Oregon as a Microcosm of our Divided Nation

Beginning with a trip to Crater Lake in 2016, followed by our eclipse trip in 2017, and ending this spring with a road trip to Portland and Seattle, I have had a bit of the grand tour of the state of Oregon. The combination of the trips gave me an interesting view of a state which is deeply politically divided, and seems in some ways to be a microcosm of the nation as a whole. I actually wrote some of this back in 2017 after the eclipse trip, but put it aside. Our trip this year really brought home to me the contrast, and I decided to write a bit about it. 

Oregon has an...interesting history with race. To be blunt, Oregon has a long history of excluding African Americans. Way back to the 1840s, Oregon had laws which prohibited blacks from living there. Oregon entered the union as the only “no-blacks” state. This racism eventually became enshrined in the state constitution. While the 14th Amendment effectively overruled it, the clause remained on the books until 1926. Oregon didn’t acknowledge the right of blacks to vote until 1959. It didn’t ratify the freaking 14th Amendment until...wait for it...1973, nearlt a decade after desegregation. Furthermore, other racist language in the constitution was not removed until...wait for it...2002. This contributed to Oregon remaining a very lily-white state to this day. Only 2% of the population is black, and Oregon remained over 90% white well into the 1990s. (The last couple of decades, this has shifted quite a bit, which I suspect has made the eastern - whiter - part of the state very uncomfortable…) Portland is by a significant margin, the whitest large city in the US, although this too is changing. 

Once you get out of the major cities, though, Oregon is painfully white. On our eclipse trip, I was really struck by just how white it was. I think we saw a few latinos working at service jobs, but just a handful. And I saw one black person. One. At the eclipse viewing site. And he drove up from another state. 

During my childhood (and even my adulthood), I have known quite a few people who moved to Oregon, typically as part of “white flight.” These days, they tend to go to Idaho, which, outside of Boise, has kind of become THE destination for white nationalists. (It isn’t an accident that Mark Fuhrman ended up there. Or that Doug Wilson has his compound there.) But a few decades ago, Oregon was that destination for conservative whites fleeing diversity. 

I have come to realize that I just feel out of place a bit in an all-white society. I have never lived in an overwhelmingly homogenous place. The neighborhoods I grew up in were mostly minority, and Bakersfield is gloriously diverse, with vibrant hispanic, Filipino, Korean, Sikh, Hindu, and Muslim communities. I take for granted that I will come in contact with a wide range of people on any given day, and they aren’t segregated into categories like Latina maid, African American janitor, etc. I’ll sit next to a Muslim American watching a Mexican American woman sing a Joe Walsh tune while an older Filipino couple dances. That’s America as I know it. So eastern Oregon just felt, well, weird. And that is before you get to the other challenge, which is finding food. It is hard to quantify it, but the presence of legitimate “foreign” food makes everyone up their game. Los Angeles isn’t just a Mecca for foods from around the world; the genres cross pollinate and mix and everything is just to a higher standard. A certain political figure or two may not realize it, but a taco truck on every corner makes for a better world. 

Contrast this with Portland, which felt much more familiar. Although Portland is pretty white for a major city, it has growing minority and immigrant populations, and a gratifyingly broad range of culture - and food. We had an absolutely fantastic meal at a Lebanese restaurant, in addition to legit Banh Mi. Go to a park, and there are kids of all ethnicities, just like in CA. 

Portland is also loudly progressive. We took a walking tour of Bevery Cleary’s neighborhood (yes, I loved the books growing up), and literally every other house had a Pride flag (it was Pride Month), a Black Lives Matter sign, or other signal of pushback against the racism and hatred of Trump and the GOP. Most common, perhaps, is a Portland phenomenon that I love: the “In Our America” sign. I have one of these as a sticker on my trailer. 

One of the houses Beverly Clearly lived in as a kid. Note the sign...

Here is the sign. We have a sticker on our trailer. If you want one, you can get them at

Nasty Women Get Shit Done. And you should.

As a Californian, this level of political activity is a bit foreign. Certainly San Francisco is more liberal than Portland, but you don’t see the same quantity of signs. And certainly not in Los Angeles either. (For what it is worth, Seattle is also aggressively liberal. At least now that “opposing racism, xenophobia, and bigotry” has come to mean “liberal.”) 

