Perception and Honour in Trollope's "The Small House At Allington"

Emily Trace

July 25, 2012

Perception and Honour in the Small House

In the objective annals of history, one might not find many references to virtue and honour having roots in an individual’s intelligence, in their powers of perception, observation and analysis, as such a connection might easily be construed as vanity. But within the medium of literature, this concept may be expressed inoffensively, and demonstrate how honour, far from belonging only to the intellectuals of the world, can be accessible to all through a close study of a character’s mental practices. Anthony Trollope, being a perceptive and judicious creature himself, would never have stated this concept directly in print, for to do so would be in contradiction of the kind of justice and gentility that a thoughtful mind such as his is wont to observe. However, there are ways of making a case for such precepts indirectly, with a delicacy that does not negate the didacticism of the message. Such a diplomatic advocation can be seen in The Small House at Allington, through the constancy, reflection, and ruthlessly honest self-knowledge that the Dale women engage in; and in proportion to this, he also shows how a lack of such qualities expose many of his male characters to dishonourable vanity, delusion, and hypocrisy. In doing so, Trollope illustrates how a thorough self-knowledge of one’s own mind, as well as a sensitive, honest observation and analysis of the world give one a profoundly judicial sense of honour. Through an exploration of the different ways duty is observed, the discrepancies between honesty and delusion, and the resiliency that a strong will can supply, it becomes clear not only that a perceptive mind has a great capacity for honour, but also for resilience and happiness.

From the outset of the novel, Trollope characterizes the Dales by their obstinacy and constant nature, saying that “they had been obstinate men; believing much in themselves; just according to their ideas of justice” (Trollope 3), but it soon becomes clear that the family is not united by this quality, but rather, each possesses individual standards as to how constancy is most honourably expressed. The most immediate instance in which conceptions of constancy diverge occurs when Bernard proposes to Bell only to find himself politely but unambiguously refused. She explains that her familial sentiment towards him “cannot be changed. I know myself well enough to say that with certainty” (85). In response to his insistency on the prudence of the match, she goes on to say that “if I doubted myself, I would let you persuade me. But I do not doubt myself, and I should be wrong to keep you in suspense,” (87), illustrating not only that her knowledge of herself has enabled her to be clear, but also that she considers this expression of certainty as a kindness and duty to her cousin. However, Bernard’s conception of duty is far more superficial than hers, and upon his next attempt, he accuses the very evidences of her kindness as unkindness, her gratitude as ingratitude, and her sense of duty to her own feelings as undutiful to her mother and their uncle (143). However, her thorough knowledge of herself and those around her insulates her from his attack, refuting his claim that she owes her uncle such a marriage, saying that “he can have no right to interfere in the disposal of my hand, and therefore I need not regard his wishes on the subject,” (143). Despite the clarity of her logic, Bernard persists in the same line of flawed reasoning, claiming that the squire’s generosity to her mother ought to make her submit to the proposal, but Bell responds that her uncle has not been as generous as that, and that her mother only lives in the house “because she thinks it better for us that she should do so.” (143) Hitherto, Mrs. Dale has observed what she feels to be her own duty in keeping her unhappiness a secret from her daughters; however, it becomes clear in Bell’s refutation of Bernard’s claim that she is perceptive enough to see through her mother’s dutiful pretence and will not allow her cousin to manipulate her with what she knows to be untrue. Her knowledge in this matter truly is her power, because Bernard’s surface reading of duty, and his authority as the heir to Allington might easily have cowed another in her position. In contrast to Bell’s conception of duty, which is perceptively responsive to reality, Bernard does not engage in his notions of duty, but rather has an entitled complacency as his uncle’s heir. Though Trollope says Bernard has “a great deal of sound, common sense” (58), in his repeated attempts to court Bell, he never modifies his tactics, never recognizes the ineffectiveness of a strategy. In an extension of this, his abject misunderstanding of Bell’s character shows how a lack of perceptiveness can engender hypocritical injustices; he tells her that she refuses him because she is doubtful of herself, “and perhaps, also, somewhat doubtful of others,” (144) even though her refusal is founded on the exact opposite basis. Though the Dale men value constancy in themselves, they do not recognize it when a similar quality manifests itself in opposition to their wishes, though both Lily and Bell display a constancy that is more grounded in an honest knowledge of their own minds, gratifying their consciences as opposed to the wishes of others. 

