Margaret Oliphant's Chronicles of Carlingford 5: Miss Marjoribanks

Miss Marjoribanks by Margaret Oliphant (1866)

Lucilla passed through one of those moments of sublime despondency which now and then try the spirits of the benefactors of their race. A few tears came to her eyes as she reflected upon this great problem. Without such trials genius would not fully know itself nor be justly aware of its own strength. For no temptation to give up her disinterested exertions had any effect upon the mind of Miss Marjoribanks; and even her sense of pain at the unbelief of her followers was mingled with that pity for their weakness which involves pardon. Even when they wounded her she was sorry for them. It was nature that was in fault, and not the fallible human creatures who had it not in them to believe in the simple force of genius. When Lucilla had shed these few tears over her subjects' weakness and want of faith, she rose up again in new strength from the momentary downfall. It was, as we have said, a sublime moment. The idea of giving them up, and leaving their affairs to their own guidance, never for an instant penetrated into her heroic mind; but she was human, and naturally she felt the prick of ingratitude...

Welcome to the group read of Margaret Oliphant's Miss Marjoribanks, the 6th work in her 'Chronicles of Carlingford' series.

Previously in this project, we have read:
- The Executor (1861) {short story} and The Rector (1861) {short story} - thread here
- The Doctor's Family (1861) {novella} - thread here
- Salem Chapel (1863) {novel} - thread here
- The Perpetual Curate (1864) {novel} - thread here

There is also background material about Oliphant at the beginning of the thread for The Executor and The Rector.

Miss Marjoribanks was originally serialised in Blackwood's from February 1865 through to May 1866, before appearing in book form later in 1866.

Oliphant revised her serial text somewhat before her novel appeared in three volumes, and we may find some edition differences according to which text has been sourced.

In the first edition, the book was arranged as follows:

Volume I: Chapters 1 - 18 (I - XVIII)
Volume II: Chapters 19 - 35 (XIX - XXXV)
Volume III: Chapters 36 - 52 (XXXIV - LII, or 'Chapter the last')

Most editions number their chapters right through, but if you have one where the chapter numbering begins again with each volume, please let me know.

This is another of Oliphant's lengthy novels. I suggest that we aim at a minimum of three chapters per day, which will allow time at the end for discussion or catching up if necessary.

In addition to the main hard-copy issues of this novel from Virago and Penguin, Miss Marjoribanks is readily available as an ebook, either through Project Gutenberg or on Kindle.

The usual guidelines apply for this group read:

1. When posting, please begin by noting which chapter (or volume and chapter) you are referring to in bold.

2. Be mindful of others: if you have read the book before, or if you get ahead of the group, please use spoiler tags as necessary.

You may also do this to avoid forgetting a point you want to make: we will always come back to consider comments at the appropriate time.

3. If you are reading an edition with an introduction and/or endnotes, *do not* read them until you have completed the novel. Too often these adjuncts are full of spoilers.

4. Please speak up! Experience shows that group reads work best with lots of conversation and different contributions, so if you have any comments or questions at all, post them here so that everyone can benefit.

As always, remember that if you're thinking it, probably someone else is too. :)

As above, I always emphasise the importance of participants posting their thoughts and reactions in these group reads.

I think it will be particularly important for this novel, which has provoked some very different readings over the years---right down to the intriguing question of whether it is a feminist work or an antifeminist work.

My own reactions are also divided: although it is overtly a social comedy, in some ways it strikes me as a very angry book.

I look forward very much to hearing how others interpret this novel.

And of course the other great issue here is---

---the correct pronunciation of "Marjoribanks". :D

My understanding is that the English pronunciation is "March-banks", however the Scottish variant is "Marsh-banks", which would be more correct in context.

If anyone has more definite knowledge on this point, please let us know!

Cast of characters:

Lucilla Marjoribanks
Dr Marjoribanks - her father
Tom Marjoribanks - her cousin
Jemima (Mrs John) Marjoribanks - her aunt

Mr Lake - the drawing-master
Barbara Lake - his eldest daughter, a singer
Rose Lake - his second daughter, an artist

Mrs Chiley - an elderly lady
Colonel Chiley - her husband
Mary Chiley - their niece

Mr Woodburn
Mrs Woodburn - his wife; a satirist
Mr Cavendish - her brother

Mr Centum - a banker
Mrs Centum - his wife

Mr Bury - the Low Church minister
Miss Bury - his sister

Mr Beverley - a Broad Church archdeacon

Sir John Richmond - a county gentleman
Lady Richmond - his wife
John Richmond- their son

Major Brown - the Marjoribanks' neighbour
Miss Lydia Brown
Miss Molly Brown
Osmond Brown

Mrs Mortimer - a destitute widow

Mr Ashburton - holder of a property outside of Carlingford

John Brown - a solicitor

Mr Chiltern - MP for Carlingford

Nancy - the Marjoribanks' cook
Thomas - the Marjoribanks' manservant
Mary Jane - Mrs Mortimer's maidservant

I will make a formal start on Monday, but in the meantime please check in and let us know if you will be participating or lurking.

I'm planning to participate! I'll be reading the Virago edition.

I'm in! I will alternate between the Kindle version and the LibriVox recording.

I'm in and have the Penguin edition, which retains Volumes I-III, with the chapters numbered I - "Chapter the Last" (LII). The text is from the first edition published in three-volume form by Blackwood in 1866. There is a 25-page Appendix that details the changes from the serial edition to the 3-volume edition.

I shall be reading along; I have the Virago edition and an ebook (which goes up to Chapter LIII).

>9 NinieB:, >10 cbl_tn:, >11 kac522:, >12 CDVicarage:

Welcome, Ninie, Carrie, Kathy and Kerry!

>11 kac522:

Thanks for letting me know. We might discuss some of the changes at the end.

>12 CDVicarage:

If you have 53 chapters, you might have the unrevised text (I think cutting / merging two of the chapters was the major change), so just be aware.

>13 lyzard: My Kindle ebook and the LibriVox recording both have 53 chapters.

Okay---it looks like we're going to be working from slightly different texts, and we need to be aware of that and also remember that we may have chapter number differences.

I've found a note to the effect that the chapters in question are Chapter 18 and Chapter 19, which were rewritten and merged.

This means that people working from the 53-chapter edition will be numerically one ahead of the rest of us, which needs to be noted when posting.

HA!!

There's a sentence right towards the end spelling out that the correct pronunciation is MARCH-banks, in spite of the Scottish influence. :)

...and from that you can tell that I've just finished the novel, and honestly, to a large extent I'm confused about what we're supposed to take from it, and what Oliphant's attitude to her protagonist really was.

(Which, reading around, is apparently not an uncommon reaction!)

So again let me plead for lots of discussion posts from all of you, because I'm very keen to know what you think.

OTOH I think a lot of my own posts are going to just be quotes, because there are a lot of striking - if ambiguous - passages in this book.

Chapter 1:

These were the external characteristics of the girl who was going home to be a comfort to her widowed father, and meant to sacrifice herself to his happiness. In the course of her rapid journey she had already settled upon everything that had to be done; or rather, to speak truly, had rehearsed everything, according to the habit already acquired by a quick mind, a good deal occupied with itself. First, she meant to fall into her father's arms—forgetting, with that singular facility for overlooking the peculiarities of others which belongs to such a character, that Dr Marjoribanks was very little given to embracing, and that a hasty kiss on her forehead was the warmest caress he had ever given his daughter---and then to rush up to the chamber of death and weep over dear mamma. "And to think I was not there to soothe her last moments!" Lucilla said to herself, with a sob, and with feelings sufficiently real in their way. After this, the devoted daughter made up her mind to come downstairs again, pale as death, but self-controlled, and devote herself to papa...

Perhaps the most striking thing overall about Miss Marjoribanks is how often, and how brazenly, Margaret Oliphant defies Victorian convention, in particular Victorian sentimentalism (and it was a very sentimental time).

The framing of Mrs Marjoribanks' death sets the tone at the outset. She has been one of those tearful, couch-occupying invalids so common in the fiction of the time, and our noses are almost rubbed in how irrelevant she has become to both her husband and her daughter. Her husband feels guilt, rather than grief, over how little difference her absence makes; while for her daughter, it's chiefly an opportunity.

It has been said, and rightly, I think, that Miss Marjoribanks is Oliphant's reworking of Austen's Emma (even as Trollope put his own spin on Sense And Sensibility in The Small House At Allington), with a reframing of that novel's themes suitable for the shift from the Regency to the mid-Victorian era.

However, while we note the similarities, it is the very different handling of the same basic materials that we should be conscious of.

Austen challenges her readers at the outset with her "handsome, clever and rich"; Oliphant's introduction of Lucilla is more ambiguous but no less defiant of novelistic convention: her self-satisfaction, her self-absorption, her belief in her own right to govern, are there for us right at the outset.

All that said---

I think it's important to note that the first phase of Lucilla's life is made up almost entirely of rejection.

Obviously her mother hasn't been much of a mother. She knows well enough that her father is disappointed in only having a daughter, both in general terms and (as later emerges) because there is no-one to carry on his practice. As a father, he hardly notices her existence. Lucilla is sent away to school at a time girls of her standing rarely were, and even when her mother dies, she finds she's not wanted at home: whatever we make of the sincerity, or otherwise, of her attempts to be "a comfort to dear papa", it is made rather shockingly clear that Dr Marjoribanks only finds her a nuisance and, if anything, a threat to his comfort. She is barely home at all over the next few years, sent back to school and then on her travels.

I think all this needs to be taken into consideration when we are dissecting Lucilla's conduct. It is hardly surprising that she is driven in on herself, nor that she tends to subjugate her emotions, nor that she becomes the centre of her own universe.

Just noting a language point here:

Chapter 2:

Miss Marjoribanks went straight forward, leaving an unquestionable wake behind her, and running down with indifference the little skiffs in her way. She was possessed by nature of that kind of egotism, or rather egoism, which is predestined to impress itself, by its perfect reality and good faith, upon the surrounding world...

Egotism was vanity or conceit; egoism was self-absorption, the belief that the world revolves around you: not quite the same thing, as Oliphant notes, though the manifestations might be the same---particular the "indifference" with which others are regarded.

This is pretty devastating:

Chapter 2:

Lucilla, for her part, had the calmest and most profound conviction that, when she discussed her own doings and plans and clevernesses, she was bringing forward the subject most interesting to her audience as well as to herself. Such a conviction is never without its fruits. To be sure, there were always one or two independent spirits who revolted; but for the crowd, it soon became impressed with a profound belief in the creed which Miss Marjoribanks supported so firmly.

Though again it isn't quite clear how we are to take it - whether we are to approve or disapprove - whether Oliphant herself approved or disapproved - one of the most startling aspects to Miss Marjoribanks is its constant negativity about marriage, which comes in conjunction with a casual dismissal of any idea of "natural" masculine superiority.

All of this comes filtered through Lucilla, so we need to tread a little warily in interpreting it. It is absolutely the kind of thing that in the vast majority of cases would be setting up a female novel character for a tremendous fall, but here it is (again) handled differently from what we would instinctively expect.

Chapter 2:

Miss Marjoribanks, though too much occupied with herself to divine the characteristic points of other people, had a sensible and thorough belief in those superficial general truths which most minds acquiesce in, without taking the trouble to believe. She knew, for example, that there was a great difference between the brilliant society of London, or of Paris, which appears in books, where women have generally the best of it, and can rule in their own right; and even the very best society of a country town, where husbands are very commonly unmanageable, and have a great deal more of their own way in respect to the houses they will or will not go to, than is good for that inferior branch of the human family. Miss Marjoribanks had the good sense to see and appreciate these details; and she knew that a good dinner was a great attraction to a man, and that, in Carlingford at least, when these refractory mortals were secured, the wives and daughters would necessarily follow.

****

"That may be," said Miss Marjoribanks, "but I shall never marry an Italian, my dear. I don't think I shall marry anybody for a long time. I want to amuse myself."

But as I say---we need to be careful, because this comes bookended by some of Oliphant's most outrageous delineation of her heroine:

    "My only ambition, Fanny, as I have told you often, is to go home to Carlingford and be a comfort to dear papa."
    "Yes," said Fanny, kissing her devoted companion, "and it is so good of you, dear; but then you cannot go on all your life being a comfort to dear papa," said the intelligent girl, bethinking herself, and looking again with some curiosity in Lucilla's face.
    "We must leave that to Providence," said Miss Marjoribanks, with a sense of paying a compliment to Providence in entrusting it with such a responsibility. "I have always been guided for the best hitherto," she continued, with an innocent and unintentional profanity, which sounded solemn to her equally innocent companion, "and I don't doubt I shall be so till the end."
    From which it will be perceived that Miss Marjoribanks was of the numerous class of religionists who keep up civilities with heaven, and pay all the proper attentions, and show their respect for the divine government in a manner befitting persons who know the value of their own approbation...

>15 lyzard: According to the Penguin edition (intro & edited by Elisabeth Jay, who wrote a biography of Oliphant), the rewritten/merged material occurs in Chapter XVIII, about 7 pages into the chapter, and after the paragraph that ends with:

'and I always stand by my friends.'

The rest of the revised Chapter XVIII is roughly 5-6 pages in my edition, and replaces the rest of the original text of Chapters XVIII & XIX (roughly 13-14 pages), which ends Volume I. So that is a substantial cut/reworking.

The last line of the revised Chapter XVIII actually matches the last line of the original Chapter XIX, ending Volume I. Volume II begins in both versions with the same first sentence (Chapter XIX in the revised, and Chapter XX in the original), and thereafter the versions generally match in substance, with minor changes through Volumes II and III.

>23 kac522:

Thanks, Kathy, we'll keep that in mind when we get to that point.

I'm up to Chapter VII and I've come across a Mrs Woodburn--her name sounds vaguely familiar, but I'm not sure--was she in a previous book?

Also, there's a note in my text that places the events of the beginning of the story prior to the very first Carlingford books, but I'm having a hard time figuring this out. Mr Tupton is still active, so it seems prior to Salem Chapel at least.

>25 kac522:

HA! - good timing, Kathy, I was just dealing with that myself! :D

The opening of Chapter 3 makes it clear to us that while this was the 6th work in Oliphant's Carlingford series, it's actually first chronologically:

It is something like going back into the prehistoric period---those ages of the flint, which only ingenious quarrymen and learned geologists can elucidate---to recall the social condition of the town before Miss Marjoribanks began her Thursday evenings, before St Roque's Chapel was built or thought of, while Mr Bury, the Evangelical Rector, was still in full activity, and before old Mr Tufton, at Salem Chapel (who sometimes drank tea at the Rectory, and thus had a kind of clandestine entrance into the dim outskirts of that chaos which was then called society), had his first "stroke." From this latter circumstance alone the entirely disorganised condition of affairs will be visible at a glance. It is true, Mr Vincent, who succeeded Mr Tufton, was received by Lady Western, in days when public opinion had made great advances...

Miss Marjoribanks doesn't directly overlap Oliphant's other narratives, as some of her other stories do, but there are many allusions to familiar Carlingford people and events on the way through.

One such allusion here is not gone into in any detail, but perhaps we should remind ourselves of this, from The Doctor's Family: it takes on greater significance later, when we are given Lucilla's attitude to Dr Rider and his wife; and noting that in contrast, this is how the interlude is seen from outside:

He consoled himself by elaborate avoidance of that road which led past St Roque's---by bows of elaborate politeness when he encountered her anywhere in the streets of Carlingford---by taking a sudden plunge into such society as was open to him in the town, and devoting himself to Miss Marjoribanks, the old physician's daughter...

****

Miss Marjoribanks made herself very agreeable, with just that degree of delicate regard and evident pleasure in his society which is so soothing when one has met with a recent discomfiture... Whenever there was a chance of Nettie hearing of it, he paid the most devoted attentions to Miss Marjoribanks. Ready gossips took it up and made the matter public. Everybody agreed it would be an admirable arrangement. "The most sensible thing I've heard of for years---step into the old fellow's practice, and set himself up for life---eh, don't you think so?---that's my opinion," said Mr Wodehouse.

>25 kac522:

I had that thought too but I don't think she is; perhaps we're thinking of the Wodehouses (per my last quotes)?

>27 lyzard: Probably. I went back and looked at your list of characters and there's no Woodburn.

>22 lyzard: Though again it isn't quite clear how we are to take it - whether we are to approve or disapprove - whether Oliphant herself approved or disapproved - one of the most startling aspects to Miss Marjoribanks is its constant negativity about marriage, which comes in conjunction with a casual dismissal of any idea of "natural" masculine superiority.

I can only compare it to Hester, which I read in August. It is set in a town similar to Carlingford (Redborough) and there are no male characters in the story of any consequence in the town. There are some younger men, but they are either flawed or out-shone by their wives or sisters. The dynamics (so far) feel the same in Miss Marjoribanks.

>26 lyzard: A footnote in my edition (a full page!) tries to lay out the timeframe of Miss Marjoribanks and how it seems to contradict Salem Chapel and Phoebe Junior, and frankly, just confused me more. There are a bunch of spoilers in the note, of course. If you are interested, I can type it up in a PM and maybe you can make heads or tails of it.

The points we were making re: Chapter 2 are reinforced in Chapter 4, when Lucilla returns home:

He kissed her with a sentiment of real pleasure, and owned to himself that, if she was not a fool, and could keep to her own department, it might be rather agreeable on the whole to have a woman in the house...

---but this is also the point at which two other and quite opposite things happen.

First, there is the quiet introduction of what will become a major theme (albeit that we still need to discuss Oliphant's intentions in this respect):

She succeeded in doing what is certainly one of the first duties of a woman---she amused her father.

****

In the little interval which he spent over his claret, Miss Marjoribanks had succeeded in effecting another fundamental duty of woman---she had, as she herself expressed it, harmonised the rooms, by the simple method of rearranging half the chairs and covering the tables with trifles of her own...

The ironic gap here between the two "duties" paves the way for Lucilla's first direct move at assuming power in the household:

He found her, to his intense amazement, seated at the foot of the table, in the place which he usually occupied himself, before the urn and the coffee-pot. Dr Marjoribanks hesitated for one momentous instant, stricken dumb by this unparalleled audacity; but so great was the effect of his daughter's courage and steadiness, that after that moment of fate he accepted the seat by the side where everything was arranged for him, and to which Lucilla invited him sweetly, though not without a touch of mental perturbation. The moment he had seated himself, the Doctor's eyes were opened to the importance of the step he had taken...

But there's another ironic gap here which is a lot more serious and speaks to the novel as a whole.

The language that Oliphant uses with respect to Lucilla's doings - "sovereign", "command", "the reins of state", "conquer" - is in enormous contrast to the actual triviality of the "battles" being fought; and that likewise that all this energy and capacity can find no more productive target than reorganising society in Carlingford.

This begs the question of how this is a novel about wasted abilities (and not just Lucilla's abilities).

>29 kac522:

I haven't read Hester but I suspect that Oliphant was expressing some of her own frustrations through these characters. The waters are muddied because Oliphanr's own struggles were largely because she was widowed early; but then she was certainly left in a parlous financial state by an improvident husband, so her views were probably (and understandably) coloured by that, particularly after she successfully took the wage-earning and management of her family onto her own shoulders.

>30 kac522:

I don't think there's anything to be gained from trying to nail down the chronology: there are certainly inconsistencies, probably just through Oliphant changing her mind after the event about how to use her characters or the significance of certain incidents. For example in those passages I quoted, Lucilla couldn't have been thirty at the time (unless we're to take that as a nasty outside view: "Lucilla Marjoribanks? She must be thirty!"). And even within this novel things happen rather abruptly, like the sudden appearance of St Roque's.

There are two other critical touches in Chapter 4, which we will take in what Lucilla would certainly consider their reverse order of importance:

First up:

    "I forgot to tell you," said the Doctor, "that Tom Marjoribanks is coming on Circuit, and that I have asked him to stay here, as a matter of course. I suppose he'll arrive to-morrow. Good-bye till the evening."
    This, though Dr Marjoribanks did not in the least intend it, struck Lucilla like a Parthian arrow, and brought her down for the moment. "Tom Marjoribanks!" she ejaculated in a kind of horror.

****

When she had made a careful supervision of the house, and shifted her own quarters into the pleasantest of the two best bedrooms, and concluded that the little bare dimity chamber she had occupied the previous night was quite good enough for Tom Marjoribanks...

****

Miss Marjoribanks had nearly reached Salem Chapel, which pushed itself forward amid the cosy little line of houses, pondering in her mind the unexpected hindrance which was about to be placed in her triumphant path, in the shape of Tom Marjoribanks...and a little cast down in her expectations of success by a consciousness that this unlucky cousin would insist upon making love to her, and perhaps even, as she herself expressed it, saying the words which it had taken all her skill to prevent him from saying before...

This is another uncomfortable point in the novel: there is a distinct sense of "Poor Tom!' throughout the depiction of Tom Marjoribanks, and the words themselves are used; yet though his incapacities (in stark contrast to Lucilla's own capacities which we've just mentioned) are placed before us from the outset, we still have Dr Marjoribanks mourning the fact that this incompetent young man is only his nephew, and all he has is a highly competent daughter.

Yet at the same time he doesn't want Lucilla to marry Tom, which overtly would have solved the dilemma. It's tacitly an acknowledgement of Lucilla's superiority, but not a very gracious one (or one made to her).

Much more important in Chapter 4, and running into Chapter 5, is this:

Lucilla was roused suddenly out of her musings. The surprise was so great that she stopped short and stood still before the house in the extremity of her astonishment and delight. Who could it be that possessed that voice which Miss Marjoribanks felt by instinct was the very one thing wanting---a round, full, delicious contralto, precisely adapted to supplement without supplanting her own high-pitched and much-cultivated organ?