As I was contemplating this, I started to think that maybe the open activism of Portland (and Seattle) has a bit to do with the way the rural parts of Oregon (and Washington) are. In contrast to the cities, rural Oregon has a lot in common with my part of California (Kern County is known as the “Texas of California” because of our oil and redneckery.) Except, because rural Oregon is blindingly white, there isn’t the counterweight. 

For example, certain wealthy farmers in my neck of the woods have giant shrines to Trump. I mean, huge - the size of a city lot. I use the word “shrine” intentionally, because this is very much idol worship. He is their god. 

Eastern Oregon has the same thing. We drove by shrine after shrine after shrine. But there was a difference. Because central CA has a large hispanic (and east and south Asian) population, there are counterweights. Pro-immigrant signs. Anti-hate signs. Billboards for Mexican and Indian and Thai restaurants. Spanish and Punjabi language advertisements. Everywhere you go in California, you will be rubbing shoulders with people of all colors and origins. It’s a beautiful thing.

Not so much in Eastern Oregon. Instead, I saw far too many aggressively racist and xenophobic signs to go with the Trump shrines. (This is not a coincidence.) Without the counterweight to lend some shame to open bigots, they get to be as loud as they want. 

In recent years, this division has become even more stark, and even troubling. At the same time that Portland (and Seattle - while I don’t know rural Washington well, I think there are similarities) has embraced social activism, neo-Nazi groups like the Proud Boys and Patriot Prayer have chosen Oregon as a sort of headquarters. (Possibly because of the relaxed gun laws.) 

Of interest to me in this context is the fact that law enforcement seems increasingly sympathetic these days to openly white supremacist ideas and groups. In the case of Portland, there is solid evidence of completely inappropriate coordination between far right groups and the police. Because left-leaning groups doubt that they will be protected by police, some are arming themselves. I don’t feel particularly great about this development - it would be much better if the Proud Boys were treated like the terrorist group they are, rather than coddled by sympathetic cops. But if you don’t have that, well…I believe this state of affairs is unsustainable, and sooner or later, there will be substantial changes in Portland. There is already significant pushback. 

These are basically my impressions from our three trips to Oregon. Obviously, I don’t live there, and can’t have a truly complete knowledge of the local nuances. However, I can and have observed what Oregonians themselves choose to say about themselves. There does seem to be a deep divide, more exaggerated than elsewhere perhaps, but similar to the divide in our country. In my view, the divide is exacerbated by the long history of racial exclusion, leading to large portions of the state with few non-whites. In line with human nature, we fear and hate most those we do not know. The cosmopolitan and diverse cities increasingly embrace diversity - racial, ethnic, national origin, and sexual orientation and gender identity. The rural areas continue to lose their young people, alienate minorities, and become increasingly angry and bigoted. This is what we have seen across the country, as rural whites have taken their legitimate grievances, and turned them into vicious hatred directed at immigrants and non-whites. 

It was an interesting experience visiting. While most places in California (with the exception of a few rural counties in northeastern CA that are indistinguishable from eastern Oregon - or even rural Idaho) feel like home in some way, Oregon was different. I could absolutely enjoy living in Portland, with its diversity and multiculturalism. But even Eugene was disturbingly white, at least where we were. I mean, literally, all the people at a park concert were white - you would never see that in Bakersfield. And rural Oregon, for all its natural beauty (which is considerable!) and outdoor opportunities, made California’s more conservative cities (like Bakersfield) seem like beacons of progressivism and diversity. I mean, we have our racist asshats and horrible politicians (hello, Kevin McCarthy, hands down the absolute worst representative I have ever had), but there are competing voices too. We had an “unexpectedly large” protest over immigrant detentions, our women’s march was vibrant and large, and those of us marching have seen support from our local law enforcement. We may have more than our share of Confederate Battle Flags flown by redneck dude-bros. But the other voices are louder and more organized. And, um, “demographics” are changing. Because Bakersfield (and other cities in the central valley) are affordable by California standards, young people are moving in. And they aren’t just white either. It is easy to see Kern County go the way of Orange County - and turn blue. 

In the case of Oregon, one wonders what the future will hold. It seems like the cities will continue to grow, and grow more diverse. Will the rural areas wither? Or become more and more radicalized and racist as they lose influence and power? It will be interesting to see. It is beyond the scope of this post to discuss the decline of rural America - and the ways that it is committing suicide - but I hope to make that a future post. 

