Politics, in this novel, are a matter of personal loyalty rather than intellectual persuasion. It is as a friend rather than a political colleague that Silverbridge helps Tregear through the dismal experience of his election to a seat in Cornwall. Here Trollope gives a bitter account of what had happened to the political life of England after Disraeli's Reform Bill of 1867. He had not forgotten his own forlorn attempt to fulfil a lifelong ambition to become a Member of Parliament. He had stood as a Liberal for the notoriously corrupt Beverley in 1868, and recorded his angry disgust at what had happened to him in An Autobiography: ‘I went down to canvass, and spent, I think, the most wretched fortnight of my manhood’ (Chapter 16). In his account of Silverbridge and Tregear soliciting votes in the muddy streets of Polpenno, Trollope forgets his novel for a while and speaks for himself: ‘Perhaps nothing more disagreeable, more squalid, more revolting to the senses, more opposed to personal dignity, can be conceived. The same words have to be repeated over and over again in the cottages, hovels, and lodgings of poor men and women who only understand that the time has come round in which they are to be flattered instead of being the flatterers’ (p. 352). Here again, what made Trollope miserable in his own life is set in good order. Tregear is elected as resoundingly as Trollope was defeated. The victory is not quite honourably won – it is secured by the skilful manoeuvrings of the town's tailor, who earns £25 for his efforts – but in the case of Tregear, perhaps that does not matter too much.
Musing on political allegiance, Silverbridge (already safely installed in the family seat which bears his name) concludes that it means ‘nothing more than choosing one set of companions or choosing another’ (p. 349). Despite his loyalty to Tregear, he finds that he does not much like the companions he has chosen. Sir Timothy Beeswax, the unprincipled Conservative Leader of the House of Commons, is another shoddy surrogate father to Silverbridge. As well preserved as Tifto, the dignified Sir Timothy also has a touch of paint about him, and of the animal (he is ‘such a beast,’ Silverbridge remarks, p. 349), and even of the female: ‘Of course it is all paint, – but how would the poor girl look before the gaslights if there were no paint? The House of Commons likes a little deportment on occasions’ (p. 481). He will not do long for the Duke's son. Silverbridge returns to the Liberal fold – not because he has been convinced by his father's philanthropic arguments, though Trollope certainly intends that his readers should be, but because he does not care for the company a modern Conservative must keep. It is the only matter in which the old Duke gets his own way. When it happens, he has learned not to expect it. The last words of the novel, and of the series, are given to Palliser. They include the possibility of new beginnings, as the Duke reflects on his protracted resistance to Tregear: ‘I do not know that one ought to be surprised at anything. Perhaps what surprised me most was that he should have looked so high. There seemed to be so little to justify it. But now I will accept that as courage which I before regarded as arrogance’ (pp. 505–6).
FURTHER READING
The Duke's Children (1880) is the last of Trollope's six political novels, and the reader's pleasure will be greatly enhanced by reading the others, preferably in sequence. They are: Can You Forgive Her? (1864), Phineas Finn (1869), The Eustace Diamonds (1873), Phineas Redux (1874) and The Prime Minister (1876). Anyone daunted by this bulk of reading might choose to go on to The Prime Minister, where the Duke's political and marital life takes centre stage.
Trollope's An Autobiography (1883) remains an indispensable introduction to Trollope's life. Of the early biographies, Michael Sadleir's Trollope: A Commentary (1927, rev. edn 1945) is still important. Four recent biographies have much to offer: Robert Super, The Chronicler of Barset: A Life of Anthony Trollope (1988), Richard Mullen, Anthony Trollope: A Victorian in his World (1990); N. John Hall, Trollope: A Biography (1991); Victoria Glendinning, Trollope (1992). The Letters of Anthony Trollope, ed. N. John Hall (two vols, 1983) are indispensable. R. C. Terry (ed.), Trollope: Interviews and Recollections (1987) is a useful collection. Donald Smalley, Trollope: The Critical Heritage (1969) and David Skilton, Anthony Trollope and His Contemporaries (1972) provide a detailed picture of the contemporary response to Trollope.