****

Lucilla made her observations with the promptitude of an accomplished warrior, and before the second bar of the melody indoors was finished, had knocked very energetically. "Is Miss Lake at home?" she asked, with confidence, of the little maid-servant who opened the door to her. And it was thus that Lucilla made her first bold step out of the limits of Grange Lane for the good of society, and secured at once several important personal advantages, and the great charm of those Thursday evenings which made so entire a revolution in the taste and ideas of Carlingford...

****

    "No," said Miss Lake, who was much astonished and startled and offended, as was unfortunately rather her custom. She was a young woman without any of those instincts of politeness, which make some people pleasant in spite of themselves; and she added nothing to soften this abrupt negative, but drew her hands away from the stranger and stood bolt upright, looking at her, with a burning blush, caused by temper much more than by embarrassment, on her face.
    "Then," said Lucilla, dropping lightly into the most comfortable chair she could get sight of in the bare little parlour, "it is Barbara---and that is a great deal better; Rose is a good little thing, but---she is different, you know. It is so odd you should not remember me; I thought everybody knew me in Carlingford. You know I have been a long time away, and now I have come home for good. Your voice is just the very thing to go with mine: was it not a lucky thing that I should have passed just at the right moment? I don't know how it is, but somehow these lucky chances always happen to me. I am Lucilla Marjoribanks, you know."

Oliphant is, I think, broadly indulgent of Lucilla's domineering ways, but her "commandeering" of Barbara has serious fallout for many of the characters here, and we need to ask ourselves (as so often) how we are supposed to take that aspect of this novel.

We've touched on the attitude to marriage here; but what about the attitude to mothers?---which could hardly be more out of step with the tenets of Victorian convention and sentimentality.

We've already had the inadequate reaction of Dr Marjoribanks and Lucilla to Mrs Marjoribanks death; here we get Barbara Lake's take on losing her own mother---on top of her views about, ahem, woman's natural sphere:

Chapter 5:

Barbara Lake let her visitor go after this, with a sense that she had fallen asleep, and had dreamt it all; but, after all, there was something in the visit which was not disagreeable when she came to think it over. The drawing-master was poor, and he had a quantity of children, as was natural, and Barbara had never forgiven her mother for dying just at the moment when she had a chance of seeing a little of what she called the world. At that time Mr Lake and his portfolio of drawings were asked out frequently to tea; and when he had pupils in the family, some kind people asked him to bring one of his daughters with him---so that Barbara, who was ambitious, had beheld herself for a month or two almost on the threshold of Grange Lane. And it was at this moment of all others, just at the same time as Mrs Marjoribanks finished her pale career, that poor Mrs Lake thought fit to die, to the injury of her daughter's prospects and the destruction of her hopes. Naturally Barbara had never quite forgiven that injury. It was this sense of having been ill-used which made her so resolute about sending Rose to Mount Pleasant, though the poor little girl did not in the least want to go, and was very happy helping her papa at the School of Design. But Barbara saw no reason why Rose should be happy, while she herself had to resign her inclinations and look after a set of odious children. To be sure, it was a little hard upon a young woman of a proper ambition, who knew she was handsome, to fall back into housekeeping, and consent to remain unseen and unheard; for Barbara was also aware that she had a remarkable voice. In these circumstances, it may be imagined that, after the first movement of a passionate temper was over, when she had taken breath, and had time to consider this sudden and extraordinary visit, a glimmer of hope and interest penetrated into the bosom of the gloomy girl...

We can understand why early readers of this novel - including the Blackwoods themselves, as Oliphant's chapters arrived for serialisation - were so taken aback and disturbed by some of its material.

Hello to everyone! I've taken time off the internet because of the long weekend (3 October is our national holiday), so I am a little behind. I'll catch up with you during this week! I've downloaded a digitised version from OpenLibrary.

>36 MissWatson:

Welcome, Birgit! - great to have you here. :)

I'm late joining but will be reading the Penguin Classics edition. I'm looking forward to it!

>38 Sakerfalcon:

Hi, Claire, thanks for joining us! :)

Chapter 5:

For, to be sure, she knew by instinct what sort of clay the people were made of by whom she had to work, and gave them their reward with that liberality and discrimination which is the glory of enlightened despotism...

While inevitably much of this novel is devoted to the question of who Lucilla might marry, surrounding her are a range of distinctly unhappy marriages, and women dissatisfied with their lot.

(Mind you, the unmarried women aren't happy with their lot either, which is a point we need to consider later.)

Only the Chileys seem to have made a successful marriage, from what we see of it, and we must note that they don't have children.

Though we find out a great deal more about Mrs Woodburn's marriage than most, that information is provided to us indirectly; it is left to Mrs Centum to openly set the general tone:

Chapter 5:

"I am sure it is very nice," said Mrs Centum. "I hate people that laugh at everything. I don't see much to laugh at myself, I am sure, in this distracting world; any one who has a lot of children and servants like me to look after, finds very little to laugh at."

And perhaps we should also note this---since how Lucilla eats her meals becomes a weird sort of marker for those taking an interest in her:

Chapter 5:

Miss Marjoribanks reflected as she ate---and indeed, thanks to her perfect health and her agreeable morning walk, Lucilla had a very pretty appetite, and enjoyed her meal in a way that would have been most satisfactory to her many friends...

Chapter 6:

    "...and then I always was so domestic. It does not matter what is outside, I always find my pleasure at home. I cannot help if it has a little effect on my spirits now and then," said Miss Marjoribanks, looking down upon her handkerchief, "to be always surrounded with things that have such associations---"
    "What associations?" said the amazed Doctor. To be sure, he had forgotten his wife; but it was four years ago...

Though of course, Lucilla is hardly sincere here: "associations" are just one more weapon in her fight to get her own way.

That raises another of this novel's ambiguous aspects: there are numerous points at which Oliphant comments that other people don't understand Lucilla because she says exactly what she means; and in context the satire seems directed at those people, not at Lucilla---as well as at Carlingford society as a whole.

But with her "dear papa" and her "associations", Lucilla is perfectly capable of deliberate insincerity when it helps her to get her way, or when she wants to present herself a certain way to others.

It is another piece of slippery characterisation by Oliphant, where it is hard to know how we are intended to react. In fact Oliphant puts us in the same position with respect to Lucilla as she does her other characters.

>30 kac522: I fell afoul of that footnote and its spoiler too, alas! I stopped reading when I realised, but too late!

I've read up to chapter 5 so I'm almost caught up now. My first impression of Lucilla and her plans for Carlingford society are giving me strong Mapp and Lucia vibes, although without such obvious humour.

>45 Sakerfalcon: I'm getting the Mapp and Lucia vibes, too!

My copy was digitised from an 1897 Blackwood edition and has 52 chapters, "Chapter The Last".
I'm at chapter 5 now, and I am almost goggle-eyed at Lucilla's crass behaviour towards Barbara Lake. Was Emma ever as impolite and rude as this? It's been ages since I read it.

Question on a term/phrase: At the very end of Chapter I, Lucilla is sent back to her school in Mount Pleasant and she is speaking with Miss Martha:

...but, dear Miss Martha, you will let me learn all about political economy and things, to help me manage everything...

What does "political economy" mean here?

>30 kac522:, >45 Sakerfalcon:

I do what I can to protect you but footnotes at least *ought* to be safe. :(

I guess if a footnote is that long it is likely to carry danger.

>45 Sakerfalcon:, >46 cbl_tn:

THAT is a very interesting comparison. Yes, you can position Lucilla about midway between Emma and Lucia, can't you? - allowing for the differences in their societies and the standing of women.

The humour associated with "managing" females never seems to go out of style, though how their authors view their characters' conduct, and how we are expected to, certainly changes.

>47 MissWatson:

Well, that's a matter of opinion: the one point where Emma is outright verbally rude is the pivot-point of the book, though that's not what you really mean.

Barbara Lake's equivalent is Harriet Smith, who occupies a much lower and more ambiguous social position and is only too happy to be hijacked for her patroness's purposes. Harriet never sees it as being used - although she is being used - but Barbara is a very different proposition and is aware from the first of being exploited---but then her personal dreams and ambitions are served by her entrée into Lucilla's world - the step up from Grove Street to Grange Lane - so as always in this book the situation is not directly comparable.

>48 kac522:

Today we'd just say "economics". It was the same idea, the study of the political and social structures of a nation, or nations, in terms of their monetary system, business operations, employment practices and trade.

We see from Lucilla's behaviour that while the subject was out there, at this time it wasn't always taught to girls; and even when it was, in spite of its grandiose overtones it was at bottom about teaching them to run a household properly---paying bills, managing servants, budgeting.

(That Lucilla's lessons, for better or worse, go beyond these basics is evident from the uncomfortable encounter between her and a beggar-woman in Chapter 7.)

Later in the century the broader form of political economy did become a standard topic of study in girls' education (it is one of the subjects Cecily objects to, in The Importance Of Being Earnest).

>52 lyzard: thanks--that was my initial guess, but the "political" part got me confused.

Here's one for Kathy:

Chapter 8:

    "That is what I always say," said Mrs Chiley; "but there are not many girls so sensible as you, Lucilla. I hear them all saying it is so much better French fashion. Of course, I am an old woman, and like things in the old style."
    "I don't think it is because I am more sensible," said Miss Marjoribanks, with modesty. "I don't pretend to be better than other people. It is because I have thought it all over, you know---and then I went through a course of political economy when I was at Mount Pleasant," Lucilla said tranquilly, with an air of having explained the whole matter, which much impressed her hearer...

:D

The point here is that in France, the sexes didn't separate at the end of dinner; and there wasn't an indeterminate period of the women twiddling their thumbs before the men pulled themselves away from their wine and cigars.

(Although the real point of the separation was to give the women the chance to go to the loo, which was a much more difficult and time-consuming operation then.)

Chapter 8 also properly introduces Mr Cavendish, of whom we heard this in Chapter 3:

...young Mr Cavendish, Mrs Woodburn's brother, who was a wit and a man of fashion, and belonged to one of the best clubs in town, and brought down gossip with the bloom on it to Grange Lane...

(Although we later learn he isn't that young, being around thirty; but younger than the other dinner-attending men.)

Mrs Chiley has her eye on him for Lucilla:

"...and talking of that, what do you think of Mr Cavendish, Lucilla? He is very nice in himself, and he has a nice property; and some people say he has a very good chance to be member for Carlingford when there is an election."

In Chapter 8, we also the Mr Bury's attempt to force a chaperone upon Lucilla---a scene in which I may say I find his behaviour quite as objectionable as Lucilla's towards Barbara Lake, if better motivated (perhaps).

Lucilla's rejection of chaperonage is interesting. Of course there's hardly the need for it in Carlingford, Tom's "amusing" friend notwithstanding; but this was the sort of situation that young women were supposed to put up with whether they liked it or not.

This is another touch where you wonder what Oliphant expects us to think, as obviously Lucilla is doing what most girls would if they got the chance.

Lucilla's refusal to understand what Mr Bury is getting at, with poor Mrs Mortimer caught in the middle, is masterly, although not very kind to the latter; though she does make it up to her---in another touch where we wonder what Oliphant is getting at:

When he was gone Miss Marjoribanks felt the full importance of her victory; and then, though she had not hesitated to sacrifice this poor woman when it was necessary to have a victim, that moment was over, and she had no pleasure in being cruel; on the contrary, she went and sat by her patient, and talked, and was very kind to her; and after a while heard all her story, and was more comforting than the Rector could have been for his life.

(Is this a dig at Mr Bury's Low Church-ism, or just at Mr Bury?)

We also get this at the end of the chapter, another off-kilter touch:

...Dr Marjoribanks was so much entertained that he came upstairs to hear the end, and took a cup of tea. It was the third night in succession that the Doctor had taken this step, though it was against his principles; and thus it will be seen that good came out of evil in a beautifully distinct and appropriate way.

We get another example of Lucilla's capacity to turn an awkward situation in her favour in Chapter 9 when, unable to prevent Tom from speaking the words, she disposes of his pretensions by telling him how much she cares for him:

    "Tom," said Miss Marjoribanks, with indignant surprise, "how can you say I care little for you? you know I was always very fond of you, on the contrary. I am sure I always stood your friend at home, whatever happened, and never said a word when you broke that pretty little pearl ring I was so fond of, and tore the scarf that my aunt gave me. I wonder, for my part, how you can be so unkind as so say so. We have always been the very best friends in the world," said Lucilla, with an air of injury. "I always said at school I liked you the best of all my cousins; and I am very fond of all my cousins." Miss Marjoribanks concluded, after a little pause, "It is so unkind to tell me that I don't care for you."
    Poor Tom groaned within himself as he listened...

>54 lyzard: :) Yes, it was actually that passage that sent me scurrying back to Chapter I and then to breakdown and ask the question.

>54 lyzard: (Although the real point of the separation was to give the women the chance to go to the loo, which was a much more difficult and time-consuming operation then.)
Thank you for this, I have always wondered at the custom!

>58 kac522:

We need to be a bit careful, though: clearly she has in fact studied political economy, but OTOH "I went through a course of political economy" is one of her lines, like "dear papa" and "I need not have come home for that". :D

>60 lyzard:

To be quite frank, these sorts of things have always been an area of interest because no-one ever talked about them and it's so hard now to imagine how they managed!

(In some of John Sutherland's "hypotheticals" on 19th century literature, he argues that the clues are in the text if you know the euphemisms of the time.)

The men were supposed to give them about half an hour to get settled again after dinner (and dinners could go for hours), but sometimes they wouldn't play along and would stay downstairs instead of going up to the drawing-room.

Lucilla, of course, doesn't stand for any nonsense like that! :)

Before we move on to the heart of the matter, here in Chapter 10 we find another of the novel's startlingly critical comments, which set it aside from so much Victorian fiction---and which again draws a line between the male and female views of the world:

Then Mrs Centum had her two eldest boys home from school, and was driven out of her senses by the noise and the racket, as she confided to her visitors. "It is all very well to make pretty pictures about Christmas," said the exasperated mother, "but I should like to know how one can enjoy anything with such a commotion going on. I get up every morning with a headache, I assure you; and then Mr Centum expects me to be cheerful when he comes in to dinner; men are so unreasonable. I should like to know what they would do if they had what we have to go through: to look after all the servants---and they are always out of their senses at Christmas---and to see that the children don't have too much pudding, and to support all the noise. The holidays are the hardest work a poor woman can have," she concluded, with a sigh; and when it is taken into consideration that this particular Christmas was a wet Christmas, without any frost or possibility of amusement out of doors, English matrons in general will not refuse their sympathy to Mrs Centum...

(Note her echoing of Lucilla's use of "They" and "Them" for The Gentlemen.)

Because of, rather than despite, its focus on Carlingford society, this novel gives a rather dreary impression of country town life.

This is emphasised by the way in which what colour Lucilla has chosen for her drawing-room becomes a matter of such intense interest for her friends and neighbours (and not just female ones, with Mr Cavendish, too, trying to sneak a peek):

Chapter 10:

From this it will be seen that the curiosity of Carlingford was excited to a lively extent. Many people even went so far as to give the Browns a sitting in their glass-house, with the hope of having a peep at the colour of the hangings at least. But Miss Marjoribanks was too sensible a woman to leave her virgin drawing-room exposed to the sun when there was any, and to the photographers, who were perhaps more dangerous. "I think it is blue, for my part," said Miss Brown, who had got into the habit of rising early in hopes of finding the Doctor's household off its guard.

Ugh, sorry people! Meant to do a lot more yesterday, but we're just at the beginning of our third consecutive La Niña event - yet another new record! - and we got our first "rain bomb" of the season. :(

Not sure how my mental health is going to cope with another four months of this...

Anyway.

The overriding importance of Chapter 10 is that it describes Lucilla's first "Thursday", so important to her plans for Carlingford and our plot going forward.

It's also, BTW, a nice sketch of how most parties were conducted during the 19th century, from country town gatherings like this right up to full-on London balls, with a favoured few invited to dinner and the rest just coming "in the evening".

In a curious touch, though overtly this chapter is all about Lucilla's triumph, what we take away from it is its depiction of the unfortunate Barbara Lake, cruelly out of place and aware of it (her reactions here illustrating for us the the rigidity of the social hierarchy at this time), equally terrified of being ignored and being snubbed: you can only wince at Oliphant's description of her as "awkwardness and temper".

And then she opens her mouth:

...and then all at once, before the Carlingford people knew what they were doing, the two voices rose, bursting upon the astonished community like a sudden revelation...

Meanwhile Mr Cavendish has been paying enough attention to Lucilla to have him "assigned" to her by most of those present; but again, Oliphant leaves us with something quite different:

...she left Barbara still crimson and splendid, triumphing over her limp dress and all her disadvantages, by the piano. Fortunately, for that evening Barbara's pride and her shyness prevented her from yielding to the repeated demands addressed to her by the admiring audience. She said to Mr Cavendish, with a disloyalty which that gentleman thought piquant, that "Miss Marjoribanks would not be pleased"; and the future Member for Carlingford thought he could not do better than obey the injunctions of the mistress of the feast by a little flirtation with the gifted unknown. To be sure, Barbara was not gifted in talk, and she was still defiant and contradictory; but then her eyes were blazing with excitement under her level eyebrows, and she was as willing to be flirted with as if she had known a great deal better. And then Mr Cavendish had a weakness for a contralto...

Chapter 11:

"Oh, you know, I went through a course of political economy at Mount Pleasant," she said, with a laugh. "One of the Miss Blounts was dreadfully strong-minded. I wonder, for my part, that she did not make me literary; but fortunately I escaped that."

In the 19th century, there was only one thing worse you could call a lady than "strong-minded", and that was "blue-stocking", which of course is the implication of Lucilla's rider here.

One of the curious things in this novel, as noted above, is it's almost constant negativity about marriage. You can't by any means say that that is what the book is "about", and yet it's a pervasive presence in the narrative.

Look at this, all from Chapter 11:

"...of course you married ladies can always do what you like. You have your husbands to please," said Lucilla. And this was a little hard upon her satirist, for, to tell the truth, that was a particular of domestic duty to which Mrs Woodburn did not much devote herself, according to the opinion of Grange Lane.

****

    "...there is poor Mary Chiley and her husband coming through the garden. What a pity it is he is such a goose!"
    "Yes; but you know she never would take her uncle's advice, my dear," said the incorrigible mimic, putting on Mrs Chiley's face; "and being an orphan, what could anybody do? And then she does not get on with his family. By the way," Mrs Woodburn said, falling into her natural tone---"I wonder if anybody ever does get on with her husband's family?" The question was one which was a little grave to herself at the moment; and this was the reason why she returned to her identity---for there was no telling how long the Woodburns, who had come for Christmas, meant to stay...

****

...said Lucilla, rising to greet the two unfortunates who had come to Colonel Chiley's to spend a merry Christmas, and who did not know what to do with themselves. And then they all went downstairs and lunched together very pleasantly. As for Mr Cavendish, he was "quite devoted," as poor Mary Chiley said, with a touch of envy. To be sure, her trousseau was still in its full glory; but yet life under the conditions of marriage was not nearly such fun as it had been when she was a young lady, and had some one paying attention to her: and she rather grudged Lucilla that climax of existence, notwithstanding her own superior standing and dignity as a married lady...

I must say, I'm a little confused by the standing of Mary Chiley: she's Colonel Chiley's niece but her married name is "Chiley", okay, possible; but then "she does not get on with {her husband's} family"? I suppose she married into a different branch of the Chiley family, but it's all a bit obscure.

Ouch.

Chapter 11:

    "For my part, I think it was a great deal more than clever," said Mr Cavendish; for Mrs Woodburn, finding herself unappreciated, was silent and making notes. "It was a stroke of genius. So her name is Barbara? I wonder if it would be indiscreet to ask where Mademoiselle Barbara comes from, or if she belongs to anybody, or lives anywhere. My own impression is that you mean to keep her shut up in a box all the week through, and produce her only on the Thursday evenings. I have a weakness for a fine contralto. If she had been existing in an ordinary habitation like other people in Carlingford, I should have heard her, or heard of her. It is clear to me that you keep her shut up in a box."
    "Exactly," said Lucilla. "I don't mean to tell you anything about her. You may be sure, now I have found her out, I mean to keep her for myself..."

>62 lyzard: The use of they and them throughout the book is quite remarkable.

The entire "tone", for lack of a better word, of the novel feels different from the previous books (and different from Hester). I'm not sure what to make of it at all.

>67 lyzard: Agreed, the Chileys have me confused, too. And why is Mrs Chiley Lucilla's particular friend who always seems to be around? It seems odd.

>69 kac522:

I completely agree, I still don't quite know what to make of it---it doesn't take any of the paths we've been conditioned to expect, really.

Which is good! :D

I think the point there is that Mrs Chiley doesn't have children, or grandchildren (hence her constant line about being "all your grandmothers"), and Lucilla - without any female relatives - has allowed herself to be "adopted". She doesn't want a chaperone, as such, but she would recognise the value of having a respectable older woman to vouch for her; while Mrs Chiley has someone to care for and fuss over.

>70 lyzard: And someone of her own choosing, as opposed to Mrs Mortimer. (Although, as I'm farther along, I see Mrs Mortimer pops up again).

>69 kac522:

And carrying on your first point, it isn't just that Lucilla does it, it's that the narrator does it too:

Chapter 12:

...even Mrs Centum and Mrs Woodburn and the Miss Browns, who were, in a manner, Lucilla's natural rivals, could not but be impressed with this evidence of her powers. They were like the Tuscan chivalry in the ballad, who could scarce forbear a cheer at the sight of their opponent's prowess. Perhaps nothing that she could have done would have so clearly demonstrated the superiority of her genius to her female audience as that bold step of stopping the music, which began to be too much, by sending off the singer downstairs under charge of Mr Cavendish. To be sure the men did not even find out what it was that awoke the ladies' attention; but then, in delicate matters of social politics, one never expects to be understood by them.