The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins

Source of book: I own this, but we listened to it on audiobook

Years ago, in my teens, The Moonstone was the first Wilkie Collins book I read. After that came The Woman In White, because we owned it. A few years later, I was given two additional books by my violin teacher’s husband. (He had extra paperbacks he didn’t need - and introduced me to P. G. Wodehouse and Anthony Trollope as well.) Those two were Armadale, and my favorite Collins, No Name. 

We had a couple of long road trips planned for this year, so I got the audiobook version (narrated by Peter Jeffrey, who does a good job of making the Victorian language flow, as well as distinguishing between the different narrators and characters.) The reviews from the kids were mixed. Some found it interesting, others not so much. Win some, lose some.

First a bit about the book itself. The Moonstone is generally considered the first true detective novel. True, Poe wrote a couple of short stories which had many of the elements. And Sarah Burney’s novel, The Hermitage lent some key elements to Collins’ plot. But it really was The Moonstone that brought all the elements together, and would go on to influence detective stories from the Sherlock Holmes books on down. 

The Moonstone follows a common Collins pattern in that the story is told by multiple narrators. In this case, the story is set up by the hero, Franklin Blake, who asks the other characters to tell the part of the story they have personal knowledge of. He himself contributes a section as well. No knock on Franklin, but he is the straight man, so the other narrations are more amusing than his, although all of them serve to illuminate the plot - and eventually the mystery. 

The plot itself is a classic: a mysterious diamond, the Moonstone, is stolen from its Hindu shrine by an unscrupulous British officer. From then on, it appears to be followed by a curse, with evil (and often death) pursuing those who possess it. This history is told through the eyes of close associates of the thief as well as those who inherit the diamond. When the main story opens, the reclusive owner of the stone leaves the diamond to his niece, Rachel Verinder, and Franklin is tasked with delivering it to her. She wears the diamond at a party, and it is seen by all, including the three mysterious Indians who are undoubtedly determined to return it to India. 

That night, the diamond disappears, and the best efforts of the local police are insufficient to solve the mystery. Franklin calls in the renowned detective, Sergeant Cuff (a precursor of both Holmes and Joe Friday, so to speak), who presents his theory, but cannot completely solve the case. 

 Sergeant Cuff investigates...

Later, it becomes clear that the moonstone has been placed in a bank vault in London, pledged by an unknown person to a shady moneylender. But who? And how did he or she get the diamond? 

The story is told in turn by three main narrators. The first section is told by Gabriel Betteridge, the Verinder’s head servant, and one of the most delightful characters in Victorian fiction. He is obsessed with Robinson Crusoe, which he believes to be an oracle, a cross between the Bible and Nostradamus. It is his comfort, his guide, and his inspiration. Which he is eager to inflict on those around him. He is also a bit of a misogynist, having had a rather unpleasant marriage, and finding relief in his wife’s death. But, he is loyal, perceptive, and observant, which makes him an excellent servant and a useful narrator. He isn’t exactly a reliable narrator, as he is openly biased, but his attention to detail allows Collins to set the stage with most of the clues needed using just his story. 

The narrative next shifts to Drusilla Clack, Rachel’s impoverished cousin. Miss Clack is a puritanical sort, who pushes her religious beliefs on others with a rather assaultive fervor. 

The final narrator is Franklin Blake, who gets to explain his own investigation into the mystery. He has a particularly personal interest, as he is in love with Rachel, yet she appears to hate him - while refusing to explain why. 

There are other, shorter sections, essentially narrated by other characters: Mr. Bruff, the family attorney; Ezra Jennings, the doctor’s assistant; and Mr. Murthwaite, an adventurer who tells the epilogue. 

While it is pretty tough to spoil a 150 year old book, I will refrain from revealing the solution to the mystery. Suffice it to say that the essential elements of the British tradition of detective story are mostly in place. The “inside job,” the red herring, the bumbling local police, the celebrated investigator, the least likely suspect, and the final twist. It is in bringing all of them together - and in the skillful plotting and writing - that Collins came to be considered the first to do it. 

A couple of things only marginally related to the plot itself stood out. The most notable is the use of opium and addiction. Collins himself became an opium addict, and wrote certain sections of this book from experience. This may have contributed to its sales, as dramatic and lurid opium dreams were all the rage at the time. 

