Delphi Complete Works of William Dean Howells

by William Dean Howells

  Smith, had smiled and simpered, — and had then felt that to smile and simper before Lily Dale, with a pretended indifference to her presence, was false on his part, and would seem to be mean. He would have avoided Lily for both their sakes, had it been possible; but it was no longer possible, and he could not keep his eyes from her face. Hardly knowing what he did, he bowed to her, lifted his hat, and uttered some word of greeting. Lily, from the moment that she had perceived his presence, had looked straight before her, with something almost of fierceness in her eyes.... Now, when he saluted her, she turned her face full upon him, and bowed to him. Then she rose from her seat, and made her way, between Siph Dunn and Pratt, out of the circle. The blood had mounted to her face and suffused it all and her whole manner was such that it could escape the observation of none who stood there. Even Mrs. Harold Smith had seen it, and had read the story. As soon as she was on her feet, Bernard had dropped Emily’s hand, and offered his arm to his cousin. ‘Lily,’ he said out loud, ‘you had better let me take you away. It is a misfortune that you have been subjected to the insult of such a greeting.’ The misfortune of the encounter had become too plain to admit of its being hidden under any of the ordinary veils of society. Crosbie’s salutation had been made before the eyes of them all, and in the midst of absolute silence, and Lily had risen with so queenlike a demeanor, and had moved with so stately a step, that it was impossible that any one concerned should pretend to ignore the facts of the scene that had occurred. Crosbie was still standing close to Mrs. Harold Smith, Mrs. Thorne had risen from her seat, and the words which Bernard Dale had uttered were still sounding in the ears of them all. ‘Shall I see after the carriage?’ said Siph Dunn.”

  IV

  I call this all extremely good work. I do not call it fine work, as to the mere artistry; it is a little too plain and matter-of-fact for that. A greater artist than Trollope would have had a more sparing touch in his realism: it is not so that Tourguénief, or Bjôrnson, or Flaubert, or Mr. Hardy would have presented these scenes. A greater artist than Trollope psychologically would have had a greater subtlety in his divinations and revelations: it is not so that Hawthorne, or Tolstoy, or Mr. James would have shown us the soul of a girl in such a moment of martyry. They would all, both realists and psychologists, have shown us her naked soul, in such wise that we should have been less abashed than by her soul as we see it here, with its clothes on. But it was strictly Trollope’s business to show us her soul with its clothes on, for in the world he deals with, the soul as well as the body is clothed, and wears its decorums and conventions as constantly. It is when Trollope shows the soul moving in these that he is most a master; it is when he sometimes strips them away, and bluntly exposes the soul, instead of letting it betray itself, that he is least a master.

  He is mostly at his worst in “ The Last Chronicle of Barset,” where in his cleaning-up of all the odds and ends of life left over from the other stories relating to the Barchester neighborhood, he leaves few shreds and patches for the reader’s imagination to penetrate. Yet it is from “The Last Chronicle” that the two last scenes of Lily Dale’s suffering are taken, and it is in “The Last Chronicle” that the tremendous psychical tragedy of the perpetual curate of Hogglestock finally slips through the author’s thumb-fingered hold. Lily’s two encounters with Crosbie are of the quality of what is sublimest in the dark agony of Josiah Crawley, and even the somewhat perfunctory drama of the subsequent scenes with Johnny Eames is above the ordinary level of the book.

  But it is hard to believe in this part of Lily’s experience. Her entirely credible experience ends with that last encounter with Crosbie; what follows with Eames, who has loved her from childhood, and is left loving her in her resolute old-maidhood, is something that the reader feels it his duty to help the author out with in deference to the original implications of her story. Yet, once in a way, why is it not well to see a thing of this sort through to a natural conclusion? It is certainly of true interest, if not the most poignant interest; and though the love-making of Eames is somewhat tediously prolonged, and his offers somewhat incredibly repeated, still it is all important in rounding out and setting in full relief the story of Lily Dale.