And what about this?---

He found a seat for his companion with all the haste possible; and instead of lingering by her side, as she had anticipated, made off on the instant, and hid himself like a criminal in the dark depths of a group of men who were talking together near the door. These were men who were hopeless, and good for nothing but to talk to each other, and whom Miss Marjoribanks tolerated in her drawing-room partly because their wives, with an excusable weakness, insisted on bringing them, and partly because they made a foil to the brighter part of the company, and served as a butt when anybody wanted to be witty.

I may say that when Barbara first showed up in the narrative, my first thought was something like, "Oh, maybe this is the real heroine?"---that we'd have Lucilla and her managing foregrounded while other events were playing out around her.

I was just a tad wrong about that. :D

Mind you, as I noted in >70 lyzard:, the fact that this book keeps not doing what we expect is not only interesting, but indicates how far as readers we get conditioned to certain tropes.

Of course when you're dealing with something as morally narrow as mainstream Victorian fiction, it isn't merely a matter of conditioning, but what the publishers, and editors, and libraries would allow. It would be another twenty years before the circulating libraries lost their grip and authors were much more free to experiment.

Over the next few chapters we spend a lot of time with the shifting dynamic of the Lucilla-Barbara-Cavendish triangle.

We're allowed to know where both women stand, but Oliphant is more oblique in dealing with Mr Cavendish's motives and mindset---perhaps because he doesn't really understand them himself.

I think the question here is how far he is genuinely attracted to Barbara, and how far he is reacting against the feeling that he "ought" to be paying attention to Lucilla; Oliphant's use of the word "prudence" in that context is ominous:

Chapter 13:

...he had been thinking it all over, and had concluded that prudence and every other reasonable sentiment were on the other side, and that in many ways it would be a very good thing for him if he could persuade Miss Marjoribanks to preside over and share his fortunes.

The fact that this is playing out before the whole town invites us to feel for Lucilla---except that, again, the language that Oliphant chooses to use when speaking of her discourages sympathy.

...perhaps also Mr Cavendish was ashamed of himself, as, in Mrs Chiley's opinion at least, he had so much reason to be. Anyhow, whatever the cause, he behaved himself with the profoundest decorum for several weeks in succession... Everything went on delightfully so long as this interval lasted, and Lucilla herself did not disdain to recompense her faithful assistant by bestowing upon him various little privileges, such as naturally appertain to a subject whose place is on the steps of the throne.

Barbara's situation is the hardest to decide a stance on, I think. The ruthless way Lucilla makes use of her does initially put us on her side, but Oliphant is so caustic in her depiction of her inadequacies - emotional inadequacies, that is, not her social situation or her clothes - again makes it impossible to embrace her cause.

This is a fascinating psychological touch:

Chapter 11:

For the fact was, that when Miss Marjoribanks took to being kind to Barbara, she conferred upon the contralto at the same moment a palpable injury and grievance, which was what the drawing-master's daughter had been looking for, for several years of her life.

---setting up a strange situation in which Barbara's attitude to Lucilla, and her pursuit of Mr Cavendish, is simultaneously justified and unjustified:

Chapter 13:

And then Barbara could have eaten her fingers instead of the gloves which she kept biting in her vexation. For, to tell the truth, if Miss Marjoribanks was not jealous, the victory was but half a victory after all.

The other question that occurred to me is whether we're supposed to equate Barbara's materialistic view of marriage to Mr Cavendish, which plays out in her head in terms of a carriage and a veil of Brussels lace, with the situation of Mary Chiley, who apparently married for the trousseau it would bring her. (At least, we're not privy to any other motive.)

In a broader sense, these points seem to me not critical of these young women per se, but of a social arrangement that gives women no serious outlet for their energies and talents (and we should consider that point further with respect to Rose Lake, later), but confines them to the trivialities of dress and "evenings".

Whatever we make of Lucilla, the one thing that leaps off the pages of this novel is that it ought to be HER running for Parliament. She's obviously much better qualified - and would almost certainly do a much better job - than any of the men who hold, or hope to hold, that position; but the thought occurs only to be quietly dismissed with a reference to, the disqualification of her sex.

Whatever Oliphant may have thought of specific matters like women in Parliament, it's hard not to feel overall that she was resentful of the waste of ability represented by many women's lives.

Not that Lucilla is entirely unmoved by the situation:

Chapter 16:

As for Lucilla, she was quite radiant when the famous dish made its appearance which Nancy had elaborated to please her, and told the story of its introduction to her two next neighbours, in a half whisper, to their immense amusement. "When the servants are gone I will tell you what we are laughing at," she breathed across the table to Mrs Chiley, who was "more than delighted," as she said, to see her dear Lucilla keeping up so well; and when the dessert was put upon the table, and Thomas had finally disappeared, Miss Marjoribanks kept her promise. "I could not think how I was going to get her to consent," Lucilla said, "but you know she thought I was in low spirits, the dear old soul, and that it would be a comfort to me." Though there was often a great deal of fun at Dr Marjoribanks's table, nothing was ever heard there to compare with the laughter that greeted Lucilla's narrative. Everybody was so entirely aware of the supposed cause of the low spirits, and indeed was so conscious of having speculated, like Nancy, upon Miss Marjoribanks's probable demeanour at this trying moment, that the laughter was not mere laughter, but conveyed, at the same time a confession of guilt and a storm of applause and admiration. As for Mr Cavendish, it was alarming to look at him in the terrible paroxysm of confusion and shame which he tried to shield under the universal amusement. Miss Marjoribanks left the dining-room that evening with the soothing conviction that she had administered punishment of the most annihilating kind, without for a moment diverging from the perfect sweetness and amiability with which it was her duty to treat all her father's guests.

The other important detail here is our first intimation of the arrival of Mr Beverley:

Chapter 15:

"My dear, he is a clergyman," said Mrs Chiley, putting her hand on Miss Marjoribanks's arm, and speaking in a half whisper; "and you know a nice clergyman is always nice, and you need not think of him as a young man unless you like. He has a nice property, and he is Rector of Basing, which is a very good living, and Archdeacon of Stanmore. He has come here to hold a visitation, you know; and they say that if Carlingford was made into a bishopric, he is almost sure to be the first bishop; and you know a bishop, or even an archdeacon, has a very nice position."

We've talked a lot across our various reads about High Church and Low Church, the Evangelicals and the Dissenters---are people across what is meant by terms like "Broad Church" and "muscular Christianity", or would you like me to go into it a bit?

>77 lyzard: I was trying to place "Broad Church", so would appreciate a little clarification.

Also, it seems to me that Archdeacon Beverley is a bit like Archdeacon Grantly from the Barsetshire books. I even marked a passage where Archdeacon Beverley exclaims "Good heavens!", right out of Barchester Towers.

In switching between the Kindle and LibriVox editions, which both have 53 chapters, I've come across a textual anomaly in Chapters 18 and 19. I read Chapter 18 in the Kindle version, then switched to audio starting with Chapter 19. I felt like some of the material in Chapter 19 was repeated, and determined that the part that sounded familiar to me is in Chapter 18 of the Kindle version.

LibriVox Chapter 18 & 19 includes an extensive scene about Rose's portfolio and her frustration when no one would listen to her explanation that the sketch they liked best was her brother's and not her own. This scene isn't in the Kindle version. Kindle Chapter 18 and LibriVox Chapter 19 end on the same note.

>78 kac522:

Perhaps Trollope and Oliphant both thought it was an Archdeaconly thing to say. Perhaps it WAS an Archdeaconly thing to say. :D

>78 kac522:

As we've seen and talked about with respect to many novels, there was a lot of factional in-fighting in English religion during the 19th century, with the Oxford Movement, the split by some to outright Catholicism, the doctrinal disagreements between the High and Low Church, and the increasing prominence of the Evangelicals and Dissenting sects.

Meanwhile, in parallel with this there were external threats, or "threats", to conventional religion in the form of new scientific thinking, in particular around geological discoveries and the theory of evolution, which challenged a direct biblical view of the history of the planet.

A new faction arose that became known as Broad Church, which (put very broadly, to use its own term) accepted and encouraged a more liberal, more personal, less doctrinal approach to religion---almost the exact opposite of all the other factional brawling---including an acceptance of some of the new scientific thinking despite its apparent contradiction of strict interpretation of the bible.

The Broad Church thereby managed what no-one else had been able to do: it united all the other factions in horror at its "heresy". In fact many people believed that the Broad Church was an anti-religious movement designed to lure people away from their faith by encouraging them to reject the stricter teachings of the church.

But in the end the Broad Church became a very powerful force both socially and politically, and basically dictated policy around the functioning of the church and the relationship between Church and State.

At the time that Oliphant was writing Miss Marjoribanks, the Broad Church was just gaining its foothold in both church and society, but was not yet the power it would become.

So Mr Beverley is welcomed socially but alarms and offends people doctrinally.

Writing at this time (and her novel is set a decade or so earlier), Oliphant is inclined somewhat to mock the Broad Churchman, showing that behind his "broad" and "liberal" professional thinking, personally he is narrow, rigid and self-righteous.

>78 kac522:

Related to all this is the concept of "muscular Christianity", which - though by no means a new idea - became in the 19th century an approach to religion that wove it into traditional "gentlemanly" concepts such as devotion to personal duty, and to patriotism and love of country, and encouraged health and exercise and fitness---and sports, particular team sports*---as the basis of preparing young Christians for "the fight ahead". Essentially it was a concept of religion built around ideas of "manliness", as opposed to a certain view of Christianity as somewhat effeminate, fit for women but not really right for properly manly men. (All that "turn the other cheek" and "forgive your enemies" nonsense!)

(*The obsession with sports was also about wearing young men out so they wouldn't have the energy for, ahem, much more secular physical activities.)

At this time, this approach to religion was likewise controversial and often mocked, though like Broad Churchism, it took hold and spread.

Oliphant makes Mr Beverley both a Broad Churchman and a muscular Christian, which would have been double alarming (or doubly ridiculous) in a place like Carlingford---and certainly not positive personal attributes.

>79 cbl_tn:

Thank you for that heads-up, Carrie. I will take a look at that today and post a few notes later.

>81 lyzard:, >82 lyzard: Thanks, very helpful in understanding Mr Beverley.

Chapter 18

Rose Lake is referred to more than once as a pre-Raphaelite. I'm familiar with the style of art but not sure what the use of this term suggests about Rose.

>79 cbl_tn: The Rose scene you described is part of the serial version material that Oliphant cut from Chapters 18 & 19, so the Librivox version appears to be reading the serialized version.

Both Chapter 18 of the book version and Chapter 19 of the serial version have the same last lines, which is how you are describing your Kindle and Librivox versions. For the book, Oliphant cut and merged the 2 chapters, using the last lines in the serial version (Ch 19) and retained it in the book version (now called Ch 18).

Maybe it's easier to say that Oliphant used the serialized beginning of Chapter 18 and the serialized ending of Chapter 19 to make a whole new Chapter 18 for the book. (or conversely, she cut the last half of Ch 18 and the first half of Ch 19 to make a whole new Ch 18).

At that point Chapter 20 of the serialized edition became Chapter 19 of the book, and from there on the versions are essentially the same with only minor changes (and, of course, different Chapter numbers).

You may wish to see if the Kindle Chapter 19 and the Librivox Chapter 20 begin the same. If so, then it sounds like the Kindle version matches the book.

Sorry--probably TMI. :(

>86 kac522: Thanks! This is really helpful info. My initial take is that the cuts improved the book. We'll see if my opinion changes by the time I finish reading it!

I have zoomed ahead and finished. I think I liked it better than Hester, but will hold the rest of my thoughts.

>87 cbl_tn: Glad it helped.

>86 kac522:

Not at all. In fact, could you possibly write a brief summary of the missing material? It might be helpful for others.

There's quite a lot going on here (tying to Ninie's question in >85 NinieB:) and I will try to pick it apart a bit.

>85 NinieB:

The Pre-Raphaelites were an association of English artists who came together about 1850 more or less in protest against the direction of English art, or art generally. They rejected the artificiality of pose and composition, and the muted palette, which was associated with the Renaissance (and which was taught and propagated by Raphael in particular, hence their chosen title), and pushed for a return to the medieval aesthetic which preceded that phase, which focused instead upon an intense use of colour, fine and correct detail in the depiction of nature, and complex compositions. They were against both straight portraiture and landscape art as being without a central "idea".

However, they also believed in freedom and individuality in art, rather than a single prevailing set of "rules", so the actual art produced by the group is extremely varied in subject, use of symbolism, religious themes, etc.

The original "brotherhood" consisted of William Holman Hunt, John Everett Millais, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, William Michael Rossetti, James Collinson, Frederic George Stephens and Thomas Woolner. However, others were influenced and came to consider themselves "Pre-Raphaelites" also, including two people who may now be better known than the founders--- Edward Burne-Jones and William Morris.

As examples---one of the more famous paintings produced by this movement is John Everett Millais' Ophelia---





---and I think we all know this one, John William Waterhouse's The Soul Of The Rose:

Of course what we notice here is that it was a "brotherhood" indeed, all male artists with striking female models, but no female artists.

There was a prevailing feeling at the time that women lacked a true aesthetic, and we need to place Rose Lake's aspirations in that context (I'll say a bit more about that in a moment).

It has been pointed out by several critics, however, that Lucilla's redecoration of her drawing-room is more significant than we might realise these days: women weren't supposed to have a proper appreciation of colour and balance (an idea both silly and contradictory, since at the same time they were supposed to understand "dress"), so Lucilla's success here is another display of "unfeminine" competence on her part.

(This explains the extreme nature of Carlingford's reaction to her activities. It's about more than how little there is in Carlingford to be interested in.)

>91 lyzard: Thank you, Liz. Perhaps Rose's intensity is reflected in repeatedly calling her a Preraphaelite/Preraphaelist.

>90 lyzard: Homework! Yeah, OK.

>93 NinieB:

The term underscores Rose's aspirations, but the way the narrative handles her illustrates that this was a time when art and design were becoming commodities through new techniques for mass production. (Rose's position at the School of Design is perhaps a bigger subject than we need to get into here, but we can if you'd like?)

We see this in Lucilla's ruthless use of her across Chapters 17 and 18 (the revised 18, stretching across 19 in the original text, I think?). Rose is manipulated into "replacing" Barbara at Lucilla's Thursday, partly from her sense of "family pride", but also because she believes / hopes she will be noticed for her art.

But what happens is that Mr Beverley takes over---his interpretation of the art is what matters, not the artist: Rose is ignored, and no-one cares that the sketch being admired is her brother's work and not hers.

Rose's "art" becomes Lucilla's "commodity", just another way of entertaining her guests for a time, with no intrinsic merit.

There's a level of autobiography in a lot of this. We've already discussed in other contexts how Margaret Oliphant was widowed and left to support her children, and how she had to write to earn a living to the detriment of her art.

We should also note the career of Frank Oliphant, who trained as an artist and had several paintings exhibited in the Royal Academy, but was best known for his work in stained glass: his most famous pieces may be seen in King’s College at Cambridge, St Mary the Virgin's Church in Aylesbury and Ely Cathedral.

The other point of significance is that Margaret Oliphant had a brother called "Willie", who was a minister, but who got himself into a financial mess that his sister had to get him out of.

It's hardly a coincidence that the brother who gets the career that Rose dreams of, and who (as far as we know) offers no help at home, is also called "Willie".

>94 kac522:

Only a couple of sentences. :)

In the context of >96 lyzard:, I wonder if Oliphant felt she'd been a bit too personal and self-revealing in this material, and that's why she decided to cut it back? (Or maybe just got carried away with her venting?)

>97 lyzard: OK, I've only skimmed the cut section, so now I'll have to actually read it ;)

>97 lyzard: Having listened to both versions of those chapters, it strikes me that the narrative is more focused without the cut sections. In the uncut version, you have the mystery surrounding Mr. Cavendish interrupted by scenes about Rose's dress, comments on her art portfolio, and her growing frustration when the archdeacon ignores her protests that the work he admires is her brother's and not hers. The tone of the cut material is also different than the cut version.

>98 kac522:

I skimmed it just now, I can do it if you want? :)

>99 cbl_tn:

Yes, I agree. The points made are important in themselves in the context of >97 lyzard: and Rose's subplot, but they shift the focus too much and, as you say, interrupt the main narrative.

In >99 cbl_tn: Carrie sums it up pretty well, I think. All the cut pages refer to the same evening. Besides the parts mentioned by Carrie, there are also some internal musings of both Barbara's spite that Rose has come and Rose's discomfort in general; there's a quick scene showing how some people are actually afraid of Mrs Woodburn's ability to "mimic", even while laughing along with her; and a couple of pages where the Archdeacon and Mr Centum, after passing around the sketches, discuss (ignoring Rose's protests) the lack of Art in Carlingford.

Here Rose is standing next to Barbara, listening to all the people talking around her:

...they went on talking about the most unimportant matters; --where they were going, and what they were to wear, and what new amusements or occupations had been planned for the morrow -- which two words indeed seem to mean the same thing according to Carlingford young ladies. As Rose Lake stood and listened, a few of her childish illusions began to leave her. In the first place, nobody said a syllable either about art, literature, or even music, which gave the lie to all her previous conceptions of conversation among educated people -- and then it began slowly to dawn upon Rose, that a life like her own, full of work and occupation, which she had been used up to this moment to think a very good life, and quite refined and dignified in comparison with most of the lives she knew of, was in reality a very shabby and poor existence, of which a young woman ought to be ashamed when she came into society in Grange Lane....It was, on the whole, a painful little bit of experience; and the more humbled she felt in herself, the more did her little heart swell within her, with the innocent pride grown bitter, and the happy complacency of her scruples turned into a combative self-assertion, which is not an uncommon process with people who have cherished ideas about the rank of artists. The world did not care in the least for her being an artist...

At the end of the evening Lucilla is speaking with Rose:

"Thank you so much for bringing that beautiful drawing," Miss Marjoribanks said; and she meant it quite sincerely, and felt that Rose and her portfolio had helped her to her latest triumph just as Barbara and her contralto had helped in the earliest. And thus the two representatives of the arts went home in their wounded condition, after having served their purpose.

And to Liz's comment in >97 lyzard:, Elisabeth Jay, in the Introduction to the Penguin edition, makes this comment about the cuts:

Although the long passage detailing Rose's gauche misery at Lucilla's party and her indignation when her brother Willie's work is assumed to be hers was excised from the three-volume version, the serial account offers a clear allusion to the early period of Oliphant's married life when she was sought out by lionizing hostesses and her own brother was allowing her work to be published under his own name. The cuts ensure both that we are not allowed to linger on Rose's disappointments to the detriment of Lucilla, and that Rose's part in the novel's moral scheme is not too overtly heralded. The narrator's inscrutable distance becomes dangerously compromised in the serialized version...

All the comments about men and their weaknesses/failures has reminded me of observations on Jane Austen's works that I read somewhere (perhaps Jane Austen for Dummies?) Many of Austen's heroines have weak fathers, and their neglectful parenting contributes to their daughters' difficulties. This is true in Pride and Prejudice, Persuasion, Sense and Sensibility, and Emma, all to varying degrees. Oliphant's criticism of men is more overt.

>101 kac522:

Thank you very much for doing that, Kathy, that's great!

Yes, this material feels very close to the bone for Oliphant and probably she couldn't manage the proper detachment from it: it sounds like she realised that during her revisions and re-tooled it to create the necessary distance for her narrator.

>102 cbl_tn:

The thing that struck me is that to this point in the Carlingford series we've always had male protagonists, so the female POV has been limited or muted. Now suddenly it's like we're finding out what the women were thinking all along!

(Remembering too that we agreed on how effective the characters of Mrs Morgan and Aunt Leonora were in The Perpetual Curate.)

The structure of this society that forced women into a position of dependence upon their menfolk, fathers, brothers and husbands, meant disaster if those men couldn't - or didn't - meet their responsibilities. There was very little acknowledgement generally that this often didn't happen, so it is not surprising to find female novelists, covertly or overtly, criticising the system.

Also not surprising to find each of these cases dealing with the personal situation, as if were: Austen with the absent or ineffectual father prominent, Oliphant with unsatisfactory husbands and selfish brothers.

I guess the odd thing about those particular revisions is that they shifted where the end of Volume I was.

Speaking of which---can I get people to check in and let me know how it's going?

>104 lyzard: Also Mrs Vincent in Salem Chapel. There doesn't seem to be a similar level-headed older woman character in Miss Marjoribanks. The closest might be Aunt Jemima Marjoribanks, but not anything like Mrs Vincent or Mrs Morgan.

>105 lyzard: I'm at the beginning of Chapter 42.

I'm ready for chapter 30 in the LibriVox version.

I'm at chapter 26 and have to say that I'm growing rather fond of Lucilla. She's serenely self-absorbed, and she elegantly avoided having Mrs Mortimer foisted on her as a chaperone, but then she actively goes and helps her to earn an income. I find that surprising and admirable.

ETA: I find myself reminded of Georgette Heyer's The Grand Sophy.

I've just started Chapter 37. I'm a little disoriented by the 10 year jump in time

>109 MissWatson: I love the way she helped Mrs Mortimer establish herself. Yes, it's a bit high-handed on Lucilla's part but she saw a need and went out of her way to meet it, without fanfare to herself.

Thank you all for the updates: I didn't want to leave our later starters behind, but now I will speed things up.

>106 kac522:

It's interesting that all the female characters we cite are quite distinct from one another and do not, in most respects, play a similar role within the plot. But they do all have a quality of having a better grasp of events than most, including the protagonist.

