stoutfellow (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
stoutfellow) wrote2005-11-26 09:50 am
stoutfellow) wrote2005-11-26 09:50 am
"The Last Chronicle of Barset"
The Last Chronicle of Barset is the last and, to my mind, best book in Anthony Trollope's Barsetshire series of novels. It is considerably darker than the earlier books, and includes one of his finest and most complex creations in the person of Josiah Crawley, the Perpetual Curate of Hogglestock. Trollope intended it as the capstone of the series (as the very title indicates), and characters from each of the previous books - Septimus Harding, the Grantlys, the Proudies, the Thornes, Luftons, and Dales, and even Johnny Eames and Adolphus Crosbie - play significant roles.
The principal plotline deals with the tribulations of Mr. Crawley, who is accused of theft in connection with a misplaced check for twenty pounds. The evidence is overwhelming, and even he himself cannot be sure he is innocent; the effects of the accusation on his household, his neighbors, and a widening circle of more distant connections make up the bulk of the book. There are secondary plots having to do with a love affair between his daughter Grace and Henry Grantly (son of Archdeacon Grantly, a recurring character since the first book, The Warden) and the final resolution of the relationship between Lily Dale and Johnny Eames, but they are of lesser interest, at least to me.
Before turning to the main story, I'd like to make a comment or two about that last plotline. It is largely a carryover from the previous book, The Small House at Allington, and it seems to me that it should have been left there; the situation at the end of that story seemed reasonably conclusive. Frankly, I do not find either Lily or Johnny particularly interesting characters. Beyond that, a substantial part of this plotline (as with the previous book) takes place in London rather than in Barsetshire, and I find the characters who appear there rather dull when they are not outright unpleasant. (Johnny's scenes at Allington are memorable; his work as a civil servant, less so.) Johnny does get shoehorned into the Crawley plotline and is tolerable there, but that role could have been played as well by a new character.
It is Mr. Crawley who makes the book. He is alluded to, though not named, in Barchester Towers, as an old friend of Mr. Arabin; he appears in his own person in Framley Parsonage, and plays a major role in that book. He is a tireless pastor, and his work on behalf of his poor parishioners, especially the brickmakers, is commendable. His humility in that work draws reproof from some of his peers, as unbecoming a gentleman of the clergy, but to modern eyes - or at least to mine - it is utterly charming. He is poor; despite having a fine education, he has been assigned to the most dismal of posts, first in a remote part of Cornwall, and later in the most squalid part of Barsetshire. But he has persevered, and done good if not well. It would not be hard to regard him (on this evidence) as a veritable saint.
But he isn't one. He is stiff-necked and proud - proud as only one who has lived as a gentleman and now is reduced to penury can be. He is all too aware of his own suffering, and is a little in love with it, with the idea of martyrdom. He resents the way his life has turned; resents, too, the necessity of receiving charity - refusing it when possible, even from the hands of his old friend Arabin. (He has become estranged from Arabin, because the latter has risen in the world; Crawley is ashamed to appear in Arabin's fine house, wearing his own shabby coat, and resents his friend on account of that shame.) Even when refusal threatens harm to his wife and children, he is stubborn. His wife accepts some such charity, behind his back it seems - but it is hinted that he is not unaware of it, and admitting the need still turns some of his resentment even on her. It would not be hard to regard him (on this evidence) as a bitter and nasty old man.
Beyond even this: his long poverty has broken him, a little bit. Though his intellect is still keen - superior, it is suggested, to that of Arabin, or Archdeacon Grantly, or Bishop Proudie - his memory is riddled with holes. His sanity is doubtful; even he admits this, and it is this which makes his plight so painful. He literally cannot remember how the check came into his hands, or why he believed it was his by right.
Mr. Crawley is a complex character: admirable, pitiable, cruel, grotesque, diligent, a man of integrity and strange crotchets, self-pitying for all the wrong reasons, unaware of his own best qualities. To those whose social standing is higher than his, he is stiff, distant, unyielding; to those below, he is kind and respectful, and unselfconsciously so. When his friend Arabin contradicts him on the provenance of the check, he yields without question; when Bishop Proudie (or, more accurately, his wife) threatens him with the loss of his post, he bridles and demolishes his opponent's arguments with lawyerly precision. He accepts advice from a poor and uneducated laborer, but rejects the help of an attorney - even when (or indeed because) it is offered pro bono.
He is eventually rescued from his plight through the efforts of half a dozen friends, acquaintances, and complete strangers - a lawyer whose help he has rejected, a noblewoman who has never laid eyes on him, a cousin who very nearly denies the connection, and the wife of his oldest friend - but remains the same stiff-necked curmudgeon to the very end. He does, eventually, receive a new coat - two of them, in fact - and is made uncomfortable by them, and his story ends happily, or as happily as the story of such a strange man can.
