'Love is like any other luxury. You have no right to it unless you can afford it.'
It is impossible to be sure who Melmotte is, let alone what exactly he has done. He is, seemingly, a gentleman, and a great financier, who penetrates to the heart of the state, reaching even inside the Houses of Parliament. He draws the English establishment into his circle, including Lady Carbury, a 43 year-old coquette and her son Felix, who is persuaded to invest in a notional railway business. Huge sums of money are at stake, as well as romantic happiness.
The Way We Live Now is usually thought Trollope's major work of satire but is better described as his most substantial exploration of a form of crime fiction, where the crimes are both literal and moral. It is a text preoccupied by detection and the unmasking of swindlers. As such it is a narrative of exceptional tension: a novel of rumor, gossip, and misjudgment, where every second counts. For many of Trollope's characters, calamity and exposure are just around the corner.
ABOUT THE SERIES: For over 100 years Oxford World's Classics has made available the widest range of literature from around the globe. Each affordable volume reflects Oxford's commitment to scholarship, providing the most accurate text plus a wealth of other valuable features, including expert introductions by leading authorities, helpful notes to clarify the text, up-to-date bibliographies for further study, and much more.
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About the Author
Francis O'Gorman has edited Trollope's Framley Parsonage and The Duke's Children (with Katherine Mullin), Ruskin's Praeterita, and Gaskell's Sylvia's Lovers for Oxford World's Classics. He has written widely on English literature, chiefly from 1780 to the present, and is currently editing Swinburne for OUP.
Read an Excerpt
The Way We Live Now
By Anthony Trollope
Dover Publications, Inc.Copyright © 2017 Dover Publications, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Let the reader be introduced to Lady Carbury, upon whose character and doings much will depend of whatever interest these pages may have, as she sits at her writing-table in her own room in her own house in Welbeck Street. Lady Carbury spent many hours at her desk, and wrote many letters,– wrote also very much beside letters. She spoke of herself in these days as a woman devoted to Literature, always spelling the word with a big L. Something of the nature of her devotion may be learned by the perusal of three letters which on this morning she had written with a quickly running hand. Lady Carbury was rapid in everything, and in nothing more rapid than in the writing of letters. Here is Letter No. 1; –
'Thursday, Welbeck Street.
'I have taken care that you shall have the early sheets of my two new volumes tomorrow, or Saturday at latest, so that you may, if so minded, give a poor struggler like myself a lift in your next week's paper. Do give a poor struggler a lift. You and I have so much in common, and I have ventured to flatter myself that we are really friends! I do not flatter you when I say, that not only would aid from you help me more than from any other quarter, but also that praise from you would gratify my vanity more than any other praise. I almost think you will like my "Criminal Queens." The sketch of Semiramis is at any rate spirited, though I had to twist it about a little to bring her in guilty. Cleopatra, of course, I have taken from Shakespeare. What a wench she was! I could not quite make Julia a queen; but it was impossible to pass over so piquant a character. You will recognise in the two or three ladies of the empire how faithfully I have studied my Gibbon. Poor dear old Belisarius! I have done the best I could with Joanna, but I could not bring myself to care for her. In our days she would simply have gone to Broadmore. I hope you will not think that I have been too strong in my delineations of Henry VIII and his sinful but unfortunate Howard. I don't care a bit about Anne Boleyne. I am afraid that I have been tempted into too great length about the Italian Catherine; but in truth she has been my favourite. What a woman! What a devil! Pity that a second Dante could not have constructed for her a special hell. How one traces the effect of her training in the life of our Scotch Mary. I trust you will go with me in my view as to the Queen of Scots. Guilty! guilty always! Adultery, murder, treason, and all the rest of it. But recommended to mercy because she was royal. A queen bred, born and married, and with such other queens around her, how could she have escaped to be guilty? Marie Antoinette I have not quite acquitted. It would be uninteresting; – perhaps untrue. I have accused her lovingly, and have kissed when I scourged. I trust the British public will not be angry because I do not whitewash Caroline, especially as I go along with them altogether in abusing her husband.
'But I must not take up your time by sending you another book, though it gratifies me to think that I am writing what none but yourself will read. Do it yourself, like a dear man, and, as you are great, be merciful. Or rather, as you are a friend, be loving.
