Patriarchal Desire and Victorian Discourse: A Lacanian Reading of Anthony Trollope's Palliser Novel 9781487574482

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Patriarchal Desire and Victorian Discourse

PRISCILLA L. WALTON

Patriarchal Desire and Victorian Discourse: A Lacanian Reading of Anthony Trollope's Palliser Novels

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO PRESS Toronto Buffalo London

© University of Toronto Press Incorporated 1995 Toronto Buffalo London Printed in Canada Reprinted in 2018

ISBN 978-1-4875-8574-7 (paper)

Printed on acid-free paper

Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data

Walton, Priscilla L. Patriarchal desire and Victorian discourse : a Lacanian reading of Anthony Trollope's Palliser novels Includes bibliographical references. ISBN o-8020-0655-8 I. Trollope, Anthony, 1815-1882. Palliser novels. 2. Trollope, Anthony, 1815-1882. Characters - Women. 3. Women in literature. 4. Lacan, Jacques, 19c>1-1g81. I. Title.

PR5688.W6w35 1995

823'.8

c95-930026-0

University of Toronto Press acknowledges the financial assistance to its publishing program of the Canada Council and the Ontario Arts Council. This book has been published with the help of a grant from the Canadian Federation for the Humanities, using funds provided by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada.

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS /

vii

1 The Politics of Desire in An Autobiography I 3 2 Subject(ed) Desire in Can You Forgi,ve Her? I 21

3 Desire, Control, and Suppression in Phineas Finn I 42 4 Desire and Displacement in The Eustace Diamonds I 64 5 Subjectivity and Masquerade in Phineas Redux I 88 6 Ego Drives and Difference in The Prime Minister I 113 7 Desire and Disenfranchisement in The Duke's Children I 139 Conclusion: Discourse and Desire /

162

NOTES/ 167 SELECTED LIST OF WORKS CONSULTED / 169 INDEX / 177

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank a number of people who contributed substantively to the following pages. As always, I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to Linda Hutcheon both for the inspiration she provides and for her faith in me. I would also like to thank my friend and research assistant, Suzanne Kiely, whose sharp eyes and fine mind strengthened the development of the argument throughout the book. My editor, Suzanne Rancourt, has been extremely supportive, and I cannot thank her enough. Peter Rabinowitz, Nancy Adamson,Jamie Barlowe,Jane Drover, Helen Hoy, Maninajones, Barbara Leckie, Lindsay Mann, Shannon McLoughlin, Peter Medway, Stephen Moyse, and Cheryl Torsney were always there when I needed them, offering invaluable assistance and support. Each, in his or her own way, taught me a great deal about feminist practice. I am fortunate enough to work (and to have worked) with such friends and colleagues as Robin MacDonald, Enoch Padolsky, Ben Jones, Parker Duchemin, Barbara Gabriel, and David Latham, who, always generous with their time, also provided me with useful suggestions. I am grateful to them for their help. I would like to thank the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada and the Canadian Foundation for the Humanities for their generous research stipends, as well as the Dean of Arts and the Dean of Graduate Studies and Research at Carleton University. This book is dedicated to the memory of my brother, William Bruce McMillan, whose premature death in June 1994 shadowed the completion of the manuscript. I would also like to express my heartfelt thanks and love to my grandmother and my parents, whose encouragement has never wavered.

Patriarchal Desire and Victorian Discourse

The Politics of Desire An Autobiography

.

Ill

I teach nineteenth-century English literature, and there is no question about women author~ there. The important question there is, shall we make room for Trollope? KATE FANSLER

Amanda Cross's novel Sweet Death, Kind Death, published in 1984, provides the epigraph to this chapter. In the passage cited, Kate Fansler, Cross's academic sleuth, implies that Trollope is a literary figure of questionable significance, a writer who may well be excluded from the syllabus of a course in the nineteenth-century novel without damage to the breadth of that course. Cross's/Fansler's question is important, since detective fiction, an exemplar of literary Realism, draws upon 'commonly accepted' social norms and codes in order to effect its air of reality. The marginalization of Trollope, therefore, is presented in this novel as a literary 'given,' a presentation that affirms and reinscribes what readers (are already expected to) know and accept. Since contemporary nineteenthcentury literary studies frequently throw into question the worth of Trollope's writings, Fansler's assessment is legitimized by the climate in the academy.' Even while Trollope is being dismissed from university syllabuses, however, he is enjoying a certain popularity as the subject of biographical study. Victoria Glendinning's 1992 biography of Trollope was the fourth biography published since 1988. 2 If one assumes that publishing houses do their homework so as not to flood a market with books in which no one is interested, the sheer number of texts produced in this four-year period suggests that Trollope has become a figure of some significance. Trolwpe: The Movie may still be a long time in coming (although both the Barsetshire Novels and the Palliser Novels have been made into BBC

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Patriarchal Desire and Victorian Discourse

movies), but given the writer's prominence as a subject of interest, it may be time for academics to rethink their position on Trollope and to reassess his importance, if not for literary then for cultural study. Although the publication of four biographies of a particular author does not necessarily betoken an interest in that author's work, in Trollope's case it would seem that it does. Oxford's Centenary edition of the Palliser Novels was launched in 1982, and WJ. McCormack, the general editor of the project, provides an interesting assessment of Trollope's popularity, in his foreword to the edition, when he notes, 'Trollope has always been popular but the 1970s and '8os have seen a renewed and distinctive interest in his work' (vii). McCormack's statement, here, raises the question of why a Trollopean renaissance should be in effect at this particular moment in time. And I would speculate that Trollope's appeal to contemporary readers may lie in his political topicality. In this study, I will argue that the motivating force behind Trollope's Palliser Novels is located in an effort to disenfranchise women, and this is a concern that similarly preoccupies many late-twentieth-century readers and critics. There are certain parallels that can be and, indeed, have been drawn between the second half of the nineteenth and that of the twentieth century. In Sexual Anarchy, Elaine Showalter examines the shift in gender roles that took place in the Victorian period, and observes that the shift has similarities with the gender conflicts of the present ( 1-18). Kate Flint, in her introduction to the Oxford Centenary edition of Can You Forgi,ve Her?, draws attention to the 'woman problem' that was generated by the increasing number of unattached, single women during the nineteenth century, and that gave rise to anxiety over the stability of Victorian patriarchy (xv-xxiv) . This anxiety is mirrored in the apprehensions of the 1980s and 1990s about the power women wield, which find voice in the 'backlash' so aptly addressed by Susan Faludi in her 1992 bestseller Backlash: The Undeclared War against American Women. In turn, academic studies like Tania Modleski's Feminism without Women: Culture and Criticism in a 'Postfeminist' Age document and critique cultural fears of powerful women and the strength of their positions in contemporary society. While I do not want to pursue in detail the parallels that have been drawn between the two centuries, I do want to highlight the late-twentieth-century effort to marginalize women, since it has similarities with the political impetus of the Palliser Novels. At present, feminist writers and critics (Faludi and Modleski among their number) find an analogy between the growing inclination of the popular media to glorify the home and to demonize single women, and the postfeminist effort to

The Politics of Desire in An Autolnography

5

move women out of the middle- and upper-class workforce and back into domestic confines. Interestingly, a similar movement is apparent in Trollope's Palliser Novels, for their ideological concerns correspond to contemporary preoccupations with gender. The Palliser Novels, also called the 'parliamentary,' or 'political' novels, which were produced between 1864 and 1880, focus on Parliament and the administrative structure of nineteenth-century Britain; in so doing, they draw attention to the power dynamic at play within the Victorian social structure. Flint has argued that the politics highlighted in the Palliser Novels are specifically sexual politics (xv) , and, developing her contention, I will concentrate on the ways in which these novels allow for a detailed study of feminine encoding within Victorian culture. The Palliser Novels repeatedly appeal to women as subjects to accept their objectification in patriarchal culture. Hence, these texts provide a dramatic example of the workings of patriarchal logic and its dependence upon the suppression of women. On the one hand, the novels portray strong and vital women who are seduced or forced into the home, where they find 'happiness' (Violet Chiltern, Alice Vavasor, and Marie Goesler); on the other, they depict women who become dissatisfied with their lot and desire a subject position within the discourse, but who are inevitably excluded from it, through social marginalization (Lady Laura Standish), madness (Lucinda Roanoke), financial distress (Lady Mabel Grex), or death (Lady Glencora Palliser) . As the novels appeal to woman as subject to accept her position as object (since it is in ' her' best interests to do so), the ideological inconsistencies of their covert message foreground the power dynamic that underpins them. The novels evince a politics of desire, since it is desire that propels the texts and desire that is manifested within them. In the following chapters, I will trace desire and its function in patriarchal ideology, and will analyse how the subordination of woman becomes necessary to strengthen the subjectivity of man. The structure of desire apparent in Trollope's An Autolnography, which provides the focus of this chapter, will serve as a paradigm for my readings of the Palliser Novels. But before I turn to An Autolnography, I would like to outline the theoretical framework of my argument, in the hope that this outline will contribute to an understanding of the operation of the patriarchal power dynamic and the ways in which it preys upon the anxieties of its male subjects as it works to subjugate and objectify women. Many theorists focus on the primacy of desire in human relations (Deleuze and Guattari, Kristeva, and Cixous, among others), but the writings ofJacques Lacan are perhaps best suited to an explanation of the cultural

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Patriarchal Desire and Victorian Discourse

effects of desire in patriarchal society. Nineteenth-century patriarchal or male-centred culture relies upon the ideology of Cartesian humanism, a belief system that posits subjects as coherent and rational, sources of meaning and control. Through humanist ideology, patriarchal culture elides the inconsistencies within its ethos, inconsistencies that reveal its subjects as conflicted and split, driven by desire to support the power dynamic that the system promotes. Lacanian psychoanalytic theory is particularly useful in an assessment of the appeal of humanist ideology, for it posits the subject as divided and disrupted, already driven by desire to attain the coherence and wholeness it promises. Yet since coherence and wholeness can never be achieved within this system or any other, the subject is perpetually driven to attain that which eludes it. Lacan contends that the idea of unity within the self is fallacious, for the subject comprises discord: The One of meaning is the being, the being specified by the unconscious inasmuch as it ex-ists, ex-ists at least to the body, for the striking thing is that it ex-ists in discord. There is nothing in the unconscious which accords with the body. The unconscious is discordant. The unconscious is that which, by speaking, determines the subject as being, but as a being to be crossed through with that metonymy by which I support desire, in so far as it is endlessly impossible to speak as such. (Feminine 164-5)

If, as Lacan suggests, the subject is split and conflicted, then Cartesianism, in fact, appeals to the subject's desire for unity by assuming its existence and working to confirm it. Cartesianism, in turn, is used to support and legitimize a social power dynamic that seeks to perpetuate itself. The power dynamic relies upon the subject's desire for inclusion in order to support the social stratification it engenders. The subject's attraction to this ideologically sustained system arises from its own desire to perceive itself as rational and coherent. Although this argument at first glance may appear solipsistic, the structure of the unconscious, as Lacan describes it, is such that the 'individual' has already misrecognized itself as the source of meaning and control. In Lacanian theory, the subject's development proceeds through the mirror and Oedipal stages. It is during the mirror stage that the subject perceives itself as a unified being, separate from its surroundings. Although the idea of unity is imaginary, it directs the subject's behaviour. In the mirror stage, the body of the mother enforces the child's believed wholeness within itself (the separation of the 'I' from the Other as well

The Politics of Desire in An Autobiog;raphy

7

as the constitution of the 'I' in the Other), and during the Oedipal stage, the subject perceives the mother's desire for the father as more important to her than her desire for the child-subject. The Oedipal stage heralds the child's entry into the Symbolic phase of language, in which it experiences both lack and desire. During this stage, the subject misrecognizes itself as the source of meaning and control and tries to achieve the coherence it mistakenly believes it can embody (the difference between the 'I' which speaks and the 'I' which is represented in speech); the subject embarks upon a course of displaced desires that will govern its existence. Although the subject desires to fulfil itself, desire, lik~ language, effects only a perpetual deferral. For Lacan, the deferral and displacement of desire begins when the subject perceives the father as the holder of the Phallus and the locus of control. The subject perceives the Phallus as the transcendental signifier that will restore coherence and unity, for it acts as the source of meaning. This source serves as the Name-of-the-Father, which is initially displaced onto the father, whom the child perceives as the holder of the Phallus. The child wants to perform the role of the father, to bear the Name-ofthe-Father, but is unable to do so. As the subject grows, the father as source of control is displaced, for the subject realizes that it has substituted the father in the place of the Name-of-the-Father, which is itself reflected in the social and cultural order in which the subject lives. Culture assumes the role of the Name-of-the-Father and performs as the holder of the Phallus. The Phallus is the source of meaning which promises the satisfaction of desire in the Symbolic world. The desire for control through possession of the Phallus becomes the primary motivating force of the subject. Although no subject can ever occupy a Symbolic site or control desire, the subject continues to seek that site or that control, and this process sets in motion a nexus of desire and control that is used to sustain social hierarchization. In attempting to centre the Self, the subject displaces its desires onto a control of the Other, the site which allows the subject to delineate itself through a series of distinguishing 'differences.' It is difficult to discern whether the desire for the Phallus motivates the subject and results in social hierarchies, or whether the social hierarchies that exist can be explained in terms of the search for the Phallus. In either case, Lacan's focus on the Phallus has led feminist critics to argue that his theories are distinctly unsatisfactory in their treatment of women. Since, in a Lacanian framework, woman is denied entrance into the Symbolic, this framework does not adequately account for feminine subjec-