Important general studies of Trollope include A. O. J. Cockshut, Anthony Trollope: A Critical Study (1955); R. M. Polhemus, The Changing World of Anthony Trollope (1968); Ruth apRoberts, Trollope: Artist and Moralist (1971); James Kincaid, The Novels of Anthony Trollope (1977); P. D. Edwards, Anthony Trollope: His Art and Scope (1978); Shirley Letwin, The Gentleman in Trollope: Individuality and Moral Conduct (1982); and Stephen Wall, Trollope and Character (1988).
Asa Briggs's essay ‘Trollope, Bagehot, and the English Constitution’, Victorian People (1955) gives a helpful account of Trollope's political creed. Critical studies of the political fiction are to be found in Arthur Pollard, Trollope's Political Novels (1968); John Halperin, Trollope and Politics: A Study of the Pallisers and Others (1977); Juliet McMaster, Trollope's Palliser Novels: Theme and Pattern (1978); and Robert Tracy, Trollope's Later Novels (1978). There are a number of essays which deal specifically with The Duke's Children, including John Hagan's influential ‘The Duke's Children: Trollope's Psychological Masterpiece’ (Nineteenth-Century Fiction, 13, 1958–9, pp. 1–21); George Butte, ‘Ambivalence and Affirmation in The Duke's Children’ (Studies in English Literature, 17, Autumn 1977, pp. 709–27); Blair Gates Kennedy, ‘The Two Isabels: A Study in Distortion’ (Victorian Newsletter, 25, 1964, pp. 15–17); Hermione Lee, Introduction to The Duke's Children (1983).
A NOTE ON THE TEXT
Trollope began to write The Duke's Children on 2 May 1876, and completed it on 29 October. Having originally planned to publish it in four volumes, he then cut the manuscript to fit into three, and this shortened version was serially published in All the Year Round from 4 October 1879 to 24 July 1880. Trollope was paid £400. Chapman and Hall bought the book copyright for £1,400, and published The Duke's Children in three volumes in May 1880. The firm lost £120 on the venture, which Trollope characteristically repaid (‘I cannot allow that’).*
The text of the present edition follows the three-volume edition of 1880. A few slips and printer's errors have been silently corrected and a few spellings modernised. The punctuation of the first edition has been preserved where possible. Trollope's capitalisation is sometimes inconsistent (e.g. Conservative/conservative; Liberal/liberal; my Lord/lord; Member/member of Parliament), but these aberrations have been allowed to stand. Finally, notes indicate preferred readings from the manuscript.
Facsimile of the title page of the first volume of the first edition (1880). Reproduced by permission of The Bodleian Library, Oxford (251.f.954).
CONTENTS
1 When the Duchess was Dead
2 Lady Mary Palliser
3 Francis Oliphant Tregear
4 Park Lane
5 It is Impossible
6 Major Tifto
7 Conservative Convictions
8 He is a Gentleman
9 ‘In Medias Res’
10 Why not like Romeo if I Feel like Romeo?
11 Cruel
12 At Richmond
13 The Duke's Injustice
14 The New Member for Silverbridge
15 The Duke Receives a Letter, – and Writes One
16 Poor Boy
17 The Derby
18 One of the Results of the Derby
19 ‘No; My Lord, I Do Not’
20 Then He Will Come Again
21 Sir Timothy Beeswax
22 The Duke in his Study
23 Frank Tregear Wants a Friend
24 She Must be Made to Obey
25 A Family Breakfast-Table
26 Dinner at the Beargarden
27 Major Tifto and the Duke
28 Mrs Montacute Jones's Garden-Party
29 The Lovers Meet
30 What Came of the Meeting
31 Miss Boncassen's River-Party No. 1
32 Miss Boncassen's
River-Party No. 2
33 The Langham Hotel
34 Lord Popplecourt
35 ‘Don't You Think –?’