But no, there's no-one to assume that mantle in Miss Marjoribanks, which is one reason Lucilla is able to have her own way to such an extent.

>109 MissWatson:, >110 Sakerfalcon:

I will come back to Lucilla's conduct towards Mrs Mortimer a bit later, I want to deal with Mr Beverley first.

...and with the impact of Mr Beverley's arrival on the Carlingford social scene:

Chapter 16:

But when she had made that one step, Lucilla suddenly stood still, arrested by something more urgent than the arrival of a stranger. Mr Cavendish, too, had been standing with his face to the door, and had seen the new arrival. He was directly in front of Lucilla, so near her that he could not move without attracting her attention. When Miss Marjoribanks took that step in advance, Mr Cavendish, as if by the same impulse, suddenly, and without saying a word, turned right round like a man who had seen something terrible, at which he dared not take a second look. He was too much absorbed at that moment in his own feelings to know that he was betraying himself to Lucilla, or even to be conscious that she was near him. His face was more than pale; it had a green ghastly look, as of a face from which all the blood had suddenly been withdrawn to reinforce the vital centre in some failing of nature. His under-lip hung down, and two hollows which had never been seen there before appeared in his cheeks. Miss Marjoribanks was so taken by surprise that she stood still, thinking no more of her duties, but regarding in utter dismay and amazement the look of dead stupefied terror which thus appeared so unexpectedly before her...

We can sometimes sometimes question Lucilla's motives (and I probably will, later on), but there is both quick thinking and genuine good nature in this gesture:

    Miss Marjoribanks saw there was no time to lose. With a fearless hand she threw down a great portfolio of music which happened to be close to her, just at his feet, making a merciful disturbance. And then she turned and made her curtsey, and received the homage of Mr Archdeacon Beverley, who had arrived a day before he was expected, and had come to look after his host, since his host had not been at home to receive him.
    "But you have broken your music-stand or something, Lucilla," said the Colonel.
    "Oh, no; it is only a portfolio. I can't think what could make me so awkward," said Miss Marjoribanks; "I suppose it was seeing some one come in whom I didn't know." And then the old gentleman, as was his duty, paid the Archdeacon a compliment on having made such a commotion. "We used to have the best of it in our day," said the old soldier; "but now you churchmen are the men." Miss Marjoribanks heard the door open again before this little speech was finished. It was Mr Cavendish, who was going out with a long step, as if he with difficulty kept himself from running...

Oliphant's introductory remarks about Mr Beverley are full of backhanded compliments---suitably enough, reflecting both Grange Lane's pleasure in having a new diversion, but its doubts about the actual nature of it.

We also get this tongue-in-cheek description of the local attitude to religious practice---which is interesting because it agrees with Lucilla's own views, foregrounded earlier and here again:

Chapter 17:

For there could be no doubt that he was Broad-Church, even though his antecedents had not proclaimed the fact. He had a way of talking on many subjects which alarmed his hostess. It was not that there was anything objectionable in what he said---for, to be sure, a clergyman and an archdeacon may say a great many things that ordinary people would not like to venture on,---but still it was impossible to tell what it might lead to; for it is not everybody who knows when to stop, as Mr Beverley in his position might be expected to do. It was the custom of good society in Carlingford to give a respectful assent, for example, to Mr Bury's extreme Low-Churchism---as if it were profane, as it certainly was not respectable, to differ from the Rector—and to give him as wide a field as possible for his missionary operations by keeping out of the way. But Mr Beverley had not the least regard for respectability, nor that respect for religion which consists in keeping as clear of it as possible...

Although there's a joking note here, this is in keeping with the High Church view that Low Church people and Evangelicals made too much of a "parade" of their faith, and that doing so was in poor taste. (The reverse view, of course, is that High Church people only paid lip-service to faith, which we may feel here has some truth to it.)

Meanwhile Mr Beverley's Broad Church-ness leads him to open discussion of religious matters, which is also against the unspoken rules of conduct. Clearly he is entirely satisfactory neither as a churchman nor as a man...or at least not a Thursday-night man:

As for the Archdeacon, the place which he took in society was one quite different from that which had been filled by Mr Cavendish, as, indeed, was natural. He was one of those men who are very strong for the masculine side of Christianity; and when he was with the ladies, he had a sense that he ought to be paid attention to, instead of taking that trouble in his own person.

And it is of course Mr Beverley's unsatisfactoriness that leaves a gap in Lucilla's arrangements, and leads to her co-opting of poor Rose Lake and her portfolio, as we have discussed above.

But of course Mr Beverley's other great contribution is this---

Chapter 18:

"The man I speak of is really a very amusing fellow, and very well got up, and calculated to impose upon ordinary observers. It is quite a curious story; he was a son of a trainer or something of that sort about Newmarket. Old Lord Monmouth took an extraordinary fancy to him, and had him constantly about his place---at one time, indeed, he half brought him up along with his grandson, you know. He always was a handsome fellow, and picked up a little polish; and really, for people not quite used to the real thing, was as nearly like a gentleman---"

Apparently.

For those who may not know, "Cavendish" is the family name of the Dukes of Devonshire---one of the oldest and most aristocratic and most powerful families in England.

But it was also a sufficiently common name that you weren't claiming too much by using it, just more or less vouching for your standing and your connections.

Though we may not spot it on a first read, Oliphant pretty much tells us from the outset that there's something hinky going on here: she never mentions Mr Cavendish or Mrs Woodburn without a bit of ironic undercutting, the significance of which only becomes evident much later.

For example---

Chaprer 3:

...for this gentleman, who was in the habit of describing himself, no doubt, very truthfully, as one of the Cavendishes, was a person of great consideration in Grange Lane...

Chapter 8:

If there had been a fault in Dr Marjoribanks's table under the ancient régime, it lay in a certain want of variety, and occasional over-abundance, which wounded the feelings of young Mr Cavendish, who was a person of refinement...

The question this raises, though, is whether Oliphant intends to criticise Mr Beverley, with his wise-after-the-event remarks about "for people not quite used to the real thing", or Grange Lane, which has accepted the two imposters without a blink---with Mr Woodburn, no doubt, marrying his wife on the strength of her "connections" (there's certainly no other reason).

Meanwhile, Lucilla's management of Mr Beverley at the dinner-table is truly masterly, and disaster is averted for one evening at least.

Oliphant's dissection of Lucilla's reflections afterwards is also masterly, revealing a complex mingling of selfish and unselfish motivations that makes her, I think, real to the reader as the more common, more ironic presentation of her does not:

Chapter 18:

But though Lucilla was satisfied with the events of the evening, it would be vain to deny that there were perturbations in her mind as she laid her head upon her maiden pillow. She said to herself again with profounder fervour, that fortunately her affections had not been engaged; but there were more things than affections to be taken into consideration. Could it be possible that mystery, and perhaps imposture, of one kind or another, had crossed the sacred threshold of Grange Lane; and that people might find out and cast in Lucilla's face the dreadful discovery that a man had been received in her house who was not what he appeared to be? When such an idea crossed her mind, Miss Marjoribanks shivered under her satin quilt. Of course she could not change the nature of the fact one way or another; but, at least, it was her duty to act with great circumspection, so that if possible it might not be found out---for Lucilla appreciated fully the difference that exists between wrong and discovery. If any man was imposing upon his neighbours and telling lies about himself, it was his own fault; but if a leader of society were to betray the fact of having received and petted such a person, then the responsibility was on her shoulders. And softer thoughts mingled with these prudential considerations---that sweet yet stern resolution to stand by her friends which Miss Marjoribanks had this evening expressed, and that sense of pity for everybody who is unfortunate which asserts itself even in the strongest of female intelligences...

Chapter 19 gives us an exceedingly awkward non-proposal scene, as after three weeks' absence from Carlingford, Mr Cavendish turns up and - more or less - throws himself at Lucilla's feet.

By this point, it hardly needs saying that the language with which Oilphant describes this interlude is not what we usually get at these moments:

As for Mr Cavendish, he exhibited a certain mixture of timidity and excitement which it was remarkable, and indeed rather flattering for any lady to see, in such an accomplished man of the world. Lucilla was not a person to deceive herself, nor did she want experience in such matters, as has been already shown; but it would be vain to deny that the conviction forced upon her mind by the demeanour of her visitor was that it was a man about to propose who thus made his unlooked-for appearance before her. She confessed afterwards to her confidential friend that he had all the signs of it in his looks and manners. "He gave that little nervous cough," Lucilla said, "and pulled his cravat just so, and stared into his hat as if he had it all written down there; and looked as They always look," Miss Marjoribanks added, with a touch of natural contempt...

The critical touch here, however, is this:

    "All alone? Then where is the Archdeacon?" asked Lucilla.
    "He has gone out to Sir John's for a day or two, my dear," said Mrs Chiley, and she could not understand the little gleam of intelligence that shot into Lucilla's eye...

We should probably emphasise that, at this point, the whole matter of Mr Cavendish's secret is pure detective work on Lucilla's part---and her sharpness at putting two-and-two together keeps her very near the whole truth, as here, when she understands instantly that Mr Cavendish, far from "caring for a sick friend on the Continent", has been lurking nearby all this time, and has shown himself now only because Mr Beverley is out of town.

She understands, too, the real reason for the almost-proposal: that whatever he actually feels for her (or not), he wants her as a shield: as the fiancé of Miss Marjoribanks, he would immediately be socially protected; plus the benefits that would accrue going forward.

She isn't the only one with that thought: Chapter 20 makes it perfectly clear that Mrs Woodburn, who if anything has more to lose than her brother, has pushed on him this means of solving both their problems:

    "You know quite well if you married Lucilla Marjoribanks that there would be no more about it. There could be no more about it. Why, all Grange Lane would be in a sort of way pledged to you. I don't mean to say I am attached to Lucilla, but you used to be, or to give yourself out for being. You flirted with her dreadfully in the winter, I remember, when those terrible Woodburns were here," she continued, with a shiver. "If you married Lucilla and got into Parliament, you might laugh at all the archdeacons in the world."
    "It is very easy for a woman to talk," said the reluctant wooer again.
    "I can tell you something it is not easy to do," cried his sister. "It is frightfully hard for a woman to stand by and see a set of men making a mess of things, and not to dare to say a word till all is spoiled. What is this Archdeacon, I would like to know, or what could he say? If you only would have the least courage, and look him in the face, he would be disabled. As if no one had ever heard of mistaken identity before? And in the meantime go and see Lucilla, and get her consent. I can't do that for you; but I could do a great deal of the rest, if you would only have a little pluck and not give in like this."
    "A little pluck, by George!" cried the unfortunate man, and he threw himself down again upon his chair. "I am not in love with Lucilla Marjoribanks, and I don't want to marry her," he added doggedly, and sat beating a tune with his fingers on the table, with but a poorly-assumed air of indifference. As for Mrs Woodburn, she regarded him with a look of contempt.
    "Perhaps you will tell me who you are in love with," she said disdainfully; "but I did not ask to be taken into your confidence in such an interesting way. What I wish to know is, whether you want a wife who will keep your position for you. I am not in the least fond of her, but she is very clever. Whether you want the support of all the best people in Carlingford, and connections that would put all that to silence, and a real position of your own which nobody could interfere with---that is what I want to know, Harry; as for the sentimental part, I am not so much interested about that," said Mrs Woodburn, with a contemptuous smile...

Chapter 20:

But the moment has passed: Mr Cavendish can't bring himself to the point again, and next we find him instead outside the Lakes'.

Noting that here, as Trollope did in Miss Mackenzie, Oliphant alludes to Tennyson's poem, Mariana---and quotes the same verse:

From the dark fen the oxen's low
Came to her: without hope of change,
In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn
About the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "The day is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"

It's rather awful that this was, apparently, a touchstone for those trying to depict Victorian womanhood:

He had paused by instinct under a lamp not yet lighted, which was almost opposite Mr Lake's house; and it was not his fault if he saw at the upper window a figure looking out, like Mariana, and sighing, "He cometh not."

There's another Trollopean point here, and I always like to highlight these because it's something about 19th century life that can be hard for us to imagine these days (probably because few TV adaptations or movies ever get this right): the lack of light.

People - even relatively wealthy people - did not turn on the gas or light their lamps in the evening: they sat more or less in the dark, often with candles in just one part of the room. Sometimes they didn't even have candles, but just sat by firelight.

Trollope is one of the few authors who ever drew attention to this; Oliphant does it too:

Chapter 20:

"Yes, Barbara has been a little poorly---but she does not look as if there was much the matter with her to-night. Ask for the lamp, Rose," said Mr Lake, with a little grandeur. There was no light in the room except the candles at the piano, which lighted that corner and left the rest of the apartment, small as it was, in comparative shade. There was something magnificent in the idea of adding the lamp to that illumination; but then it is true that, as Mr Lake himself said, "every artist is a prodigal in his heart."

The Lakes generally cannot afford more than candles; but note this earlier:

Chapter 4:

When she had walked from one end to the other, and verified all the plans she had already long ago conceived for the embellishment of this inner court and centre of her kingdom, Lucilla walked with her unhesitating step to the fire, and took a match and lighted all the candles in the large old-fashioned candlesticks, which had been flickering in grotesque shadows all over the roof. This proceeding threw a flood of light on the subject of her considerations, and gave Miss Marjoribanks an idea, in passing, about the best mode of lighting, which she afterwards acted upon with great success. She was standing in this flood of light, regarding everything around her with the eye of an enlightened critic and reformer, when Dr Marjoribanks came in. Perhaps there arose in the soul of the Doctor a momentary thought that the startling amount of éclairage which he witnessed was scarcely necessary, for it is certain that he gave a momentary glance at the candles as he went up to greet his daughter; but he was far too well-bred a man to suggest such an idea at the moment.

Arrangements like these are why, in 19th century fiction, you often get scenes of people overhearing things they aren't meant to, particularly during the pre-dinner gathering: it's not just an authorial contrivance, you literally couldn't see who was in the room with you.

This is also a big part of why reading aloud was an important part of family life: one person would have the light, and everyone else would sit in the dark.

>121 lyzard: I find myself thinking of women doing their "work" in semi-darkness. I love bright lights--that's the 19th century dealbreaker for me.

>122 NinieB:

It grinds my gears when TV dramas fill the 19th century with dazzlingly bright rooms and colours, that's my dealbreaker! :D

Yes, you always have to keep this in mind when women are ruining their eyesight trying to get sewing done---that was literally true, working by a single candlelight.

>119 lyzard: I really dislike Mrs Woodburn. I suppose I should feel sorry for her, but I don't.

>124 kac522: Mrs Woodburn and her mimicking habit surprised me. She made me realize I don't picture Victorian women being intentionally humorous.

>119 lyzard: Where could Lucilla have picked up this kind of worldly wisdom? Off the top of my head, I can't remember other girls of her age and class in Victorian fiction who had this kind of knowledge.

>124 kac522:

She makes it hard, I agree.

She's part of Oliphant's obliquely negative commentary on marriage, which runs through the background of this novel: she's done what she is "supposed" to do by grabbing at a socially and financially desirable marriage, but she dislikes her husband and it's only made her unhappy---and all the more so because she hasn't made an honest deal.

This is interesting:

Chapter 20:

    "You said once that Woodburn was necessary to your happiness," he said, with a mixture of scorn and appeal, "though I can't say I saw it, for my part."
    "Did I?" she said, with a slight shrug of her shoulders; "I saw what was necessary on another score, as you don't seem to do. When a man has nobody belonging to him, it is connections he ought to try for: and Lucilla has very good connections; and it would be as good as securing the support of Grange Lane. Do it for my sake, Harry, if you won't do it for your own," said Mrs Woodburn, with a change of tone. "If you were to let things be said, and give people an advantage, think what would become of me. Woodburn would not mind so much if somebody else were involved; but oh, Harry! if he should find out he had been cheated, and he only---"

If she married Mr Woodburn for his money and position, he married her for her "connections", which of course she doesn't have. There is both guilt and fear of exposure behind her brusque, jeering exterior.

>125 NinieB:

Presumably there were as many funny women then and now, but it may have been something that operated in private rather than public.

It's one of those things where you wonder about the gap between real life and novels, though. We should probably keep in mind that one reason that Elizabeth Bennet marked such an epoch in heroines was exactly this, she was smart and funny. Heroines were supposed to be serious and dutiful (and tearful), not bright and amusing. Bad women, or at least women riding for a fall, were more likely to be associated with "wit", which was considered a negative quality in a woman. (And Lizzie does have a fall of a kind.)

The increasing didacticism of Victorian fiction tended to put heroines back in the box and you're more likely to find humour in the supporting cast---as is the case here.

Mrs Woodburn's mimicry is very unusual, I agree, and really all the more so as an expression of dissatisfaction with her circumstances---her way of venting.

>126 MissWatson:

I'm inclined to say, "on the Continent".

Lucilla's travels, and at such an early age, are very unusual---effectively a form of the "Grand Tour" that was almost an automatic part of a young man's education.

We didn't really discuss that - we were more focused on Dr Marjoribanks still not wanting her at home - but Oliphant pretty much makes that point:

Chapter 3:

This was on the eve of Miss Marjoribanks's final departure from school. She was to spend a year abroad, to the envy of all whom she left behind; but for herself Lucilla was not elated. She thought it very probable that she would ascend Mont Blanc as far as the Grands Mulets at least, and, of course, in spring, go up Vesuvius, having got through the Carnival and Miserere and all the balls in Rome; but none of these things moved her out of her usual composure. She took it all in the way of business, as she had taken her French and her German and her singing and her political economy. As she stepped into the steamboat at Dover which was to convey her to scenes so new, Lucilla felt more and more that she who held the reorganisation of society in Carlingford in her hands was a woman with a mission. She was going abroad as the heir-apparent went to America and the Holy Land, to complete her education, and fit herself, by an examination of the peculiarities of other nations, for an illustrious and glorious reign at home.

We don't really know what went on - we don't really know how much time she spent fending off proposals - but she certainly does seem to have come home having honed her ability to read people and fit herself to circumstances.

Re: both >127 lyzard: and >128 lyzard:

Chapter 22:

    The personal sketches she made at this moment were truculent and bitter to an unheard-of degree. She took off Mr Beverley with a savage force which electrified her audience, and put words into his mouth which everybody admitted were exactly like him, if he could ever be imagined to have fallen into the extraordinary circumstances in which the mimic placed him. In short, Mrs Woodburn made a little drama out of the Archdeacon. Mr Beverley, of course, knew nothing about this, and showed some surprise now and then at the restrained laughter which he heard in the corners; but when anybody spoke of Mrs Woodburn, he showed an instinctive want of confidence. "I have not studied her sufficiently to give an opinion of her," he said, which was certainly the very reverse of her deliverance upon him. To tell the truth, she had rather studied him too much, and gave too keen an edge to his characteristic qualities, as is natural to all literary portraiture, and even went so far that, in the end, people began to ask whether she had any personal spite against him.
    "She don't know him," Mr Woodburn said, when he heard some faint echo of this suggestion. "She's clever, and it carries her away, you know. She enters into it so, she don't know how far she is going; but I can answer for it she never saw the Archdeacon before; and Hal isn't here to give her the key-note, as she says. He has met everybody, I believe, one place or another," the simple man said, with a little natural pride; for in his heart he was vain of his fashionable brother-in-law.

Meanwhile---

The Mrs Mortimer subplot rather comes out of the blue in both respects, i think.

To go back to Birgit's point in >109 MissWatson:, we can see that Lucilla has - not mixed - but several different motives in her assistance to Mrs Mortimer.

She is after all a widow, and destitute, which is why Mr Bury picked her up in that rather insensitive way at the outset---trying to provide for her by thrusting her onto Lucilla as a chaperone and, as far as we know, paying no further attention to her once that particular scheme is thwarted.

Ironically, as things are to turn out, Mr Beverley aligns himself here with Mr Bury, with this also rather insensitive remark:

Chapter 22:

"Oh, those dreadful women that have seen better days!" said the Archdeacon; "I think Mrs Chiley has a regiment of them. It is hard to know how to get one's self into sympathy with those faded existences. They fill me with an infinite pity; but then what can one do? If one tries to recall them to the past, it sounds like mockery---and if one speaks of the present, it wounds their feelings. It is a great social difficulty," said Mr Beverley; and he fixed his eyes on the ground and entered meditatively, without looking where he was going, in his Broad-Church way.

Having refused to offer Mrs Mortimer her support by accepting her as a chaperone, Lucilla has made a point of finding her an alternative arrangement, by which she may support herself. She has also, in doing so, thought of what would be best for Mrs Mortimer---not just most easy and convenient, as Mr Bury did.

There is kindness in this as well as obligation. However, I think we can also see (particularly in how the gardening, and the wistaria, are dwelt on here and later), that this is also for Lucilla a kind of project---like her drawing-room. That isn't a criticism, just another acknowledgement that Lucilla hasn't got enough to do, enough ways to expend her energy and imagination.

Hence her annoyance with how Mrs Mortimer's story plays out!

Oliphant has been critical of Mr Beverley to this point, and satirical at his expense, and I don't think we are prepared for it at all when we get this one moment of him being caught entirely off-guard:

It was just then that the Archdeacon raised his eyes, and saw standing before him, among the faded roses, the woman whom he had been approaching so indifferently---the faded existence that had seen better days. He saw her, and he stood stock-still, as if it was she who was the basilisk, and the look of pleased interest went out of his face in a moment. In that moment he had become as unconscious of the presence of Lucilla as if he had never in his life softened his voice to her ear, or talked nonsense to please her. His eyes did not seem big enough to take in the figure which stood shrinking and looking at him in the porch. Then he made one long step forward, and took hold of her sleeve---not her hand---as if to convince himself that it was something real he saw. He showed no joy, nor satisfaction, nor anything but sheer amaze and wonder, at this unexpected appearance, for he had not had time to prepare himself as she had. "Am I dreaming, or is it you?" he said, in a voice that sounded as different from the voice with which he had been speaking to Lucilla, as if years had elapsed between the two...