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Patriarchal Desire and Victorian Discourse

tivity. Lacan's premise is problematic, and I agree with feminist theorists who argue that his theories require revision and repositioning; however, Lacanian theory is still useful for explicating the dynamic at play within patriarchy. Lacan's work is constructive as a critique of an existing structure, if not as a basis for revising that structure. But what does Lacanian theory have to do with Trollope and Victorian patriarchal discourse? Lacan's theories explain the ways in which a subject's desire to become the source of control and meaning is reflected in a power dynamic that posits social and political hierarchies. From within the framework of desire, it is apparent that the illusion of control and meaning which the system proffers constitutes its appeal; however, since the social system cannot fulfil the subject's desire, it seeks to displace it, and woman serves as the ultimate site of displacement. Patriarchy exhibits a hierarchized system that places the privileged at the centre, the less privileged in an ex-centric or marginal position, and woman outside the paradigm. The desire to control perpetuates the system. Although, as a discourse, nineteenth-century patriarchal thought relies upon humanist ideology both to disguise and to justify the status quo it posits, it does not depict the coherent and rational subjects it promises. The centred subjects of the discourse are not themselves whole or unified, but occupy a privileged position and work to maintain and justify that position through control of others. By controlling, these subjects indirectly lend themselves the illusion that they are acting as sources of coherence and stability. The sexual and emotional desires that govern them are displaced onto a desire to control and repress the ex-centric, a repression that, when effected, serves to alleviate their frustrated desires for self-fulfilment. Exerting power lends the subjects the illusion of holding power. The centre is also involved in the perpetuation of the myth of wholeness, and offers inclusion within the centre to the margins as a guarantee of the margins' completion. However, since centricity arises through a combination of breeding and money, while the centre suggests to the ex-centric that inclusion is possible, it also reveals inclusion to be a 'Phallacy.' Indeed, the centre requires the margins as margins in order to be centre. It cannot include the outside for that would be to negate its own signification - it can exist only in relation to an/Other, and its Other is manifested in the margins and in woman. The outside subjects subscribe to the idea that they can centre themselves and achieve fulfilment. But the ex-centric subject can never become one with the centre and is encouraged to work to support the centre and to fulfil itself in love relationships that will guarantee it the illusion of

The Politics of Desire in An Autobiography

9

wholeness. Control again becomes a mode of displaced desire. If an excentric subject can achieve control in a love relationship, it too can perform like the centre, which performs like the Name-of-the-Father, the holder of the Phallus - the desire for which sets in motion the entire chain of displaced desires evident in the discourse. The figures who are ultimately controlled in this dynamic are women. They are the final reward for the margins - they serve as sites of control - and the system's ultimate solution for those who cannot be a part of the centre and yet desire mastery. It is important to the power dynamic that woman accept her position as object, for without her, the entire system would unravel and reveal its own inability to fulfil desire or effect coherence. Woman is inscribed as the ultimate Other which allows the system to function. Yet, because patriarchal ideology asserts itself as a natural order, woman poses a problem to it. This ideology appeals to woman as subject - since she is included in its Cartesian discourse as a thinking, knowing being - to accept her position as object. But since she believes that she is accorded a subject position, objectification is not generally acceptable to her. I would argue that it is as a result of this contradiction that the female characters who inhabit the Palliser Novels are problematic. The Palliser Novels serve as exemplars of the patriarchal power dynamic, a dynamic that cannot encompass woman as both subject and object. Hence, while the novels attempt to persuade woman as subject that the system they privilege is in her best interests and provides the only means whereby she can attain fulfilment, they foreground the contradictions and inconsistencies of their own ethos. Trollope's Palliser Novels work to establish patriarchy as a natural order, at the same time that they reveal its reliance upon the subjugation of women. These texts provide particularly intriguing and complex examples of the workings of patriarchy and its effort to appeal to women to accept a subordinate and objectified position. Given the impetus of the 1980s and 1990s backlash, this argument may well interest readers intent on exploring patriarchal efforts to legitimize the ideological basis of masculinism. And if Trollope's novels are enjoying new currency among contemporary readers, it may be that the ideology they manifest is one with which general readers have become familiar and have learned to accept as a result of their exposure to current attempts to disenfranchise women. Before I turn to Trollope's position within the social structure, a position that I will argue provides him with a singular vantage point from which to explore the workings of patriarchal logic, I would like to address

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Patriarchal Desire and Victorian Discourse

the problem of 'text' and 'author.' In saying, as I have, that the novels exhibit a power dynamic, I am positing agency in the novels. Because structuralist and post-structuralist theories have challenged the idea of the 'author' as source of meaning, there is a tendency in writings informed by these theories to locate meaning in textual impetus and to retrieve the author's previous function through the back door. While I may fall prey to this criticism, I use 'text' to refer to what has been called a 'textual unconscious,' which Robert Con Davis explains as follows: 'Lacan's primary contribution to psychoanalysis - and, by extension, to narrative theory - has been to elaborate this notion of the text: an economy of conscious and unconscious systems in various stages of disunity - a textsystem governed, as Lacan shows, by metaphor. A primary assumption underlying Lacan's reading of the Freudian text is that in it words as such exist in a 'conscious' system where signifiers in one constellation (or chain) of association continually stand in for signifiers in another' (989). My use of 'text' therefore becomes a construction of the 'textual unconscious,' or the covert movement I will trace in my reading of the particular work in question. I realize that this is a potentially problematic exercise, in that it may result in the construction of straw dogs; nonetheless, I will support my interpretations by drawing upon textual evidence and theoretical sources. The nature of my argument requires me to consider Trollope's position in relation to his novels. That is, if I read Trollope's novels as exemplars of patriarchal and, indeed, even backlash logic, how does this reflect on the 'man' constructed through the texts? Perhaps more to the point, does the impetus I find in Trollope's writing necessitate the casting of Trollope as a negative patriarchal figure, worthy of study only insofar as he is able to elucidate the workings of patriarchal logic? In brief, my answer to both these queries is a most definite 'no.' Certainly, from a late-twentieth-century perspective, Trollope's writing seems sexist, racist, and classist - but there are few writers or figures of his time who do not appear so. I have chosen Trollope as the focus of my study over other Victorian writers because I believe that his ex-centric position as an outsider attempting to write his way into the inside (a position I will explain further when I discuss An Autobiography) provides him with a distinctive perspective that enables him to dramatize the workings of patriarchal logic particularly clearly. I would not go so far as to assert that his novels are a conscious and deliberate effort to critique patriarchy, but his insight is such that he is able to elucidate the logic of patriarchy in a complex and compelling fashion.

The Politics of Desire in An Autolnography

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I would like to begin my study with an examination of Trollope's An Autolnography, for two reasons. First, by locating Trollope's position within Victorian culture, I can examine his perspective as outsider and so emphasize the ways in which his position, unlike that of many other prominent Victorian writers, enables him to explicate the workings of the Victorian power dynamic. Second, An Autolnography provides a valuable springboard for framing my argument in relation to the Palliser Novels, for the dynamic I perceive in this text is a dynamic that I find at work in the novels. In his introduction to An Autolnography, Michael Sadleir outlines the critical response to Trollope's work: 'The publication in 1883 of this Autolnography, of this queer abrupt text-book of the mechanics and economics of novel-writing, was perhaps the most potent of the several causes that led to the collapse of Anthony Trollope as a literary reputation' (iii). It is curious that Trollope only alienated his audience through the publication of An Autolnography, since the text comprises the author's attempts to justify himself to his contemporaries, to rationalize and to seek approval for his success in 'improving' his position in society. J. Hillis Miller suggests that Trollope is attempting to centralize himself in An Autolnography, to create a space for his writings, but that as he does so, he accomplishes the opposite: he shows that 'he has perpetrated a kind of fraud, that he has secretly undermined the values of his society, and that for their shillings his readers have purchased books which are for that reason dangerous or subversive' (96). The dangerous or subversive qualities of Trollope's fiction, which Hillis Miller locates in Trollope's wish to affirm a moral law, I would suggest derive from Trollope's perspicacity, afforded him as a result of his marginal status. Throughout this study, I will stress that Trollope's novels do indeed subvert and render dangerous the machinations of his society, but what is significant at this point is the way in which Trollope's position on the outside reflects the (forever displaced and deferred) desire for inclusion that governs patriarchal discourse. It is important to remember when turning to life-writing that autobiographies, like novels, are fictions. James Kincaid stresses this in his essay 'Trollope's Fictional Autobiography' in comparing An Autolnography to David OJpperfield. He contends that 'autobiographies are fictions, not necessarily in the sense of being a bundle of lies, though they may be, but fictions in the formal sense. Autobiographies must provide characters, motivations, connections between events - and, most importantly, a narrative pattern' (340). As Kincaid suggests, An Autolnography comprises

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Patriarchal Desire and Victorian Discourse

Trollope's effort to fictionalize himself. He presents readers with a narrator-character who speaks in the first person. This narrator recounts the events of his life, and, in effect, rationalizes his behaviour. He presents the past as an object of study to his reader, who will assess his actions and evaluate the justifications he proffers. The process has similarities with the process of analysis and, not surprisingly, provides for a critique of Trollope's motivations (I will refer to the narrator as 'Trollope' for the sake of clarity, but would point out the difference between the 'I' who speaks and the 'I' who is represented in this text). Trollope's desire for inclusion and acceptance propels the narrative of An Autobiop-aphy. Thus, in this passage from the first page of Trollope's text, the Dickensian tone Kincaid discusses is predominant: In writing these pages, which, for the want of a better name, I shall be fain to call the autobiography of so insignificant a person as myself, it will not be so much my intention to speak of the little details of my private life, as of what I, and perhaps others round me, have done in literature ... My boyhood was, I think, as unhappy as that of a young gentleman could well be, my misfortunes arising from a mixture of poverty and gentle standing on the part of my father, and from an utter want on my own part of that juvenile manhood which enables some boys to hold up their heads even among the distresses which such a position is sure to produce. (1)

Trollope wishes to become one of the group, both as a child and as an adult, and his longing for centricity drives him to construct himself in a way that he believes will garner approval. An Autobiop-aphy, however, also dramatizes Lacan's contention that desire will always circumvent itself: If it is merely at the level of the desire of the Other that man can recognize his desire, as desire of the Other, is there not something here that must appear to him to be an obstacle to his fading, which is a point at which his desire can never be recognized? This obstacle is never lifted, nor ever to be lifted, for analytic experience shows us that it is in seeing a whole chain come into play at the level of the desire of the Other that the subject's desire is constituted. (Four 235)

The chain of desire Lacan outlines can be seen at work in Trollope's writings, for Trollope can never achieve the wholeness he seeks. Lacan proposes desire itself as the force behind the constitution of the subject, and the narrative movement of An Autobiop-aphy manifests the chain of desire which comprises Trollope's subjectivity. I would like to emphasize,

The Politics of Desire in An Autobiography

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here, that this process of subjectivity is culturally encoded; it takes place within a cultural context and draws upon social norms and codes. For a nineteenth-century English male, these codes are gender-specific and socially inscribed, and my reading of Trollope's development is grounded in a specifically Victorian context. An Autobiography begins by describing Trollope's childhood. The son of a financially troubled barrister whose monetary disappointments precipitate the poverty of his family, Trollope experiences disjuncture at an early age. He explains: 'My father's clients deserted him. He purchased various dark gloomy chambers in and about Chancery Lane, and his purchases always went wrong. Then, as a final crushing blow, an old uncle, whose heir he was to have been, married and had a family!' (3). Ultimately, Trollope's father goes bankrupt (26), and his mother becomes the provider for the family: 'We followed my father to Belgium, and estalr lished ourselves in a large house just outside the walls of Bruges. At this time, and till my father's death, everything was done with money earned by my mother' (27). Frances Trollope is a success, but in this social climate, her success works to foreground her husband's failure. Broken, bankrupt, ill, Trollope's father dies in Brussels. His mother continues to write novels to support her family: 'She continued writing up to 1856, when she was seventy-six years old, - and had at that time produced 114 volumes, of which the first was not written till she was fifty' (32). The pattern of weak father and strong mother established in these pages provides for a paradigmatic displacement of blame that will come into play in the Palliser Novels, wherein strong women are quelled and suppressed to ensure masculine dominance. In An Autobiography, Trollope's identificatory process is disrupted through the shift in gender roles he witnesses when his mother, as family provider, performs a 'man's' job and so abrogates Victorian codes of feminine behaviour. The gendered split through which the male child comes to identify with the father as the holder of the Phallus is problematic for Trollope, because his father cannot fill this position. Trollope is therefore left with a feminine role model, with the consequence that, within this cultural climate, he identifies with the Other, that space inhabited by women in Victorian patriarchal discourse. Combined with the gender shift is the financial shift that Trollope undergoes. He becomes caught between two classes. His background promises him a place in the middle class, but his poverty denies him that place. He is left, then, no place; he is positioned outside the social order: 'What right had a wretched farmer's boy, reeking from a dunghill, to sit

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Patriarchal Desire and Victorian Discourse

next to the sons of peers, - or much worse still, next to the sons of big tradesmen who had made their ten thousand a-year? The indignities I endured are not to be described. As I look back it seems to me that all hands were turned against me, - those of masters as well as boys. I was allowed to join in no plays. Nor did I learn anything, - for I was taught nothing' ( 12) . Trollope is very much aware of how his poverty places him outside the system of which he expected to be a part. His poverty becomes a class divider that separates him from his classmates and blurs his 'difference' from the servants at school. Hence, during his stay at Winchester College, he is made to feel like the disrupter of the social class (caste) system: On one awful day the second master announced to me that my battels would be stopped. He told me the reason, - the battels for the last half-year had not been repaid; and he urged his own unwillingness to advance the money. The Joss of a shilling a week would not have been much, - even though pocket-money from other sources never reached me, - but that the other boys all knew it! Every now and again, perhaps three or four times in a half-year, these weekly shillings were given to certain servants of the college, in payment, it may be presumed, for some extra services. And now, when it came to the turrt of any servant, he received sixty-nine shillings instead of seventy, and the cause of the defalcation was explained to him. I never saw one of those servants without feeling that I had picked his pocket. (10)