36 Tally-ho Lodge
37 Grex
38 Crummie-Toddie
39 Killancodlem
40 And Then!
41 Ischl
42 Again at Killancodlem
43 What Happened at Doncaster
44 How It was Done
45 There Shall Not be Another Word About It
46 Lady Mary's Dream
47 Miss Boncassen's Idea of Heaven
48 The Party at Custins is Broken Up
49 The Major's Fate
50 The Duke's Arguments
51 The Duke's Guests
52 Miss Boncassen Tells the Truth
53 Then I am Proud as a Queen
54 I Don't Think She is a Snake
55 Polpenno
56 The News is Sent to Matching
57 The Meeting at The Bobtailed Fox
58 The Major is Deposed
59 No One Can Tell What May Come to Pass
60 Lord Gerald in Further Trouble
61 ‘Bone of my Bone’
62 The Brake Country
63 ‘I've Seen ‘em Like That Before’
64 ‘I Believe Him to be a Worthy Young Man’
65 ‘Do You Ever Think What Money Is?’
66 The Three Attacks
67 ‘He is Such a Beast’
68 Brook Street
69 Pert Poppet
70 ‘Love May be a Great Misfortune’
71 ‘What am I to Say, Sir?’
72 Carlton Terrace
73 ‘I Have Never Loved You’
74 ‘Let Us Drink a Glass of Wine Together’
75 The Major's Story
76 On Deportment
77 ‘Mabel, Good-Bye’
78 The Duke Returns to Office
79 The First Wedding
80 The Second Wedding
CHAPTER 1
When the Duchess was Dead
No one, probably, ever felt himself to be more alone in the world than our old friend, the Duke of Omnium, when the Duchess died. When this sad event happened he had ceased to be Prime Minister. During the first nine months after he had left office he and the Duchess remained in England. Then they had gone abroad, taking with them their three children. The eldest, Lord Silverbridge, had been at Oxford, but had had his career there cut short by some more than ordinary youthful folly, which had induced his father to agree with the college authorities that his name had better be taken off the college books, – all which had been cause of very great sorrow to the Duke. The other boy was to go to Cambridge; but his father had thought it well to give him a twelvemonth's run on the Continent, under his own inspection. Lady Mary, the only daughter,1 was the youngest of the family, and she also had been with them on the Continent. They remained the full year abroad, travelling with a large accompaniment of tutors, lady's-maids, couriers, and sometimes friends. I do not know that the Duchess or the Duke had enjoyed it much; but the young people had seen something of foreign courts and much of foreign scenery, and had perhaps perfected their French. The Duke had gone to work at his travels with a full determination to create for himself occupation out of a new kind of life. He had studied Dante, and had striven to arouse himself to ecstatic joy amidst the loveliness of the Italian lakes. But through it all he had been aware that he had failed. The Duchess had made no such resolution, – had hardly, perhaps, made any attempt; but, in truth, they had both sighed to be back among the war-trumpets. They had both suffered much among the trumpets, and yet they longed to return. He told himself from day to day, that though he had been banished2 from the House of Commons, still, as a peer, he had a seat in Parliament; and that, though he was no longer a minister, still he might be useful as a legislator. She, in her career as a leader of fashion, had no doubt met with some trouble, – with some trouble but with no disgrace; and as she had been carried about among the lakes and mountains, among the pictures and statues, among the counts and countesses; she had often felt that there was no happiness except in that dominion which circumstances had enabled her to achieve once, and might enable her to achieve again – in the realms of London society.
Then, in the early spring of 187–,3 they came back to England, having persistently carried out their project, at any rate in regard to time. Lord Gerald, the younger son, was at once sent up to Trinity. For the eldest son a seat was to be found in the House of Commons, and the fact that a dissolution of Parliament was expected served to prevent any prolonged sojourn abroad. Lady Mary Palliser was at that time nineteen, and her entrance into the world was to be her mother's great care and great delight. In March they spent a few days in London, and then went down to Matching Priory.4 When she left town the Duchess was complaining of cold, sore throat, and debility. A week after their arrival at Matching she was dead.