The squire is similarly susceptible to this hypocritical, self-gratifying conception of duty, ungraciously telling Mrs. Dale that Bell is foolish in her constancy, and that “the wishes of all her family should have very great weight with a girl who has been well brought up” (402). Though this insult to Mrs. Dale is hardly implicit, the squire goes so far as to accuse her of bringing up her daughter to dislike him, even though he is “endeavouring to do my duty by them” (403). In trying to do his duty to Bell by forcing her to conform to standards of duty which clash with his stated standards of honour, Mr. Dale exposes the inconsistencies and injustices of his conception of duty, showing that it is thus far tailored to meet his needs, but not guided by perceptive principals. Mrs. Dale, on the other hand, displays a sense of duty that runs counter to her wishes but is consistent with her principles and unselfish obligation to her daughters, saying that she has “been placed in circumstances which have made it hard for me to do my duty to my children; but I have endeavoured to do it, not regarding my own personal wishes” (403). This sense of duty observed in spite of individual desires is something that has given her daughters’ Dale obstinacy a more perceptive, honourable capacity; instead of being blind and self-serving, both Lily and Bell posses a stubborn sense of duty generated by acute and unforgiving observations of others, and of themselves. For example, Lily’s decision to release Crosbie from the engagement is initiated by her perceptive reading of his behaviour and conversation, and carried through by her merciless thought process. In what he feels is “only doing his duty by her in pointing out to her all the difficulties which lay in the way of their marriage”, Lily becomes aware of his reluctance and regret in regards to their engagement; “her perceptions were keen, and she discovered that the difficulties of which he was afraid were those which he must overcome before his marriage” (155). In response to this, she stays up all night making “many anxious, eager inquiries within her own bosom as to that which she ought to do” (157), and rather than feign ignorance of the conclusion that her deductive observational powers have brought her to, her conscience can only be satisfied by releasing him from his duty to her, saying that “it is my duty to say it. I understand all your position now… when you proposed to me, you thought that I—that I had some fortune” (159). In thus releasing him, Lily demonstrates how a conscience fuelled by honest, perceptive observation of the world is correspondingly generous, as she sees it as her duty to absolve him of his. In an extension of this, her constancy does not permit her to recant this honourable decision even when she finds him to have behaved dishonourably against her; rather than blame him for engaging himself to another so quickly, “…she assured herself it that it was still her duty to love him. It was hard, this duty of loving, without any power of expressing such love. But still she would do her duty” (334). In creating characters whose conceptions of constancy and sense of duty diverge according to the individual’s analytical engagement with the world around them and their own feelings, Trollope shows which school of constancy he favours, and in due course, shows how such constancy is conducive to the individual’s happiness as well as their honour.

Lily Dale’s unforgiving honesty with herself in releasing Crosbie is not only reliant on her similarly unforgiving powers of perception, but also indicative of her ability to manage her worldly desires. When Mrs. Dale and her daughters decide to leave the Small House as a consequence of the conditions that seem to apply to their residence there, Trollope makes it clear that none of the Dale women, not even Bell, the oft-accused Radical and self-confessed advocate of poverty, are absolute paragons of mental purity of such “high-string philosophic” nature that they are completely indifferent to the comforts of the world (412). Neither are they “capable of a wise contempt of the advantages which chance had hitherto given to them”, but rather, their desire for worldly comforts is secondary to and managed by their sensitivity to the demands of pride and honour, and they cannot sacrifice these qualities in order to “purchase those luxuries which they were about to abandon at the price which was asked for them” (412). It is by contrast to their awareness and mastery of their worldly desires that Crosbie’s ambition, vanity, and deluded ability to absolve himself of the pursuit thereof become more reprehensible, not merely because of the injustices he commits, but by his unperceptive rationalization of them.