Not surprisingly, Trollope desperately desires acceptance and longs for popularity: 'I coveted popularity with a coveting which was almost mean. It seemed to me that there would be an Elysium in the intimacy of those very boys whom I was bound to hate because they hated me. Something of the disgrace of my school-days has clung to me all through life' ( 1617). But Trollope's need for inclusion goes unfulfilled, and this exacerbates his feelings of fragmentation. Trollope performs the function of the Other for his middle-class schoolmates, since he becomes the consolidator of the subjectivity of those on the inside through his difference from them. As a result, his own subjectivity lacks reinforcement. It is important to remember that the subject is affirmed through its difference from the Other in discourse. As Ellie Ragland-Sullivan explains, subjectivity is a social process: Lacan theorized that adults will always be caught up in the spatial lures of identification with their semblables. They will perceive reality in terms of successive pre-

The Politics of Desire in An Autobi,ography

15

mirror- and mirror-stage fantasies, which extend from the fragmented body image .. . to a Gestalt of the whole body, and finally to the assumption of a subjective armor - the alienated identity whose rigid structure will mark a subject's entire mental development .. . But though the mirror-stage experience of localization of the body signals the beginning of a sense of identity, this unity has been found outside and, accordingly, the destiny of humans is to (re-)experience themselves only in relationship to others. (Jae,ques 27)

Ragland-Sullivan points out that the process of subjectivity is socially encoded, and in patriarchy, the subject's desire for wholeness is displaced onto a desire for inclusion. When the subject is excluded, his subjectivity cannot be affirmed, since there is no Other available to solidify his Self. In Trollope's case, there is no one beneath him who can work to confirm his subject position through difference from him. Trollope's difficulty with adjusting to social life derives from his feelings of exclusion, and his discomfort persists throughout the early stages of his career. His marginalized status continues to oppress him when he joins the post office. Indeed, his early years function as an indicator of the plight of the outsider, who is ideologically promised a place within the system, but unable to attain it. Lacking an/Other which would affirm his Self, and serving as the Other for his companions in his role as the excentric who solidifies the position of the centric, Trollope comes close to a breakdown: In truth I was wretched, - sometimes almost unto death, and have often cursed the hour in which I was born. There had clung to me a feeling that I had been looked upon always as an evil, an encumbrance, a useless thing, - as a creature of whom those connected with him had to be ashamed. And I feel certain now that in my young days I was so regarded. Even my few friends who had found with me a certain capacity for enjoyment were half afraid of me. I acknowledge the weakness of a great desire to be loved, - of a strong wish to be popular with my associates. No child, no boy, no lad, no young man, had ever been Jess so. And I had been so poor; and so little able to bear poverty. (6o)

Plagued by debt, disliked by his superiors, Trollope sees no end to his misery. His circumstances begin to improve, however, when he is offered a transfer to Ireland. For the first time in his life (as it is presented in An Automography), Trollope is supplied with Others who can be used to reinforce his subjectivity. Since English-supremacist logic posits England as the centre and Ireland as outside that centre, Trollope, as an ideologi-

16

Patriarchal Desire and Victorian Discourse

cally centred person (English) in an ex-centric country (Ireland), is suddenly confronted with people who are more outside the system than he is. More centred than the ex-centric Irish, he feels superior to them, and this response works to establish his feelings of worth and to contribute to his sense of Self: 'It was altogether a very jolly life that I led in Ireland. I was always moving about, and soon found myself to be in pecuniary circumstances which were opulent in comparison with those of my past life. The Irish people did not murder me, nor did they even break my head. I soon found them to be good-humoured, clever ... But they are perverse, irrational and but little bound by the love of truth' (65) . Trollope's success in Ireland leads him to procure a wife, whose feminine objectification will always work to establish his subject status and to offset the feelings of Otherness he has experienced. He finds a suitable mate in Rose, whom he marries several years after his arrival in Ireland: 'When I had been nearly three years in Ireland we were married, - on the 11th day ofJune 1844; - and perhaps I ought to name that happy day as the commencement of my better life, rather than the day on which I first landed in Ireland' (68) . Rose's place in Trollope's life is crucial to his development. She provides him not only with a subordinate Other to affirm his status as subject, but also with an audience for his writing. In her function as audience, she solidifies his role as performer. When Trollope reads his manuscripts to her, therefore, her presence works to validate his position as writing and written subject: 'No one had read [my first novel] but my wife; nor, as far as I am aware, has any other friend of mine ever read a word of my writing before it was printed. She, I think, has so read almost everything, to my very great advantage in matters of taste' (73). Rose's position as audience to Trollope's performance exemplifies the ways in which her objectification solidifies Trollope's subjectivity. Not surprisingly, one of her duties is to copy Trollope's original manuscript: 'I worked with a pencil, and what I wrote my wife copied afterwards. In this way was composed the greater part of Barchester Towers and of the novel which succeeded it, and much also of others subsequent to them' (103) . Metaphorically, since Trollope is the original and Rose is the copy, his subject position is confirmed and reconfirmed, and this allows him the stability he needs if he is to seek a more centric social position. Trollope is caught in a trap, for he is still inside an outside (Ireland), not inside the inside (England). He uses language as a means to fulfil his desires for centric inclusion and tries to establish himself socially through the written word: 'For though during these years I had been jolly

The Politics of Desire in An Autolnography

17

enough, I had not been altogether happy ... When I reached Ireland I had never put pen to paper; nor had I done so when I became engaged. And when I was married, being then twenty-nine, I had only written the first volume of my first work. This constant putting off of the day of work was a great sorrow to me' (69). Ireland and Rose have worked to establish Trollope's sense of self, and he starts to carve out a space for himself within the world. He begins what will be an ongoing effort to write his way into the inside. When Trollope produces The Warden, he achieves a modicum of recognition, and his career as an author is under way. Although 'the pecuniary success was not great' (98), the novel is well-received. Initially, however, Trollope assesses his writing by the money it garners, and writing becomes his mode of fulfilling the monetary lack he felt as a child. The publication of Barchester Towers, along with the popularity of The Warden, heralds Trollope's financial success as a novelist: 'Barchester Towers ... sold well enough to bring me further payments - moderate payments - from the publishers. From that day up to this very time in which I am writing, that book and The Warden together have given me almost every year some small income' ( 108-g). Trollope manifests a particularly striking example of the fragmented subject, who is propelled by a sense of lack to procure fulfilment and becomes caught in an ongoing process of desire. He longs for what he does not have in the hope that fulfilling the lack he feels will achieve the sense of wholeness he seeks. As a result, when Trollope's financial future is relatively secure, his desire for recognition comes into play. His desire for money is displaced onto his desire for fame, which becomes a new marker of his success: 'I have certainly always had also before my eyes the charms of reputation. Over and above the money view of the question, I wished from the beginning to be something more than a clerk in the Post Office. To be known as somebody, - to be Anthony Trollope if it be no more, - is to me much' (107). Trollope believes that fame will engender the wholeness for which he longs, but since wholeness is an illusion, Trollope can never achieve what he desires, and his desires continue to displace themselves. Paradigmatically, when he achieves success in Ireland as a postal worker, he desires a female-object; when he marries, he desires financial success; when he improves his fortunes, he desires fame. It is lack that propels him and lack that underpins the narrative structure of An Autolnography. Trollope's preoccupation with centring himself results in a lack of confidence in what he has achieved. His disbelief in his literary success in turn makes him doubt his worth as a novelist. He decides to write

18

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under an assumed name to assure himself of his own novelistic value: 'It seemed to me that a name once earned carried with it too much favour ... I had so far progressed that that which I wrote was received with too much favour. The injustice which struck me did not consist in that which was withheld from me, but in that which was given to me. I felt that aspirants coming up below me might do work as good as mine, and probably much better work, and yet fail to have it appreciated. In order to test this, I determined to be such an aspirant myself, and to begin a course of novels anonymously, in order that I might see whether I could succeed in obtaining a second identity' (204). Trollope wants to achieve a name, one that will attest to his acceptance on the inside. But, outsider that he is, a single name is insufficient: he wants two, or a double identity to fill the lack he feels. His attempt to forge a double identity is fruitless, and his inability to write successfully under a pseudonym serves only to confirm his belief that his initial success was undeserved and that his fulfilment is incomplete. The incompleteness Trollope experiences is manifested in his constant efforts to become 'more' than he is. In 1868, he has an opportunity to run for Parliament, and although warned that he can never win the election, he runs for the borough of Beverley anyway. He is driven not by a desire for Parliament, but by a desire to prove himself: Very early in life ... when I was utterly impecunious and beginning to fall grievously into debt, I was asked by an uncle of mine ... what destination I should like best for my future life ... I replied that I should like to be a Member of Parliament. My uncle, who was given to sarcasm, rejoined that, as far as he knew, few clerks in the Post Office had become Members of Parliament. I think it was the remembrance of this jeer which stirred me up to look for a seat as soon as I had made myself capable of holding one by leaving the public service. My uncle was dead, but if I could get a seat, the knowledge that I had done so might travel to that bourne from whence he was not likely to return, and he might there feel that he had done me wrong. (290)

When Trollope loses the election, the drive that leads him to run for Parliament is displaced onto his fiction. He turns his disappointment into Phineas Finn, the second novel of the Palliser series, which is itself a testament to displaced desire: 'I commenced a series of semi-political tales. As I was debarred from expressing my opinions in the House of Commons, I took this method of declaring myself. And as I could not take my seat on those benches where I might possibly have been shone

The Politics of Desire in An Autolnography

19

upon by the Speaker's Eye, I had humbly to crave his permission for a seat in the gallery, so that I might thus become conversant with the ways and doings of the House in which some of my scenes were to be placed' (317). Trollope's feelings of inadequacy result in the Palliser Novels, which, as I will argue throughout, document the operations of patriarchal desire and male anxiety. The male anxiety apparent in An Autolnography manifests itself in the virtual exclusion of women from the text. Trollope mentions Frances a few times. Rose, while noteworthy as his marriage partner, does not constitute a subject of Trollope's literary interest: 'My marriage was like the marriage of other people, and of no special interest to any one except my wife and me' (71). Trollope alludes to Kate Field, an American woman with whom he shared an intimate friendship, but never names her (316). Hence, where An Autolnography details the plight of the male seeking affirmation of his subject position within patriarchy, it 'skirts' the importance of women in the process of establishing that subjectivity. But while the work neatly sidesteps the 'woman problem' to which Trollope's novels draw attention, it nonetheless provides a remarkably good example of how desire drives the male subject and dictates his behaviour. An Autolnography effectively underscores the fragmented position of the male subject and demonstrates that desire always, inevitably, goes unfulfilled. Trollope seeks to consolidate his subjectivity in writing. Hence, he writes An Autolnography to assure his audience of his confirmation as writing (written) subject, to stress that his inside position is legitimate, and to affirm that his writing is a worthwhile endeavour. But his desire for legitimization is subverted: An Autolnography harms his reputation and destroys his literary credibility. Rather than confirming his status, then, Trollope succeeds only in confirming his ex-centric position. His desire to write his way in by positing himself as a Dickensian hero who makes good is ultimately unsuccessful; An Autolnography is a testament to desire, not to its fulfilment. Trollope's autobiographical narrative reveals more about its motivation than perhaps its author was aware, and his novels perform a similar function. They serve as ideological and cultural critiques which chronicle the effects of patriarchal desire. Since the only way an ex-centric male character can attempt to fulfil himself is through love relationships, the Palliser Novels serve as pleas to women to accept their objectification in the system. As they appeal to women, however, the novels also emphasize that these same women must be quelled if the patriarchal dynamic of male subject/ female object is to be established. The ensuing six chapters

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of my study will deal, respectively, with each of the six Palliser Novels. I will argue that these novels tell the Other side of the story: Can You Forgive Her? dramatizes how Alice Vavasor is forced into her role as wife in the social order; Phineas Finn and Phineas Redux portray the ways in which Lady Laura Standish is barred from taking part in public life and effectively silenced, at the same time that they detail Marie Goesler's ineffectual attempts to perform as a subject; The Eustace Diamonds depicts the problems a woman faces when she refuses to accept a subordinate position; The Prime Minister focuses on the plights of Emily Wharton and Glencora Palliser, both of whom challenge the structure of the patriarchal system, and both of whom are punished, either by enforced reinstatement or by textual eradication; finally, The Duke's Children documents how the patriarchal system is re-established and order is restored - at the expense of Lady Mabel Grex. As they endeavour to disenfranchise women, the Palliser Novels manifest an analysis of the workings of patriarchal ideology and demonstrate how desire propels its subjects to seek control as a means of consolidating themselves. The novels, therefore, draw attention to the ways in which the status quo can be legitimized only at the expense of that which it is not. And in their effort to validate and reinforce the patriarchal power dynamic, the Palliser Novels also provide a means to critique it. These contradictory movements provide the stimulus for my interpretative readings in the following pages.

Subject(ed) Desire in Can You Forgi,ve Her?

The paradigm of desire manifested in An Autobiography is also at play in Can You Forgi,ve Her?, the first of the Palliser novels. In effect, this novel, by shifting the focus from male to female characters, tells a side of the story that An Autobiography elides. Can You Forgi,ve Her? explores the position of women within a patriarchal system, and, as it does so, it exposes the inconsistencies in masculinist ideology. Indeed, the novel is contradictory, for while it dramatizes the problematic nature of woman's position within patriarchy, it also works to legitimize and justify her subordination. Not surprisingly, Can You Forgi,ve Her? has generated critical difficulties. Critics who focus on the female characters of Can You Forgi,ve Her? generally argue that the novel provides a sympathetic assessment of the plight of Victorian women. The novel's treatment of its primary female characters leads critics like Robert Polhemus to argue that the text effects a critique of woman's non-status in the Victorian social order. In Polhemus's view, the novel demonstrates how Glencora Palliser must 'fight for her independence, insisting that her personal feelings be considered and that she be treated as herself, G/.encora, a unique individual, and not as some conventional woman or wife. She has to keep battling the idea that she ought to curb her personality, that she ought to be genteel rather than honest and make herself conform to an abstract pattern of ideal feminine behavior' ( Changi,ng 104). Polhemus draws attention to the ways in which Glencora is expected to conform to an oppressive status quo. In the same vein, George Levine contends that the novel highlights the subjugation and domination of women. Focusing on Alice Vavasor, he notes that the 'conclusion of Alice's story is - for anyone who has allowed himself to take her aspirations seriously - a confirmation of the

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horror of her condition. Alice is one of those figures ... for whom genuine freedom seems to be available only - and powerfully - through frigidity, or at least through mistaken resistance to men who love them. The resistance to sexuality is a resistance to being mastered, penetrated, taken' (16).