It's a wonderful book. Appreciation of its full richness probably requires familiarity with the rest of the series, but I suspect it would do well enough as a standalone.
The principal plotline deals with the tribulations of Mr. Crawley, who is accused of theft in connection with a misplaced check for twenty pounds. The evidence is overwhelming, and even he himself cannot be sure he is innocent; the effects of the accusation on his household, his neighbors, and a widening circle of more distant connections make up the bulk of the book. There are secondary plots having to do with a love affair between his daughter Grace and Henry Grantly (son of Archdeacon Grantly, a recurring character since the first book, The Warden) and the final resolution of the relationship between Lily Dale and Johnny Eames, but they are of lesser interest, at least to me.
Before turning to the main story, I'd like to make a comment or two about that last plotline. It is largely a carryover from the previous book, The Small House at Allington, and it seems to me that it should have been left there; the situation at the end of that story seemed reasonably conclusive. Frankly, I do not find either Lily or Johnny particularly interesting characters. Beyond that, a substantial part of this plotline (as with the previous book) takes place in London rather than in Barsetshire, and I find the characters who appear there rather dull when they are not outright unpleasant. (Johnny's scenes at Allington are memorable; his work as a civil servant, less so.) Johnny does get shoehorned into the Crawley plotline and is tolerable there, but that role could have been played as well by a new character.
It is Mr. Crawley who makes the book. He is alluded to, though not named, in Barchester Towers, as an old friend of Mr. Arabin; he appears in his own person in Framley Parsonage, and plays a major role in that book. He is a tireless pastor, and his work on behalf of his poor parishioners, especially the brickmakers, is commendable. His humility in that work draws reproof from some of his peers, as unbecoming a gentleman of the clergy, but to modern eyes - or at least to mine - it is utterly charming. He is poor; despite having a fine education, he has been assigned to the most dismal of posts, first in a remote part of Cornwall, and later in the most squalid part of Barsetshire. But he has persevered, and done good if not well. It would not be hard to regard him (on this evidence) as a veritable saint.
But he isn't one. He is stiff-necked and proud - proud as only one who has lived as a gentleman and now is reduced to penury can be. He is all too aware of his own suffering, and is a little in love with it, with the idea of martyrdom. He resents the way his life has turned; resents, too, the necessity of receiving charity - refusing it when possible, even from the hands of his old friend Arabin. (He has become estranged from Arabin, because the latter has risen in the world; Crawley is ashamed to appear in Arabin's fine house, wearing his own shabby coat, and resents his friend on account of that shame.) Even when refusal threatens harm to his wife and children, he is stubborn. His wife accepts some such charity, behind his back it seems - but it is hinted that he is not unaware of it, and admitting the need still turns some of his resentment even on her. It would not be hard to regard him (on this evidence) as a bitter and nasty old man.
Beyond even this: his long poverty has broken him, a little bit. Though his intellect is still keen - superior, it is suggested, to that of Arabin, or Archdeacon Grantly, or Bishop Proudie - his memory is riddled with holes. His sanity is doubtful; even he admits this, and it is this which makes his plight so painful. He literally cannot remember how the check came into his hands, or why he believed it was his by right.
Mr. Crawley is a complex character: admirable, pitiable, cruel, grotesque, diligent, a man of integrity and strange crotchets, self-pitying for all the wrong reasons, unaware of his own best qualities. To those whose social standing is higher than his, he is stiff, distant, unyielding; to those below, he is kind and respectful, and unselfconsciously so. When his friend Arabin contradicts him on the provenance of the check, he yields without question; when Bishop Proudie (or, more accurately, his wife) threatens him with the loss of his post, he bridles and demolishes his opponent's arguments with lawyerly precision. He accepts advice from a poor and uneducated laborer, but rejects the help of an attorney - even when (or indeed because) it is offered pro bono.
He is eventually rescued from his plight through the efforts of half a dozen friends, acquaintances, and complete strangers - a lawyer whose help he has rejected, a noblewoman who has never laid eyes on him, a cousin who very nearly denies the connection, and the wife of his oldest friend - but remains the same stiff-necked curmudgeon to the very end. He does, eventually, receive a new coat - two of them, in fact - and is made uncomfortable by them, and his story ends happily, or as happily as the story of such a strange man can.
It's a wonderful book. Appreciation of its full richness probably requires familiarity with the rest of the series, but I suspect it would do well enough as a standalone.