It becomes clear very soon after Crosbie engages himself to Lily that his love for her is at odds with his love for “clubs, and his fashion, and all that he had hitherto gained”, and that the prospective domesticity he has consigned himself to does not resemble “the kind of Elysium for which he had tutored himself” (73). Though he is aware of the foolishness of training himself for such things, he absolves himself of this foolishness by “intending to be rather noble in the purport of his soliloquy” (73) and fancying that he is submitting bravely to honour rather than entertaining vapid ambitions too vague to be clearly iterated. In contrast to Mrs. Dale, who has been genuinely insulted by the squire and yet bears the injury in silence, Crosbie imagines himself to be the victim of Mr. Dale’s “unexpected misconduct”, and endeavours to make Lily understand that his change in temperament is not due to any “sordid motives” on his part, but the fault of those who have led him astray (127). And in so displacing responsibility, he convinces himself of the justice of his actions, telling himself “scores of times, that when making his offer he had expected, and had a right to expect, that she would not be penniless” (155). By granting himself a right based on imagined victimhood, he is able to extend this delusion and convince himself that he is acting on principle. His ability to mentally absolve himself is seen further when he visits Courcy Castle and commits a great injury by minute degrees so that he can rationalize each treacherous step individually. The solemnity of his morning departure inspires him to swear not to wound either his fiancée or her mother (163), but it is only the oath of a sunrise; the morning dew lasts longer than Crosbie’s morning oaths. Though his sentiment is sincere in the moment, the impermanency of such sentiment means that any promise inspired by it will endure only as long as the feeling persists, but will not be reinforced by any durable code of honour strong enough to withstand the even the barest breezes of temptation. For it is at Courcy Castle where Trollope shows that Crosbie’s honour ends where his ambition and vanity begin. 

Not only is his vanity so extreme that he is acridly offended by Lord Courcy not knowing who he is, but the clerk is delusional enough to compensate for the injury by telling himself that “he was the earl’s equal in social importance” (183). And when he is pressed to declare his engagement, he takes pride in “baffling the charge made against him, without saying anything as which his conscience need condemn him” (189). This ambiguity is more insidiously dangerous than outright dishonestly because it accomplishes a series of psychological gymnastics, first absolving Crosbie of any dishonour while simultaneously awarding him the added honour of observing “solicitude for a lady’s feelings” by not speaking openly of the engagement, and finally completing the injustice by blaming the Lily for “inducing” him to marry and for her “want of reticence” in speaking unashamedly of it (182). Unlike the perceptive, observant minds of the Dale girls, Crosbie has a mind that convinces him of the innocence of his own motives, a flexible honour, with a conscience able to adapt itself to the pursuit of his ambition. This demonstrates how a lack of self-knowledge and internal honesty prevents moral reflection and encourages the corruption of bitterness and greed. Though he is honest with himself that he is more fit for the fashionable, disdainful realm of the De Courcy’s, he is not honest about why; he tells himself multiple times that he could never make Lily Dale happy, using “the old sophistry in his endeavour to teach himself that it was right to do that which he wished to do” (244). And because mere absolution of his honour is never the end of Crosbie’s delusion, he blames the outer world, the world of secretaryships and noble in-laws, for having “such a hold upon him that the love of a pure girl like Lily could not suffice for his happiness” (244). However, if his internal perceptiveness about his own motivations were half as astute and honest as Lily’s is, or his powers of observation half so finely attuned, then the outer world would present a much less powerful temptation. But he has no such faculties, and instead commits a great injury against Lily by telling her he is unworthy of her, which, true as it may be, convinces neither reader nor Trollope of the purity of its intention, as he asks, “How many a false hound of a man has endeavoured to salve his conscience by such mock humility?” (246) As effective as Crosbie is at manipulating his own conscience, his sin is the greater for its pretence of repentance, and Trollope makes it clear that this character is “doubly damned, because he had screened himself from overt punishment by the nature of his own villainy” (298). 