Where Polhemus and Levine concentrate on the condition of the female characters, critics who examine the novel's structure assess the text quite differently. David S. Chamberlain, for example, decides that Can You Forgi,ve Her? achieves 'both a thoroughly unified plot and some clever irony at the expense of contemporary young women' (68o) . Chamberlain's reading seems to contradict those of Polhemus and Levine, yet both interpretations have validity. The conflicting views arise not from critical misreading, but from critical focus. Can You Forgi,ve Her? is a cleverly constructed novel, which generates paradoxical readings depending upon which aspect of the text is foregrounded in a particular analysis. Overtly, through its representation of female characters, the novel provides a sympathetic evaluation of the predicament in which Victorian women are placed, as Polhemus and Levine suggest. Covertly, this text works to rationalize and reaffirm the position of women within the Victorian social structure it depicts. The covert textual movement effects textual unity at the expense of the female characters, as Chamberlain observes. And that it does so is not coincidental, for Can YouForgi,ve Her?serves as an exemplar of patriarchal humanist ideology which engenders its illusion of unity by disempowering women. The novel works to reinforce the male-centred status quo by appealing to women as subjects to accept their position as objects within the social system. It does, overtly, detail the problematic nature of woman's condition, but it does so in order to justify that condition by critiquing woman's performance. Can You Forgi,ve Her? illustrates the contradictions inherent in humanist ideology, which relies upon the construction of a unified subject. Since the subject already believes itself to be whole and complete (as I discussed in chapter one when examining the subject's transformation through the mirror stage), humanism promises the subject that which the subject already believes it can achieve. In turn, the patriarchal order caters to its subjects' desires for wholeness by promising them inclusion within its structure, but this is a promise that cannot be fulfilled. The only means open to the subject to achieve an illusion of unity is to perform in relation to an/Other which will affirm the subject through difference. Hence, as Lacan frequently emphasizes, the construction of the

Subject(ed) Desire in Can You Fargi,ve Her?

23

Other is crucial to the formation and the re-formation of the subject: 'The Other is the locus in which is situated the chain of the signifier that governs whatever may be made present of the subject - it is the field of that living being in which the subject has to appear. And I said that it was on the side of this living being, called to subjectivity, that the drive is essentially manifested' (Four 203). The importance Lacan ascribes to the role of the Other in the constitution of the subject is borne out by Trollope's performance in An Automography; in that text, Trollope's construction provided for a discussion of the ways in which an ex-centric subject could perform in a system that depends upon the submission of Others in order to maintain the status quo it privileges. The inconsistencies in the ideological tenets of humanism lie in humanism's promise of wholeness and completeness to a/lits subject. All subjects cannot perform as subjects, since the patriarchal dynamic depends upon the subordination of the Other. This was not a problem in An Automography, which detailed the plight of the ex-centric male who desired inclusion in the centre, for the ex-centric male is able to function in relation to those less centric than he and to women. But Can You Fargi,ve Her?, which focuses on female characters, runs into difficulties. Women are included in humanism's ideological promise of wholeness, but they cannot perform as subjects since the social system depends upon them to serve as objects for male subjects. Can YouForgi,ve Her?, therefore, throws into relief the problems engendered through patriarchal humanist ideology, for it manifests an appeal to woman as subject to accept her allotted position. It both acknowledges and erases woman's subjectivity, and it does so in several ways. The novel details the situation of Alice Vavasor and Glencora Palliser, both of whom attempt to perform as subjects, and dramatizes how these characters' bids for selfhood only cause their unhappiness. Both Glencora and Alice are incorporated into the posited order, and the text asserts that their incorporation is beneficial to them. While the novel characterizes the plight of women in patriarchy, therefore, it works to legitimize their disenfranchisement. The marginal female characters, who break with male-centred dictates, are shown to suffer as a result of their refusal to conform. The novel's subplot comprises a promise to women, for if they perform as objects and do their duty, the text suggests that they too will be able to perform as subjects. In these ways, Can You Fargi,ve Her? works to convince woman that her objectification in the system that depends upon her is in her best interests. The need for feminine objectification is dramatized in the constructions of male subjects within the novel. Before I turn to the female char-

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Patriarchal Desire and Victorian Discourse

acters, therefore, I would like to examine their masculine counterparts. In general, the novel's male subjects fall into two groups - the centric and the ex-centric. The centric characters - Plantagenet Palliser and John Grey - hold privileged positions within the text. They are the arbiters of ethical conduct and set the tone for correct and proper behaviour. Their presence within the novel also creates difficulties, however, since the centre operates as a site of wholeness, and any close analysis of its construction reveals its fragmentation. To those outside its parameters, the centre embodies an ideological promise that inclusion within it will fulfil their desires for unity and completion. But, as I discussed in chapter one, since the subject is not in fact whole or complete, an examination of the centre illustrates how it achieves an illusion of unity through the subordination of Others and, through this process of subjugation, is able to establish its ideological norm. The centre functions as centre in relation to the ex-centric. The presence of the ex-centric, therefore, is essential to the construction of the centre, in that if there are no margins, there can be no centre. But the centric characters cannot be shown to function in opposition to the excentric, since this dynamic would undercut the ideological promise of centric inclusion by revealing the centre's dependence upon the position of the ex-centric. This problem is elided through a textual deferral, and the chain of signification is displaced onto the site of woman. The female characters act in opposition to their male counterparts and reinforce the male subjects' positions within the narrative. Because the centric characters embody the promise of completion on which the power dynamic operates, they must be constructed as whole; if they break down, their collapse is shown to result from the female characters' violation of the standard of conduct. There can be no indication that the centric characters are fragmented and split within themselves, since that would undermine the impetus of humanist logic and the system it serves. Woman becomes the means by which the system operates and by which it retains its guise of flexibility. Plantagenet Palliser is presented as a complete and whole character in Can You Forgi,ve Her?. He is centred, and his centricity is established through his privileged position in Parliament, his wealth, and his social station - he is heir to the Duke of Omnium. Palliser is at the apex of the textual social order, and would receive affirmation of his subject status through his superior position to those around him. But Palliser signifies, in this narrative, primarily as a result of his difference from his wife, Lady Glencora. He functions in opposition to Glencora and derives his illusion

Subject(ed) Desire in Can You Forgi,ve Her?

25

of unity in relation to her fragmentation. Hence, when she is uncertain of her feelings for him, her uncertainty throws into relief his commitment to her: "'You must love me now," he had replied with a smile; and then, as regarded his mind, the thing was over. And since his marriage he had thought that things matrimonial had gone well with him, and with her too. He gave her almost unlimited power of enjoying her money, and interfered but little in her way of life. Sometimes he would say a word of caution to her with reference to those childish ways which hardly became the dull dignity of his position; and his words then would have in them something of unintentional severity' (I 249). Palliser is posited as fulfilled in his desires (and thus reinforces the textual promise that fulfilment is possible), but his fulfilment depends upon Glencora's acquiescence to his desires. When he reflects on his own feelings, 'something of an idea of love came across his heart, and he acknowledged to himself that he had married without loving or without requiring love. Much of all this had been his own fault. Indeed, had not the whole of it come from his own wrongdoing? He acknowledged that it was so. But now, - now he loved her' (II 199). Palliser needs Glencora to affirm his status as a fulfilled or satiated character in the narrative (he also requires her money to consolidate his wealth), and he spends much of his time attempting to persuade his wife to accept her subordinate position. Should he fail, his failure would reflect on his ability to manage his personal life: 'He was beginning to think that he hardly knew how to manage his wife' (II go). Perhaps more to the point, Palliser's failure would reflect on the operative power dynamic, for if Palliser, as the centred character, were not able to effect control over Glencora, his failure would imply that woman cannot be controlled within the system, and the system that depends upon her submission would be jeopardized. Palliser attempts to appease Glencora and even leaves his parliamentary duties in order to placate her. He is presented not as a character whose very status is dependent upon the submission of his wife, but as a man who suffers in order to administer to her presumed desires (at the same time, the novel also draws attention to her sufferings as a result of his administrations): 'He himself proposed these little excursions. They were tedious to him, but doubly tedious to his wife, who now found it more difficult than ever to talk to him. She struggled to talk, and he struggled to talk, but the very struggles themselves made the thing impossible' (II 229). Interestingly, Palliser becomes dissatisfied when Glencora refuses to perform as his subordinate Other, and when he abdicates his parliamen-

Patriarchal Desire and Victorian Discourse tary position. He loses the overt reinforcement of the subordinate Others beneath him in the power structure, who work to confirm his centricity, and he begins to break down: 'So he became fretful and unhappy; and though he spoke no word of rebuke to his wife, though he never hinted that she had robbed him of his glories, he made her conscious by his manner that she had brought him to this miserable condition' (II 3o6). Palliser is privileged in the narrative, however, and manages to retain his centric position. When he turns down the position of Chancellor of the Exchequer, his renunciation works to confirm his magnanimity. It also serves him well, since by the end of the novel, his patience nets him everything he desires: Glencora gets pregnant, he becomes Chancellor of the Exchequer, and he is 'thoroughly contented with his fate' (II 417). His apparent act of resignation also serves to reinforce the idea that if women renounce their desires, they too will be rewarded. But, as Chancellor of the Exchequer, Palliser controls the textual economy, and this is an economy that depends upon the subordination of woman. John Grey's function is similar to that of Palliser, but he occupies a different space in the narrative. The figure of Grey, who is of lower social rank than the heir of the Duke of Omnium, indicates that those in a less exalted social position also can achieve centricity. Grey, like Palliser, is confirmed as a complete and whole character largely as a result of his difference from his fiancee, Alice Vavasor. Alice's emotional fluctuations work to confirm his steadfastness: 'He had purposed to be firm, - to yield to her in nothing, resolving to treat all that she might say as the hallucination of a sickened imagination, - as the effect of absolute want of health, for which some change in her mode of life would be the best cure. She might bid him begone in what language she would. He knew well that such was her intention ... As a loving husband would treat a wife, who, in some exceptionable moment of a melancholy malady, should declare herself unable to remain longer in her home, so would he treat her' (I 116). Grey, like Palliser, is magnanimous. He allows Alice to follow her own inclinations on the assumption that she will realize her errors. Hence, he locates himself in a position superior to her when he decides upon what course of action he might follow to cure her of her folly. Since he has already forgiven her misbehaviour, he believes that it is important she learn to forgive herself for the pain she has caused him: 'In all that she has done I think that I have seen her motives; and though I have not approved of them, I have always known them to be pure and unselfish. She has done nothing that I did not forgive as soon as it was done. Had she married that man, I should have forgiven her even that,

Subject(ed) Desire in Can You Forgi,ve Her?

27

- though I should have known that all her future life was destroyed, and much of mine also. I think I can make her happy if she will marry me, but she must first be taught to forgive herself (II 315). Ultimately, Grey's completeness is achieved through Alice's submission to him. That his vision is superior to hers is established when Alice accedes to his wishes. As the controller of her emotions, he lends himself the illusion of completeness in contrast to her fragmentation, and he is able to compel her to respond to him favourably: 'If you love me, after what has passed, I have a right to demand your hand. My happiness requires it, and I have a right to expect your compliance. I do demand it. If you love me, Alice, I tell you that you dare not refuse me. If you do so, you will fail hereafter to reconcile it to your conscience before God.' (II 355). Those in the centre are quite certain of God's approbation, and they single-mindedly achieve a semblance of wholeness within the system that centres them. But where the centric characters are able to maintain their centricity through their superior position with respect to ex-centric males and to women, those outside the centre are less fortunate than Palliser or Grey. Alice's cousin, George, demonstrates that the acquisition of a female object is essential to the performance of the ex-centric male subject. George Vavasor is in a position much like Trollope's in An Autobiography. He is the outsider who attempts to interpellate himself into the centre. George is motivated by desire, a desire that is never fulfilled or controlled. He desires centric inclusion and seeks to fulfil himself by improving his position financially: 'George Vavasor had lived in London since he was twenty, and now, at the time of the beginning of my story, he was a year or two over thirty. He was and ever had been the heir to his grandfather's estate; but that estate was small, and when George first came to London his father was a strong man of forty, with as much promise of life in him as his son had. A profession had therefore been absolutely necessary to him; and he had, at his uncle John's instance, been placed in the office of a parliamentary land agent.' (I 35). George's dissatisfaction with his life is evident in his occupational meanderings. He quarrels with the land agent with whom he has been placed and decides to become a wine merchant. This enterprise fails, and he becomes a stockbroker. He longs for a seat in Parliament and tries to obtain one, but is defeated. He succeeds not in attaining centric inclusion, therefore, but only in confirming his ex-centricity. Since this novel proffers the illusion of inclusion within the centre, George's inability to centre himself is dramatized as an effect of his own