'Yours gratefully and faithfully,
'After all how few women there are who can raise themselves above the quagmire of what we call love, and make themselves anything but playthings for men. Of almost all these royal and luxurious sinners it was the chief sin that in some phase of their lives they consented to be playthings without being wives. I have striven so hard to be proper; but when girls read everything, why should not an old woman write anything?'
This letter was addressed to Nicholas Broune, Esq., the editor of the 'Morning Breakfast Table,' a daily newspaper of high character; and, as it was the longest, so was it considered to be the most important of the three. Mr. Broune was a man powerful in his profession, – and he was fond of ladies. Lady Carbury in her letter had called herself an old woman, but she was satisfied to do so by a conviction that no one else regarded her in that light. Her age shall be no secret to the reader, though to her most intimate friends, even to Mr. Broune, it had never been divulged. She was forty-three, but carried her years so well, and had received such gifts from nature, that it was impossible to deny that she was still a beautiful woman. And she used her beauty not only to increase her influence, – as is natural to women who are well-favoured, – but also with a well-considered calculation that she could obtain material assistance in the procuring of bread and cheese, which was very necessary to her, by a prudent adaptation to her purposes of the good things with which providence had endowed her. She did not fall in love, she did not wilfully flirt, she did not commit herself; but she smiled and whispered, and made confidences, and looked out of her own eyes into men's eyes as though there might be some mysterious bond between her and them – if only mysterious circumstances would permit it. But the end of all was to induce some one to do something which would cause a publisher to give her good payment for indifferent writing, or an editor to be lenient when, upon the merits of the case, he should have been severe. Among all her literary friends, Mr. Broune was the one in whom she most trusted; and Mr. Broune was fond of handsome women. It may be as well to give a short record of a scene which had taken place between Lady Carbury and her friend about a month before the writing of this letter which has been produced. She had wanted him to take a series of papers for the 'Morning Breakfast Table,' and to have them paid for at rate No. 1, whereas she suspected that he was rather doubtful as to their merit, and knew that, without special favour, she could not hope for remuneration above rate No. 2, or possibly even No. 3. So she had looked into his eyes, and had left her soft, plump hand for a moment in his. A man in such circumstances is so often awkward, not knowing with any accuracy when to do one thing and when another! Mr. Broune, in a moment of enthusiasm, had put his arm round Lady Carbury's waist and had kissed her. To say that Lady Carbury was angry, as most women would be angry if so treated, would be to give an unjust idea of her character. It was a little accident which really carried with it no injury, unless it should be the injury of leading to a rupture between herself and a valuable ally. No feeling of delicacy was shocked. What did it matter? No unpardonable insult had been offered; no harm had been done, if only the dear susceptible old donkey could be made at once to understand that that wasn't the way to go on!
Without a flutter, and without a blush, she escaped from his arm, and then made him an excellent little speech. 'Mr. Broune, how foolish, how wrong, how mistaken! Is it not so? Surely you do not wish to put an end to the friendship between us!'
'Put an end to our friendship, Lady Carbury! Oh, certainly not that.'
'Then why risk it by such an act? Think of my son and of my daughter, – both grown up. Think of the past troubles of my life; – so much suffered and so little deserved. No one knows them so well as you do. Think of my name, that has been so often slandered but never disgraced! Say that you are sorry, and it shall be forgotten.'
When a man has kissed a woman it goes against the grain with him to say the very next moment that he is sorry for what he has done. It is as much as to declare that the kiss had not answered his expectation. Mr. Broune could not do this, and perhaps Lady Carbury did not quite expect it. 'You know that for worlds I would not offend you,' he said. This sufficed. Lady Carbury again looked into his eyes, and a promise was given that the articles should be printed – and with generous remuneration.
When the interview was over Lady Carbury regarded it as having been quite successful. Of course when struggles have to be made and hard work done, there will be little accidents. The lady who uses a street cab must encounter mud and dust which her richer neighbour, who has a private carriage, will escape. She would have preferred not to have been kissed; – but what did it matter? With Mr. Broune the affair was more serious. 'Confound them all,' he said to himself as he left the house: 'no amount of experience enables a man to know them.' As he went away he almost thought that Lady Carbury had intended him to kiss her again, and he was almost angry with himself in that he had not done so. He had seen her three or four times since, but had not repeated the offence.