Second, although Victorian literature as a rule (and English Victorian literature in particular) tends to be colonialist and casually racist, I was struck by how little stereotyping Collins did. (For its era - obviously it would have been written very differently today.) The Indians - the three Brahmans tasked with recovering the Moonstone - may be “exotic” in some ways, but they are not savages. Rather, they are skilled at blending in, shapeshifting as necessary to accomplish their goals. Collins also portrays their goals as noble: it is the British officer who has stolen the gem, after all. Sure, the Indians may be ruthless and even murderous, but they are morally consistent and admirable in their own way. 

Third, Collins is a master of obliquely discussing female “purity” in subversive ways, even while maintaining plausible deniability. The Moonstone is a bit of an obvious stand in for virginity, and Rachel’s decision to refuse to defend her own honor is fascinating. Indeed, she feels insulted that she should have to. This is hardly the only Collins book to go there - indeed, the question of purity (and the hypocrisy and double standards of Victorian society) runs through many of his books. His heroines refuse to conform to nice submissive stereotypes. They fight for what is theirs, they pursue love - and money - as they wish. They take risks that only men were allowed to take. The decline to play the game. 

The fourth observation is that Collins had a real eye for the swindlers of his era. No Name skewers medical cons as well as financial. In The Moonstone, it is religious hucksterism in its fundamentalist form that Collins takes on. Collins was religious, but rather unorthodox in his personal life. (He eschewed marriage, choosing instead to live with a woman and raise her daughter as his own, while having a second mistress and three children with her.) He had no patience, however, for Puritans and their determination to create labyrinths of rules. To this end, he lets Miss Clack have enough leash to humiliate herself in her attempts to convert others. Here are some highlights from that. 

I sat down in the hall to wait for my answer--and having always a few tracts in my bag, I selected one which proved to be quite providentially applicable to the person who answered the door. The hall was dirty, and the chair was hard; but the blessed consciousness of returning good for evil raised me quite above any trifling considerations of that kind. The tract was one of a series addressed to young women on the sinfulness of dress. In style it was devoutly familiar. Its title was, “A Word with you on your Cap-Ribbons.”

Betteridge’s daughter, Penelope, to whom the tract was directed, gives an acid response:

She looked at the title. “Is it written by a man or a woman, Miss? If it’s written by a woman, I had rather not read it on that account. If it’s written by a man, I beg to inform him that he knows nothing about it.” 

Yep, the more things change...there is no end of the policing of female clothing. Hey, I wrote a whole series on that! It is pretty hard to disagree with Penelope’s response. MYOB. 

Later in the narrative, Miss Clack tries desperately to convert Rachel’s dying mother with more and more and more books and tracts and sermons. 

Here was a golden opportunity! I seized it on the spot. In other words, I instantly opened my bag, and took out the top publication. It proved to be an early edition--only the twenty-fifth--of the famous anonymous work (believed to be by the precious Miss Bellows), entitled The Serpent at Home. The design of the book--with which the worldly reader may not be acquainted--is to show how the Evil One lies in wait for us in all the most apparently innocent actions of our daily lives. The chapters best adapted to female perusal are “Satan in the Hair-Brush”; “Satan behind the Looking-Glass”; “Satan under the Tea-Table”; “Satan out of the Window”;--and many others. 

“Give all your attention, dear aunt, to this precious book--and you will give me all I ask.” With these words, I handed it to her open, at a marked passage--one continuous burst of burning eloquence! Subject: Satan among the Sofa Cushions.

One wonders if Bill Gothard and Jack Chick took inspiration from this. So many demons lurking in the corners of everyday life. I’d laugh a bit more heartily if I hadn’t had to live through too much of this - and hadn’t been handed the equivalent of these books to convince my wife of the joys of patriarchy. Sigh. Nothing new under the sun, though. 

One final observation. Collins has tremendous sympathy for the outcasts of society, and takes care to show that often our prejudices against people have to do with their appearances, or their socioeconomic status. Rosanna has done time for theft, but is hired by the Verinders, who look past her past. But she is never completely out of suspicion, in significant part because she is deformed. Her tragic end contrasts with the way Godfrey is assumed to be good because of his genteel birth, his charitable work, and his slick manners. Oh, and his handsome face. The lame Lucy is suspected of madness or malevolence because of her deformity as well. Ezra Jennings is a particularly good example. Jennings has a mysterious past which is hinted at, but not stated. Probably, he has an illegitimate child to support, but this is merely an educated guess. He is also of uncertain race, being apparently of mixed heritage. He also describes himself as having a “female constitution,” and being somewhere between male and female. Whether Collins means to hint at intersexuality, homosexuality, or merely some “defect” in “manliness” is unclear. Whatever the case, Jennings is ugly, and thus distrusted and hated by everyone. In each of these cases, though, appearances are deceiving. Rosanna has her demons, but she is ultimately more generous and kind than you would think. Lucy is fiercely loyal and good hearted. And Jennings turns out to be one of the most scrupulously moral and decent people in the book. Godfrey...well, you will have to read the book to find out his fate. 