Had the heavens fallen and mixed themselves with the earth, had the people of London risen in rebellion with French ideas of equality, had the Queen persistently declined to comply with the constitutional advice of her ministers, had a majority in the House of Commons lost its influence in the country, – the utter prostration of the bereft husband could not have been more complete. It was not only that his heart was torn to pieces, but that he did not know how to look out into the world. It was as though a man should be suddenly called upon to live without hands or even arms. He was helpless, and knew himself to be helpless. Hitherto he had never specially acknowledged to himself that his wife was necessary to him as a component part of his life. Though he had loved her dearly, and had in all things consulted her welfare and happiness, he had at times been inclined to think that in the exuberance of her spirits she had been a trouble rather than a support to him. But now it was as though all outside appliances were taken away from him. There was no one of whom he could ask a question.
For it may be said of this man that, though throughout his life he had had many Honourable and Right Honourable friends, and that, though he had entertained guests by the score, and though he had achieved for himself the respect of all good men and the thorough admiration of some few who knew him, he had hardly made for himself a single intimate friend – except that one who had now passed away from him. To her he had been able to say what he thought, even though she would occasionally ridicule him while he was declaring his feelings. But there had been no other human soul to whom he could open himself. There was one or two whom he loved, and perhaps liked; but his loving and his liking had been exclusively political. He had so habituated himself to devote his mind and his heart to the service of his country, that he had almost risen above or sunk below humanity. But she, who had been essentially human, had been a link between him and the world.
There were his three children, the youngest of whom was now nearly nineteen, and they surely were links! At the first moment of his bereavement they were felt to be hardly more than burdens. A more loving father there was not in England, but nature had made him so undemonstrative that as yet they had hardly known his love. In all their joys and in all their troubles, in all their desires and all their disappointments, they had ever gone to their mother. She had been conversant with everything about them, from the boys' bills and the girl's gloves to the innermost turn in the heart and the disposition of each. She had known with the utmost accuracy the nature of the scrapes into which Lord Silverbridge had precipitated himself, and had known also how probable it was that Lord Gerald would do the same. The results of such scrapes she, of course, deplored; and therefore she would give good counsel, pointing out how imperative it was that such evil-doings should be avoided; but with the spirit that produced the scrapes she fully sympathised. The father disliked the spirit almost worse than the results; and was therefore often irritated and unhappy.
And the difficulties about the girl were almost worse to bear than those about the boys. She had done nothing wrong. She had given no signs of extravagance or other juvenile misconduc
t. But she was beautiful and young. How was he to bring her out into the world? How was he to decide whom she should or whom she should not marry? How was he to guide her through the shoals and rocks which lay in the path of such a girl before she can achieve matrimony?
It was the fate of the family that, with a world of acquaintance, they had not many friends. From all close connection with relatives on the side of the Duchess they had been dissevered by old feelings at first, and afterwards by want of any similitude in the habits of life. She had, when young, been repressed by male and female guardians with an iron hand. Such repression had been needed, and had been perhaps salutary, but it had not left behind it much affection. And then her nearest relatives were not sympathetic with the Duke. He could obtain no assistance in the care of his girl from that source. Nor could he even do it from his own cousins' wives, who were his nearest connections on the side of the Pallisers. They were women to whom he had ever been kind, but to whom he had never opened his heart. When, in the midst of the stunning sorrow of the first week, he tried to think of all this, it seemed to him that there was nobody.
There had been one lady, a very dear ally, staying in the house with them when the Duchess died. This was Mrs Finn, the wife of Phineas Finn, who had been one of the Duke's colleagues when in office. How it had come to pass that Mrs Finn and the Duchess had become singularly bound together has been told elsewhere.5 But there had been close bonds, – so close that when the Duchess on their return from the Continent had passed through London on her way to Matching, ill at the time and very comfortless, it had been almost a thing of course, that Mrs Finn should go with her. And as she had sunk, and then despaired, and then died, it was this woman who had always been at her side, who had ministered to her, and had listened to the fears and the wishes and hopes she had expressed respecting the children.
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