Upstairs, Upstairs

Anthony Trollope, contemporary of Dickens, famous in his day.  47 novels published, and by his late years already considered old-fashioned. Nobody reads him today, or at least so it seems.  I love his books, though I am aware of his limitations.  Every so often I return to Trollope for another sanity dose, be it an installment from the Chronicles of Barsetshire or the Palliser novels.  Always does me good.

Uncle Anthony

The Eustace Diamonds is one of the Palliser novels, and it’s vintage Trollope: a microscopic discerning account of a very thin slice of upper crust London society in the mid 19^th-century.  This is truly all upstairs.  No downstairs.  That would be is beneath his notice.  We have a set of characters that represents a very narrow range of London society, but nonetheless we can enjoy very finely etched distinctions.  And we also have a kaleidoscope of character juxtapositions. Just about every conceivable combination occurs, and the results are fascinating indeed.  We have plenty of social and political commentary, but again within an extremely narrow range.  Lawyers will be lawyers, be it 1870 or 2013.  The game is still the same.  Politics and money still have a stranglehold on government.  Not much has changed, and probably not much will.

The extraordinary moral vision of Dickens is completely absent.  Trollope takes a relatively objective observer’s point of view, and the lack of moral imperative can be tedious.  We almost feel like we’re reading a train schedule, just a record of what is, with little explicit indication of what might be, what needs to be, or what must be.  Also, the influence of Wilkie Collins is clear.  (The Woman in White remains one of my all-time favs.) The Eustace Diamonds came out only a few years after the fabulously successful The Moonstone, and the effort to get on the new bandwagon is evident, understandable, and forgivable.

It’s a long book, about 800 pages.  It’s divided into tightly structured short chapters, and was initially published as a serial.  Hence it doesn’t read quickly.  Like a telegram, it has many ‘stops’, but I’m happy to devote a month to this book.  The subtle and gradual revelation of character is very rewarding, and the plot is well crafted.  And even at 800 pages, the book is clearly part of the larger picture, the Trollope universe of characters and context, one that I take great pleasure in visiting and revisiting every so often.  The writing is effective but limited.  Little of the extraordinary range of Dickens is in evidence.  Listen to Uncle Anthony tell his story.  He’s a bit of a bore, but if you have the patience to hear him out, you won’t be disappointed.

I will never forget some of the characters in The Eustace Diamonds.  Trollope was a master, and it’s our loss if we toss him aside in favor of our latest fads.