  That story, I say it again, is one of the most interesting I know, one of the most sincerely and courageously treated. One feels at every moment its essential and specific veracity. It is a tragedy of the most harrowing sort, and yet it is altogether wholesome and consoling. To be superior to fate one must be the trusting worshipper of omnipotence, and it was in the shelter of this stronghold that such a girl as Lily Dale, with no touch of pietism or word of cant, found shelter and safety.

  ANTHONY TROLLOPE’S LUCY ROBARTS AND GRISELDA GRANTLY

  ANTHONY TROLLOPE was the author of thirty-nine or forty novels, relating nearly all of them to the contemporary English society life, which he seems to have known better than any other English novelist. Out of the whole number the novels which will come first to the reader’s mind are those relating to clerical society as it existed during the eighteen fifties and sixties in the imaginary cathedral town of Barchester; and but for the explicit denial in his autobiography, one might next have said that he had made an exhaustive study of the bishops, deans, archdeacons, canons, vicars, and curates, tutti quanti, with their wives, sisters, aunts, and cousins, in the whole variety of their duties and pleasures, joys and sorrows, hopes and fears. He was at the trouble to assure his believers, however, that he did not specifically or scientifically know the types he makes so interesting, and was only their casual and involuntary observer; yet such is the inherent evidence against him that we must regard his pretence as the foible of a writer who would rather be thought inspired than informed, and whose caprice it was to prefer the reputation of having made a lot of lucky guesses to that of having made a series of careful studies.

  He had several foibles, that poor Anthony Trollope, who wrote so much better of English life than anyone except Jane Austen and George Eliot, but who wished to write like Thackeray. He copied Thackeray’s most offensive and inartistic confidential attitude, though he knew him, and had the courage to pronounce him, false to certain aspects of English society. He says frankly that he never met any such people among the nobility and gentry as the Marquis of Steyn and Sir Pitt Crawley; he apparently met many others quite as vulgar and wicked, but not these self-evident caricatures and exaggerations; and he is the more to be trusted because he is so honest about their vulgarity and wickedness. He does not mock or scourge his bad aristocrats as Thackeray does; there is nothing of the satirist in him; and he is all the more impressive as a moralist because he contents himself with simply letting us see them as they are. He has no apparent purpose of reforming them; at times you have from him the notion that reform of any sort, among the hierarchy or nobility, might constitute a danger to society, and would be worth less than it would cost. He even imparts a sense of such entire approval of society conditions, such unquestioning fealty to the existing order, that you hardly know whether to admire more the skill with which he portrays it, or the seriousness with which he accepts it and honors it.

  I

  “Framley Parsonage” is almost a typical novel of the sort which displays Trollope’s distinguishing strength and weakness, and I think myself it is a most delightful story, running its course through a variety of characteristic incident, and prospering finally in the happy marriage of the first heroine, Lucy Robarts, and the brilliant marriage of the second heroine, Griselda Grantly.

  As no reader of the story can have forgotten, Lucy is the daughter of a successful country doctor, and the pretty young sister of Rev. Mark Robarts, whom Lady Lufton has given the living of Framley because her son and he have always been friends, and because in her rather high and mighty, but perfectly kind and conscientious way, she has loved him from his boyhood. She is willing to love his pretty young sister, too, in a way, when she comes to the parsonage, after the doctor’s death, but it is no part of her plan that young Lord Lufton, he
r son, shall love Lucy Robarts rather more than he has ever loved her brother. This is what happens, however, and the facts which Lucy has to face, if she accepts Lord Lufton, are the deep displeasure and disappointment of Lady Lufton, who means her son for Griselda Grantly, or if she rejects him the still deeper displeasure and disappointment of Lord Lufton She will share the displeasure in Lady Lufton’s case, for she does not feel it quite right to come and get her son away; and in Lord Lufton’s case she will share the disappointment, for she is as much in love with him as he is with her. The natural thing for a romantic girl to do is to deny her love, since Lord Lufton will not take any other sort of no for an answer, and the natural thing for a sensible girl to do is to confess it when her lover has sufficiently insisted. Lucy being both romantic and sensible, does both these natural things in the succession indicated; and all ends well. She never ceases to be little and dark, if pretty, and so far inadequate to her rank, and Griselda Grantly never ceases to be tall and fair and cold, and most suitable for the wife and mother of aristocracy; but since Lord Lufton will not have Griselda in spite of her willingness, and will most passionately and perversely have Lucy in spite of her unwillingness, his mother reconciles herself so thoroughly to the inevitable that with the lapse of time she comes almost to fed as if she had promoted the marriage.

