Castle Richmond

Anthony Trollope

Description

Castle Richmond is about the fortunes and relationships of two families of the Irish aristocracy, set against the harrowing background of the Great Famine. Sir Thomas Fitzgerald is being blackmailed by two disreputable men over the question of his children's legitimacy. His relative, who stands to inherit should the children prove illegitimate, is caught between the girl he loves and the girl's mother, who loves him.

Sujets

• Historical fiction

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 juillet 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781775418306
• Langue: English

Extrait

CASTLE RICHMOND
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
 
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Castle Richmond From a 1906 edition ISBN 978-1-775418-30-6 © 2010 The Floating Press
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Contents
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Introduction Chapter I - The Barony of Desmond Chapter II - Owen Fitzgerald Chapter III - Clara Desmond Chapter IV - The Countess Chapter V - The Fitzgeralds of Castle Richmond Chapter VI - The Kanturk Hotel, South Main Street, Cork Chapter VII - The Famine Year Chapter VIII - Gortnaclough and Berryhill Chapter IX - Family Councils Chapter X - The Rector of Drumbarrow and His Wife Chapter XI - Second Love Chapter XII - Doubts Chapter XIII - Mr. Mollett Returns to South Main Street Chapter XIV - The Rejected Suitor Chapter XV - Diplomacy Chapter XVI - The Path Beneath the Elms Chapter XVII - Father Barney Chapter XVIII - The Relief Committee Chapter XIX - The Friend of the Family Chapter XX - Two Witnesses Chapter XXI - Fair Arguments Chapter XXII - The Telling of the Tale Chapter XXIII - Before Breakfast at Hap House Chapter XXIV - After Breakfast at Hap House Chapter XXV - A Muddy Walk on a Wet Morning Chapter XXVI - Comfortless Chapter XXVII - Comforted Chapter XXVIII - For A' that and A' That Chapter XXIX - Ill News Flies Fast Chapter XXX - Pallida Mors Chapter XXXI - The First Month Chapter XXXII - Preparations for Going Chapter XXXIII - The Last Stage Chapter XXXIV - Farewell Chapter XXXV - Herbert Fitzgerald in London Chapter XXXVI - How the Earl was Won Chapter XXXVII - A Tale of a Turbot Chapter XXXVIII - Condemned Chapter XXXIX - Fox-Hunting in Spinny Lane Chapter XL - The Fox in His Earth Chapter XLI - The Lobby of the House of Commons Chapter XLII - Another Journey Chapter XLIII - Playing Rounders Chapter XLIV - Conclusion
Introduction
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"Castle Richmond" was written in 1861, long after Trollope had leftIreland. The characterization is weak, and the plot, although theauthor himself thought well of it, mechanical.
The value of the story is rather documentary than literary. Itcontains several graphic scenes descriptive of the great Irishfamine. Trollope observed carefully, and on the whole impartially,though his powers of discrimination were not quite fine enough tomake him an ideal annalist.
Still, such as they were, he has used them here with noinconsiderable effect. His desire to be fair has led him to laystress in an inverse ratio to his prepossessions, and his Priest is abetter man than his parson.
The best, indeed the only piece of real characterization in the bookis the delineation of Abe Mollett. This unscrupulous blackmaileris put before us with real art, with something of the lovingpreoccupation of the hunter for his quarry. Trollope loved a rogue,and in his long portrait gallery there are several really charmingones. He did not, indeed, perceive the aesthetic value of sin—he didnot perceive the esthetic value of anything,—and his analysis ofhuman nature was not profound enough to reach the conception of sin,crime being to him the nadir of downward possibility—but he had aprofessional, a sort of half Scotland Yard, half master of houndsinterest in a criminal. "See," he would muse, "how cunningly thecreature works, now back to his earth, anon stealing an unsuspectedrun across country, the clever rascal;" and his ethical disapprovalever, as usual, with English critics of life, in the foreground,clearly enhanced a primitive predatory instinct not obscurelyakin, a cynic might say, to those dark impulses he holds up toour reprobation. This self-realization in his fiction is one ofTrollope's principal charms. Never was there a more subjectivewriter. Unlike Flaubert, who laid down the canon that the authorshould exist in his work as God in creation, to be, here or there,dimly divined but never recognized, though everywhere latent,Trollope was never weary of writing himself large in every man,woman, or child he described.
The illusion of objectivity which he so successfully achieves isdue to the fact that his mind was so perfectly contented with itshereditary and circumstantial conditions, was itself so perfectlythe mental equivalent of those conditions. Thus the perfection ofhis egotism, tight as a drum, saved him. Had it been a little lesscomplete, he would have faltered and bungled; as it was, he had thenaive certainty of a child, to whose innocent apprehension the worldand self are one, and who therefore cannot err.