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Patriarchal Desire and Victorian Discourse

unworthiness. He is a violent figure, unable to contain or repress himself, and his overwhelming libido is signified when the narrator notes, 'George Vavasor was rather low in stature, but well made, with small hands and feet, but broad in the chest and strong in the loins' (I 42) . George's 'strong loins' provide the source of his failure; on a metaphoric level, his libido signals his inability to satisfy his desires within the textual dynamic. George cannot forge a place for himself in the narrative, and when he fails to procure a female object who would solidify his subjectivity, he erupts, and his eruption demonstrates the danger posed to the social order by an unfulfilled ex-centric character. George courts his cousin, Alice Vavasor, and persaudes her to break her engagement with Grey and marry him instead. But Alice declines to perform as object for George. Her refusal to kiss him overwhelms him and arouses his temper: 'I think that, in the energy of his speaking, a touch of true passion had come upon him; that he had forgotten his rascaldom, and his need of her money, and that he was punishing her with his whole power of his vengeance for the treatment which he had received from her.' (II 62). 'Driven by his jealousy, which stems from his thwarted desires, George threatens Alice, and later vents his rage on his sister, Kate. His desire to affirm his subjectivity by subordinating women drives him to try to master his sister: 'Kate immediately felt that he was speaking as though he were master of the house, and also as though he intended to be master of her' (II 150) . The violence to which George succumbs, which arises from his inability to achieve the wholeness promised him, motivates his behaviour and leads him to try to dominate centric characters. Indeed, when George attempts to shootjohn Grey, he becomes the textual means of asserting the dangers posed by an unfulfilled male subject. After George loses Alice and thus loses the object of his attention, he threatens, in a spate of jealousy, to kill Grey: 'I am at this moment her affianced husband; and I find that, in spite of all that she has said to you, - which was enough, I should have thought, to keep any man of spirit out of her presence - you still persecute her by going to her house, and forcing yourself upon her presence. Now, I give you two alternatives. You shall either give me your written promise never to go near her again, or you shall fight me ' (II 330-1) . George does not kill John Grey, but he is excised from the narrative nevertheless. When he loses another parliamentary race, George decides that he must leave town. Before he goes, he burns all his writings in order to obliterate his identity: 'Every written document on which he could lay his hands he destroyed. All the pigeon-holes of his desk were

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emptied out, and their contents thrown into the flames. At first he looked at the papers before he burned them; but the trouble of doing so soon tired him, and he condemned them all, as he came to them, without examination' (II 327). Assuming the name of Gregory Vance, George erases his presence as George Vavasor, and he is himself erased from the final pages of the novel. But while George may be eradicated from the text in this fashion, the violence and the sexuality he embodies are not eradicated, and both point to the inability of the centre to control the outside characters if women refuse to play their role in the patriarchal power dynamic. As one character observes: 'He was always mysterious ... and now he has vanished. I hate mysteries, and, as for myself, I think it will be much better that he should not come back again' (II 335). George is a mystery because he cannot be fulfilled in the text, and he stands as a testament to the inability of the ex-centric to become centric. His appearance in the novel makes the acquiescence of the female characters all the more important to the successful perpetuation of the social order. The female characters in Can You Forgive Her? are largely persuaded to relinquish their desires for subjectivity and to accept their objectification within the system. As George's presence in the narrative indicates, it is imperative that they do so. The female characters are in a fragmented position; they desire subjectivity and embody the desires that constitute subjectivity, but they are forced to renounce their desires in order to be included within the social structure. Feminine desire poses problems to the discursive order because desire, as the locus of the constitution of the subject, is itself an indication of subjectivity. But women cannot perform as subjects in patriarchal discourse, which requires their objectification. As a result, Can You Forgi,ve Her? demonstrates how feminine desire is dangerous; it dramatizes how it is better for women to sublimate their desires and learn to accept indirect fulfilment through the satisfaction they provide for male subjects. Indeed, this novel illustrates how the female characters must accept indirect fulfilment or be for ever cast out of the system. The textual impetus, then, tries to subjugate certain female characters at the same time that it uses the plight of others to highlight the attractions of matrimony. The narrative incorporates its two predominant female characters, Alice Vavasor and Glencora Palliser, within its social structure. But their presence in the text emphasizes that woman must subordinate herself in order to be included. Alice Vavasor provides a case in point. She is a curious figure, and Juliet McMaster suggests that she provides an interesting psychological study because she displays hysterical tendencies,

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as are apparent when she 'drives a wedge between the word and the thing, and a whole series of elements of life that should be inextricably related are disastrously wrenched apart - theory and practice, language and reality, head and heart' (27). Deborah Denenholz Morse, in extending McMaster's thesis, contends that Alice's problems stem from her motherless state, which is an indication that the 'central feminine source of identity is absent from her life' (25). Alice's lack of a feminine role model may well give rise to her active bid for subjectivity: she believes that she can perform as a subject rather than an object because she has not been party to the objectification process which women must undergo. The mother plays an important role in the socialization process. As Elizabeth Grosz points out, the figure of the mother plays a part in the subordination of women in patriarchy: Both sexes must accept the mother's castration; each must give her up to develop an exogamous libidinal relation and a symbolic and speaking position independent of her. The child's sacrifice of its primary love-object in conformity with the law must be compensated, (more for boys, less for girls!) by means of the acquisition of a position, a place as a subject in culture. The child becomes a subject only with reference to the name-of-the-father and the sacrificed, absent body of the mother ... In introjecting the name-of-the-father, the child (or rather, the boy) is positioned with reference to the father's name. He is now bound to the law, in so far as he is implicated in the symbolic 'debt,' given a name, and an authorized speaking position. (71)

Where, as Grosz indicates, the boy child is accorded a subject position, the girl child is denied a place. She cannot perform in relation to the Name-of-the-Father, and her choice is to duplicate the position of her mother, who is sacrificed in the power dynamic. Alice, lacking a feminine role model, attempts to perform in relation to the Name-of-the-Father, but, as Grosz suggests, she cannot occupy that space. Not understanding the delineation, Alice attempts to perform as a (male) subject and to assume the authorized speaking position which she believes is open to her. As a result, her performance indicates the ways in which a feminine bid for subjectivity cannot be accommodated in the discursive hierarchy. McMaster's contention that Alice is unable to 'fit words to things' is based, at least in part, on Alice's inability to assume, authoritatively, the 'I' of discourse.

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Alice's efforts to perform as a subject and to align herself with the order of the law are particularly apparent in her dealings with Glencora. Alice acts in accordance with the norms established for women in patriarchy, and she instructs her friend on appropriate behaviour. Consequently, she refuses to aid Glencora in her flirtation with her former lover: 'If you consider i( prudery on my part to disapprove of your waltzing with Mr. Fitzgerald in the manner you have described, - or, indeed, in any other manner, - you and I must differ so totally about the meaning of words and the nature of things that we had better part' (II 224-5). Glencora rebels against Alice's dicta, since they become a displacement of Palliser's, but Alice supports the masculinist status quo in her efforts to persuade Glencora to behave decorously. It is not Glencora with whom Alice sympathizes, but Palliser, and her compassion for him is clear at Matching: 'Alice saw that Mr. Palliser was yawning, and she began to understand how much he had given up in order that his wife might be secure' (II 282). Despite Alice's approbation of the operative law, she cannot perform as a subject in relation to that law; in fact, she imitates an ideological position that negates her own presence. Alice may believe that by accepting patriarchal dictates she will receive patriarchal approval and be allowed more freedom than other female characters. But this is not the case, as the narrator makes clear when he mocks Alice's ambitions to perform as a subject: 'She would have liked, I think, to have been the wife of the leader of a Radical opposition, in the time when such men were put into prison, and to have kept up for him his seditious correspondence while he lay in the Tower. She would have carried the answers to him inside her stays, - and have made long journeys down into northern parts without any money, if the cause required it. She would have liked to have around her ardent spirits, male or female, who would have talked of "the cause," and have kept alive in her some flame of political fire. As it was, she had no cause' (I 111). Alice has no alternative but to accede to the space accorded her. The only course open to her is to choose the subject for whom she will be objectified. She baulks at this 'choice,' and becomes resistant to the idea of marriage. As she points out: 'People always do seem to think it so terrible that a girl should have her own way in anything. She mustn't like any one at first; and then, when she does like some one, she must marry him directly she's bidden. I haven't much of my own way at present; but you see, when I'm married I shan't have it at all. You can't wonder that I shouldn't be in a hurry' (I 28-g). This is a dangerous position for a woman

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to take, however, since the power dynamic requires woman to perform as marital object. As a result, the narrator condemns Alice for questioning marriage and asserts that marriage should not be over-intellectualized: 'I am not sure ... that marriage may not be pondered over too much; nor do I feel certain that the leisurely repentance does not as often follow the leisurely marriages as it does the rapid ones. That some repent no one can doubt; but I am inclined to believe that most men and women take their lots as they find them, marrying as the birds do by force of nature, and going on with their mates with a general, though not perhaps an undisturbed satisfaction, feeling inwardly assured that Providence, if it have not done the very best for them, has done for them as well as they could do for themselves with all the thought in the world' (I 109). Alice, who imitates centric behaviour, is held up to ridicule for her imitation. Her reasons for resisting marriage go unheard - indeed, they cannot be heard, for she is rebelling against the social order that will confine her. Alice is not a centric character, despite her attempt to mimic the centre, and her desires become the means through which the text undercuts her position. Alice's desires manifest themselves in her conflicting attractions to John Grey and to her cousin, George Vavasor. George is the passionate lover who is, in a sense, in a position subordinate to her; he provides her with an opportunity to consolidate her own subjectivity in relation to him. Much like the inside characters, Alice tries to control George by financially backing his parliamentary campaign, but when he makes physical overtures to her and casts her as the (sexual) object of his affections, she quickly retreats and rebuffs his advances: 'She gave him her hand, and immediately endeavoured to resume it, but he held it clenched within his own, and she felt that she was his prisoner' (I 360). George turns the tables on Alice sexually, and his shifting of the power balance between them means that his relation to her is no longer any different from that of the centred characters. When Alice's attempt to exert control over George backfires, she turns to Grey, because she feels 'safe' with him (II 349) . But her alliance with Grey does not provide her with the freedom for which she longs. The death-knell of Alice's ambitions is sounded when she accepts Grey with 'tombstones beneath her feet' (II 355), and when the proposal scene employs the disturbing language of capture: 'He was so imperious in his tranquillity, he argued his question of such love with a manifest preponderance of right on his side, that she had always felt that to yield to him would be to confess the omnipotence of his power. She knew now that she must yield to him, - that his power over her was omnipotent. She was

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pressed by him as in some countries the prisoner is pressed by the judge' (II 356). In effect, Alice is forced to succumb to Grey, and, as Morse points out, her submission results in a figurative death (31) . While ' the word which she had to speak still remained unspoken,' his 'hand, like his character and his words, was full of power. It would not be impeded' (II 356) . Alice is 'mastered' when she subordinates herself to her fiance, and her subjugation in the system is signalled when she loses all control over her future existence. Alice does not even plan her own wedding; she submits to the plans made for her by others: 'She ought to have known that when she consented to be married at Matching, - and indeed she had very little power of resisting that proposition, - all such questions would be decided for her' (II 402) . Throughout the novel, Alice believes in the order that marginalizes her. She does try to fit words to things, as McMaster suggests, but because she cannot hold a subject position which would allow her to become an author of discourse, her desires serve only to suppress and quell her. Her confinement within this male-centred society restricts the possibilities she had envisioned for herself, and she is left, controlled and confined, objectified through her marriage to Grey. Alice's inclusion within the social structure is fraught with contradictions. While the text mocks and ridicules her efforts to perform as a subject, it also draws attention to her subjugation through marriage. Her marriage is encoded as a positive step for her, in that she becomes less fragmented and more 'stable' as a result of her union with Grey. However, the language used to describe her engagement draws attention to the difficulties women face . These difficulties are reiterated in the portrayal ofGlencora Palliser's, for Glencora, like Alice, is a victim of the power dynamic. Glencora is a much stronger character than Alice, and her rebellion against the masculinist order is more pronounced. Married to Plantagenet Palliser, Glencora is not fulfilled through her object position as Palliser's wife. She desires a partnership in which her desires can be given expression: 'To love and fondle some one, - to be loved and fondled, were absolutely necessary to her happiness. She wanted the little daily assurance of her supremacy in the man's feelings, the constant touch of love, half accidental half contrived, the passing glance of the eye telling perhaps of some little joke understood only between them two rather than of love, the softness of an occasional kiss given here and there when chance might bring them together' (I 249). Glencora is not content to be objectified and fights against the position in which she is placed. Unlike Alice, who gives lip-service to the accepted

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code of feminine behaviour, Glencora actively attempts to subvert it. She rebels against the system that attempts to confine her and to which Palliser expects her to conform, when she asserts, 'I hate all those rules' (II 27). However, her resistance is problematic within the text, and the narrator intrudes to inform readers: 'There were many things about this woman that were not altogether what a husband might wish. She was not softly delicate in all her ways; but in disposition and temper she was altogether generous. I do not know that she was at all points a lady, but had Fate so willed it she would have been a thorough gentleman' (II 91). Glencora blurs the gender divisions the novel erects: as the narrator indicates, she is more a gentleman than a lady. I would argue that this is the case because she vigorously pursues a subject position - a position allotted men only. Glencora frequently points to the double standard that exists between men and women: 'A man can take to drinking, and gambling and all the rest of it, and nobody despises him a bit. The domestic old fogies give him lectures if they can catch him, but he isn't fool enough for that. All he wants is money, and he goes away and has his fling. Now I have plenty of money, - or, at any rate, I had, - and I never got my fling yet. I do feel so tempted to rebel, and go ahead, and care for nothing' (II 290). Glencora's rebellion is met with disapproval, since her behaviour is unseemly and unfitting for the wife of a Palliser. Her husband's allies believe that 'Lady Glencora would, no doubt, require to be pressed down into that decent mould which it would become the wife of a Mr. Palliser to assume as her form; and this pressing down, and this moulding, Mrs. Marsham thought that she could accomplish' (II 1~1). But Glencora refuses to fit the mould: she resists the social rules the centre imposes on her and which would result in her objectification. Glencora's resistance takes the form of a passion for Burgo Fitzgerald, a man lower in social station than she and hence a man who might subordinate himself to her and allow her to perform as a subject within their union. As the following passage makes clear, Glencora is willing to submit herself to abuse if it means the fulfilment of her desires: 'I would give everything I have in the world to have been true to [Burgo]. They told me that he would spend my money. Though he should have spent every farthing of it, I regret it; though he should have made me a beggar, I regret it. They told me that he would ill-use me, and desert me, - perhaps beat me. I do not believe it; but even though that should have been so, I regret it. It is better to have a false husband than to be a false wife' (I 284). Ultimately, Glencora gives up Burgo to maintain her (object) position as Palliser's wife. The narrator argues that, in making this decision, Glen-