We will now go on to the other letters, both of which were addressed to the editors of other newspapers. The second was written to Mr. Booker, of the 'Literary Chronicle.' Mr. Booker was a hardworking professor of literature, by no means without talent, by no means without influence, and by no means without a conscience. But, from the nature of the struggles in which he had been engaged, by compromises which had gradually been driven upon him by the encroachment of brother authors on the one side and by the demands on the other of employers who looked only to their profits, he had fallen into a routine of work in which it was very difficult to be scrupulous, and almost impossible to maintain the delicacies of a literary conscience. He was now a bald-headed old man of sixty, with a large family of daughters, one of whom was a widow dependent on him with two little children. He had five hundred a year for editing the 'Literary Chronicle,' which, through his energy, had become a valuable property. He wrote for magazines, and brought out some book of his own almost annually. He kept his head above water, and was regarded by those who knew about him, but did not know him, as a successful man. He always kept up his spirits, and was able in literary circles to show that he could hold his own. But he was driven by the stress of circumstances to take such good things as came in his way, and could hardly afford to be independent. It must be confessed that literary scruple had long departed from his mind. Letter No. 2 was as follows; –
'Welbeck Street, 25th February, 187–.
'dear mr. Booker,
'I have told Mr. Leadham' – Mr. Leadham was senior partner in the enterprising firm of publishers known as Messrs. Leadham and Loiter – 'to send you an early copy of my "Criminal Queens." I have already settled with my friend Mr. Broune that I am to do your "New Tale of a Tub" in the "Breakfast Table." Indeed, I am about it now, and am taking great pains with it. If there is anything you wish to have specially said as to your view of the Protestantism of the time, let me know. I should like you to say a word as to the accuracy of my historical details, which I know you can safely do. Don't put it off, as the sale does so much depend on early notices. I am only getting a royalty, which does not commence till the first four hundred are sold.
'Alfred Booker, Esq.,'
"Literary Chronicle" Office, Strand.'
There was nothing in this which shocked Mr. Booker. He laughed inwardly, with a pleasantly reticent chuckle, as he thought of Lady Carbury dealing with his views of Protestantism, – as he thought also of the numerous historical errors in which that clever lady must inevitably fall in writing about matters of which he believed her to know nothing. But he was quite alive to the fact that a favourable notice in the 'Breakfast Table' of his very thoughtful work, called the 'New Tale of a Tub,' would serve him, even though written by the hand of a female literary charlatan, and he would have no compunction as to repaying the service by fulsome praise in the 'Literary Chronicle.' He would not probably say that the book was accurate, but he would be able to declare that it was delightful reading, that the feminine characteristics of the queens had been touched with a masterly hand, and that the work was one which would certainly make its way into all dawing-rooms. He was an adept at this sort of work, and knew well how to review such a book as Lady Carbury's 'Criminal Queens,' without bestowing much trouble on the reading. He could almost do it without cutting the book, so that its value for purposes of after sale might not be injured. And yet Mr. Booker was an honest man, and had set his face persistently against many literary malpractices. Stretched-out type, insufficient lines, and the French habit of meandering with a few words over an entire page, had been rebuked by him with conscientious strength. He was supposed to be rather an Aristides among reviewers. But circumstanced as he was he could not oppose himself altogether to the usages of the time. 'Bad; of course it is bad,' he said to a young friend who was working with him on his periodical. 'Who doubts that? How many very bad things are there that we do! But if we were to attempt to reform all our bad ways at once, we should never do any good thing. I am not strong enough to put the world straight, and I doubt if you are.' Such was Mr. Booker.