You never truly know sometimes how a book you enjoyed as a kid or teen will age. There have been a few which were disappointing to re-read as an adult. (Looking at you, H. Rider Haggard…) Others turn out to be even better than remembered. (As in The Great Brain or anything by Beverly Cleary.) I can say, however, having re-read two Wilkie Collins books, that he has aged well. The plots are tight, the characters memorable, the writing good. And, while still of an era, they are less sexist and racist than I feared - Collins humanizes his characters too well for that. The Moonstone is rightly considered a classic. 

Can You Forgive Her? by Anthony Trollope

Source of book: I own this.

Regular readers of my blog know that my favorite Victorian author is Anthony Trollope. I try to read one of his books every year. Past reads since I started writing about them are:

Barsetshire Chronicles:

The Barchester Chronicles (BBC miniseries based on the first two books, The Warden and Barchester Towers)

Dr. Thorne

Framley Parsonage

The Small House at Allington

The Last Chronicle of Barset

Other books:

He Knew He Was Right

Cousin Henry

The Claverings

Orley Farm

These are not, of course, the only Trollope novels I have read. These are the ones I have read since I started blogging in 2010. I should mention Castle Richmond and The Bertrams as particularly excellent books.

***

Having finished the Barsetshire books, I am now starting the Palliser novels. I didn’t know entirely what to expect. After all, most Trollope novels are about some combination of marriage and property, usually both together. Politics can enter into the book, but it is rarely the focus. So far, at least, this series follows the same pattern, even though there is definitely a political component to the plot. 

After my disappointment in Orley Farm, it was good to find that Can You Forgive Her? was a thoroughly enjoyable read, with the nuanced and human characters I was used to. As in the best of Trollope’s works, the heroes are flawed and villains are sympathetic, and people are deeply human, and thus universal despite the specifics of their circumstances. 

Trollope was a conservative, in the traditional sense. (Not in the reactionary and racist sense that today’s Right Wing represents - think Edmund Burke, not Steve Bannon.) He supported maintaining tradition, including the institutions and cultural preferences of his time and place, even as change enveloped him along with the rest of England. 

Because of this, he wasn’t a feminist by any stretch. That much should be said at the outset. I believe this understanding is crucial, because this book centers on some sticky questions of female autonomy, and love versus duty. So, Trollope clearly believes women should forgo following their flighty hearts, and instead choose safe and socially acceptable men. And he seems rather skeptical of the idea that young women can be trusted to make their own decisions without “guidance” from their men and elderly female relatives.

That said, the problem for Trollope is that he is far too good and perceptive a writer to avoid undermining his own personal beliefs by his sympathetic exploration of the minds of his characters. For this reason, the female characters are the most fascinating in this book - and they are the ones that are easy to identify with. Not that the men are uninteresting, but the women are central to the book, and to the questions Trollope grapples with over the course of the book. 

As might be expected in an era when authors were paid by the word, this book is long - 850+ pages in my Oxford edition. This format suits Trollope, as he likes to explore the thoughts of his characters at a leisurely pace, and examine things from multiple points of view. The length also allows Trollope to create three main parallel relationships, each of which is in some way a love triangle, to examine the questions of love and money and respectability. 

The central character is Alice Vavasor, a young woman torn between two men. She has a small income, so she doesn’t have to marry, but she is under a lot of pressure to do so. It is questionable whether she actually loves either of the two men, which is why she ends up doing the socially unforgivable. Her first crush, so to speak, is on her cousin George, who is a bit disreputable and seemingly unable to make good financial decisions. They were once engaged, but George threw her over to pursue an heiress. This didn’t work, so he is now back to pursuing Alice. She, in the meantime, has become engaged to John Grey, who is wealthy and very respectable, but also bland and unambitious. But she has cold feet and breaks up with Grey. Most of the book explores her feelings and determination to marry (if at all) because she wants to, not because of social pressures. 

Not helping matters at all is George’s sister Kate, who seems to have an unhealthy crush on her brother, even though he is rather abusive to her. She would squander her own fortune if she could, to give him what he wants. 