It is only once he has accomplished the aim of his ambition that Crosbie sees how misguided it was, only once he belongs to the noble family that he begins to see how few advantages the alliance offers (267). This sharp change shows how ambition founded upon unobservant delusion cripples one’s ability to perceive value or meditate upon the outcomes of decision with any accurate approximation. In considering ambition, it is useful to contrast Crosbie to John Eames, who too has an affiliation with an earl, but not one sought out and grasped at through ambition. Both men are promoted to secretaryships, but it is the one who did not seek to exploit the privileges of such an alliance who benefits directly from it. Indeed, it is only once Eames has been promoted that he begins to “comprehend what it was to have an earl for a friend”, and though he avoids bringing up the friendship in his professional realm, he still receives “almost daily intimation that the fact was well known there, and not a little considered” (507). But though Eames may not be accused of Crosbie’s vaulting ambition, he exemplifies a kind of delusion himself, just as potentially harmful to Lily as Crosbie’s villainy, just as grounded in the imagination’s power to convince one of the justice of their own injustice, and stemming equally from a want of self-reflection and internal honesty. Though Trollope enumerates Eames’ many mental faculties, being able to read Shakespeare and write critically (148), it becomes clear that this character is woefully unperceptive of the unjust vindictiveness that pervades his inner world. To begin with, Trollope suggests that Eames’ love for Lily is more of a “sentiment rather than a passion” (147) grounded primarily in his imagination rather than in an actual knowledge of her character. And while Crosbie’s lack of premeditation increases the dishonour of his injury against Lily rather than negating it, Eames’ excess of meditation upon the subject is certainly no less violent for its directness. Upon his advances being spurned in the most generous possible manner, his roughness brings her to tears just as surely as Crosbie’s subtler cruelty will in the next chapter, and he departs from the object of his professed affections wishing that “Crosbie would but ill-treat her, — ill-treat her with some antenuptial barbarity” so that he “could be called in to avenge her wrongs!” In indulging in his volatile imagination without critical self-reflection, building up “within his own bosom a castle in the air, for her part in which Lily Dale would by no means have thanked him” (225), Eames does not seem to see the blatantly dishonourable contradiction between his stated feelings and his imagined desires. While Lily continues to love Crosbie even though such love is difficult to bear unreciprocated, the gentleness of Eames’ sentiment for her is conditional upon the gratification of his own feelings.  When this love, grown and nourished almost exclusively within his imagination, is released upon reality in words and accordingly rebuffed, Eames can only soothe the injury by wishing injury upon Lily, so that he might have the opportunity to enact his imagined heroism. In wishing that the man she loves would desert her so that he might have the “privilege of beating the man to death with his fists because of this desertion” (226) Eames proves that he is capable of just as much cruelty to Lily as Crosbie is, and is similarly unaware of the injustice, and indeed selfishness, of his thoughts. Even in acting upon them, by initiating a brawl in a very public locale, he seems to be gratifying his own imagined portrait of himself as a hero rather than considering the injurious way this may affect Lily. He does not even feel satisfied with the experience until he sees Crosbie’s eye swelling and blackening as he pictured it doing so in his imagination, caring only that the “story could be made to tell well for himself hereafter” (371). The fact that this “story” could easily become public in a way that would humiliate and injury Lily never crosses his mind. Trollope spares Lily this mortification and the newspaper spins the story in a way that only reflects badly on Eames, but a reporter would have to do relatively little digging to uncover the real motivation behind the attack, and an editor might easily decide that the truth makes a more compelling story than the false one that was printed. In his lack of perception and delusion about his own heroism, Eames’ risks Lily’s reputation and peace of mind, a fault that might have been avoided if he were as honest with himself about his motivations as Lily is with hers, if he were more critical of his imagination and the actions it engenders.