Then there was letter No. 3, to Mr. Ferdinand Alf. Mr. Alf managed, and, as it was supposed, chiefly owned, the 'Evening Pulpit,' which during the last two years had become 'quite a property,' as men connected with the press were in the habit of saying. The 'Evening Pulpit' was supposed to give daily to its readers all that had been said and done up to two o'clock in the day by all the leading people in the metropolis, and to prophesy with wonderful accuracy what would be the sayings and doings of the twelve following hours. This was effected with an air of wonderful omniscience, and not un-frequently with an ignorance hardly surpassed by its arrogance. But the writing was clever. The facts, if not true, were well invented; the arguments, if not logical, were seductive. The presiding spirit of the paper had the gift, at any rate, of knowing what the people for whom he catered would like to read, and how to get his subjects handled so that the readings should be pleasant. Mr. Booker's 'Literary Chronicle' did not presume to entertain any special political opinions. The 'Breakfast Table' was decidedly Liberal. The 'Evening Pulpit' was much given to politics, but held strictly to the motto which it had assumed; –
'Nullius addictus jurare in verba magistri;' –
and consequently had at all times the invaluable privilege of abusing what was being done, whether by one side or by the other. A newspaper that wishes to make its fortune should never waste its columns and weary its readers by praising anything. Eulogy is invariably dull, – a fact that Mr. Alf had discovered and had utilized.
Mr. Alf had, moreover, discovered another fact. Abuse from those who occasionally praise is considered to be personally offensive, and they who give personal offence will sometimes make the world too hot to hold them. But censure from those who are always finding fault is regarded so much as a matter of course that it ceases to be objectionable. The caricaturist, who draws only caricatures, is held to be justifiable, let him take what liberties he may with a man's face and person. It is his trade, and his business calls upon him to vilify all that he touches. But were an artist to publish a series of portraits, in which two out of a dozen were made to be hideous, he would certainly make two enemies, if not more. Mr. Alf never made enemies, for he praised no one, and, as far as the expression of his newspaper went, was satisfied with nothing.
Personally, Mr. Alf was a remarkable man. No one knew whence he came or what he had been. He was supposed to have been born a German Jew; and certain ladies said that they could distinguish in his tongue the slightest possible foreign accent. Nevertheless it was conceded to him that he knew England as only an Englishman can know it. During the last year or two he had 'come up' as the phrase goes, and had come up very thoroughly. He had been blackballed at three or four clubs, but had effected an entrance at two or three others, and had learned a manner of speaking of those which had rejected him calculated to leave on the minds of hearers a conviction that the societies in question were antiquated, imbecile, and moribund. He was never weary of implying that not to know Mr. Alf, not to be on good terms with Mr. Alf, not to understand that let Mr. Alf have been born where he might and how he might he was always to be recognized as a desirable acquaintance, was to be altogether out in the dark. And that which he so constantly asserted, or implied, men and women around him began at last to believe, – and Mr. Alf became an acknowledged something in the different worlds of politics, letters, and fashion.
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Table of Contents
1 Three Editors
2 The Carbury Family
3 The Beargarden
4 Madame Melmotte’s Ball
5 After the Ball
6 Roger Carbury and Paul Montague
9 The Great Railway to Vera Cruz
10 Mr. Fisker’s Success
11 Lady Carbury at Home
12 Sir Felix in His Mother’s House
13 The Longestaffes
14 Carbury Manor
15 ‘You Should Remember That I Am His Mother’
16 The Bishop and The Priest
17 Marie Melmotte Hears a Love Tale
18 Ruby Ruggles Hears a Love Tale
19 Hetta Carbury Hears a Love Tale
20 Lady Pomona’s Dinner Party
21 Everybody Goes to Them
22 Lord Nidderdale’s Morality
23 ‘Yes;— I’m a Baronet’
24 Miles Grendall’s Triumph
25 In Grosvenor Square
26 Mrs. Hurtle
27 Mrs. Hurtle Goes to the Play
28 Dolly Longestaffe Goes into the City
29 Miss Melmotte’s Courage
30 Mr. Melmotte’s Promise
31 Mr. Broune Has Made Up His Mind
32 Lady Monogram
33 John Crumb
34 Ruby Ruggles Obeys Her Grandfather
35 Melmotte’s Glory
36 Mr. Broune’s Perils
37 The Board-Room
38 Paul Montague’s Troubles
39 ‘I Do Love Him’
40 ‘Unanimity Is the Very Soul of These Things’
41 All Prepared
42 ‘Can You Be Ready in Ten Minutes?’