Chapter 23:

When she had finished her inspection, and saw that nobody had yet appeared at the door, Miss Marjoribanks collected the books which the children had left lying in the summer-house, and put them under cover---for, to tell the truth, it looked a little like rain; and having done this, and looked all round her to see if anything else required her immediate care, Lucilla carried philosophy to its highest practical point by going away, which is, perhaps, a height of good sense which may be thought too much for humanity.

:D

>131 lyzard: this is also for Lucilla a kind of project---like her drawing-room.

So thinking about the comparison to Austen's Emma, these projects of Lucilla remind me of Emma's project, Harriet.

As you mentioned, Lucilla's projects include the drawing room and Mrs Mortimer, but also I think (briefly) Barbara and Rose.

Other comparisons (just musing here) which I'm sure people can take or leave:
--the "medical" fathers: Dr Marjoribanks vs. Mr Wodehouse, the hypochondriac;
--the "flirts": Mr Cavendish as a more realistic Frank Churchill;
--the poor yet accomplished musicians: Barbara as a more annoying Jane Fairfax;
--the clergy: Mr Beverley vs. Mr Elton....

Stop me before I get way out of hand....Actually it gets kind of funny, especially if you think of Tom Marjoribanks as compared with Mr Knightley--both knowing the heroines since childhood, but Tom is not quite the same sort of "hero" as Mr Knightley.

>133 kac522:

They start with the same sort of baseline situation, Emma losing her governess / companion and Lucilla coming home to a father who doesn't want or need her: both of them in wealthy and comfortable circumstances but each with a hole in their life and nothing much to fill it. Neither admits to loneliness or a lack of friendship but from outside that's what we see; also a lack of serious occupation. Lucilla outright rejects the "parish work" that is considered her only suitable outlet.

The comparison isn't direct but Emma's meddling with Harriet and Lucilla's use of the Lakes are both selfish and damaging, though certainly neither sees it that way. (Lucilla, of the two, is more self-aware, however.)

Given the piecemeal way the information is presented in the narrative - Mrs Mortimer's way of telling a story is enough to befuddle even Lucilla! - I thought I might try to pull together the details of her back-story here.

The first proper hint we get is this, from Mr Beverley:

Chapter 18:

"The man I speak of is really a very amusing fellow, and very well got up, and calculated to impose upon ordinary observers. It is quite a curious story; he was a son of a trainer or something of that sort about Newmarket. Old Lord Monmouth took an extraordinary fancy to him, and had him constantly about his place---at one time, indeed, he half brought him up along with his grandson..."

Mrs Mortimer gives us the next piece of the puzzle:

Chapter 23:

"That is not his name now," said Mrs Mortimer, "I don't see, if he liked it, why he should not change his name. I am sure a great many people do; but his name was Kavan when he lived with my uncle. I don't remember what it was after, for of course he was always Mr Kavan to me; and Charles Beverley never could bear him..."

Mrs Mortimer's bewildering way with pronouns makes it almost impossible to unravel the next phase of the mystery---

Chapter 23:

    "He was very nice in those days," said Mrs Mortimer, faltering; "that is, I don't mean to say he was not always nice, you know, but only--- I never had either father or mother. I was living with my Uncle Garrett---my uncle on the other side; and he thought he should have made me his heiress; but instead of that, he left his money, you know, to him; and then he was dreadfully put out, and wanted me to go to law with him and change the will; but I never blamed him, for my part, Lucilla---he knows I never blamed him---and nothing he said would make me give in to go to the law with him---"
    "Stop a minute," said Lucilla, "I am not quite sure that I understand. Who was it he wanted you to go to law with? and was it to the Archdeacon the money was left?"
    "Oh, Lucilla," said the widow, with momentary exasperation, "you who are so quick and pick up everything, to think you should not understand me when I speak of a thing so important!"

Mr Beverley is slightly more coherent, at least:

Chapter 24:

"He had this young fellow to see him and then to live with him, and took some sort of idiotic fancy to him; and when the will was made, it was found that, with the exception of a small sum to Helen, everything was left to this impostor. No, I can't say I have any patience with her folly. How could any man have two opinions on the subject? He was neither related to him, nor connected with him," cried Mr Beverley, with a momentary inclination, as Lucilla thought, to get aground among the pronouns, as Mrs Mortimer had done.

:D

Okay then.

Thanks to his father's ability with horses, young Mr Kavan got access to the household of Lord Monmouth, where he acquired "gentlemanly polish" by association with his lordship's grandson.

There doesn't seem to have been a blood relationship between Mr Kavan and Mr Garrett (and consequently, the future Mrs Mortimer); it isn't clear how the connection developed:

Chapter 23:

"Uncle Garrett might be foolish, but I don't say even that he was foolish: he was so good to him, like a son; and he had no son of his own, and I was only a girl."

So Mr Kavan and (the later) Mrs Mortimer were for a time both living with Mr Garrett.

Mr Beverley is a blood relation, a distant cousin. He was in love with Helen and, very obviously, insanely jealous of the handsome young Mr Kavan.

Then Mr Garrett died, and it turned out that he had willed his fortune to Mr Kavan.

The key point, however, which is not made clear for some time yet - not until Lucilla has brokered a proper conversation between Mr Beverley and Mrs Mortimer - is that she was never going to be her uncle's heiress, and she knew that all along; as she puts it, she was "only a girl". There may have been another male relation who might have expected to inherit, but she had no grounds to be disappointed or feel defrauded when the money went to Mr Kavan---and certainly no grounds for a lawsuit.

What emerges from all this is a picture of an angry, jealous, bullheaded Mr Beverley, who wrecks Helen's life and his own because he will not listen. He was so intent upon defending Helen's "rights" that he refused to accept that she had no rights, and so furious at what he saw as her weakness - or her preference for Mr Kavan - or her "obstinacy" in not doing what she was told by him - that he effectively broke things off between them---leaving her to make an unfortunate marriage and live in straitened circumstances during and after her husband's death.

What's interesting is how the former Mr Kavan reacts to all this.

He's not at all afraid of the accusation against him for "undue influence", or hints of criminal conduct, or the threat of a lawsuit: he also knows there are no grounds.

But he is terrified that Grange Lane will find out that "one of the Cavendishes" is actually the son of a Newmarket horse-trainer.

To his credit, he is quite as frightened of exposure for his sister's sake as his own---possibly more so. He, after all, can run away again; she has to stay and face Grange Lane---and Mr Woodburn.

And there's one other detail that isn't really brought to the surface, though it's there: the cruel irony in the implication that Barbara Lake isn't good enough for "Mr Cavendish".

I've now finished the book and so far it's my favourite of the series. I'm not totally convinced by Lucilla marrying Tom, having subconsciously cared for him all these years - her irritation with him at the start of the book felt far more realistic. But I was pleased with how Oliphant set her up with a mission for her married life, with plenty of challenges to keep her occupied.

>135 lyzard: Thanks for clarifying this plot thread - it certainly was a challenge to figure out! I wondered what happened to the school after Mrs Mortimer married - it is never mentioned again and yet it is shown to be a useful institution. I wish there had been at least a mention in passing of someone taking it over (if there was, I missed it). As it is, it's clearly just a plot device.

>135 lyzard: So Mr Kavan and (the later) Mrs Mortimer were for a time both living with Mr Garrett.

What bothered me most about this plot point when I figured it out, is why (in a relatively small town like Carlingford) Cavendish/Kavan and Mrs Mortimer didn't run into each other before Mr Beverley shows up? I know they are not in the same social circles, but he is so prominent in the town that it seems she might have recognized him.

>139 kac522: I had this problem as well. On the other hand it seems like Mrs. Mortimer is leading a very secluded lifestyle.

>138 Sakerfalcon:

Well done, Claire!

i will address your first comments later, of course.

Regarding the others and >139 kac522: and >140 NinieB:---

I think this is a reflection of the social stratification of Carlingford: if "Grange Lane" doesn't acknowledge "Grove Street", it's certainly not going to have anything to do with where Mrs Mortimer was living in actual poverty. The only Grange Lane-ers likely to know her are any women doing the parish work that Lucilla rejects; the men wouldn't know her at all. Remember, this is chronologically before St Roque's and Frank Wentworth and his "sisters of mercy". Mrs Mortimer's obscurity is real obscurity.

As for the school, it isn't mentioned---and I think that both indicates Lucilla's loss of interest in it, after it serves its immediate purpose, and that it was a "project" as much or more as an act of charity. That's not to say she doesn't organise a replacement - we don't know - but not with the same personal interest.

Having (hopefully!) sorted out the back-story, we need to consider Lucilla's handling of the situation with Mr Beverley, and her social rescue of Mr Cavendish, because that really is masterly---and perhaps more to the point, truly unselfish.

Most of the time her motives are mixed, as we've said, but here she has nothing personally to gain: on the contrary. She has mentally divided herself from Mr Cavendish by this time, though she never loses her exasperation over his interrupted proposal (and what would she have said?); and though Mr Beverley is possibly on the verge of becoming a suitor, he forgets about her utterly as soon as he sees Mrs Mortimer---also to her exasperation. And she doesn't even like Mrs Woodburn, the secret sufferer here.

Yet she steps in and sorts it all out, rescuing the faux-Cavendishes and reuniting the others, and without giving anything away to anyone.

I love these scenes of her repeatedly hitting at Mr Beverley's sore spot---mostly by agreeing with him:

Chapter 24:

    "She knew perfectly well that if I had known where she was---if she had consented to yield to me on one point---solely on one point---"
    "And she such an obstinate woman!" said Miss Marjoribanks, with fine scorn. "How could you ever think of such a thing? A woman that never gives in to anybody. If you knew her as well as I do---"
    The Archdeacon glanced up with a momentary intense surprise, as if it was within the possibilities that such a change might have taken place in the widow's nature; and then he caught Lucilla's eye, and grew red and more aggrieved than ever...

****

"I always thought if one could rely upon any one, one could rely upon her---for truthfulness, and for yieldingness, and doing what any one asked her. I did think so; and it is perfectly bewildering to think, after all, that she should be obstinate and deceiving, and yet look so different!" said Lucilla. "But if it has come to that, we must be firm, Mr Beverley. If you ask my opinion, I say she should be allowed to marry him. That would solve everything, you know," Miss Marjoribanks added, with sad decision.

Chapter 27:

Miss Marjoribanks was determined to lose no more time, but to speak to Mr Cavendish, if it was Mr Cavendish, and she could get the chance, quite plainly of the situation of affairs---to let him know how much she knew, and to spur him up to come forward like a man and brave anything the Archdeacon could do. Had it been any small personal aim that moved Lucilla, no doubt she would have shrunk from such a decided step; but it was, on the contrary, the broadest philanthropical combination of Christian principles, help to the weak and succour to the oppressed, and a little, just a very little, of the equally Evangelical idea of humbling the proud and bringing down the mighty.

Regarding Mrs Mortimer, and the likelihood of her and Mr Cavendish running into each other, we should note this from Chapter 27:

It was very seldom that Mrs Mortimer took courage to visit her young patroness; and to go out at night, except sometimes to Salem Chapel when there was a meeting, and when the timid woman represented to herself that it was her duty, was a thing unknown to her.

****

    "You don't know how dreadful it is to keep staring at the walls all day and never see any change," said the widow. "It is very stupid and silly, but you know I cannot help it. I get to fancy always that something wonderful must be going on on the other side."
    "That is because you don't go out enough," said Lucilla. "You know how often I have said you should go out once every day; and then you would see that everything outside was very much the same as everything within."

It would only be after Lucilla has intervened in Mrs Mortimer's affairs that there would have been any real chance of her and Mr Cavendish encountering each other; and that is almost immediately quelched by the arrival of Mr Beverley, after which Mr Cavendish goes into hiding.

(Unless they run into each other at night now while he's slinking after Barbara!)

This is not something you generally hear from young Victorian women; not without consequences:

Chapter 27:

"I am sure he has a temper, and I would not marry him for my part. But if you mean me, I have nothing to go away to," said Lucilla, with a little scorn. "I should be ashamed not to be enough for myself."

We need to come back to that point at the end, I think.

Chapter 27:

For no temptation to give up her disinterested exertions had any effect upon the mind of Miss Marjoribanks; and even her sense of pain at the unbelief of her followers was mingled with that pity for their weakness which involves pardon. Even when they wounded her she was sorry for them. It was nature that was in fault, and not the fallible human creatures who had it not in them to believe in the simple force of genius. When Lucilla had shed these few tears over her subjects' weakness and want of faith, she rose up again in new strength from the momentary downfall. It was, as we have said, a sublime moment. The idea of giving them up, and leaving their affairs to their own guidance, never for an instant penetrated into her heroic mind; but she was human, and naturally she felt the prick of ingratitude. When the crisis was over she rose up calmly and lighted her candle, and went to her room with a smile upon her magnanimous lips. As she performed that simple action, Lucilla had lifted up the feeble widow, and taken the family of Lakes, and Mr Cavendish, and even the burly Archdeacon himself, upon her shoulders. They might be ungrateful, or even unaware of all she was doing for them; but they had the supreme claim of Need upon Strength; and Miss Marjoribanks, notwithstanding the wound they had given her, was loyal to that appeal, and to her own consciousness of superior Power.

We might recall that, during Frank Wentworth's "trial" in The Perpetual Curate, the Miss Hemmings were among the witnesses against him; and here they are again, still taking too much notice of their neighbours' affairs (not that they've got anything else to do, I guess):

Chapter 28:

There were no candles as yet in the parlour, and Grove Street---or at least the bit of it which lay before the window, lighted by the lamp outside, and relieved against a little square of bluish-green sky which intervened between Miss Hemmings's house and that of old Mr Wrangle on the opposite side---was very clear to the interested spectator. There was nobody visible but an organ-man, who was grinding a popular melody very dolorously out of his box, in what Rose would have called the middle distance; and beyond, Miss Jane Hemmings looking out of the long staircase window, and three little boys in different attitudes below,---that is, if one did not count a tall figure which, perhaps with the view of listening to the music of the organ, was coming and going in a limited circuit round the light of the lamp...

****

Miss Marjoribanks, as was natural, took no notice of this childish fury. She was sitting just where she had been sitting all the evening, within sight of the street lamp and the organ-grinder, and Miss Jane Hemmings at the staircase window;---just where Barbara had placed her, and where that young woman calculated on finding her, when she made a promenade of triumph up the partially lighted street by the side of her clandestine suitor. Perhaps Barbara had seen Miss Jane as well, and knew that public opinion was thus watching over her..

This is remarkable:

Chapter 28:

Miss Marjoribanks went out deliberately, without any unnecessary haste, sweeping into the dusky twilight with her virginal white draperies. It was a very ordinary scene, and yet, even in the midst of her excitement, Rose could not help observing involuntarily its pictorial qualities---if only any painter could have transferred to his canvas the subdued musical hum of surrounding life, the fragrance of the mignonette, and the peaceful stillness of the summer night. The sky shone out green-blue, lambent and wistful, from the vacant space between Miss Hemmings's and Mr Wrangle's, and there were the dusky twilight shadows below, and the yellow gleam of the lamp, and Barbara's exulting, triumphant figure, and the white robes of the avenging angel. Rose could not have observed all this if she had not been stilled into a kind of breathless awe by the solemn character of the situation, which struck her as being somehow like one of Millais's pictures...

So, in a very different way, is this:

Chapter 28:

Yet, after all, Barbara's pangs were nothing to those of Mr Cavendish, as he felt Miss Marjoribanks's light touch on his arm, and felt his doomed feet turn in spite of himself in the most dangerous direction, and became conscious that he was being led beyond all possibility of resistance, back to Grange Lane and to his fate.

****

"Hush," said Lucilla, "don't laugh, please; for I want to have a very serious talk. I have been hearing about you from some very, very old friends, Mr Cavendish---not anything about this, you know," Miss Marjoribanks added, waving her hand in the direction of Grove Street. And then Barbara Lake and everything connected with her vanished like a shadow from the unfortunate man's mind...

Though this is not the exact point being made here, I think this passage underscores the practical unlikelihood of Mr Cavendish and Mrs Mortimer having accidentally encountered one another: if this is the gap between Grange Lane and Grove Street, there is no real chance of Grange Lane and the dark obscurity on the fringe of town touching. And even once Lucilla moves Mrs Mortimer to Grove Street, the latter doesn't go out except occasionally to church, so the odds are not increased.

Chapter 31:

Lucilla became regretfully conscious that now no fate higher than Barbara was possible for the unfortunate man who might once, and with hope, have aspired to herself. It was very sad, but there was no help for it. A certain tenderness of compassion entered Miss Marjoribanks's bosom as she realised this change. It would be hard if a woman did not pity a man thus shut out by hard fate from any possibility of ever becoming the companion of her existence...

:D

OTOH, this description of the Woodburns' marriage is horrifying:

Chapter 32:

The first result for her would be to give the master to whom she belonged, and for whom she had, with some affection, a great deal of not unnatural contempt, a cruel and overwhelming power over her; and she knew, poor soul, that he was not at all too generous or delicate to make use of such a power. In such a case she would be bound to the rock, like a kind of hapless Andromeda, to be pecked at by all the birds and blown at by all the winds, not to speak of the devouring monster from whom no hero could ever deliver her...

...but we are here to appreciate Lucilla's apotheosis, in her management of the decisive Thursday---her campaign undertaken at great risk of faiure, since her plan of action depends upon Mr Beverley behaving himself as he ought at a public gathering, and she's very nearly wrong about that:

Chapter 32 / Chapter 33:

Lucilla kept her eyes fixed upon the Archdeacon's face. It was, as we have said, a terrible moment. When he raised his head and looked round him, naturally Mr Beverley's eyes went direct to the mark like an arrow; he looked, and he saw at the centre of the table, surrounded by every kind of regard and consideration, full in the light of the lamp, his favourite adventurer, the impostor whom he had denounced the first time he took his place by Miss Marjoribanks's side. The Archdeacon rose to his feet in the excitement of the discovery; he put his hand over his eyes as if to clear them. He said, "Good God!" loud out, with an accent of horror which paralysed the two people lower down than himself. As for Miss Marjoribanks, she was not paralysed---she who had not lost a single glance of his eyes or movement of his large person. Lucilla rose to the height of the position. She put her hand upon his arm sharply, and with a certain energy. "Mr Beverley, Thomas is behind you with the soup," said Miss Marjoribanks. The Archdeacon turned round to see what it was, conscious that somebody had spoken to him, but as indifferent to his companion and to civility as he was to Thomas and the soup. "What?" he said hoarsely, interrupting his scrutiny for the moment. But when he had met Miss Marjoribanks's eye the Archdeacon sat down. Lucilla did not liberate him for a moment from that gaze. She fixed her eyes upon his eyes, and looked at him as people only look when they mean something. "If you tell me what surprised you so much, perhaps I can explain," said Miss Marjoribanks.

****

It was at this moment that Lucilla turned round radiant upon the observant assembly. The change occurred in less than a moment, so suddenly that nobody saw the actual point of revolution. Miss Marjoribanks turned round upon the company and took Mr Cavendish's arm, who had just come upstairs. "There is a very, very old friend of yours in the corner who wants to see you," said Lucilla; and she led him across the room as a conqueror might have led a captive... "I suppose it is all right between them at last," Lady Richmond said, not thinking that Barbara Lake was standing by and heard her. According to appearances, it was all perfectly right between them. Miss Marjoribanks, triumphant, led Mr Cavendish all the length of the room to the corner where the widow sat among the curtains, and the Archdeacon looked on with a visible passion, and jealous rage, which were highly improper in a clergyman, but yet which were exciting to see...

****

The Archdeacon stood before the fireplace with Dr Marjoribanks and a host of other gentlemen. Mr Beverley's countenance was covered with clouds and darkness. He stood, not with the careless ease of a man amusing himself, but drawn up to his full height and breadth, a formidably muscular Christian, in a state of repression and restraint, which it was painful, and at the same time pleasing to see. The Berserker madness was upon him; and yet such are the restraints of society, that a young woman's eye was enough to keep him down---Lucilla's eye, and the presence of a certain number of other frivolous creatures in white muslin, and of some old women, as he irreverently called them, who were less pleasant, but not more imposing. He was an Archdeacon, and a leading man of his party, whose name alone would have conferred importance upon any "movement," and whom his bishop himself---not to speak of the clergy whom he charged in his visitation addresses like a regiment of cavalry---stood a little in awe of. Yet such are the beneficial restraints of society, that he dared not follow his natural impulses, nor even do what he felt to be his duty, for fear of Miss Marjoribanks, which was about the highest testimony to the value of social influence that could be given...

Well, yes:

Chapter 33:

    "These are very extraordinary accusations," said Mr Cavendish. "Have you ever considered whether you had any proof to support them?" He was not angry to speak of, because he had been entirely taken by surprise, and because at the same time he was unspeakably relieved, and felt that the real danger, the danger which he had so much dreaded, was past and over. He recovered all his coolness from the moment he found out that it was not a venial imposition practised upon society, but a social crime of the ugliest character, of which he was accused. He was innocent, and he could be tranquil on that score. "As for robbing Mrs Mortimer," he added with a little impatience, "she knows, on the contrary, that I have always been most anxious and ready to befriend her---"
    "To befriend---Her!" cried the Archdeacon, restored to all his first impetuosity. He could not swear, because it was against his cloth and his principles; but he said, "Good heavens!" in a tone which would have perfectly become a much less mild expletive...