This delusion that both Crosbie and Eames display is not only harmful to Lily, but harmful to themselves, to both their worldly prospects and their internal subjectivity; yet the reason why it is so harmful to them lies in how Lily’s self-knowledge allows her to endure such immense pain while both her suitors are swiftly conquered by lesser injuries. And herein lies evidence that may seem to contradict the assertion that both Lily and Bell are ruthlessly honest with themselves; in truth, both sisters have a singular subject that they each shield from the harsh light of their astute perception. Bell knows that Dr. Crofts is reticent to marry without the money to support a wife, and though she understands that he would ask her if he could (211), she still “made up her mind with great firmness that she was not in love with him. I may certainly say that there was nothing in the world as to which she was so certain as she was of this” (212). But this certainty is not the same as the certainty with which she refused Bernard; here, her talent for certainty is used to manage feelings that her thorough self-knowledge detects to be potentially painful both to herself and Crofts. For she does indeed love Crofts, as is revealed upon his proposal to her; when they first met “she had dreamed that he had loved her, and had fancied that she had loved him”, but because of his financial reservations, she had “taught herself that her thoughts had been overbold!” (430) Rather than gratifying her own wishes, she absolves Crofts of responsibility and sternly insulates herself from possible heartbreak. This instance of mental censorship is, in this way, an expression of her self-knowledge rather than a weakness within it.

Lily, similarly, firmly guides her feelings about Crosbie and militantly governs her expression of them, not in a manner that would contradict her perceptive powers but rather confirms them. From the moment of their engagement she perceives his worldliness and ungenerous nature, but “she would not acknowledge it even to herself” (154) and right up until the day he marries another woman she does not allow herself to speak in bitterness against him, saying that she was “very foolish to let him love me, at a moment’s notice… I gave myself up to him at once, without giving him a chance of thinking of it” (481). Lily may be rationalizing but she does so out of generosity rather than injustice to another, indicting herself so as to absolve Crosbie even though he pays her the opposite courtesy. This, however, is not merely an expression of how Lily’s self-knowledge and certainty allow her to perform honourably on behalf of others, but is more significantly the source of her emotional resiliency. It is clear that her observant mind has been collecting evidence for this eventuality for months, not only from how quickly she realizes something is wrong when the letter from Crosbie arrives for her mother and in how she anticipates its contents (324), but most significantly in her perusal of the letter itself. She reads the injurious document steadily “until she came to the line on which Crosbie told that he had already engaged himself to another woman … she paused suddenly, and that a shudder slightly convulsed her limbs” (326). Though she endeavours to trust him, Lily has been psychologically preparing herself for this injury, which is evident in how the only information that undermines her serene self-control is that which she was not able to observe, anticipate and accordingly prepare herself for. Yet despite this, her certainty allows her to speak her the injury with strength, saying “‘I know I can bear it … and that I can bear it without lasting unhappiness’” (333). When she says that she will never fall in love again, about which she has made her up mind “clearly and with absolute certainty” (458), both Mrs. Dale and Bell see this certainty as frightening, self-destructive even, but Lily’s certainty that she will never be in love again is the same certainty that she will not allow her grief to overpower her (485), and the two are conditional upon one another, at least in this initial stage of her grief. It doesn’t become clear how integral this certainty is to Lily’s peace of mind until John Eames presses his feelings upon her once more, forcing her to speak decisively on the matter. When he reproaches her for not granting him the one thing he wants in the world, she responds:

Are you worse off than I am? I could not have that one thing, and I was nearer to my heart’s longings that you have ever been. I cannot have that one thing; but I know that there are other things, and I will not allow myself to be broken-hearted.” (595)