George, in turn, isn’t a truly evil man, although he gives in to his dark side more and more as the book progresses, until he does things he swore he would never do, and follows a dark path from which there is no easy escape. 

The second woman involved in complicated relationships is Alice’s more distant cousin Glencora. Originally, Glencora wanted to marry the dashing (and rakish) Burgo Fitzgerald, and almost did. But her family prevented the match, and practically forced her to marry Plantagenet Palliser, the rising politician and likely heir of the Duke of Omnium. 

Plantagenet, despite his unfortunate name, is not a bad man. But he is unaffectionate, a workaholic, and absolutely hapless when it comes to Glencora. Clearly, he needed more training in interpersonal relationships outside of politics, because he is laughable. Glencora finds him beyond disappointing, naturally, and she resents that she was forced to marry him. She comes close to running off with Fitzgerald, but realizes at the last that she can’t do it. 

These two complicated relationships intertwine, because Alice becomes Glencora’s confidant, and sees her own (potential) future with Grey in light of Glencora’s unhappy marriage. 

The third plot is largely comic relief - but because this is Trollope, it is more than that. Alice and Kate’s aunt married a wealthy old man, and was left a young wealthy widow. She puts on a good show of missing him, but is ready to marry for love (or something like it) this time. She is courted by the hilarious Mr. Cheeseacre, a wealthy farmer hoping to bring even more wealth into the fold. But also interested is Captain Bellfield, who has the social graces Cheeseacre lacks, even if he hasn’t a dime to his name. Aunt Greenow naturally prefers the captain, but plays the two of them off each other to great comic effect. Meanwhile, she hopes to get Cheesacre to marry either Kate (neither of them is interested) or the impoverished yet genteel Charlie Fairstairs. 

So much for the love. How about the politics? 

Mr. Palliser is a member of Parliament, but aspires to climb. He appears to be next in line to become the Chancellor of the Exchequer. Meanwhile, George wishes to enter Parliament, but lacking a safe borough, a wealthy sponsor, or a fortune of his own, must buy his way in as best he can - with whatever money he can talk people out of. While Glencora has zero interest in politics, Alice is fairly knowledgeable and would prefer her husband (whoever he be) to be a part of that world. In fact, that is part of her issue with Mr. Grey. He would be happy to live on his isolated rural estate, and read his books. She would prefer to be in London, and be part of city life and society. But, he is the man, and her job is to support his ambitions - or lack thereof, right?

As with most Trollope novels, the ending isn’t much of a surprise. The plot isn’t really the point, after all. The fun comes with the psychology, with the human drama and personalities reacting to circumstance in line with their characters. 

There are some particularly good lines in this book, a few of which caught my eye. 

The first comes early in the book, when Alice breaks it off with John Grey. Again, Trollope personally supports this match, but his honesty sees the problems with it.

She could not bring herself to hint to him that his views of life were so unlike her own, that there could be no chance of happiness between them, unless each could strive to lean somewhat towards the other. No man could be more gracious in word and manner than John Grey; no man more chivalrous in his carriage towards a woman; but he always spoke and acted as though there could be no question that his manner of life was to be adopted, without a word or thought of doubting, by his wife. When two came together, why should not each yield something, and each claim something? This she had meant to say to him on this day; but now that he was with her she could not say it.

This is just a fantastic passage. One of the reasons my wife did not expect to marry was this very issue. If she was expected to give up her wishes to suit a man’s preferences, she wasn’t interested. Alice is fully justified in her wish to have each spouse compromise, and find common ground. That’s how good marriages work, and why people who have differences (meaning any two people, really) are able to have good relationships. To use a personal example, my wife doesn’t camp with me, but we have a cat. We both have compromised. And we both have gained. 

Another passage illuminated to me why I disliked George. (There were many reasons, even though he was understandable in many ways as well. Another of Trollope’s nuanced villains.) In dissing mountain climbers, George says:

“They rob the mountains of their poetry, which is or should be their greatest charm. Mont Blanc can have no mystery for a man who has been up it a half a dozen times. It’s like getting behind the scenes at a ballet, or making a conjuror explain his tricks.”

Boooo! I love walking up mountains, and they never lose the mystery to me. George probably dislikes poetry and kittens too. 