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cora has recovered her senses: 'She had now recovered her presence of mind, and understood what was going on. She was no longer in a dream, but words and things bore to her again their proper meaning' (II 1o6). But while Glencora may accept her lot in life and learn to suppress her desires, she is not happy with the outcome: 'She knew that [Palliser] had conquered her. However cold and heartless his home might be to her, it must be her home now. There could be no further thought of leaving him. She had gone into the tilt-yard and had tilted with him, and he had been the victor' (II 193). The language of capture, which was evident in Alice's submission to Grey, is equally evident in this passage. The narrative does not leave Glencora in the same position as Alice: Glencora's servitude is rewarded with motherhood. The magnitude of this gift is apparent as the narrator waxes poetic in describing the baby: 'Wondrous little baby, - purpureo-genitus! What have the gods not done for thee, if thou canst only manage to live till thy good things are all thine own, - to live through all the terrible solicitude with which they will envelope thee! Better than royal rank will be thine, with influence more than royal, and power of action fettered by no royalty' (II 414). Clearly, the narrator's tone is ironic here, but the passage serves to illustrate the ways in which irony is employed in the Palliser Novels to support the established order. As Linda Hutcheon points out, 'There is always a problem of access with irony: those addressed have to "get" it. The context must signal its presence; a community of belief and understanding must be assumed' (18). In order to 'get' this irony, a reader must accept the privileged position of the male child, which then makes the Pallisers' reception of the baby a reflection of their own familial self-grandeur. The Pallisers may be too aware of their own eminence, but the importance of the male heir is not what is mocked in this passage. Motherhood is proffered to Glencora as a means of appeasing her and enabling her to fulfil her 'purpose' in life. While Glencora's desires for subjectivity can never be realized, since she cannot hold a subject position within patriarchy, socially she has done her duty. The novel suggests that she will find fulfilment through her child, and in so doing reasserts the masculinist truism that children will fulfil women and satiate their desires. But Glencora is not fulfilled, and she will continue throughout the Palliser Novels to try to fill the void of her desire through her efforts to integrate herself into the centre and to perform as a subject. Both Alice and Glencora pose potential problems to the text through their refusal to conform to 'normative' dictates. On one level, the text suggests that Alice is ultimately fulfilled by marriage to John Grey, and

Patriarchal Desire and Victorian Discourse that Glencora is fulfilled through her child; on another, the novel emphasizes how a woman's efforts to perform as a subject are quelled and suppressed through marriage. If Alice and Glencora were the only female characters portrayed in Can You Forgi,ve Her?, it might stand as a critique of woman's position in patriarchy. Yet the title of the book itself reaffirms woman's subordinate position in the textual order, for it requests that readers sit in judgment on rebellious women. And the other female characters in the novel serve to reinforce the idea that, while Alice's and Glencora's positions are perhaps not the best possible outcomes for women, they provide a solution that is far better than the alternatives. In the marginal female characters, the novel documents the plight of women who refuse to conform to normative dictates. These feminine representations underline the fact that if women do not accept their position in the power dynamic, they will be left with no place at all. As Flint notes, the minor textual women perform an important if frequently ignored role in the novel: 'The structures of mid-Victorian society have been duplicated in subsequent analysis: those women who are marginal to the marriage structures of the plot have become marginal figures in critical discourse. Yet their very presence is used by Trollope to reinforce the promise of social and familial stability held out by the prize of marriage, a prize which it is foolish to disdain' (xx). To draw and expand upon Flint's argument, the marginalized female characters undercut the apparent critique of patriarchy within the text. Kate Vavasor serves as a means of driving home the textual argument that woman must be incorporated within the system if she is to be happy. Kate is the odd woman out; with no husband and no prospects, she believes that her purpose in life lies in helping her brother, George. To this end, she is willing to sacrifice her friend, Alice, in the hope that a union between George and Alice will secure George's future. Knowing that such a marriage is not really in her friend's interests, she nonetheless pleads her brother's cause: 'Say, Alice, - is it not a letter of which if he were your brother you would feel proud if another girl had shown it to you? I do feel proud of him. I know that he is a man with a manly heart and manly courage, who will yet do manly things. Here out on the mountain, with nobody near us, with Nature all round us, I ask you on your solemn word as a woman, do you love him?' (I 328). Kate places George's happiness above Alice's and above her own. Since Kate subordinates herself to her brother, should her hopes for George's marriage come to fruition, her own role would be eliminated. She would become a superfluous woman; she foregrounds her (lack of) prospects when she tells

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Alice of her plight: 'If you became George's wife I should become nobody. I've nothing else in the world. You and he would be so all-sufficient for each other, that I should drop away from you like an old garment. But I'd give up all, everything, every hope I have, to see you become George's wife. I know myself not to be good. I know myself to be very bad, and yet I care nothing for myself (I 63) . There are disturbing undertones in Kate's selfless devotion to George, since the relationship between brother and sister veers uncomfortably close to an incestuous one. As a Victorian novel, Can You Forgi,ve Her? cannot articulate the sexual subtext that is implicit in Kate and George's relationship, but it does posit the impetus for the relationship in Kate and locate her as the source of the passion. The pattern suggests that Alice serves as a surrogate for Kate in her love for George; if Alice were to accept George's proposal, she would provide the conduit through which Kate's love for her brother could be consummated. Alice refuses to perform this service, but just as she served as a site of displacement for Kate's attachment to George, so Kate becomes the site of displacement for George's anger with Alice: 'Poor Alice, indeed! D__ hypocrite! There's a pair of you; cursed, whining, false, intriguing hypocrites. There; go down and tell your uncle and that old woman there that I threatened to murder you. Tell the judge so, when you're brought into court to swear me out of my property. You false liar!' Then he pushed her from him with great violence, so that she fell heavily upon the stony ground. He did not stop to help her up, or even to look at her as she lay, but walked away across the heath. (11 166-7)

Sex and brutality are interspersed in this novel, and the passage above is followed by an interlude in which the narrator discusses violence ('What woman can bear a blow from a man, and afterwards return to him with love? A wife may have to bear it and to return' [II 173]) . Since Kate and George cannot consummate the passion that exists between them, that passion manifests itself in physical violence. Kate is punished for her desire for her brother, but the sexual subtext that underpins her characterization points to the patriarchal fear of single women. Kate functions as an example of unfulfilled feminine desire. In refusing to abide by the dictate that she marry, she poses a problem to the masculinist discourse of the text, which cannot incorporate sexualized single women. Sexual desire is an indication of subjectivity, and patriarchy

Patriarchal Desire and Victorian Discourse cannot acknowledge feminine subjectivity; it can assimilate women only as desexualized objects. When Kate refuses a possible match with the wealthy Mr Cheesacre, she remains a figure of desire who cannot be satiated. She does not fit into the system's effort to fulfil women indirectly through male satisfaction, and the system has no other place to offer her. As a result, she is left alone and excluded from the novelistic society. She does procure a small inheritance, which might help her to become a more attractive commodity on the marriage market, but if she refuses to marry, she is left the odd woman out. There is no place for Kate in this discursive dynamic, and she is relegated to the margins of the text. The other marginal female characters further the idea that feminine desire is troublesome. Because the textual ideology cannot acknowledge feminine desire, that desire is posited as disruptive. Where Kate refuses to accept a position within the established hierarchy, she does not flout that hierarchy, and does not overtly threaten the ideological norm of the novel. Kate is left in an unenviable position, in that there is no place for her in the textual social order, but the other marginalized textual women - Jane and the prostitute - emphasize the fear of feminine sexuality. This fear engenders a textual effort to discredit sexualized women, an effort that merges with the textual movement to present marriage as the best solution of the 'woman problem.' Jane and the prostitute serve as markers of the dangers that await women who abrogate their allotted position in the social structure. Morse believes that Jane, George's mistress, is the incarnation of the extreme of female self-sacrifice (36). Certainly, Jane has allowed her desire to dictate her existence and has sacrificed herself to her lover. When George tires of her, Jane has no social recourse. She goes to George for money, but her pleas that she is starving awaken no response in him. She is thus left, a pathetic, sickly figure, in the margins: 'And for this she had dressed herself with so much care, mending her gloves, and darning her little fragments of finery! He stood looking at her, with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, - looking at her and thinking what he had better do to rid himself of her presence' (II 324). In the figure of Jane, death and sex combine to contribute to the portrait of a fallen woman. Erased from the narrative, presumably she is left to die. Jane follows her desires in that she becomes sexually involved with George outside of wedlock, and her characterization suggests that women who follow their desires come to ruin. The prostitute, as the figure of illicit feminine sexuality, is also shown to be wretched. She is a sickly character; readers meet her when she

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accosts Burgo Fitzgerald and pleads for money: '[A] poor wretched girl, lightly clad in thin raiment, into whose bones the sharp freezing air was penetrating, asked him for money. Would he give her something to get drink, so that for a moment she might feel the warmth of her life renewed?' (I 308). Like Jane, the prostitute is shown to be dependent upon men for survival. In her second appearance in the text, she again appeals to Burgo: "'Will you give me a kiss?" - "I'll give you a shilling, and that's better," said Burgo. "But give me a kiss too," said the girl. He gave her first the kiss, and then the shilling, and after that he left her and passed on.' (II 265). The prostitute is depicted as a physical and emotional dependent on male beneficence - and indeed, none of the single women are characterized as independent of male support. If single women follow their desires, they are cast out of the social system and into disastrous circumstances; feminine desire, therefore, is something to be guarded against. These characters serve as warnings to women that if they do not abide by normative dictates, they will meet with disaster. There are no outlets available for single women. Consequently, woman can choose marriage, which becomes a positive choice in relation to the alternatives; she can choose spinsterhood, and be excluded from the textual order; she can choose a man without marriage, and risk contamination and death; or she can choose prostitution, one of the only occupations open to Victorian women, wherein she will be emotionally and physically dependent on male subjects. Both Jane and the prostitute, therefore, illustrate that women who refuse to subordinate their desire meet with bad ends, and their introduction within the narrative works to contextualize marriage, which becomes a more positive state in relation to theirs. There is, nonetheless, a twist to the textual logic that is apparent in the novel's subplot and that is worth exploring, since it provides a vent for unfulfilled feminine desires. The textual dynamic suggests that woman will be satiated indirectly through her man and/ or child as in the cases of Alice and Glencora. Women who desire but refuse to conform to this pattern are pushed outside the textual discourse, like Kate, or punished, like Jane and the prostitute. But the novel holds out hope for women (and for feminine sexuality) in its implicit promise that if woman will fulfil her function as object, she may be rewarded with a subject position. This twist is dramatized through Alice's and Kate's aunt, Mrs Greenow. Mrs Greenow is a female figure who has played the game, performed as object, and now asserts herself as subject. She is driven by a desire for fulfilment. She has done what society wishes by marrying a rich old husband, and she is empowered by the money he leaves her. As Alice

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argues: 'Of course she was wrong to marry him. She was thirty-five, and had nothing, while he was sixty-five, and was very rich. According to all accounts she made him a very good wife, and now ... she's got all his money' (I 56). Mrs Greenow pays a price for her subjectivity, for she is firmly posited outside the privileged novelistic order and is a figure of derision for Alice and Kate. She is of a lower class than her nieces, yet her more marginalized position allows her a certain amplitude because she is less governed by the dictates of the centre. Her lack of status and position notwithstanding, Mrs Greenow is proffered as a strange sort of role model, for she is the only female figure who attempts to make her own rules. Mrs Greenow must continue to give lip-service to public opinion and show the proper esteem for traditional codes of behaviour, but she does so by hiding her desires behind the convenient figure of Kate: "'My dear," she said, "in this matter you must let me do what I know to be right. I should consider myself to be very selfish if I allowed my grief to interfere with your amusements"' (I 72). Mrs Greenow must control her desires, at least overtly, because she wishes to appear 'respectable' in this discursive world. But, as Kate observes, her aunt is crafty and has learned the lessons of Victorian life: 'Sometimes I fancy that she likes the fun of the thing, but that she is too wide-awake to put herself into any man's power' (I 323) . Mrs Greenow has played her cards right, and now she can buy herself fulfilment. Because she has heeded society's conventions, she feels that she is in a position to choose the man she (sexually) desires: 'I do like a little romance about them, - just a sniff, as I call it, of the rocks and valleys. One knows that it doesn't mean much; but it's like artificial flowers, - it gives a little colour, and takes off the dowdiness. Of course, bread-and-cheese is the real thing. The rocks and valleys are no good at all, if you haven't got that. But enough is as good as a feast' (II 242). Mrs Greenow decides against the man of money, Mr Cheesacre, a union with whom would relocate her in an object position, and chooses instead a man who will be dependent on her. Mrs Greenow satisfies her desires through marriage with Captain Bellfield. Theirs is not posited as an idyllic union, but it is a union, nonetheless, that allows for the fulfilment of feminine desires: [Mrs Greenow] took Captain Bellfield for better or for worse, with a thorough determination to make the best of his worst, and to put him on his legs, if any such putting might be possible. He, at any rate, had been in luck. If any possible

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stroke of fortune could do him good, he had found that stroke. He had found a wife who could forgive all his past offences, - and also, if necessary, some future offences; who had money enough for all his wants, and kindness enough to gratify them, and who had, moreover, - which for the Captain was the most important, - strength enough to keep from him the power of ruining them both. Reader, let us wish a happy married life to Captain and Mrs. Bellfield! (II 400-1)

Mrs Greenow continues to perform a feminine role in that she helps to establish the position of Captain Bellfield. Even so, she is the only female character who chooses the 'unworthy' man because he will give her pleasure, and she is the only female character who actively satisfies her desires. Mrs Greenow's assumption of subjectivity is indicated through her discourse. While she does not hold an authoritative subject position, she does become an author of sorts of her own text. She consciously concocts her own stories, in which she chooses to believe: 'Alice knew the story of Charlie Fairstairs and her hopes; knew of the quarrels between Bellfield and Cheesacre; knew almost as much ofBellfield's past life as Mrs. Greenow did herself; and Mrs. Greenow was no doubt aware that such was the case. Nevertheless, she had a pleasure in telling her own story, and told it as though she believed every word that she spoke' (II 391). By creating her own fictions, Mrs Greenow is able to perform as an author of discourse. Because her discourse is fictive, she does not hold an authoritative subject position in the narrative. Even so, she does manifest patriarchy's promise to women. If women are not fulfilled by performing as objects, once they have done their duty they too may be able to perform as subjects. This promise mitigates the dubious attractions of living outside the textual order, like Kate, Jane, and the prostitute, since it provides hope for dissatisfied women. It is a promise, however, that the patriarchal dynamic cannot keep, as becomes clear throughout the rest of the Palliser Novels. Can You Forgi,ve Her? may satisfy its female characters (and work to satisfy its readers) with the promise of subjectivity, but as Mrs Greenow's case makes clear, her 'subjectivity' is marginal to the textual hierarchy, and her performance as subject is trivialized within the narrative. Nonetheless, Mrs Greenow remains one of the more fortunate of the female characters, for, as the next novel in the series indicates, if women choose to abrogate the position allotted them, their future is bleak.