  II

  The pretty story is told in the plainest and openest way, with quite miraculous impartiality concerning the rights and duties of all concerned, and with due consideration for their feelings and opinions. There is a current of tragedy, but not the darkest tragedy, running through it from the financial follies of Mark Robarts, to his just but not desperate moral sufferings, and all the rest is love-comedy, just enough shadowed by passing doubt to keep the reader from relaxing in perpetual sunshine. Lord Lufton is such a lover as any girl, romantic or sensible, or both, might be glad to have. Being satisfied that he is in love with Lucy, he has no other idea than to win her, and he goes as promptly and directly about it as possible, without any of the fine scruples concerning other people which distract the girl. His mother is all very well as the means of bringing a Lord Lufton into the world, and he loves and honors her as a good son should; but a Lord Lufton has duties to himself in the choice of a wife that he cannot let even a mother contravene. He therefore puts her and her purposes of Griselda Grantly kindly but firmly aside, and having noticed that Lucy no longer comes to his mother’s house, and otherwise avoids meeting him, he goes to the parsonage to find out why. He asks her, and it presently comes to her saying:

  “‘The world will say that I, the parson’s sister, set my cap at the young lord, and that the young lord had made a fool of me.’ ‘The world shall say no such thing!’ said Lord Lufton, very imperiously. ‘Ah! but it will. You can no more stop it, than King Canute could the waters. Your mother has interfered wisely to spare me from this; and the only favor that I can ask you is, that you will spare me also. ‘And then she got up.... ‘Stop, Lucy!’ he said, putting himself between her and the door. ‘It must not be Lucy any longer, Lord Lufton; I was madly foolish when I first allowed it,’ ‘By heavens! but it shall be Lucy — Lucy before all the world. My Lucy, my own Lucy — my heart’s best friend, and chosen love. Lucy, there is my hand. How long you may have had my heart, it matters not to say now. ‘The game was at her feet now, and no doubt she felt her triumph. Her ready wit and speaking lip, not her beauty, had brought him to her side; and now he was forced to acknowledge that her power over him had been supreme. Sooner than leave her he would risk all. She did feel her triumph; but there was nothing in her face to tell him that she did so. As to what she would now do she did not for a moment doubt. He had been precipitated into the declaration he had made not by his love, but by his embarrassment. She had thrown in his teeth the injury which he had done her, and he had then been moved by his generosity to repair that injury by the noblest sacrifice which he could make. But Lucy Robarts was not the girl to accept a sacrifice. He had stepped forward as though he were going to clasp her round the waist, but she receded, and got beyond the reach of his hand. ‘Lord Lufton!’ she said, ‘when you are more cool you will know that this is wrong. The best thing for both of us now is to part.’... ‘Lucy! do you mean that you cannot learn to love me?’ ‘I mean that I shall not try. Do not persevere in this, or you will have to hate yourself for your own folly. ‘ ‘But I will persevere, till you accept my love, or say, with your hand on your heart, that you cannot and will not love me.’ ‘Then I must beg you to let me go,’ and having so said, she paused while he walked once or twice hurriedly up and down the room. ‘And, Lord Lufton,’ she continued, ‘if you will leave me now, the words that you have spoken shall be as though they had never been uttered,’ ‘I care not who knows that they have been uttered. The sooner that they are known to all the world, the better I shall be pleased, unless indeed—’ ‘Think of your mother, Lord Lufton,’ ‘ What can I do better than give her as a daughter the best and sweetest girl I have ever met? When my mother really knows you, she will love you as I do. Lucy, say one word to me of comfort,’... ‘You have no right to press me any further,’ she said; and sat down upon the sofa, with an angry frown upon her forehead. ‘By heavens,’ he said, ‘I will take no such answer from you till you put your hand upon your heart, and say that you cannot love me,’ ‘Oh, why should you press me so, Lord Lufton?’ ‘Why! because my happiness depends upon it; because it behooves me to know the very truth. It has come to this, that I love you with my whole heart, and I must know how your heart stands towards me,’ She had now again risen from the sofa, and was looking steadily in his face. ‘Lord Lufton,’ she said, ‘I cannot love you,’ and as she spoke she did put her hand, as he had desired, upon her heart. ‘Then God help me! for I am very wretched. Goodbye, Lucy, ‘and he stretched out his hand to her. ‘Goodbye, my lord. Do not be angry with me. ‘ ‘No, no, no,’ and without further speech he left the room and the house and hurried home.... And when he was well gone — absolutely out of sight from the window — Lucy walked steadily up to her room, locked the door, and then threw herself on the bed. Why — oh! why had she told such a falsehood? Could anything justify her in a lie? Was it not a lie — knowing as she did that she loved him with all her loving heart? But, then, his mother! and the sneers of the world, which would have declared that she had set her trap, and caught the foolish young lord!