A minor character is Lady Macleod, Alice’s aunt. Trollope spends a page discussing her essential character traits. Possessed of a bit of her own money, but no spouse or children, Lady Macleod is notorious for pinching pennies - particularly when it comes to paying the working classes. She is stingy with tips, hassles cabmen, and makes her servants miserable. And for what? So she can pass as much of her fortune on as possible. To whom? An even richer relative who won’t possibly notice. 

She was a hospitable, good old woman, painfully struggling to do the best she could in the world. It was a pity that she was such a bore, a pity that she was so hard to cabmen and others, a pity that she suspected all tradesmen, servants, and people generally of a rank of life inferior to her own, a pity that she was disposd to condemn for ever and ever so many of her own rank because they played cards on week days, and did not go to church on Sundays, -- and a pity, as I think above all, that while she was so suspicious of the poor she was so lenient to the vices of earls, earls’ sons, and such like.

That’s world class satire right there. Honestly, this is how I feel about most Evangelicals these days. So quick to be lenient to the nastiness of the rich, and so eager to punish the poor. 

I noted an interesting turn of phrase, used in passing by Lady Glencora. “There’s nothing to see, and the wind is as cold as charity.” There is a whole interesting world in that short line. 

One theme in the book is the utter cluelessness of most of the men when it comes to women. Trollope is pretty merciless in his portrayal of these moments, allowing the hapless males to twist in the wind. They deserve it. I mean, these are pretty elementary human relationship things, not advanced psychology. John Grey fails to read Alice’s need for equality, of course, but his is the most forgivable. It does, however, cost him an engagement and considerable time to repair the damage. George misreads Alice, and tries to impose affection on a relationship that no longer has a base of love and respect. And Mr. Cheeseacre tries to court Aunt Greenow with tales of his wealth. Her sharp tongue lays him out. 

“And look here, Mr. Cheesacre, if it should ever come to pass that you are making love to a lady in earnest--”

“I couldn’t be more in earnest,” said he.

“That you are making love to a lady in earnest, talk to her a little more about your passion and a little less about your purse.”

There are different levels of cluelessness, of course. John Grey is a typical Victorian gentleman, uninterested in questioning the status quo - which benefits him. But his love for a woman eventually motivates him to positive change. In what has to be one of the pivotal lines in the book, Grey discusses Alice with her father. Grey acknowledges that he has been partly to blame for the breakup, and insists that Alice’s “unforgivable” actions do not cast any negative light on her character. 

“I’ve no doubt of her being what you call a good girl,--none in the least. What she has done to me does not impair her goodness. I don’t think you have ever understood how much all this has been a matter of conscience with her.”

Palliser is a bit dense, to say the least, and even a near-catastrophe isn’t able to turn him into a truly sensitive man. But he does start listening a bit - high time, but not quite too late. 

Cheeseacre is a buffoon, of course, and gets a comeuppance, rather than an epiphany. 

And then there is George, who seems to be genuinely misogynistic - increasingly so as time goes on. Psychologically, this is necessary because he has to justify to himself his increasingly abusive behavior toward Kate, Alice, and his secret mistress. Trollope, in a typical passage, lays out “a certain kind of person,” then says that he doesn’t think that George is quite like that, but…

There are men who rarely think well of women,--who hardly think well of any woman. They put their mothers and sisters into the background,--as though they belonged to some sex or race apart,--and then declare to themselves and to their friends that all women are false,--that no woman can be trusted unless her ugliness protect her; and that every woman may be attacked as fairly as may game in a cover, or deer on a mountain. What man does not know men who have so thought?

I certainly have known men like that. I try to avoid them. On a related note, Trollope brings prostitutes into the story (although they aren’t as central as in The Vicar of Bullhampton) while hinting at the question which was debated in his day: if the pre-marital virtue of upper-class females was to be preserved, weren’t prostitutes necessary? One might note that prostitution has dramatically declined since then, rather in lock-step with the loosening of the obsession with upper and middle-class female “purity.” And one might also surmise that a return to Victorian mores might also require a disposable class of “soiled” females to preserve that “purity.” 

There is so much more worth discussing about this book. The way we are unsatisfied when we get what we want. The morality of conventionality versus the morality of compassion. The way that money changes how identical actions are viewed by society. And more.

Can You Forgive Her? is a fascinating book. I was reminded again why I keep returning to Trollope each year. 

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Interesting pop-culture/music connection. Neil Tennant, lead singer for The Pet Shop Boys, read Can You Forgive Her?, and wrote a song about it. It kind of modernizes and updates the quandary of John Grey.