:D

Much less funny is this:

Chapter 33:

He put down his face into his hands, and tried to think whether it was possible that what he had just heard might be the true state of the case. To be sure, the widow who was seated half fainting by his side had given him the same account often enough, but somehow it was more effective from the lips of a man who confronted him than from the mild and weeping woman whom he loved better than anything else in the world, but whose opinion on any earthly (or heavenly) subject had not the weight of a straw upon him...

****

But, to tell the truth, the Archdeacon was paying no particular attention. He had never loved any other woman; but he was a little indifferent as to what innocent nonsense she might please to say. So that her confusion and misery, and even the half offer of herself which occasioned these feelings, were lost upon him. He kept her hand and caressed it in the midst of his own thoughts, as if it was a child's head he was patting.

The Woodburns' marriage (per >151 lyzard:) is bad enough; but this, which I presume we are to take as a preview of a "happy" marriage, may be even worse.

Apart from the marriage of Mr Beverley and Mrs Mortimer, the other main consequence of Lucilla's triumphant intervention is that all eyes are back on her and Mr Cavendish.

There are some ambiguous passages here, wherein we are made privy to Lucilla's decisions while her motives remain a little murky---though the upshot is that (rather like a dress before a mirror) Having "tried on" Mr Cavendish one last time, Lucilla regretfully rejects him:

Chapter 34:

She made an involuntary pause for the hundredth part of a minute, and reckoned it all up again, and asked herself whether it were possible. There was something, in the first place, becoming and suitable in the idea that she, who was the only person who knew his secret, should take him and it together and make the best of them. And Lucilla had the consciousness that she could indeed make a great deal of Mr Cavendish. Nobody had ever crossed her path of whom so much could be made; and as for any further danger of his real origin and position being found out and exposed to the world, Miss Marjoribanks was capable of smiling at that when the defence would be in her own hands. She might yet accept him, and have him elected member for Carlingford, and carry him triumphantly through all his difficulties. For a small part---nay, even for the half of a minute---Lucilla paused, and made a rapid review of the circumstances, and reconsidered her decision...

The key sentence, however, is the next one:

Perhaps if Mr Cavendish had been really in earnest, that which was only a vague possibility might have become, in another minute, a fact and real.

Though it is presented obliquely, and without overt criticism, there is a rather devastating critique of Mr Cavendish here. Oliphant starts by insisting that, his background notwithstanding, he is "a gentleman"---and then goes on to reveal just how ungentlemanly his behaviour has been towards the two women he has been courting: that he doesn't love Lucilla, though he has come near proposing twice out of a desire for her possessions and her protection; and that in spite of his pursuit of Barbara, and all his secret meetings with her, he has never had a real thought of marrying her:

    Mr Cavendish, you and Barbara are in love," said Lucilla, making a slight pause, and looking in his face.
    "Miss Marjoribanks!" cried the assaulted man, in the extremity of his amazement and horror...

Do we take his furious response to Lucilla's inference that he has compromised himself with Barbara as reaction to the realisation he has lost her, as fear that having regained his social standing, he might still lose it all again, or just wounded pride that she can so calmly hand him off to another woman? - or perhaps he thinks that - knowing the truth - she thinks he isn't good enough for her?

By this time we are probably prepared for what Mr Cavendish does next: he runs away.

The fallout here is rapid and brutal---and it lands in the least deserving quarter:

Chapter 35:

"Oh, Lucilla, it is dreadful, and I don't know what to do!" cried the little artist, changing her tone. "I am a selfish wretch, but I cannot help it. It is as good as putting an end to my Career; and just after my design has been so successful---and when papa was so proud---and when I thought I might have been a help. It is dreadful to think of oneself when her heart is breaking; but I shall have to give up everything; and I---I can't help feeling it, Lucilla," cried Rose, with a sudden outburst of tears.

****

    "I don't see any reason in the world why you should give in to her and let her stop your---your Career, you know; why should you? I would not give in to her for one moment, if I were your papa and you."
    "Why should I?" said Rose; "because there is nobody else to do anything, Lucilla. Fleda and Dreda are such two little things; and there are all the boys to think of, and poor papa. It is of no use asking why. If I don't do it, there will be nobody to do it," said Rose, with big tears coming to her eyes. Her Career was dear to her heart, and those two tears welled up from the depths; but then there would be nobody else to do it---a consideration which continually filters out the people who are good for anything out of the muddy current of the ordinary world...

****

"She has suffered so much here; how can any one ask her to sacrifice herself to us?" said the young artist mournfully. "And I am quite happy," said Rose---"quite happy; it makes all the difference. It is her heart, you know, Lucilla; and it is only my Career."

We said before, regarding Rose's subplot and the revised material, that all this was semi-autobiographical and very close to the bone for Oliphant, who was the main financial support for most of her family for most of her life, and who - though she did get have her "Career" - was forced to write fast and sometimes carelessly and damaged her reputation as an artist in the pursuit of the necessary income.

But although it is, immediately, Barbara whose selfishness is responsible for the death of Rose's dream, I think what we take away from this exchange is this---and all the more so because of the startling lacuna in the narrative that follows:

Chapter 35:

"It is all your fault. What right had you to come and drag us to your great parties? We are not as rich as you, nor as fine, but we have a rank of our own," cried the little artist. "You have a great deal more money, but we have some things that money cannot buy. You made Barbara come and sing, and put things into her head; and you made me come, though I did not want to. Why did you ask us to your parties, Lucilla? It is all your fault!"

Lucilla is a fascinating character but Rose and Barbara, especially Rose, nearly stole the show. I really wanted more about Rose.

>157 lyzard: I felt so sorry for Rose when I read this, she is now stuck with the thankless task of taking care of her siblings.

>158 NinieB:

It's another aspect of this novel where it's hard to know how you're supposed to respond, there's a whole other world there but we only get the dismissive, Grange Lane view of it.

(Wondering ahead whether Phoebe Junior deals with the Twilight Zone of Grove Street?)

ETA: The other thing I wonder - and there may be some of you who know Oliphant's work outside this series better than I do - is whether she ever seriously tackled the question of a woman's career, particularly an artistic career? There are plenty of struggling, even destitute women in the books we've read so far but no successful attempts at escape yet.

>159 MissWatson:

What struck me on the way through was the conjunction of Mrs Mortimer in Chapter 23, with her "I was only a girl", and Rose here, in Chapter 35, "It is only my Career."

Again, how are we to take this? From one perspective this is a view of proper female submission; but placed side-by-side with Lucilla's calm journey to getting what she wants, the injustice is enraging---and hopefully rage is what we were intended to feel.

>160 lyzard: I don't recall an artistic woman in Hester, which is the only other Oliphant I have read. There is a successful career woman, Hester's aunt Catherine Vernon, who runs the town bank for many years. She is a pillar of the community and shows some charity (on a case-by-case basis) towards certain of her less fortunate relatives. But on the whole she's seen as cold and distant by most of the townspeople.

There's also a woman who marries into a prominent family in the town and who starts "evenings" to upgrade the social life in the town, which reminded me of Lucilla.

One thing I noticed was the change in tone from Volume I to Volume III. Lucilla seems more vulnerable and a bit fragile.

By Volume III there are no more "They" and "Them" references--I think the last one is toward the beginning of Volume II.

>162 kac522:

Interesting, thanks.

>163 kac522:

Those are amongst the things we need to be discussing at the end.

The time shift between Volume II and Volume III is startling, and all the more so because we're given very little information about how those years were filled---the implication being that very little happened, or the same things over and over: ten years of Thursday evenings with no "voice" and no flirting man.

All that said---this novel doesn't go where we've been led to suspect from here; but given that perhaps we have been "led" by other novels, and other novelists, rather than Oliphant herself, that's what makes it so interesting.

>165 lyzard: Indeed, the ten year gap is startling. The years seem to have wrought little change in the doctor, though?

>166 MissWatson:

The ten years is partly ironic, given Lucilla's original serene estimate of her life: a case of being careful what you pray for, since it brings her to exactly the point she predicted, but she's hardly happy about it (the fading of the drawing-room furnishings speaks volumes).

The years haven't wrought much change in either of the Marjoribanks, which is a consequence of life lacking stimulus. The doctor's "comfort" is one thing; with Lucilla, I think we see from the avidity with which she grasps at her thought of campaining for Mr Ashburton how desperate she has been for another "project".

Of course the ten years haven't been quite so easy and uneventful for everyone, as we see later...

I will say it again---is there any doubt that Lucilla is the person best qualified to be MP for Carlingford?

Certainly better qualified than any of the three men who get that chance. We got this as early as Chapter 8---

...and then Mr Chiltern grew more and more feeble, and was scarcely once in a fortnight in his place in Parliament, which was a sacrifice of the interests of the borough dreadful to contemplate...

---although much to everyone's astonishment, Mr Chiltern, too, lasts another ten years (though presumably his attendance is even less frequent). Mr Cavendish's fitness is another of Oliphant's ironic touches, since his main qualification is being "one of the Cavendishes"; while Mr Ashburton is no more than clay in Lucilla's hands.

It is Chapter 42 where we get that shrugging reference to "the disqualification of her sex" which is so exasperating. And she isn't even able to be on Mr Ashurton's committee...not that that stops her...

Be all that as it may---

Chapter 37:

The cause of the commotion was an event which had been long expected, and which, indeed, ten years before, had been looked on as a possible thing to happen any day. The wonder was, not that old Mr Chiltern should die, but that he should have lived so long...

---and Lucilla being Lucilla---

    "I am not in the least superstitious," said Miss Marjoribanks, solemnly; "but when I stood there---there, just in front of Mr Holden's---you came into my mind like a flash of lightning. I was not thinking of you in the least, and you came into my mind like---like Minerva, you know. If it was not an intimation, I don't know what it was. And that was why I ran against you, and did not see you were there. Mr Ashburton, it is you who must be the man," said Lucilla. It was not a thing to speak lightly about, and for her part she spoke very solemnly; and as for Mr Ashburton, his face flushed deeper and deeper. He stood quite still in the excitement of the moment, as if she had given him a blow.
    "Miss Marjoribanks, I don't know how to answer you," he cried; and then he put out his hand in an agitated way and grasped her hand. "You are the only creature in Carlingford, man or woman, that has divined me," he said, in a trembling voice...

(I would suggest that the conjunction of Lucilla's "intimation" and her proximity to Mr Holden's shop is another indication that Mr Ashburton is simply her latest project.)

Mr Ashburton is one of the few changes that has occurred in Carlingford during the ten years---and it speaks to the generally unchanging manner of life for the upper classes there that there would, otherwise, apparently be no suitable local candidate for Parliament. Everyone is so set in their ways, everyone occupies their slot so immovably, that only a newcomer could qualify---

---except of course for the man who, a decade earlier, was the popular choice because of his arrival in Carlingford from the outside...

In the present UK circumstances, people have been circulating clips from episodes of Yes, Minister and Yes, Prime Minister to illustrate how nothing ever changes; apparently not, given these passages from Oliphant!---

Chapter 37:

    For, after all, so long as he was the Man for Carlingford, all the rest was of little importance. He took something out of his pocket, which was his address to the constituency of Carlingford (for being anxious on the subject, he had heard of Mr Chiltern's death an hour or two before anybody else), and choke-full of political sentiments. In it he described to the electors what he would do if they sent him to Parliament, as carefully as if their election could make him Prime Minister at least; and naturally a man does not like to sacrifice such a confession of faith. "I should like to read it to you," he said, spreading it out with affectionate care: but Lucilla had already arranged her plans, and knew better than that.
    "If you were to read it to me," said Miss Marjoribanks, "I should be sure to be convinced that you were quite right, and to go in with you for everything; and then I should be no good, you know. If it were to drive papa and Sir John and the Colonel all to their own ways of thinking, we never should make any progress. I would never mind about anybody's ways of thinking, if I were you. After all," said Lucilla, with fine satire, of which she was unconscious, "what does it matter what people think? I suppose when it comes to doing anything, the Whigs and the Tories are just the same..."

OTOH there's not much to laugh at in this:

Chapter 37:

But then after these few minutes had elapsed the meaning of his fair adviser, as he called her, began to dawn upon Mr Ashburton's mind. He began to prick up his mental ears, so to speak, and see that it was not womanish ignorance, but an actual suggestion...

****

...she waited with perfect patience till her companion's explosion of amusement was over. He was thinking to himself what a fool she was, or what a fool he was to think of taking a woman into his counsels, or what curious unintelligible creatures women were, made up of sense and folly; and all the time he laughed, which was a relief to his feelings...

These observations tells us a great deal about Mr Ashburton, and we need to keep it in mind going forward.

Another disturbing thing for me is this:

Chapter 38:

He had kept back until the things were taken off the table, for he had a benevolent disinclination to spoil anybody's dinner. Now, when all the serious part of the meal was over, he tossed the Carlingford Gazette across the table, folded so that she could not miss what he wanted her to see. Lucilla took it up lightly between her finger and thumb; for the Carlingford papers were inky and badly printed, and soiled a lady's hand. She took it up delicately without either alarm or surprise, knowing very well that the Blues and the Yellows were not likely without a struggle to give up to the new standard, which was violet and green. But what she saw on that inky broadsheet overwhelmed in an instant Miss Marjoribanks's self-possession. She turned pale, though her complexion was, if possible, fresher than ever, and even shivered in her chair, though her nerves were so steady. Could it be a trick to thwart and startle her? or could it be true? She lifted her eyes to her father with a look of horror-stricken inquiry, but all that she met in return was a certain air of amusement and triumph, which struck her at the tenderest point. He was not sorry nor sympathetic, nor did he care at all for the sudden shock she had sustained. On the contrary, he was laughing within himself at the utterly unexpected complication. It was cruel, but it was salutary, and restored her self-command in a moment. She might have given way under kindness, but this look of satisfaction over her discomfiture brought Lucilla to herself.

What the hell?

Dr Marjoribanks' attitude to his daughter has been worrying from the outset, from his first rejection of her in the wake of her mother's death, but this is a new level of (to use Oliphant's word) cruelty.

We might ask what she has done to bring this on? She hasn't disrupted his life as he feared, she hasn't changed his household or his way of life; and if her concern for "papa's comfort" is largely nonsense, she certainly has done nothing to make him uncomfortable.

This throws a different light upon those last ten years: is this an opportunity for the doctor that hasn't presented itself during that time (his version of a "project", if you like), or has this sort of thing been going on all the time, off-stage?

However, Lucilla gets the last laugh; and indeed, her manipulation of the male population of Grange Lane (seen through Chapters 39 and 40) in the lead-up to the election is masterly---and that includes her father:

Chapter 38:

the fact was that the words he had just been hearing ran in his head all through the reading of the two addresses. Mr Cavendish would think Lucilla had gone off; but yet she had not gone off so much as might have been expected, and Mr Ashburton was the man for Carlingford. Dr Marjoribanks laughed quietly by himself in his easy-chair, and then went back to Mr Cavendish's opinions; and ended again, without knowing it, in a kind of odd incipient agreement with Lucilla. The new candidate was right in politics; but, after all, Mr Ashburton was a more satisfactory sort of person. He was a man whom people knew everything about, and a descendant of old Penrhyn, and had the Firs, and lived in it, and spent about so much money every year honestly in the face of the world. When a man conducts himself in this way, his neighbours can afford to be less exacting as to his political opinions...

Kathy is right to note the receding of "They" and "Them" in Volume III (>163 kac522:), but I don't think the attitude changes. There is a satirical note in the descriptions of the shifting thought-patterns of the men of Grange Lane under Lucilla's handling that could rightly be described by the earlier phrase used, "slightly contemptuous". The supposedly superior male ability to understand politics and the issues involved in an election takes quite a beating here, as pretty much everyone who has the vote ends up using it for personal or petty reasons or being manipulated into doing the opposite of what they originally intended.

It is of course the imminent return of Mr Cavendish - after ten years' absence - that provokes this scene: rushing "home' to claim the vacated MP position.

He's got a nerve, hasn't he? But then I guess we knew that!

How Lucilla would have reacted to him had she not publicly pledged herself to Mr Ashburton, we can only guess; as it is, she doesn't spare him:

Chapter 40:

    "I hope you don't wish me to look like one of Maria Brown's photographs to my constituents," said Mr Cavendish; "but then I am happy to say they all know me pretty well." This was said with a slight touch of gentlemanly spite, if there is such a thing; for, after all, he was an old power in Carlingford, though he had been so long away.
    "Yes," said Lucilla reflectively, "but you are a little changed since then; a little perhaps---just a little---stouter, and---"
    "Gone off?" said Mr Cavendish, with a laugh; but he felt horribly disconcerted all the same, and savage with Miss Marjoribanks...
    "Oh, you know it does not matter for a gentleman," said Lucilla...

This is interesting in another way. We've noted similarities, or apparent allusions, between various 19th century novels, and this - though the tone is altogether different - puts me very much in mind of the final encounter between Lily Dale and Adolphus Crosbie in The Last Chronicle Of Barset. Even the language is similar, with the woman both being "stouter", but in each case the man has not just "gone off", but definitely run to seed---so that he comes off much the worse in the encounter.

Meanwhile, the Marjoribanks have a visitor in the form of their sister-in-law and aunt---"Mrs John", or "Aunt Jemima", but not, apparently, ever "Mrs Marjoribanks".

This in turn brings "poor Tom" back into the narrative, at least obliquely. The last we heard of him, it was in the middle of Lucilla's management of the Beverley / Mortimer / Cavendish crisis---and for Tom, apparently it was business as usual:

Chapter 27:

    Going to India was very right and proper, and the best thing to do; for a man might get on there, even at the bar, who would have no chance here; but after he had made one step in the right direction, it was only to be expected that all sorts of misfortunes should happen to Tom. He was wrecked, which might have been looked for, and he lost his boxes, with the greater part of his outfit, either at that unhappy moment, or in the Desert, or at an after part of his unlucky career; and the object of the letter which Dr Marjoribanks had just received was to get money to make up for his losses. Tom, who was a very good son, did not want to vex his mother, and accordingly it was his uncle whom he applied to, to sell out a portion of the money he had in the Funds. "She would think I was ruined, or that it was my fault, or at least that I meant to spend all my money," wrote Tom, "and you understand, uncle, that it is not my fault." "Confound him! it is never his fault," said Dr Marjoribanks, as if that could possibly be brought against the unfortunate young man as a crime.
    "No, papa, it is his luck," said Lucilla; "poor Tom!---but I should not like to take a passage in the same boat with him if I was the other people...

Ten years on, it doesn't seem at first as if much had changed; though we are later given reason to suppose that his mother, for purposes of her own, is withholding much from her son's letters.

At first, however, what we get is this---

Chapter 38:

    "Dear Aunt Jemima, I am as well as ever I can be," said Miss Marjoribanks. "Tell me when you heard from Tom, and what he is doing. Let me see, it is ten years since he went away. I used to write to him, but he did not answer my letters---not as he ought, you know. I suppose he has found friends among the Calcutta ladies," said Lucilla, with a slight but not unapparent sigh.
    "He never says anything to me about Calcutta ladies," said Tom's mother; "to tell the truth, I always thought before he went away that he was fond of you---I must have been mistaken, as he never said anything; and that was very fortunate at all events."
    "I am sure I am very thankful he was not fond of me," said Lucilla, with a little natural irritation...

We've touched along the way upon this novel's unexpected attitude to marriage, and one of its most eyebrow-raising passages comes here, courtesy of Aunt Jemima of all people:

Chapter 38:

"You would have done no such thing," said Mrs John; "you would have gone off and married; I know how girls do. You have not married now, because you have been too comfortable, Lucilla. You have had everything your own way, and all that you wanted, without any of the bother. It is very strange how differently people's lots are ordered. I was married at seventeen---and I am sure I have not known what it was to have a day's health---"

That marriage was something often forced on women by their circumstances, rather than being their "natural destiny", is not something that Victorian fiction tended to admit.

The other remarkable thing here is that use of the ambiguous phrase "the bother", in conjunction with Aunt Jemima's complaint about her ruined health. "The bother", in this case, is certainly sex and pregnancy and childbirth, and these realities lurk behind many a Victorian novelist's fretting over the "health" of their female characters.

Note too that both Aunt Jemima and the late Mrs Marjoribanks only had one child, and that the latter quickly became a permanent invalid, while the former complains that her health was wrecked by marriage. Both these situations may have been legitimate, or it might be a case of both women opting out early from the physical side of marriage. (And Mrs Marjoribanks didn't even have the decency to produce a boy first!)

Perhaps most startling of all, however, is Aunt Jemima's inference that marriage for some women is a prosaic exchanging of "the bother" for "comfort".

This is a viewpoint shared by Mrs Woodburn, to whom Oliphant assigns the same language, perhaps more explicitly:

Chapter 39:

Mrs Woodburn was not an enthusiastic young wife, but knew very well that marriage had its drawbacks, and had come to an age at which she could appreciate the comfort of having her own way without any of the bother. She gave a furtive glance after Lucilla, and could not but acknowledge to herself that it would be very foolish of Miss Marjoribanks to marry, and forfeit all her advantages, and take somebody else's anxieties upon her shoulders, and never have any money except what she asked from her husband.

Though of course, not all women wanted to avoid "the bother" - on the contrary - and despite what we might call the novel's overall attitude, there are a couple of other passages we should note for balance, which tend the other way.

This, from Chapter 22:

    "The Colonel's niece, Mary Chiley---"
    "Yes, I know," said Miss Bury. "Poor thing! she looked suffering the last time I saw her. I hope she has found the true consolation to support her, now she has entered into the troubles of life."
    "Well, yes, I hope so," said Mrs Chiley, a little doubtfully; "but you know one does not feel the troubles of life very severely at her age; and I don't think I should have called a baby a trouble when I was like her. I never had any, you know, and I used to fret over it a great deal; but the Colonel never liked the noise of children, and I suppose it is all for the best."