ALGAR THOROLD.
Chapter I - The Barony of Desmond
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I wonder whether the novel-reading world—that part of it, at least,which may honour my pages—will be offended if I lay the plot ofthis story in Ireland! That there is a strong feeling against thingsIrish it is impossible to deny. Irish servants need not apply; Irishacquaintances are treated with limited confidence; Irish cousins areregarded as being decidedly dangerous; and Irish stories are notpopular with the booksellers.
For myself, I may say that if I ought to know anything about anyplace, I ought to know something about Ireland; and I do stronglyprotest against the injustice of the above conclusions. Irish cousinsI have none. Irish acquaintances I have by dozens; and Irish friends,also, by twos and threes, whom I can love and cherish—almost aswell, perhaps, as though they had been born in Middlesex. Irishservants I have had some in my house for years, and never had onethat was faithless, dishonest, or intemperate. I have travelled allover Ireland, closely as few other men can have done, and have neverhad my portmanteau robbed or my pocket picked. At hotels I haveseldom locked up my belongings, and my carelessness has never beenpunished. I doubt whether as much can be said for English inns.
Irish novels were once popular enough. But there is a fashion innovels, as there is in colours and petticoats; and now I fear theyare drugs in the market. It is hard to say why a good story shouldnot have a fair chance of success whatever may be its bent; why itshould not be reckoned to be good by its own intrinsic merits alone;but such is by no means the case. I was waiting once, when I wasyoung at the work, in the back parlour of an eminent publisher,hoping to see his eminence on a small matter of business touchinga three-volumed manuscript which I held in my hand. The eminentpublisher, having probably larger fish to fry, could not see me, butsent his clerk or foreman to arrange the business.
"A novel, is it, sir?" said the foreman.
"Yes," I answered; "a novel."
"It depends very much on the subject," said the foreman, witha thoughtful and judicious frown—"upon the name, sir, and thesubject;—daily life, sir; that's what suits us; daily English life.Now your historical novel, sir, is not worth the paper it's writtenon."
I fear that Irish character is in these days considered almost asunattractive as historical incident; but, nevertheless, I will makethe attempt. I am now leaving the Green Isle and my old friends, andwould fain say a word of them as I do so. If I do not say that wordnow it will never be said.
The readability of a story should depend, one would say, on itsintrinsic merit rather than on the site of its adventures. Noone will think that Hampshire is better for such a purpose thanCumberland, or Essex than Leicestershire. What abstract objection canthere then be to the county Cork?
Perhaps the most interesting, and certainly the most beautiful partof Ireland is that which lies down in the extreme south-west, withfingers stretching far out into the Atlantic Ocean. This consists ofthe counties Cork and Kerry, or a portion, rather, of those counties.It contains Killarney, Glengarriffe, Bantry, and Inchigeela; andis watered by the Lee, the Blackwater, and the Flesk. I know notwhere is to be found a land more rich in all that constitutes theloveliness of scenery.
Within this district, but hardly within that portion of it which ismost attractive to tourists, is situated the house and domain ofCastle Richmond. The river Blackwater rises in the county Kerry, andrunning from west to east through the northern part of the countyCork, enters the county Waterford beyond Fermoy. In its course itpasses near the little town of Kanturk, and through the town ofMallow: Castle Richmond stands close upon its banks, within thebarony of Desmond, and in that Kanturk region through which theMallow and Killarney railway now passes, but which some thirteenyears since knew nothing of the navvy's spade, or even of theengineer's theodolite.
Castle Richmond was at this period the abode of Sir ThomasFitzgerald, who resided there, ever and always, with his wife, LadyFitzgerald, his two daughters, Mary and Emmeline Fitzgerald, and,as often as purposes of education and pleasure suited, with his sonHerbert Fitzgerald. Neither Sir Thomas nor Sir Thomas's house hadabout them any of those interesting picturesque faults which are sogenerally attributed to Irish landlords and Irish castles. He wasnot out of elbows, nor was he an absentee. Castle Richmond had noappearance of having been thrown out of its own windows. It was agood, substantial, modern family residence, built not more thanthirty years since by the late baronet, with a lawn sloping downto the river, with kitchen gardens and walls for fruit, with amplestables, and a clock over the entrance to the stable yard. It stoodin a well-timbered park duly stocked with deer,—and with foxes also,which are agricultural animals much more valuable in an Irish countythan deer. So that as regards its appearance Castle Rich