43 The City Road
44 The Coming Election
45 Mr. Melmotte Is Pressed for Time
46 Roger Carbury and His Two Friends
47 Mrs. Hurtle at Lowestoffe
48 Ruby a Prisoner
49 Sir Felix Makes Himself Ready
50 The Journey to Liverpool
51 Which Shall It Be?
52 The Results of Love and Wine
53 A Day in the City
54 The India Office
55 Clerical Charities
56 Father Barham Visits London
57 Lord Nidderdale Tries His Hand Again
58 Mr. Squercum Is Employed
59 The Dinner
60 Miss Longestaffe’s Lover
61 Lady Monogram Prepares for the Party
62 The Party
63 Mr. Melmotte on the Day of the Election
64 The Election
65 Miss Longestaffe Writes Home
66 ‘So Shall Be My Enmity’
67 Sir Felix Protects His Sister
68 Miss Melmotte Declares Her Purpose
69 Melmotte in Parliament
70 Sir Felix Meddles with Many Matters
71 John Crumb Falls into Trouble
72 ‘Ask Himself’
73 Marie’s Fortune
74 Melmotte Makes a Friend
75 In Bruton Street
76 Hetta and Her Lover
77 Another Scene in Bruton Street
78 Miss Longestaffe Again at Caversham
79 The Brehgert Correspondence
80 Ruby Prepares for Service
81 Mr. Cohenlupe Leaves London
82 Marie’s Perseverance
83 Melmotte Again at the House
84 Paul Montague’s Vindication
85 Breakfast in Berkeley Square
86 The Meeting in Bruton Street
87 Down at Carbury
88 The Inquest
89 ‘The Wheel of Fortune’
90 Hetta’s Sorrow
91 The Rivals
92 Hamilton K. Fisker Again
93 A True Lover
94 John Crumb’s Victory
95 The Longestaffe Marriages
96 Where ‘The Wild Asses Quench Their Thirst’
97 Mrs. Hurtle’s Fate
98 Marie Melmotte’s Fate
99 Lady Carbury and Mr. Broune
100 Down in Suffolk
Reading Group Guide
1. In 1873 the London Times praised The Way We Live Now as providing a "likeness of the face which society wears today." More recently Cynthia Ozick called the novel "very contemporary, despite its baronets and squires and rustics, and despite its penniless young women whose chief employment is husband seeking, and its penniless young lords whose chief employment is heiress-hunting. If all this sounds as far as possible from the way we live now, think again." Compare the world of Trollope's novel to our own. What are some similarities? Differences? Could this novel have been written today?
2. In his autobiography Trollope writes of The Way We Live Now: "I was instigated by what I conceived to be the commercial profligacy of the of the age." Discuss commercialism as taken up by Trollope, and its effect on society, from politics to morality to relations between the sexes to art.
3. Discuss the "great financier" Augustus Melmotte. How would you characterize him? What accounts for his rise and fall? Do you find him to be a compelling literary creation? What other characters in thenovel do you find interesting?
4. For the critic James Kincaid The Way We Live Now is concerned with "people's cynical admiration for successful dishonesty, their evasion of the tawdry moral realities underlying it for the sake of its surface glamour." Do you agree? Is this insight helpful in thinking about the meaning of the book?
5. What are some of the social institutions Trollope scrutinizes in this work? Do you agree with Kincaid's assessment, The Way We Live Now "comes closer than any of Trollope's other novels to admitting the possibility that all existing social institutions may be obsolete and doomed, no longer having any real moral and economic foundations"?
6. Discuss the literary world taken by Trollope. How would you characterize the writing industry that Trollope portrays?
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
THE WAY WE LIVE NOW is is a dark and witty commentary upon a society that has just-discovered capitalist manipulation of wealth. The author's maidens who can't make up their minds are not in this masterpiece. All the characters are out for themselves in a detailed scramble for money. The central character of Augustus Melmotte is the greatest figure of imagination created in the last century. Like Gatsby, he is ourselves had we been asked to be a character in the novel. Both the movie Wall Street and the book Bonfire of Vanities could never have been had not Trollope shown the way. There are a dozen or so wonderful characters in this story, not the least Melmotte's daughter, who is far from a blushing maiden in money matters. The TV version of this story goes one better than the novel by introducing details that Trollope would have omitted from a sense of delicacy; the script, casting and acting in the TV version (available from barnes and noble.com)are twice as enjoyable when you have read the novel.