---a clear difference of opinion between unmarried Miss Bury (sour grapes?) and long-and-happily married Mrs Chiley.

There is also this observation made by Dr Marjoribanks about his daughter---perhaps speaking more as a doctor than a father:

"Ashburton would not be at all amiss if he liked it and you liked it; but it's no use making any suggestions about those things. So long as you don't marry a fool---" Dr Marjoribanks said, with energy. "I know---that is, of course, I've seen what that is; you can't expect to get perfection, as you might have looked for perhaps at twenty; but I advise you to marry, Lucilla. I don't think you are cut out for a single woman, for my part."

He knows very well that Lucilla can take care of herself, and doesn't need to be looked after by a man (he ought to know!); it isn't that aspect of marriage he is referring to, when he says that Lucilla isn't "cut out" for a single life.

>172 lyzard: This is one of several points in the novel where Dr Marjoribanks reminds me of Mr Bennet. He amuses himself at the expense of the women in his life.

>177 Sakerfalcon:

He is like Mr Bennet too in the nature of the marriage he made: both of these clever men seem to have been taken in by a pretty face, and have reacted to their disappointment by taking it out on others, each in their own way.

Mrs Marjoribanks' invalidism may have been a bit chicken / egg, perhaps she retreated to the sofa in self-defense?

We soon find out that there is another point of resemblance between the two, although we cannot charge Dr Marjoribanks with the same sort of irresponsibility...

Chapter 41:

    ...after that Doctor Marjoribanks quite changed his tone. "Have you heard Woodburn talking of that great crash in town?" he said---"that India house, you know---I suppose it's quite true?"
    "Quite true," said Mr Cavendish, promptly, and somehow he felt a pleasure in saying it. "I got all the particulars to-day in one of my letters---and lots of private people involved, which is always the way with these old houses," he added, with a mixture of curiosity and malice---"widows, and all sorts of superannuated folks."
    "It's a great pity," said the Doctor: "I knew old Lichfield once, the chief partner---I am very sorry to hear it's true;" and then the two shook hands, and the brougham drove on. As for Mr Cavendish, he made up his mind at once that the Doctor was involved, and was not sorry, and felt that it was a sort of judicial recompense for his desertion of his friends...

A great many things are about to happen in fairly rapid succession, but before we go on I think we need to stop and consider this rather remarkable passage:

Chapter 42:

To have the control of society in her hands was a great thing; but still the mere means, without any end, was not worth Lucilla's while---and her Thursdays were almost a bore to her in her present stage of development. They occurred every week, to be sure, as usual; but the machinery was all perfect, and went on by itself, and it was not in the nature of things that such a light adjunct of existence should satisfy Lucilla, as she opened out into the ripeness of her thirtieth year. It was this that made Mr Ashburton so interesting to her, and his election a matter into which she entered so warmly, for she had come to an age at which she might have gone into Parliament herself had there been no disqualification of sex, and when it was almost a necessity for her to make some use of her social influence. Miss Marjoribanks had her own ideas in respect to charity, and never went upon ladies' committees, nor took any further share than what was proper and necessary in parish work; and when a woman has an active mind, and still does not care for parish work, it is a little hard for her to find a "sphere." And Lucilla, though she said nothing about a sphere, was still more or less in that condition of mind which has been so often and so fully described to the British public---when the ripe female intelligence, not having the natural resource of a nursery and a husband to manage, turns inwards, and begins to "make a protest" against the existing order of society, and to call the world to account for giving it no due occupation---and to consume itself. She was not the woman to make protests, nor claim for herself the doubtful honours of a false position; but she felt all the same that at her age she had outlived the occupations that were sufficient for her youth. To be sure, there were still the dinners to attend to, a branch of human affairs worthy of the weightiest consideration, and she had a house of her own, as much as if she had been half a dozen times married; but still there are instincts which go even beyond dinners, and Lucilla had become conscious that her capabilities were greater than her work. She was a Power in Carlingford, and she knew it; but still there is little good in the existence of a Power unless it can be made use of for some worthy end.

There's quite a lot to unpack in that, though I might put it aside for the moment and come back to it during the final wrap-up, as it speaks to the way in which Oliphant resolves her narrative.

Sadly enough, this is the only real conversation between Lucilla and her father that we are privy to over the narrative, and even here they are somewhat at cross-purposes---though chiefly through Dr Marjoribanks' reluctance to speak out:

Chapter 42:

    "Yes," said Lucilla, with a certain solemnity---"but you know, papa, if a man will not when he may---" And she sighed, though the Doctor, who had not been thinking of Mr Cavendish's prospects in that light, laughed once more; but it was a sharp sort of sudden laugh without much heart in it. He had most likely other things of more importance in his mind.
    "Well, there have been a great many off and on since that time," he said, smiling rather grimly. "It is time you were thinking about it seriously, Lucilla. I am not so sure about some things as I once was, and I'd rather like to see you well settled before--- It's a kind of prejudice a man has," the Doctor said abruptly, which, whatever he might mean by it, was a dismal sort of speech to make.
    "Before what, papa?" asked Lucilla, with a little alarm.
    "Tut---before long, to be sure," he said impatiently. "Ashburton would not be at all amiss if he liked it and you liked it; but it's no use making any suggestions about those things. So long as you don't marry a fool---" Dr Marjoribanks said, with energy. "I know---that is, of course, I've seen what that is; you can't expect to get perfection, as you might have looked for perhaps at twenty; but I advise you to marry, Lucilla. I don't think you are cut out for a single woman, for my part."
    "I don't see the good of single women," said Lucilla, "unless they are awfully rich; and I don't suppose I shall ever be awfully rich. But, papa, so long as I can be a comfort to you---"
    "Yes," said the Doctor, with that tone which Lucilla could remember fifteen years ago, when she made the same magnanimous suggestion, "but I can't live for ever, you know. It would be a pity to sacrifice yourself to me, and then perhaps next morning find that it was a useless sacrifice. It very often happens like that when self-devotion is carried too far. You've behaved very well, and shown a great deal of good sense, Lucilla---more than I gave you credit for when you commenced—I may say that; and if there was to be any change, for instance---"
    "What change?" said Lucilla, not without some anxiety; for it was an odd way of talking, to say the least of it; but the Doctor had come to a pause, and did not seem disposed to resume...

Still, I don't think we see this coming any more than the rest of Carlingford:

Chapter 43:

The talk of this evening might not have been considered of any importance to speak of, but for the extraordinary and most unlooked-for event which startled all Carlingford next morning. Nobody could believe that it was true. Dr Marjoribanks's patients waited for him, and declared to their nurses that it was all a made-up story, and that he would come and prove that he was not dead. How could he be dead? He had been as well as he ever was that last evening. He had gone down Grange Lane in the snow, to see the poor old lady who was now sobbing in her bed, and saying it was all a mistake, and that it was she who ought to have died. But all those protestations were of no avail against the cold and stony fact which had frightened Thomas out of his senses, when he went to call the Doctor...

And the second blow comes fast enough:

But after this statement had been made, the town began to listen. It was obliged to listen, for other witnesses came in to confirm the story. It never might have been found out while the Doctor lived, for he had a great practice, and made a great deal of money; but now that he was dead, nothing could be hid. He was dead, and he had made an elaborate will, which was all as just and righteous as a will could be; but after the will was read, it was found out that everything named in it had disappeared like a bubble. Instead of being the richest, Dr Marjoribanks was one of the poorest men in Carlingford when he shut his door behind him on that snowy night...

Not altogether kind, but nevertheless understandable:

Chapter 45:

It must be allowed that Lucilla's decision caused very general surprise in Carlingford, where people had been disposed to think that she would be rather glad, now that things were so changed, to get away. To be sure it was not known for some time; but everybody's idea was that, being thus left alone in the world, and in circumstances so reduced, Miss Marjoribanks naturally would go to live with somebody. Perhaps with her aunt, who had something, though she was not rich; perhaps, after a little, to visit about among her friends, of whom she had so many. Nobody doubted that Lucilla would abdicate at once, and a certain uneasy, yet delicious, sense of freedom had already stolen into the hearts of some of the ladies in Grange Lane. They lamented, it is true, the state of chaos into which everything would fall, and the dreadful loss Miss Marjoribanks would be to society; but still, freedom is a noble thing, and Lucilla's subjects contemplated their emancipation with a certain guilty delight...

>182 lyzard: That really comes as an unexpected blow.

>184 MissWatson:

When we get the first rumblings of the money situation (>179 lyzard:), my thought was that Lucilla was finally going to get called out on her speeches about "being a comfort to dear papa"---that the situation finally would demand it, and how would she respond?

But Oliphant hardly gives us time for that possibility before she drops her second bombshell, for we (like Lucilla) are not prepared: there are a few subtle hints but you wouldn't pick them up if you didn't already know.

The reaction to Lucilla's decision to stay where she is, to keep the Grange Lane house, is interesting but again a bit unkind.

There's some sincerity in the feeling that she won't be able to keep things running in her new financial circumstances (and I don't know how she intends to get things done with only one servant in addition to Nancy, and that not the servant she really wants) but, as in >183 lyzard:, there is a sense that people want to see her cut down to size, and are aggrieved that they've been robbed of the pleasure---and, perhaps, the chance to patronise her for a change.

Chapter 45:

But when the fact was really known, it would be difficult to describe the sense of guilt and horror which filled many innocent bosoms. The bound of freedom had been premature---liberty and equality had not come yet, notwithstanding that too early unwise élan of republican satisfaction. It was true that she was in deep mourning, and that for a year, at least, society must be left to its own devices; and it was true, also, that she was poor---which might naturally be supposed a damper upon her energies---but, at the same time, Carlingford knew its Lucilla. As long as she remained in Grange Lane, even though retired and in crape, the constitutional monarch was still present among her subjects; and nobody could usurp her place or show that utter indifference to her regulations which some revolutionaries had dreamed of. Such an idea would have gone direct in the face of the British Constitution, and the sense of the community would have been dead against it. But everybody who had speculated upon her proceedings disapproved of Lucilla in her most unlooked-for resolution...

(The tacit comparison here between Lucilla and the widowed Queen Victoria is rather daring; though Victoria of course was criticised for her "retirement", for not going "among her subjects".)

I'm not sure which of these two visits is more painful for Lucilla, but I think I know which one hurts *us*:

Chapter 46:

    And Rose, too, had come with the intention of giving advice.
    "I hear you are going to stay, Lucilla," she said, "and I did not think I would be doing my duty if I did not tell you what was in my mind. I can't do any good to anybody, you know; but you who are so clever, and have so much in your power---"
    "I am poor now," said Miss Marjoribanks; "and as for being clever, I don't know about that. I never was clever about drawing or Art, like you."
    "Oh, like me!" said poor little Rose, whose Career had been sacrificed ten years ago, and who was a little misanthropical now, and did not believe even in Schools of Design; "I am not so sure about the moral influence of Art as I used to be---except High Art, to be sure; but we never have any High Art down here. And oh, Lucilla! the poor people do want something done for them. If I was as clever as you, and with a great house all to myself like this, and well off, and with plenty of influence, and no ties---" said Rose, with energetic emphasis. She made a pause there, and she was so much in earnest that the tears came into her eyes...

****

For Rose was followed by the Rector, who, though he did not propose in so many words a House of Mercy, made no secret of his conviction that parish-work was the only thing that could be of any service to Lucilla; and that, in short, such was the inevitable and providential destination of a woman who had "no ties." Indeed, to hear Mr Bury, a stranger would have been disposed to believe that Dr Marjoribanks had been, as he said, "removed," and his fortune swept away, all in order to indicate to Lucilla the proper sphere for her energies...

Meanwhile the election campaign is proceeding.

We're used to getting our political overviews from Trollope; the one Oliphant gives us (fittingly for Carlingford) is rather more well-behaved, although not without incident...

But before we move on to that, I just wanted to touch on the figures from the election, which are rather outrageous:

We don't know the final numbers, but more than halfway through we have only 558 votes recorded, so it is unlikely the total is more than 900, which is an absurdly low number of voters to be returning an MP.

Speaking of Trollope, we've discussed the various election reforms that were forced at different times throughout the 19th century, particularly the elimination of rotten and pocket boroughs; though given who he was writing about, he never touched on a far more urgent and contentious issue, the predominance of representation in country areas compared to urban areas in the north, where industralisation had seen the population soar.

Oliphant isn't making that point, but indirectly she illustrates the problem by giving us a glimpse into the number of qualified voters in the Carlingford area, who get as much representation as the entire city of Manchester.

Oliphant's scathing depiction of Mr Cavendish since his return makes us question how we were really supposed to take him over the earlier parts of the novel. There was always a suggestion of a lack of real substance about him, and set against the inference that Lucilla would have been strong enough to mold him into something worthwhile, here we have the opposite intimation that, sooner or later, he would have run off the rails:

Chapter 47:

To tell the truth, if there was one person in Carlingford whom he felt a resentment against, it was Lucilla. She had never done him any harm to speak of, and once she had unquestionably done him a great deal of good. But, on the other hand, it was she who first showed herself candidly conscious that he had grown stout, and who all along had supported and encouraged his rival. It was possible, no doubt, that this might be pique; and, mixed with his anger for her sins against him, Mr Cavendish had, at the same time, a counterbalancing sense that there still remained to him in his life one supereminently wise thing that he still could do---and that was, to go down Grange Lane instantly to the Doctor's silenced house, and go down on his knees, or do any other absurdity that might be necessary to make Lucilla marry him; after which act he would henceforward be, pecuniarily and otherwise (notwithstanding that she was poor), a saved man. It did not occur to him that Lucilla would never have married him, even had he gone down on his knees; but perhaps that would be too much to ask any man to believe of any woman...

****

He stood still, he wavered---for fifty seconds perhaps the issue was uncertain, and the victim was still within reach of salvation; but the result in such a case depends very much upon whether a man really likes doing his duty, which is by no means an invariable necessity. Mr Cavendish had in the abstract no sort of desire to do his unless when he could not help it, and consequently his resistance to temptation was very feeble. He was standing knocking at Mr Lake's door before half the thoughts appropriate to the occasion had got through his mind, and found himself sitting on the little sofa in Mr Lake's parlour as he used to do ten years ago, before he could explain to himself how he came there...

Personally I think Mr Cavendish deserves this---however hard it might be on the other parties involved (poor Rose! - poor Barbara, too); and frankly I think Mr Bury deserves it as well---

Chapter 48:

Just at that moment, however, an incident occurred which took up the attention of the ladies at the windows, and eclipsed even the interest of the election. Poor Barbara Lake was interested, too, to know if her friend would win. She was not entertaining any particular hopes or plans about him. Years and hard experiences had humbled Barbara. The Brussels veil which she used to dream of had faded as much from her memory as poor Rose's Honiton design, for which she had got the prize. At the present moment, instead of nourishing the ambitious designs which everybody laid to her charge, she would have been content with the very innocent privilege of talking a little to her next employers about Mr Cavendish, the member for Carlingford, and his visits to her father's house. But at the same time, she had once been fond of him, and she took a great interest in him, and was very anxious that he should win. And she was in the habit, like so many other women, of finding out, as far as she could, what was going on, and going to see everything that there might be to see...

****

The tide had turned. Whether it was Barbara, or whether it was fate, or whether it was the deadly unanimity of those Dissenters, who, after all their wavering, had at last decided for the man who "dealt" in George Street---no one could tell; but by two o'clock Mr Ashburton was so far ahead that he felt himself justified in sending another bulletin to Lucilla...

****

    And then, to tell the truth, the Rector did not know how to turn back. It would have been hard, very hard, to have told all the people who confided in him that he had never had any stronger evidence for Mr Cavendish's repentance than he now had for his backsliding; and to give in, and let the other side have it all their own way, and throw over the candidate with whom he had identified himself, was as painful to Mr Bury as if, instead of being very Low-Church, he had been the most muscular of Christians. Being in this state of mind, it may be supposed that his sister's mild wonder and trembling speculations at lunch, when they were alone together, were well qualified to raise some sparks of that old Adam, who, though well kept under, still existed in the Rector's, as in most other human breasts.
    "But, dear Edward, I would not quite condemn him," Miss Bury said. "He has been the cause of a good deal of remark, you know, and the poor girl has been talked about. He may think it is his duty to make her amends. For anything we can tell, he may have the most honourable intentions---"
    "Oh, bother his honourable intentions!" said the Rector.

Well, I have reached the end, and what a surprising end it is! More later.

>190 MissWatson:

Well done, Birgit! I'm hoping to wrap things up today too. :)

BTW the quote used when Lucilla is holding off her critics in Chapter 46 is from Walter Scott's The Lady Of The Lake.

"James Fitz-James", the incognito King James V of Scotland, finds himself alone in the wilderness with his deadly enemy, the outlawed clan chief, Roderick Dhu:

Fitz-James was brave:---though to his heart
The life-blood thrilled with sudden start,
He manned himself with dauntless air,
Returned the Chief his haughty stare,
His back against a rock he bore,
And firmly placed his foot before:---
'Come one, come all! this rock shall fly
From its firm base as soon as I.'
Sir Roderick marked,---and in his eyes
Respect was mingled with surprise,
And the stern joy which warriors feel
In foeman worthy of their steel...

Though Oliphant's grandiloquent quoting of Scott is rather facetious in context, the passages that follow are worth considering:

Chapter 46:

Notwithstanding, all this commotion of public opinion about her made a certain impression upon Miss Marjoribanks's mind. It was not unpleasant to feel that, for this moment at least, she was the centre of the thoughts of the community, and that almost everybody in Carlingford had taken the trouble to frame an ideal existence for her, according as he or she regarded life. It is so seldom that any one has it in his power, consciously and evidently, to regulate his life for himself, and make it whatever he wants it to be. And then, at the same time, the best that she could make of it would, after all, be something very limited and unsatisfactory...

****

One thing was quite sure, that she had no intention of sinking into a nobody, and giving up all power of acting upon her fellow-creatures; and she could not help being conscious of the fact that she was able to be of much use to her fellow-creatures...

****

...when a woman happens to be full of energy and spirit, and determined that whatever she may be she shall certainly not be a nonentity, her position is one that demands thought. She was very capable of serving her fellow-creatures, and very willing and well disposed to serve them; and yet she was not inclined to give herself up entirely to them, nor to relinquish her personal prospects..

Anyway.

Lucilla's management of Mr Ashburton's electioneering has its inevitable consequence---although the inevitability takes a slightly strange form:

Chapter 49:

But with all this the new Member for Carlingford was not able to assure himself that there had been anything particular in Lucilla's manner to himself. With her as with Carlingford, it was pure optimism. He was the best man, and her quick intelligence had divined it sooner than anybody else had done. Whether there was anything more in it, Mr Ashburton could not tell. His own impression was that she would accept him; but if she did not, he would have no right to complain of "encouragement," or to think himself jilted. This was what he was thinking as he drove home; but at the same time he was very far from being in a desponding state of mind. He felt very nearly as sure that Lucilla would be his wife, as if they were already standing before the Rector in Carlingford Church. He had just won one victory, which naturally made him feel more confident of winning another; and even without entertaining any over-exalted opinion of himself, it was evident that, under all the circumstances, a woman of thirty, with two hundred a year, would be a fool to reject such an offer...

****

For the first time in her life she not only did not know what she would do, but she did not know what she wanted to do. There could now be no mistaking what Mr Ashburton's intentions were. Up to a very recent time Lucilla had been able to take refuge in her mourning, and conclude that she had no present occasion to disturb herself. But now that calm was over. She could not conceal from herself that it was in her power by a word to reap all the advantages of the election, and to step at once into the only position which she had ever felt might be superior to her own in Carlingford. At last this great testimonial of female merit was to be laid at her feet. A man thoroughly eligible in every way---moderately rich, well connected, able to restore to her all, and more than all, the advantages which she had lost at her father's death—a man, above all, who was Member for Carlingford, was going to offer himself to her acceptance, and put his happiness in her hands; and while she was so well aware of this, she was not at all so well aware what answer she would make him...

The lack of emotional engagement on both parts, conversely the degree of cool calculation about advantages and fitness, is disturbing---or would be, if fate and good timing weren't about to intervene...

    "I hope, my dear, I have been long enough in the world to know all about that," Aunt Jemima said severely, "and what it means when young ladies take such interest in elections;" and then some such feeling as the dog had in the manger---a jealousy of those who sought the gift though she herself did not want it---came over Mrs John, and at the same time a sudden desire to clear her conscience and make a stand for Tom. She did it suddenly, and went further than she meant to go; but then she never dreamt it would have the least effect. "I would not say anything to disturb your mind, Lucilla, if you have made up your mind; but when you receive your new friends, you might think of other people who perhaps have been fond of you before you ever saw them, or heard their very name."
    She was frightened at it herself before the words were out of her mouth, and the effect it had upon Miss Marjoribanks was wonderful. She threw her embroidery away, and looked Tom's mother keenly in the face. "I don't think you know anybody who is fond of me, Aunt Jemima," she said; "I don't suppose anybody is fond of me. Do you?" said Lucilla. But by that time Aunt Jemima had got thoroughly frightened, both at herself and her companion, and had nothing more to say...