Desire, Control, and Suppression in Phineas Finn

Phineas Finn, written in 1866-7, provides for a more complex examination of the Victorian patriarchal power dynamic than either An Autobiography or Can You Forgi,ve Her?. Phineas Finn pulls together and combines the stories manifested in the two previously discussed texts, and, in so doing, generates an analysis of the operation of patriarchal social stratification. This novel delineates the socio-psychological dynamic that preys upon its subjects' desires for wholeness, at the same time that it demonstrates the ways in which that dynamic both abides by and operates as a discourse of power. The framework of desire manifested in An Autobiography and Can You Forgi,ve Her? illustrates how the ex-centric subject can achieve a semblance of wholeness within the patriarchal system by dominating other ex-centric subjects and women; Phineas Finn further illuminates the paradigm by locating the drive that motivates the performance of the subject in the desire to control. As the novel demonstrates, the desire to control provides for the basis of social hierarchization. The cultural critique evinced in Phineas Finn, therefore, is all-pervasive and again draws attention to the problematic tenets of humanist ideology, which are grounded in the subject's mistaken belief in his ability to achieve unity (I use the male pronoun deliberately here). Although subjects can never achieve unity within themselves, they are compelled to fulfil the desires that drive them because they believe that fulfilment of those desires will engender the wholeness for which they long. I have discussed these aspects of subjectivity and their effects; Phineas Finn, with its emphasis on social hierarchization, takes the argument a step further, for it demonstrates how the subject's inability to fulfil himself is reflected in the larger social structure.

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The social structure comes into play, in Lacanian theory, when the subject develops and looks to the father, whom he perceives as the holder of the Phallus, as the source of control and meaning. The subject believes the father to be in a position to satisfy desire. As the subject develops, he realizes that the father does not occupy this position, a position that is located in what Lacan calls the Name-of-the-Father, which exists in the Symbolic order. The Symbolic can never be realized, but the subject emulates the Name-of-the-Father, which he begins to perceive as operating in culture. Culture, which, as a social formulation, serves to implement laws and to arbitrate social codes, performs a function similar to the Symbolic signification of the Name-of-the-Father. Because the subject's identity is established through his social performance, he looks to culture to fulfil him. As James M. Mellard notes: 'Lacan makes that point repeatedly in his work: identity is conferred by another upon the individual; it is not worn as an a priori existent. It comes to the individual from outside and fills a lack, a gap, a void in being' (118). The subject yearns to be in a position to control desire, since to control desire suggests the ability to achieve wholeness and completeness. The subject therefore attempts to control desire, but since he cannot control his own, he seeks to control others', for the control of desire lends the subject the appearance of being in control. As Chris Weedon summarizes Lacan, 'The desire for control through possession becomes the primary motivating force of the psyche and control is identified with the position of the father and symbolically represented by the phallus' (53). Control also motivates the system which the subject inhabits. The chain of displaced desires experienced by the subject is utilized to sustain and to perpetuate the patriarchal system and the social stratification it promotes. Patriarchal culture, which rests on the idea of fulfilment, operates as a nexus of control. Centric subjects are situated inside the power dynamic and control entry into the centre, which serves as the illusory site of fulfilment. The centre satiates its desires for fulfilment through controlling those who are ex-centric, for the ex-centric desire inclusion in the centre as a means of obtaining wholeness. Centric sulr jects, owing to their position in the hierarchy, perform in the position of the father and work to control the desires of the others. They are the makers of laws and the arbiters of social propriety. Ex-centric subjects, despite their desire for inclusion, can never become a part of the centre because the centre requires the ex-centric to be ex-centric in order to reinforce its own status as controller. Those who are ex-centric, therefore,

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require a site of control through which to establish themselves, and their desires are displaced onto the subordination of woman. As Phineas Finn demonstrates, love relationships become the site of control for those inside and outside the centre - woman works to fulfil the subject's desire for wholeness by performing as the subordinate object. Phineas Finn explicates woman's position in the dynamic and her function as object of control, for without her, the system would break down; it depends upon a subordinate Other to satiate its subjects and to maintain its social structures. The plight of the Other, however, is disturbing, and the novel highlights woman's position by dramatizing the fate of Alice Vavasor, now Alice Grey. Alice's appearances in Phineas Finn are brief but serve to illustrate how woman fares when she is interpellated into the patriarchal system. Alice is depicted as an appendage in the few passages in which she appears. At best, she is referred to as 'Mrs Grey,' and the explanation is added that she is Glencora's 'particular friend' (II 234); at worst, she is designated by her function: 'Mr. Grey had also brought his wife' (II 24). Alice, for all intents and purposes, has ceased to exist. Like George Vavasor in Can You Forgfoe Her?, Alice loses her name and loses her place. Since this paradigm serves as a warning to both characters and readers, Phineas Finn implicitly acknowledges that woman cannot find inclusion in the system and then work to change it. Alice is obliterated through her inclusion in the power dynamic. Unlike Can You Forgive Her?, which continued to proffer the illusion of inclusion in the centre to the ex-centric, Phineas Finn implicitly critiques the function of the centre. The centred characters in Phineas Finn are not whole and complete, but are controllers who desire to control others to satiate themselves. Although Phineas Finn displays the operation of the system as a locus of control, it does not overtly question the notion of wholeness that pervades the power dynamic; rather, it maintains the illusion that wholeness can be achieved, even if it is not achieved by the centric characters. It should be noted that Plantagenet Palliser, whom Trollope believes to be the 'perfect gentleman' (Autolnography 361), plays a minor role in this text and is not included in the novel's examination of centric behaviour. But while the humanist promise of wholeness and fulfilment is perpetuated in this narrative, Phineas Finn nonetheless provides for an investigation of the ways in which the desire to control drives the subject. The centred characters in Phineas Finn seek to fulfil their desire for wholeness by controlling and subordinating others. The novel, therefore, draws attention to the construction of the system. The Duke of Omnium

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(Palliser's uncle) is positioned at the apex of the textual hierarchy; he holds power, as the recipient of the benefits of the patriarchal system, but he continues to desire fulfilment. In Phineas Finn, the Duke is portrayed as an aging and silly man, and his pursuit of Marie (Madame Max) Goesler indicates that he is motivated by a desire to fulfil himself. The Duke cannot subordinate Marie and is left frustrated; however, as a result of his position in the power hierarchy, he is still able to function. His subject position is never in question, for he operates in relation to the subordination of the ex-centric, who reaffirm his privileged position in the novelistic centre. The centre is not comprised of apparently whole and complete characters in this novel. Just as the Duke is fragmented through his unfulfilled desire for Marie, Mr Kennedy, the wealthy Scottish 'laird of Linn and laird of Linter' (I 119), is driven by an hysterical desire to control those around him. Kennedy is concerned with control as a means of fulfilling himself, and he attempts to achieve signification through the objectification of his wife, Lady Laura. Laura exists in relation to Kennedy, and he demands that she behave in the manner he advocates: 'Mr. Kennedy, having drawn out the course, seemed to expect that his wife should read the books he had named, and, worse still, that she should read them in the time he had allocated for the work. This, I think, was tyranny' (I 2o8). The narrator's disapproval of Mr Kennedy draws attention to Kennedy's abrogation of the centre's edicts of behaviour, for he suggests that control should be more subtle if it is to be centrically acceptable. Yet Kennedy's desire differs from the others' only in its intensity. Mr Kennedy, as becomes clear, is not a stable character, but is controlled by his religious beliefs, and the extremity of his enforcement of religious doctrine points to his own mania, as well as to his desire to perform as the Nameof-the-Father. Mr Kennedy, in effect, attempts to become God. In a Christian framework, God functions as the Name-of-the-Father, for He is the source of meaning, stability, and control. Kennedy, who is governed by an all-consuming desire for sameness and conformity with his wishes, tries to assume a godlike position in relation to Laura. When Laura baulks at his dictates, he locates her unhappiness and her resulting fondness for Phineas Finn in her refusal to fulfil her duties: 'You are taking this young man up and putting him on a pedestal and worshipping him, just because he is well-looking, and rather clever and decently behaved. It's always the way with women who have nothing to do, and who cannot be made to understand that they should have duties. They cannot live without some kind of idolatry' (II 59).

Patriarchal Desire and Victorian Discourse Laura's failure to perform in accordance with his desires convinces Mr Kennedy that her rebellion is the source of her displeasure. He ultimately entreats Phineas Finn to appeal to Laura to accept her duties - the duties which Kennedy has allotted her - since the fulfilment of duties becomes Kennedy's means of fulfilling desire: 'But are we all of us to have all that we like? I have not found it so. Or would it be good for us if we had? ... It is not of my own comfort I am thinking now so much as of her name and her future conduct. Of course, it will in every sense be best for her that she should come back to her husband's roof (II 280). Ultimately, Kennedy tries to invoke the law to force Laura to return to him. The effects of his actions are displaced onto a further novel, Phineas Redux, and will be discussed in chapter five. What is significant in Phineas Finn is that Kennedy, a centred character, desires control to satiate his own desire for fulfilment, a fulfilment that is perpetually deferred. Although Kennedy's hysteria is pronounced, perhaps the inability to fulfil the self and the concomitant displacement of desire are most apparent in the female characters who are aligned with the centre. Indeed, they reside in a curious liminal space, since while they perform as objects within the system, as the property of their centred husbands, they also attempt to subordinate the ex-centric through their mimicry of centric behaviour. Glencora Palliser's appearance in this novel is surprising, for she is depicted as one of the controllers. Her control is exerted over the Duke of Omnium in an effort to prevent his marriage to Marie Goesler. Glencora's portrayal most clearly defines the power dynamic that drives the centre, since her position is more tenuous than that of the centred male characters. Overtly, Glencora's desire is described as a displacement, in that she desires to control the Duke and the Omnium lineage because she herself was controlled: She had been reduced, and kept in order, and made to run in a groove, - and was now ... almost inclined to think that the world was right, and that grooves were best. But if she had been controlled when she was young, so ought the Duke to be controlled now that he was old. It is all very well for a man or woman to boast that he, - or she, - may do what he likes with his own, - or with her own. But there are circumstances in which such self-action is ruinous to so many that coercion from the outside becomes absolutely needed. Nobody had felt the injustice of such coercion when applied to herself more sharply than had Lady Glencora. But she had lived to acknowledge that such coercion might be proper, and was now prepared to use it in any shape in which it might be made available. (II 215)

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Glencora's desire for control, therefore, serves as a vindication of her position; she controls in order to justify her own suppression, yet the control she effects works to suppress her further by perpetuating the system. Although the control Glencora exerts lends her the illusion of centric inclusion, control serves as an indirect fulfilment of the desire she repressed in order to become associated with the centre: 'She had begun the world desiring one thing, and had missed it. She had suffered much, and had then reconciled herself to other hopes. If those other hopes were also to be cut away from her, the world would not be worth a pinch of snuff to her.' (II 215) This passage is important since it draws attention to the idea that sexuality and control stem from the same desire for fulfilment. In Glencora's case, desire for love is displaced onto desire for control (and to complete the circle, when the ex-centric are figured into the system, that desire is displaced back onto love, which becomes the ultimate site of control). Glencora's desire to control is impeded, for she cannot control either the Duke or Marie Goesler. It is because Marie decides to refuse the Duke's proposal that the marriage does not take place. But although Glencora's control is subverted, Marie's refusal leaves Glencora in the position she desires. As such, the novel concludes with Glencora dispensing invitations to the Duke's party. She allows entry into the centre and acts as a vanguard of centricity: 'they who considered themselves entitled to be asked, and were not asked, were full of wrath against their more fortunate friends, instead of being angry with the Duke or with Lady Glencora, who had neglected them. It was soon known that Lady Glencora was the real dispenser of the favours, and I fancy that her ladyship was tired of her task before it was completed' (II 234). Although Glencora may attain the illusion of centricity, that illusion is not sufficient to fulfil the desires she repressed in order to attain it, and her desire for fulfilment continues to manifest itself in further desires to control others, which are not satiated, and so on. The centre, even if its desires remain unfulfilled, still functions in relation to the ex-centric, and the relationship between centre and margins becomes a source of ideological inconsistencies and contradictions. If there are controllers in Phineas Finn, The Duke of Omnium, Mr Kennedy, and Glencora perform this function; the centre is therefore shown to be a locus of suppression and a repetition of suppression, all of which relates to its desire to fulfil and perpetuate itself. Pitted against the centre are the overtly controlled characters: Phineas Finn, Lady Laura