A great, sweeping yarn that draws you in and is reluctant to let you go. The characters are vivid and memorable, but unlike Dickens they do not drift into caricature. This was my first Trollope novel and I shall certainly be going back for more!
Most of these Victorian novels are badly in need of an editor, and this one is no exception. It's repetitive, and a bit on the soap opera side. Austenesque in its subject matter, but without the lively banter. Instead, what humor there is is dry; one might find the foolishness of multiple characters entertaining, if it were not for the xenophobic and anti-Semitic tendencies so often found in English literature of this era. Too much is made of its continuing relevance regarding financial misbehavior; it does not redeem the book so much, and in fact it's very much a period piece. The language is formal, stilted, and carefully crafted -- a product of its day.
Well, it's Trollope, so it's great in many ways. I have to say I didn't enjoy it as much as say, the Barcester novels. Perhaps it's just that there are no really sympathetic characters, and those who are portrayed as slightly better people, Roger Carbury, Mrs. Hurtle, Mr. Brehgert, are thwarted completely from any satisfactory conclusions.I get that it's a social satire, but must it really be so relentlessly negative?Anyhoo, it's got those great Trollopian characterizations, although some of those sweet young heiresses, and unscrupulous young gentlemen seem interchangeable. There's also those great little asides and commentaries that just nail human nature down pat. I enjoyed it for these reasons more than any other.I wonder also *SPOILER* whether someone like Melmotte would actually have committed suicide. He'd been in hot water before, why take it so hard this time? I'm not sure that rang true.
Trollope's analysis of greed in Victorian England. A wise author in the old-fashioned sense of the word. Melmotte, the villain, could be drawn from Bernie Madoff. Life definitely imitates art. Trollope lacks the social outrage of Dickens, but he doesn't fall nearly so much into the stereotyped characters. Both great
One of my favorite books. Ever.
This is without doubt the most readable book by Anthony Trollope that I have yet come across and I found it really enjoyable. I had read the Barchester Chronicles and some of the Pallisers series, but the difference here was that I was not constantly being tripped up by my lack of knowledge of Anglican Church affairs or the inner workings of the Houses of Parliament. Politics do feature in the book but not in any dominant way.The Way We Live Now is very much a character driven book and Trollope has created some very strong individuals including some splendidly well drawn women. I loved the bold American, Mrs Hurtle, who is inexplicably attached to the rather weak Paul Montague and then there is Marie Melmotte, helpless pawn of her father's matchmaking plans, but with a mind of her own. We meet Mrs Carbury, forced to scratch a living by her pen and desperate to establish her children in the world. The men are less vivid with the exception of Mr Melmotte whose dilemmas have elements of almost Shakespearean tragedy .Trollopes themes of corporate greed and corruption in high places speak very strongly to the modern reader and the ambition and range of the book mark it out as one of his best, and well deserving of it's high reputation. On the plot level, characters' financial affairs and various romances keep the reader on tenterhooks about the outcomes until the very end of the novel. Something of a sour note is struck by a level of anti-semitism expressed by some people , perhaps reflecting the time at which the book was written, but unpleasant to read. However it must be said that Trollope deals fairly with Ezekiel Brehgert, a Jewish banker who is by far the most honourable character in the book (with the exception of the old-fashioned Roger Carbury) and who deals with people in a dignified and level headed way. Of those books by Trollope that I have read, this is the one that I would recommend to someone coming fresh to his work, quite definitely a good read.
Possibly my favourite book by Trollope. It has everything, politics, social climbing, gambling, sex, finance, aristocracy. There are bribes, vendettas, swindles and suicide...in fact much like our own times! Melmotte is the Robert Maxwell character who dominates the book. A masterpiece.
The best book ever about getting rich on the empty promises of a foolish business plan. Should be required reading before you buy stock in fur-bearing-trout farms or internet companies.