---because, after all, if we know one thing about marriage proposals in Carlingford, it's that they're sure to be interrupted:

Chapter 49:

    "I wish I might but prove the best man for something else," said the candidate nervously; and then he cleared his throat. "I would say you had been kind if I did not hope---if I was not so very anxious that you should be something more than kind. It may be vain of me, but I think we could get on together. I think I could understand you, and do you justice--- Lucilla! what is the matter? Good heavens! is it possible that I have taken you quite by surprise?"
    What caused this question was that Miss Marjoribanks had all at once changed colour, and given a great start, and put her hand to her breast, where her heart had taken such a leap that she felt it in her throat. But it was not because of what Mr Ashburton was saying; it was because of one of the very commonest sounds of everyday existence---a cab driving down Grange Lane; but then it was a cab driving in such a way that you could have sworn there was somebody in it in a terrible hurry, and who had just arrived by the twelve o'clock train...

This---

Chapter 6:

"It is frightful to belong to a family where the men are so stupid," said Miss Marjoribanks, with a sigh of real distress; for, to be sure, the unlucky Tom immediately bethought himself to take small steps like those of a lady, which all but threw him on his well-formed though meaningless nose. Lucilla shook her head with an exasperated look, and contracted her lips with disdain, as he passed her on his ill-omened career. Of course he came right up against the little table on which she had with her own hand arranged a bouquet of geraniums and mignonette...

****

Chapter 50:

She heard neither words nor voice, but she heard something which had as great an effect upon her as either could have had. On the landing half-way up the stairs, there had stood in Dr Marjoribanks's house from time immemorial a little old-fashioned table, with a large china bowl upon it, in which the cards of visitors were placed. It was a great bowl, and it was always full, and anybody rushing upstairs in a reckless way might easily upset table and cards and all in their progress. This was what happened while Lucilla sat listening. There was a rumble, a crash, and a sound as of falling leaves, and it made her heart, as we have said, jump into her ears. "It is the table and all the cards," said Lucilla---and in that moment her composure came back to her as by a miracle. She unclasped her hands, which she had been holding pressed painfully together by way of supporting herself, and she gave a long sigh of unutterable relief, and her whirl of thought stopped and cleared up with an instantaneous rapidity. Everything seemed to be explained by that sound...

One last project (okay, technically two projects I guess!)---

Chapter 51:

She did not talk about it overmuch, or display any feverish anxiety about Marchbank, but left her suggestion to work, and had faith in Tom. At the same time, the tranquillising sense of now knowing, to a certain extent, what lay before her came into Lucilla's mind. It would be a new sphere, but a sphere in which she would find herself at home. Still near enough to Carlingford to keep a watchful eye upon society and give it the benefit of her experience, and yet at the same time translated into a new world, where her influence might be of untold advantage, as Lucilla modestly said, to her fellow-creatures. There was a village not far from the gates at Marchbank, where every kind of village nuisance was to be found. There are people who are very tragical about village nuisances, and there are other people who assail them with loathing, as a duty forced upon their consciences; but Lucilla was neither of the one way of thinking nor of the other. It gave her the liveliest satisfaction to think of all the disorder and disarray of the Marchbank village. Her fingers itched to be at it---to set all the crooked things straight, and clean away the rubbish, and set everything, as she said, on a sound foundation...

...and I think I'm going to leave it there.

Thank you, everyone! I'm really keen to hear what you all made of this one; I have some thoughts of my own but I'll leave that for the moment and let the rest of you Have At It. :)

For me the book lacks balance. The first part stretched out too long, and then after the hiatus things were happening abruptly and mostly unexpectedly and frankly, also not convincingly. Of course Lucilla will make a success of her new project and keep her husband well in line, but the way he arrives out of the blue – no.

I made a note of something Lucilla said in Chapter 40: "If we were not to leave all that to yourselves, I don't know what you could find to do." She refers to politics here, but it could be very other activity. I don't think I've ever read a Victorian novel where men are so relentlessly described and portrayed as useless. Perhaps Mrs Oliphant was really venting her frustration at her own life?

ETA: I still like Lucilla.

>199 MissWatson:

No-one else?

I was hoping some other people would chip in before I started pontificating but oh well. :D

Thanks, Birgit! I will come back to your comments after I've added a few thoughts and we can see how far we agree / disagree.

I still find Miss Marjoribanks a very add book and no less odd on a second read. I still can't decide how we were meant to take it.

The most striking thing for me is its refusal to follow the expected paths. There is a subset of 19th century novels that I think of as "comeuppance books" and for much of its length it feels like Miss Marjoribanks is headed that way.

We've touched on this book's relationship to Emma, which is itself a comeuppance book---though being a Regency novel, it doesn't feel compelled to give its heroine a life sentence. Emma suffers a few shocks and learns a few lessons, but ultimately gets what she wants. This aligns the novel further with Miss Marjoribanks as this is true of Lucilla too.

But it wasn't true of most of the novels in this area. As the century wore on and the morality tightened up and restrictions on female behaviour became more severe, it was more common to find erring heroines really being punished---and by "erring" I mean characters who were discontented with their lot or thought they knew better or didn't want marriage. These sorts of books are generally devoted to exposing and humiliating their heroines until they learn to submit and be like everyone else. We see this particularly in some of the more religious / antifeminist works of the time by people like Charlotte Yonge. (The Clever Woman Of The Family is a prime example, and of course there was nothing worse you could call a woman than "clever"!)

And to me to felt like Lucilla was heading down that path. From the outset she insists on "leading", she manages other people's lives, she rejects conventional female roles (as with her distaste for parish-work) and she is blasé about marriage. When we hit the ten-year hiatus I was pretty sure it was a book about a woman so busy ordering other people's lives that she neglects her own and gets left.

And then--- :)

I really want to hear what others make of the marriage.

I think you can take it either way. The bottom line is that, for all of Lucilla's "chances", Tom is the only man who actually gets around to proposing to her. Lucilla thinks that herself at one point---and the quote she applies to Mr Cavendish applies equally to her: "He who will not when he may---"

The other point is that of all the men she could have chosen, Lucilla marries the one who will be content to let her manage him.

Certainly if she'd married Dr Beverley or Mr Ashburton, she would have been faced with being a traditionally submissive wife (I don't think either of them would, as husbands, have put up with being managed any more). Possibly Lucilla could have "made something" or Mr Cavendish, although the way his plot works out I think it likely he would have rebelled sooner or later. And if we include Dr Rider, I don't think Lucilla would have liked being a doctor's wife and having his job in charge of things.

But with Tom and Marchbank she'll have two long-term projects to keep her busy.

You can argue in the relationship's favour, but I don't know that you can say it's entirely prepared for in the narrative: I don't think there's any real sense of Lucilla carrying a torch. And she certainly isn't very encouraging to him during the early chapters---although it did occur to me that Tom may be the one person she doesn't "perform" for or make her speeches at, even if the alternative is telling him he's stupid.

BUT---the key passage is this one, at the end of Chapter 27, when Lucilla's plans are going badly:

At the same time, it would not be just to omit all mention of a consolatory recollection which occurred to Lucilla in this moment of her weakness. At such a crisis the mind of genius may be supported by a matter very trifling in itself. Even at the instant when the moisture sprang to her eyes, Miss Marjoribanks said to herself, "Poor Tom!" and felt that the bitterness, to a certain extent, had evaporated out of her tears. He was a long way off, and Lucilla would have thought it madness indeed to connect herself in any way with the fortunes of her unlucky cousin; yet it gave her a certain support to think that, amid all the want of faith she was encountering, Tom believed in her, heart and soul. It was an insignificant matter, so far as any practical result was concerned, if, indeed, anything can be called insignificant which gives strength to a great mind in a moment of discouragement. She said "Poor Tom!" and felt as if for the moment she had something to lean on, and was comforted. We mention this fact rather as a contribution to the history of those phenomena of the human mind, which have as yet escaped the metaphysician, than as an actual circumstance in the life of Miss Marjoribanks. She was a woman of genius, and he only a very simple, unlucky fellow; and yet a sensation of comfort came to Lucilla's heart when she said "Poor Tom!"

>201 lyzard: I don't understand the ten-year gap. Of course we need to give Tom time to get back from India, but 10 years seems unnecessarily long. Certainly Lucilla seems older in the second part of the book; I wish we'd seen some of this growth in progress.

>202 lyzard: Mrs. Oliphant may have written herself into a corner here and resorted to Tom to write herself out of it. Neither Cavendish nor Ashworth is worthy of Lucilla, but is Tom? The best we can say for Tom is that perhaps he is the Trollopian hobbledehoy, who needed a few years to grow up.

For me, though, the re-emergence of Tom was such a surprise. You've found a paragraph where Lucilla thinks fondly of Tom, but there are so many other points where she thinks dismissively of him. I have trouble with her silently coming round to Tom. (And since Lucilla does not have an opportunity to get to know post-India Tom before being in love with him, my hobbledehoy idea doesn't do very well.)

My only comment is from the penultimate paragraph of the book:

It was a very nice house; and so the new Doctor's wife, who had not been used to anything so spacious, was very willing to say; and instead of feeling any grudge against the man who was thus in every respect to take her father's place, so sweet are the softening influences of time and personal wellbeing, that Lucilla, who was always so good-natured, made many little arrangements for their comfort, and even left the carpets, which was a thing nobody could have expected of her, and which aunt Jemima did not scruple to condemn. "They are all fitted," Lucilla said, "and if they were taken up they would be spoiled; and besides, we could have no use for them at Marchbanks."

Ah, Carlingford and its carpets...

>203 NinieB:

I felt the point was that there was no growth, only stagnation. Although why Oliphant chose to go that route - whether she always meant to, or whether she changed her mind about her outcome - I really don't know.

Perhaps we're supposed to take it as Lucilla learning to appreciate Tom's devotion in his absence, as one man after another shows her he prefers another woman. (As she admits, it isn't so much that she wants to marry any of them, she just wants to reject rather than be rejected.) She stops writing to him when he won't stop saying the words but is assured that nothing's changed at his end.

I think the Trollopean comparison is very apt! - but as you say too, perhaps we're left to take it too much on trust. But I think she thinks, and speaks, much more kindly of him than she does to him.

Mind you, that he barges in and kisses her without so much as a by-your-leave puts his courtship on a very different level from all of the others...and perhaps we think of Dr Marjoribanks' comment that Lucilla isn't cut out to be single. (One of the 'pro-bother' brigade!)

>204 kac522:

Nicely spotted!

Your ONLY comment, oh noes!! :D

OK, one more thought--I wasn't surprised by Lucilla marrying Tom, because I continued to see parallels to Emma, so of course it would be the one man she's known her whole life, Tom. Just as Emma has a lightbulb moment that she must marry Knightley, Lucilla is truly relieved when Tom comes back and must marry Tom.

Where Mrs George Knightley will probably continue to be scolded by her husband, Mrs Tom Marjoribanks will probably continue to be adored.

For me Oliphant's story feels parallel to Emma, but things are either topsy-turvy, outright farce or uncomfortably realistic in a way that Austen's story is not.

>207 kac522:

That's a point. It's hard to know how far we were intended to draw the parallels, but some touches seem inescapable.

One of those it now occurs to me is that Emma, too, calmly observes that there's no need for her to get married, and maybe she won't.

The question for both young women is what they're going to do with their lives otherwise.

Emma really has no other option---and it is a bit disturbing to see, fifty years and a lot of social upheaval later, that Lucilla's choices aren't much better.

I think this makes this novel's overall negativity about marriage even more startling, and more dismaying. In that respect I think Lucilla makes the right marriage in the end: you can imagine her avoiding the pitfalls that Oliphant makes very clear when depicting her supporting cast.

One thing we should all remind ourselves of, though, is that at this time novels were more conservative than reality (particularly novels serialised in family magazines, with nervous editors), and didn't always acknowledge that the world was changing.

Note this from Chapter 42:

It was this that made Mr Ashburton so interesting to her, and his election a matter into which she entered so warmly, for she had come to an age at which she might have gone into Parliament herself had there been no disqualification of sex, and when it was almost a necessity for her to make some use of her social influence. Miss Marjoribanks had her own ideas in respect to charity, and never went upon ladies' committees, nor took any further share than what was proper and necessary in parish work; and when a woman has an active mind, and still does not care for parish work, it is a little hard for her to find a "sphere." And Lucilla, though she said nothing about a sphere, was still more or less in that condition of mind which has been so often and so fully described to the British public---when the ripe female intelligence, not having the natural resource of a nursery and a husband to manage, turns inwards, and begins to "make a protest" against the existing order of society, and to call the world to account for giving it no due occupation---and to consume itself.

But that rather snarky remark about "so fully described" reminds us of something important: that after a lot of debate and campaigning, and despite the stubborn prevailing insistence that women should just shut up and get married, things were changing with respect to opportunities for education and training and work, albeit slowly, and that those opportunities were not universally available.

We didn't really talk about the School of Design, but the very fact that such a place has found a foothold in Carlingford illustrates these changes as much as anything.

Not that any of this would have been of use to Lucilla even if she had the desire or the aptitude: it was far easier for young women of a lower social standing to break away and take advantage of the new opportunities than for someone in Lucilla's situation. Even Barbara just making up her mind to "be a governess" , and doing it - granted for all the wrong reasons - illustrates the point.

It's perhaps a bit strange that, despite her negativity about marriage, Oliphant doesn't seem very positive about other options, either; but that might be because of her age and personal circumstances.

As several of you have noted, there is a real sense in this book that Oliphanr was generally fed up with her own situation, and the burden of her responsibilities---and maybe that's why there's a certain sense too of Lucilla being let off the hook, a touch of wish-fulfillment about her escape to her twin projects of Tom and Marchbank.

I just took a look at John Stock Clarke's Fiction Bibliography of Margaret Oliphant (https://archive.org/details/Margaret_Oliphant_Fiction_Bibliography/page/2/mode/2up). He says that Oliphant's novels after Miss Marjoribanks are "full of frustrated and unfulfilled women, their talents undeveloped or despised, their personalities minimised by covert or overt male contempt; of women seeking full self-expression in as many ways as possible, perhaps by following a career, otherwise by choosing marriage merely as a means of self-development through a vicarious career . . . ."

Similarly, the novel Agnes, published while Miss Marjoribanks was being serialized, includes a "sharply disenchanted study of marriage . . . . Agnes is one of a very long series of Oliphant heroines who are disillusioned with their men."

This bibliography contains many recommendations for further exploring Mrs Oliphant's novels.

>210 NinieB:

That's really interesting, thanks.

Is he saying that this started with Miss Marjoribanks? We've noted that it wasn't something we'd seen in the earlier Carlingford books---but also that this is the first one to have a female protagonist, so that the previous entries weren't really an appropriate forum; although in The Perpetual Curate we did have the subplot of Mrs Morgan's disillusionment.

Okay---do we have any final comments?

I'd like to hear a bit more about what people thought of Lucilla. I'm still a bit uncertain of how "straight" we're supposed to take her---which I suppose aligns me with most of the other characters, who are always "misunderstanding" her or thinking that she means things that she doesn't! I find Oliphant's tone a bit ambiguous, and I wonder whether she herself wasn't quite comfortable with her characterisation.

I do find Lucilla's treatment of the Lakes hard to swallow, and all the more so because the narrative more or less shrugs it off: we're kept away from the reality of the consequences for the family except for that brief glimpse of a thwarted, unhappy Rose towards the end. (To make our usual comparison, this is Mrs Elton patronising Jane Fairfax, only with permanent fallout.)

But while that leaves a sour taste, on the whole I sympathise with Lucilla's own position. I enjoy her management (whether I'm supposed to or not): I find the whole Beverley / Mortimer / Cavendish sequence delightful; and I absolutely feel for her, with all her energy and skills and no real outlet for them. I can forgive the slightly fairy-tale-ish quality to the ending on that basis---not so much Tom turning up to marry her, but her escape to Marchbank and the promise of lots of local meddling!

>211 lyzard: What he says about Lucilla:

She is thus, for about two thirds of the book, one of the great comic characters of literature; but in Volume Three a markedly feminist note subtly shifts the bias of Mrs Oliphant's characterization of Lucilla—she is seen to be the victim of the frustrations endured by a woman of talent in Victorian society, and she "begins to 'make a protest' against the existing order of society, and to call the world to account for giving {her intelligence} no due occupation" and looks for "a sphere in which her abilities {would have} the fullest scope". The explicit feminism of these and many other passages was to be very characteristic of Mrs Oliphant's later work.

He then spends a couple of paragraphs on Phoebe Junior and Agnes, noting Agnes's criticism of marriage (see my quote above). Finally at this point he devotes some space to talking more generally about "the unmistakable feminism of Mrs. Oliphant's work," including the comments I've quoted above. He never explicitly says "after Miss Marjoribanks" (or "starting with" Miss M.), but he also does not mention feminism when discussing the novels preceding Miss Marjoribanks.

>212 lyzard: I did not like Lucilla in the first part of the book. And I say that as someone who has always liked Jane Austen's Emma very much--Emma never seemed unlikably manipulative to me, which may be a minority view. But Lucilla did seem unlikably manipulative. I came around to her when she brought Beverley and Mrs. Mortimer together.

I didn't like Lucilla at first, but she grew on me for the same reason as >214 NinieB:. I came to appreciate how she reflected on her actions, weighed her future conduct against her moral standard, and had the courage to do what she believed was right without necessarily needing public credit for it.

Sorry, I only just got back from a long weekend.
I think we did not see enough of Tom to really form a sound opinion of him, she doesn't even let us see the letters he exchanges with his mother. And I am rather surprised he didn't make a fortune in India (which most other novels would have allowed him to make up for his other defects). But the focus is so much on Lucilla that everybody else falls by the wayside once she is no longer using them for her own purposes.

>213 NinieB:

Thanks for that. I've hesitated to call it "feminist" because to me there's always a slight note of burlesque in the characterisation of Lucilla, and a sense that Oliphant wasn't entirely comfortable with that aspect of the novel. She seems to toggle between allowing that Lucilla has a genuine grievance and the established societal stance that marriage would cure her ills.

However, the constant protest amongst the minor characters perhaps points the direction she would have preferred to go if she dared (and where it seems she did in later books).

>214 NinieB:, >215 cbl_tn:

I was sympathetic towards Lucilla at the outset when she was so clearly not wanted, and I enjoyed her rather passive-aggressive revenge on her father in return.

On the whole I do enjoy her, but always her treatment of the Lakes sticks in my throat---and really, all the more so after we see how well she understands people generally and how considerate she can be. It's as if, since they're not "Grange Lane", she doesn't have to consider their feelings to the same degree---but that becomes even less acceptable when we watch her careful guarding of Mr Cavendish's secret...which is, after all, that he is not really Grange Lane either.

>216 MissWatson:

Well, he's clearly made enough money, if not the usual Indian fortune. We can deduce that this is what he says in that last critical letter, that he is now in a position to come home and marry Lucilla and he needs his mother to "guard" her until he arrives (which she patently, and deliberately, fails to do).

But of course we're not privy to any of the correspondence---and though Lucilla stops writing back (is that when she's seriously considering Mr Cavendish?) it seems there was enough in the letters to make both parties fairly confident of their position with regard to the other. Anyway, we can imagine what Tom continues to say to Lucilla.

As for the ending, it's as if Oliphant is saying, well, you all know Lucilla well enough by now to just take her word for it. :)

>217 lyzard: Mrs Oliphant's views on women's rights changed over the years. Clarke says she was "deeply scornful" of the campaign for women's suffrage "in her earliest years"; but in an 1880 article called "The Grievances of Women" she "adopts a consistent tone of bitterness against male prejudice towards women and the refusal to treat women on equal terms." So in 1865-66 she could have had internal conflicts that are visible in her treatment of Lucilla.

ETA. By 1869 she believed in women's suffrage.

>220 NinieB:

You're right, this absolutely reads like she was conflicted.

Okay, then:

Unless anyone has something more - and if you do, by all means bring it on! - I think we will leave it there.

Thank you, everyone!

Going forward---for those of you participating in the Trollope reads, next up is The Belton Estate which we might tackle in January?

After that we will be wrapping up the Carlingford series with Phoebe Junior, perhaps in April?

If you are thinking of participating in both or either, please let me know if those dates suit you or if you have another preference.

Trollope in January seems like a great way to kick off the reading year! And April is good for me for Phoebe Junior.

>223 lyzard: April sounds good for Phoebe Junior.

Yes, both plans suit me fine.

I've finally finished; it was my circumstances that made me so slow not the story. I was very glad for Liz's background information as I wouldn't have noticed the subtleties of the changing attitudes or Mrs Oliphant's unusual (for the time) opinions.

Looking forward to the next Trollope and Mrs Oliphant!

>228 CDVicarage:

Good work, Kerry! Please feel free to add any further thoughts.

>224 cbl_tn:, >225 NinieB:, >226 MissWatson:, >228 CDVicarage:

Thanks, we will pencil both of those in.

I'm looking forward to joining you for Phoebe Junior! Thanks for all your insight into Miss Marjoribanks; I find it really helps me to stay focused on these fat Victorian novels.

A friend of mine who reads my thread has recommended a radio play of Miss Marjoribanks, which is apparently available on Radio 4 Extra. This may only be available to those of us in the UK. She said she enjoyed it a lot, although she's not familiar with the novel.

>231 Sakerfalcon:

Thanks for that, Claire, good to know. :)

>232 Sakerfalcon:

Interesting! If anyone here can access it (it doesn't look like I can, on a quick try) please let us know how it works.

Sorry, I'm in a bit of a mess at the moment so this is later than it should be:

A reminder that next month there will be a the group read of the final work in the Chronicles of Carlingford, Margaret Oliphant's 'Phoebe Junior.

I will set up the thread over the weekend, and we can make a proper start on Monday.

>234 lyzard: Looking forward to it!

Just pulled out my copy. Thanks for the reminder.

>234 lyzard: Thanks, I'm all set!

>235 cbl_tn:, >236 kac522:, >237 MissWatson:

Thank you, ladies! Hopefully I'll be a bit more organised by then. :)