirty. But ah! how well I remember all the agonies of my young heart; how I considered whether I should always be alone; whether I could not find my way up to the top of that college tower, and from thence put an end to everything.
Misery, indeed. Being such an acute sufferer, he could sympathize with the likes of Mr. Harding and recognize the abuses of a Slope and Grantly.
But keen observation doesn't explain his artistry. I can't think of Trollope's equal in his ability to amuse and enlighten in a few deft words. He is a master. I hope that readers can appreciate the following quotes from Barchester Towers even though they're out of context:
Of the dying bishop: "If he did not do much active good, he never did any harm."
Of the new bishop's wife: "I cannot think that with all her virtues she adds much to her husband's happiness."
"The great family characteristic of the Stanhopes might probably be said to be heartlessness, but this want of feeling was, in most of them, accompanied by so great an amount of good nature as to make itself but little noticeable to the world."
Of Mr. Harding: "The whole tendency of his mind and disposition was opposed to any contra-assumption of grandeur on his own part, and he hadn't the worldly spirit or quickness necessary to put down insolent pretensions by downright and open rebuke."
"Mr. Slope was not in all things a bad man. His motives, like those of most men, were mixed, and though his conduct was generally very different from that which we would wish to praise, it was actuated perhaps as often as that of the majority of the world by a desire to do his duty." How many do we know of these types?
Of Mr. Arabin: "Too apt to look down on the ordinary sense of ordinary people."
"There was nothing poetic in the nature of Mrs. Quiverful." Which is ironic, given that it comes after a paragraph in which the author waxes exceedingly poetic about her.
How does Trollope know us so well, and yet have the audacity to remark "how little our friends know us!"? In describing Mr. Arabin, the author notes,
Considering how much we are all given to discuss the characters of others, and discuss them often not in the strictest spirit of charity, it is singular how little we are inclined to think that others can speak ill-naturedly of us. . . . [W]e all of us occasionally speak of our dearest friends in a manner in which those dearest friends would very little like to hear themselves mentioned, and that we nevertheless expect that our dearest friends shall invariably speak of us as though they were blind to all our faults, but keenly alive to every shade of our virtues. It did not occur to Mr. Arabin that he was spoken of at all. It seemed to him, when he compared himself with his host, that he was a person of so little consequence to any, that he was worth no one's words or thoughts.
And then,
Wise people, when they are in the wrong, always put themselves right by finding fault with the people against whom they have sinned. . . . A man in the right relies easily on his rectitude and therefore goes about unarmed. His very strength is his weakness. A man in the wrong knows that he must look to his weapons; his very weakness is his strength. The one is never prepared for combat, the other is always ready. Therefore it is that in this world the man that is in the wrong almost invariably conquers the man that is in the right, and invariably despises him.
Too true. Trollope is not fooled by the mask of religion either. And he can have his most odious characters speak the most truth, as when Slope says, "A Christian should have a reason for his faith -- should not only believe, but digest -- not only hear, but understand."
Then, in the mouth of the signora, in the midst of the seduction and destruction of Slope, he puts these words: "You preach a doctrine which you know you don't believe. It is the way with you all. If you know that there is no earthly happiness, why do you long to be a bishop or a dean? Why do you want lands and income? . . . I will believe in no belief that does not make itself manifest by outward signs. I will think no preaching sincere that is not recommended by the practice of the preacher."
I will also be watching, in his autobiography, for clues to how Trollope developed his view of the church and its clergy, for what led him to say in
Barchester Towers, "We are not forced into church! No: but we desire more than that. We desire not to be forced to stay away."
And this brings me to one other thing I enjoy about Trollope's novels: the little asides by which he tells us what he thinks and his reasons for certain writing choices. One reviewer said he felt these could be skipped through in order to get on with the plot. I'm sorry for him.
Finally, I encourage you to read the backstory for
Barchester Towers, The Warden. It's a sweet tale; read
Page Turner's blog post for her review.