  Her pride would not have submitted to that. Strong as her love was, yet her pride was, perhaps, stronger — stronger at any rate during that interview.”

  III

  Following the scene with Lord Lufton there is a mighty pretty passage between Lucy Robarts and her sister-in-law, to whom she owns the love that she denied to Lord Lufton. I should like to give it all, but perhaps I had better send my readers to the novel for it: they will thank me for sending them to the novel upon any excuse, when they have read it.

  “‘Well, no, it has been all my own fault; though, for the life of me, Fanny, going back and back, I cannot see where I took the first false step. I do not know where I went wrong. One wrong thing I did, and it is the only thing that I do not regret. ‘ ‘What was that, Lucy?’ ‘I told him a lie. ‘... ‘And what has he said to you, Lucy?’ ‘What? Only this, that he asked me to be his wife. ‘ ‘Lord Lufton proposed to you?’...

  ‘Here, standing here, on this very spot, on that flower of the carpet, he begged me a dozen times to be his wife. I wonder whether you and Mark would let me cut it out and keep it. ‘ ‘And what answer did you make to him?’ ‘I lied to him, and told him that I did not love him.’ ‘ You refused him?’ ‘Yes; I refused a live lord. There is some satisfaction in having that to think of; is there not? Fanny, was I wicked to tell that falsehood?... Had I thought that it was good for him, that he would not have repented, I would have braved anything — for his sake. Even your frown, for you would have frowned. You would have thought it sacrilege for me to marry Lord Lufton! You know you would.’ Mrs. Robarts hardly knew how to say what she thought, or indeed
what she ought to think.... What would Lady Lufton say, or think, or feel? What would she say, and think, ‘and feel as to that parsonage from which so deadly a blow would fall upon her? Would she not accuse the vicar and the vicar’s wife of the blackest ingratitude? Would life be endurable at Framley under such circumstances as those? ‘What you tell me so surprises me, that I hardly as yet know how to speak about it,’ said Mrs. Robarts....— ‘And you would not accept his love?’ ‘No; I would have nothing to say to it. Look you, I stood here, and putting my hand upon my heart — for he bade me do that — I said that I could not love him.’ ‘And what then?’ ‘He went away, — with a look as though he were heart-broken. He crept away slowly, saying that he was the most wretched soul alive. For a minute I believed him and could almost have called him back. But, no, Fanny; do not think that I am over-proud, or conceited about my conquest He had not reached the gate before he was thanking God for his escape.’ ‘That I do not believe.’”

  This passage develops the character of Lucy Robarts as it remains with the reader, and reveals in her the strain of humor, which still does not render her finally rebellious against the social situation, as the author’s humor does not render him rebellious. Both author and heroine accede to it, though they both fully recognize its absurdity, and are aware of its injustice. In fact, the attitude of the characters in all of Trollope’s books and the attitude of Trollope himself is one of Asiatic submission to the established order of things, mixed with a strictly Anglo-Saxon freedom of speech concerning it; so that the more democratized American is scarcely more amazed at the one than at the other. No people with less than the English good sense could prevent their social conditions from working more harm than they do; no people with so much good sense ever abandoned themselves to a status in which the outsider sees no sense at all.