He says that this is because she is stronger than him, but here Lily iterates the link between her strength and her certainty, saying that she is not stronger, “but more certain. Make yourself as sure as I am, and you, too, will be strong” (595). Feeling that she would be disgraced if she admitted the love of another man, it becomes clear that Lily needs her certainty not just to behave honourably for her family’s sake, but also to process and manage the pain of being so heartlessly deserted. She knows the condition of her internal self well enough and is honest enough with her own capabilities that to do other than her own mind and heart dictate would mortally injure her psychologically, more deeply than the initial injury itself, and with such a vivid will to survive, acquiescing to the wills of others and thereby wounding herself is not an option. Eames does not enjoy half of the honour or happiness she supplies for herself because he allows himself to be led by his imagination and by the wills of others, namely, the encouragement of Lord De Guest. He says to the earl, “‘the truth is, I don’t know what I ought to do, and can only trust to you not to put me in the wrong’” (512), and as the earl continually gives him confident but generalized advice about women, Eames would do better to pay closer attention to the specific woman in question and to deduce a more prudent, considerate course of action from perceptive observation. Lord De Guest advises him to boldly demand of Lily her hand in marriage, a course of action anyone with the slightest knowledge of the girl would advise against, but so desirous is Eames of success that he takes this “advice as being in itself good, and resolved to act upon it” (589). In his predictable failure, he “almost hated the earl for having brought him to this condition” and blames him for talking him “out of his common sense” (597), but he would have had no need for this remonstration if he had used his own common sense, his own knowledge of Lily, and honestly inferred what was the most prudent course of action. Furthermore, when he entertains hope of her hand and his life is going promisingly, his hatred for Crosbie all but evaporates, and “he had no longer any very bitter feeling against Crosbie. That matter had been arranged on the platform of the Paddington Station” (570). Rather than a sign of the maturity that Trollope insists Eames is acquiring, this evidence of a persistent childlike self-centredness that still keeps him from coming fully into manhood. The matter may have been settled for him at the railway station because it satisfied his imagination’s need to avenge Lily’s honour in the manner of a hero, but the matter is by no means settled for the woman herself. This is confirmed when, upon being rejected by Lily, Eames automatically reacquires his hatred for Crosbie (598). Had his regard for Lily been based upon a true knowledge of her character and his hatred for Crosbie on a real concern for Lily’s honour, neither sentiment would so easily be swayed by either his imagination or reality. But as it is, both his love and hatred lack consistency and integrity, qualities that he only begins to acquire after heeding the one valuable piece of advice Lord De Guest gives him, to bear with dignity one’s inner struggles, that “it behoves us to bear it that the world shall not suspect” (641). Since Eames has not deduced yet that this is the core of Lily’s strength, the advice is well bestowed.  

It is through an analysis of Lily Dale and John Eames’ respective engagements with the reflection on and expression of their feelings that one can see how Trollope favours Lily’s approach of arbitrating between her inner and outer selves. Furthermore, he demonstrates how her self-knowledge imbues her certainty with the double advantage of both preserving her honour while protecting her from overwhelming pain, and in doing so, makes a case for why a reader might benefit from adopting such perceptiveness as a personal psychological strategy.

Though Trollope was indisputably an intelligent author, it is clear from The Small House at Allington that he does not regard natural intelligence as, in itself, the sole basis of virtue. In speaking on the thoughtlessness of youth, he says that “thought will not at once produce wisdom” (146), and means that mental capacities by themselves do not equate an honourable character. However, by narrowing in on the qualities that have been a consequence of natural intelligence in Lily and Bell, such as perceptive engagement with oneself and the world, critical observation, he shows how these skills inform a more complete performance of duty, provide one with the resources to cope with pain, and perhaps enable a more thorough expression of love.

Works Cited

Trollope, Anthony. The Small House at Allington. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1985. Print.