Patriarchal Desire and Victorian Discourse Standish, Marie Goesler, Violet Effingham, and Lord Chiltern. Each of these characters initially desires inclusion in the centre, but when they realize that centrification is denied them, their desires are displaced onto desires for sexual fulfilment. Love becomes the means of establishing wholeness and order. Phineas Finn is the most developed of the ex-centric characters. Much like Trollope in An Autobiography, he is outside the centre and desires centricity as a means of fulfilling his self. Throughout the novel, Phineas tries desperately to incorporate himself into the centre. As Elizabeth Epperly observes, 'The politics of [Madame Max Goesler's] world and Phineas's are similar: together Phineas and Madame Max suggest how a persistent outsider may win a place in the capricious world of London high society' ('Borderlands' 29). Yet Finn fails to win a place in the centre. Because he lacks the qualities centrification demands - breeding and blood - he can never secure the desired status. As Bill Overton argues, Phineas's Irish birth is crucial to the novel's plot, since 'Phineas Finn's interest stems largely from the insecurity of his political life, and one reason for that insecurity is that he is Irish' (4). Phineas's Irish nationality precludes his inclusion in the centre, and, indeed, his parliamentary enemies point to his nationality as the factor which impedes his acceptance: "The fact is, Finn," said Bonteen, "you are made of clay too fine for office. I've always found it has been so with men from your country. You are the grandest horses in the world to look at out on a prairie, but you don't like the slavery of harness." ' (II 2g6). This passage provides an example of the convolutions of the novel's patriarchal logic: because Phineas is Irish, he cannot achieve centricity, but his exclusion is acceptable since his Irish background would never allow him to reside in the centre in any event. As an outside character, Phineas desperately tries to obtain a position that will satisfy his desire for inclusion. His rootlessness and failure to find a satisfying career foreground his inability to fulfil himself or his desires. He 'sat his terms for three years, and was duly called to the Bar; but no evidence came home as to the acquirement of a considerable amount of law lore, or even as to much law study, on the part of the young aspirant. The learned pundit at whose feet he had been sitting was not especially loud in praise of his pupil's industry, though he did say a pleasant word or two as to his pupil's intelligence' (I 3). Phineas's desire for satisfaction leads him to a seat in Parliament, which he initially believes will serve as a means of fulfilling his need for approbation.

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Phineas's place in Parliament, which he initially believes testifies to his inclusion, also highlights the ways in which Phineas is a split and conflicted character, who often finds himself in a fragmented position. For instance, Phineas rationalizes sitting for a corrupt borough because such boroughs may thereby be abolished: There appeared to him to be no valid reason why he should not sit for Loughton . .. Of course he, Phineas Finn, desired earnestly, - longed in his very heart of hearts, - to extinguish all such Parliamentary influence, to root out for ever the last vestige of close borough nominations; but while the thing remained it was better that the thing should contribute to the liberal than to the conseivative strength of the House, - and if to the liberal, how was this to be achieved but by the acceptance of such influence by some liberal candidate? And if it were right that it should be accepted by any liberal candidate, - then, why not by him? The logic of this argument seemed to him to be perfect. (I 292)

Phineas's logic, or rather illogic, results from the conflicted subject position allocated him. The centre promises him inclusion but denies him entry; he is included but excluded. As a result, Finn looks for different ways to centre himself and decides that woman will help to satisfy his desires. As Polhemus contends, Phineas uses women as a means of obtaining power: 'Trollope makes it clear that one reason why Phineas wants to win Violet from Chiltern and Marie from the Duke is that he conjoins the qualities these nobles have - power, rank, influence, and sexual magnetism - with the women they love. Phineas reveals also, though not as fully as the female characters, what Girard calls 'metaphysical desire,' the desire for transcendence from the material self and from physical desire, a transcendence that the self comes to associate with a love choice. ('Being' 388-g). Finn, like the inside characters, feels the need to subjugate in order to attain successful integration. However, when his desire for centrification is frustrated, he is driven to attain fulfilment in other ways. His desire for inclusion is displaced onto a desire for sexual subjugation, which would lend him the illusion of control and enable him to perform in centric fashion. Phineas decides that the possession of a wealthy wife would help his career. He sets in motion a further chain of desires: he proposes to Lady Laura, who rejects him, and to Violet Effingham, who also rejects him, and ultimately turns to Marie Goesler. Phineas looks to women in order to affirm himself. Through them, he enjoys the illusion of holding the

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Phallus - acting as the Name-of-the-Father - which illusion lends him the appearance of stability. But his efforts are unsuccessful. Although Lady Laura loves him, she does not marry him, and, his desire for love, in fact, subverts his relationship with Violet: 'This gallant lover, this young Crichton, this unassuming but ardent lover, had simply taken up with her as soon as he had failed with her friend ... For herself, she felt that such expressions were hardly compatible with her ideas of having her lover all to herself (II 118-19) . When love does not serve as a means of establishing his centricity, Phineas's behaviour undergoes a further convolution and he starts to act in opposition to the centre's dictates. This behaviour begins when Phineas secures a cabinet position but realizes that his job is not satisfying, for it requires his blanket approval of government policy: 'Men spoke to him, as though his parliamentary career were wholly at the disposal of the Government, - as though he were like a proxy in Mr. Gresham's pocket, - with this difference, that when directed to get up and speak on a subject he was bound to do so. This annoyed him, and he complained to Mr. Monk; but Mr. Monk only shrugged his shoulders and told him that he must make his choice' (II 163). Phineas understands that his parliamentary success combined with his financial insufficiency places him in a position where he must do what the centre bids. As his friend, Mr Low, contends: 'When a man has means of his own he can please himself. Do you marry a wife with money, and then you may kick up your heels and do as you like about the Colonial Office. When a man hasn't money, of course he must fit himself to the circumstances of a profession' (II 229). Phineas is expected to perform as an ex-centric subject in relation to the centric subjects; his position enables the centre to be centre through control of him. Like several of the female characters, Finn rebels against the centre's dictates, but in refusing to accept his party's position on Irish Tenant Rights and hence 'distinguishing' himself by means of that refusal, he only remarginalizes himself. Phineas does not understand that while the centre distinguishes itself through difference from the ex-centric, the excentric cannot distinguish themselves through difference from the centre, for they are not in a position of power. Phineas only forces himself outside the novelistic discourse. He is pushed out of the social structure when he decides to abandon his party and his life in London to return to Ireland. However, as a male, he can still function as subject within the hierarchical chain the novel supports. Phineas's engagement to his child-

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hood sweetheart, Mary Flood Jones, will continue to lend him the appearance of control, if on a different level. Before Phineas returns to Ireland, he has an opportunity to resituate himself in relation to the centre through Marie Goesler, who proposes to him and offers him her money. He is tempted and considers abandoning Mary: 'After all, if it should ever come to pass that his biography should be written, his biographer would say very much more about the manner in which he kept his seat in Parliament than of the manner in which he kept his engagement with Miss Mary Flood Jones. Half a dozen people who knew him and her might think ill of him for his conduct to Mary, but the world would not condemn him!' (II 277). However, the position of power Phineas desires would be abrogated if he were to accept Marie's offer: he would not be placed in a position superior to hers through marriage, but would be financially controlled by her. Accordingly, he refuses her proposal. At the conclusion of the novel, Phineas displaces himself to Ireland where, presumably, he will retain control through controlling Mary, and in this way, the novel hints that he is fulfilled. However, Phineas's is an uneasy 'fulfilment' in light of his actions throughout the novel, and in light of the actions of the other ex-centric characters. As my analysis of Phineas suggests, when the ex-centric realize that they cannot gain inclusion in the centre, they seek to fulfil themselves through love relationships in which woman is posited as the object of male fulfilment. Where Phineas's 'fulfilment' takes place outside the novel, Lord Chiltern and Violet Effingham's relationship foregrounds the politics involved in love and demonstrates how women are expected to function as sites of control. Both Violet and Lord Chiltern are ex-centric characters. Lord Chiltern is ex-centric because he violates the codes of the centre, and he attempts to complete himself through a union with Violet; however, his relationship with her becomes an extension of the power nexus of the novel. Lord Chiltern is a figure who should belong in the centre but instead resides in the margins. He has abrogated his place in the inside because his erratic behaviour transgresses centric codes of decorum. Since he is centred but not centred, he resides in a liminal space within the text. He admits to Phineas that he 'rarely associated with the men of either of the hunts in which he rode. 'There is a set of fellows down here who are poison to me, and there is another set, and I am poison to them. Everybody is very civil, as you see, but I have no associates'" (I 219). The centre

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has not quelled Lord Chiltern, but it has suppressed him by denying him his centric birthright. Like George V~vasor, Lord Chiltern is an overtly sexual character, and his sexuality is first encoded in the text through his propensity to violence. The narrator draws attention to Lord Chiltern's explosive temperament: 'The reader has been told that Lord Chiltern was a red man, and that peculiarity of his personal appearance was certainly the first to strike a stranger. It imparted a certain look of ferocity to him, which was apt to make men afraid of him at first sight. Women are not actuated in the same way, and are accustomed to look deeper into men at the first sight than other men will trouble themselves to do.' (I 98) . Lord Chiltern's violent tendencies serve as evidence of his passionate nature, which is also highlighted by the text's metaphoric language. Violet draws attention to Chiltern's overt sexuality when she suggests to Lady Laura: 'Your brother, Laura, is dangerous. He is like the bad ice in the parks where they stick up the poles. He has had a pole stuck upon him ever since he was a boy' (11 126). Lord Chiltern's violence operates as a vent for his sexuality. His desire for physical domination is paralleled by his desire for sexual domination, and he affirms his subjectivity through sexual politics. He seeks an outlet which will figure him as controller, and which, within the text's power structure, will channel his desire to control. Lord Chiltern is appeased sexually, and his violence subdued, through the promise of marriage to Violet. With Violet as an outlet, presumably Lord Chiltern will be satiated. Of course, if Violet serves as an outlet, there can be no outlet for her. Her purpose is to act as fulfiller. Polhemus argues that Violet is placed in a fragmented position. She, 'like others in Trollope's vision, has the problem of balancing desire with her sense of what the public expects of her. She has to try to tame [Lord Chiltern] and punish herself for loving him before she can give way to his force. One sees in almost all of Trollope's women of this period a barely suppressed hysteria that their split yearnings cause' ( Changi,ng 162). Polhemus draws attention to Violet's split subjectivity, and while he locates its source in her fragmented position in the novel, his assertion implies that there is something wrong with Violet and the other female characters. Rather than viewing the female characters as somehow flawed, it is perhaps more useful to perceive them as symptomatic of a flawed system. As Lacan argues: A woman is a symptom.

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The fact that a woman is a symptom can be seen from the structure which I am in the process of explaining to you, namely, that there is no jouissance of the Other as such, no guarantee to be met with in the jouissance of the body of the Other, to ensure that enjoying the Other exists. A manifest instance of the hole, or rather of something whose only support is the objet a - but always in a mix-up or confusion. (Feminine 168)

That woman is a symptom is clear in the textual dynamic at play in Phineas Finn, where she is symptomatic of the problems in the structure of the patriarchal order. Love relationships are sites of power, and, within them, woman functions as a means of signification for men. Denied a subject position, woman poses a threat to the construction of patriarchal ideology and its manifestation in patriarchal social structures, since both are dependent upon her acquiescence to her role as subordinate Other. Polhemus may well be right in his observation that Violet is hysterical, but her hysteria results from an inherent contradiction in the text's ideological impetus, which acknowledges woman's subjectivity as it appeals to her to accept her objectification. Violet desires, but she is able to fulfil her desires only by acting as a site of fulfilment. Much like that of Alice Vavasor in Can You Forgi,ve Her?, Violet's situation is brought to the reader's attention when she indicates, through jest, that the sole 'choice' open to her is to become an object in marriage: 'A husband is very much like a house or a horse. You don't take your house because it's the best house in the world, but because just then you want a house. You go and see a house, and if it's very nasty you don't take it. But if you think it will suit pretty well, and if you are tired of looking about for houses, you do take it. That's the way one buys one's horses, - and one's husbands' (I 94). Because Phineas Finn posits a hierarchy in which the illusion of wholeness is manifested through the exercise of control, sexual subjugation allows for the exertion of that control. And since female characters have no place in this system, they generate difficulties. Violet, for example, must perform as the object that will grant fulfilment; she is denied fulfilment for herself. Hence, whereas the male characters' desires are displaced, the female characters' desires are doubly displaced since they can fulfil their desires only vicariously. Violet longs for the privileges that accompany subjectivity. Like Alice before her, she rails against women's submission: 'And a woman must be content to be nothing, - unless Mr. Mill can pull us through!' (II 197). She dislikes the position allocated to her in the patriarchal social order

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and desires to perform as subject: ' I wish I could be something, if it were only a stick in waiting, or a door-keeper. It is so good to be something' (II 196). But Violet cannot be a subject. She functions within the discourse as object and this en/genders complications, since she behaves like a subject when she desires fulfilment. Violet is split: as object, she longs to be desired, as subject, she seeks a relationship that will fulfil her desires. The frustration that results from her conflicted position erupts when she rejects Phineas Finn's proposal of marriage because he does not desire her enough, or, as she puts it, because she has not notched his stick: 'It seems that he wiped it off very quickly; - and since that he has wiped off another mark. One doesn't know how many marks he has wiped off. They are like the inn-keeper's score which he makes in chalk. A damp cloth brings them all away, and leaves nothing behind ... There should be a little notch on the stick, - to remember by ... Not that I complain, you know. I cannot complain, as I was not notched myself (II 310) . Violet's urge to 'notch' sticks comes very close to a metaphorical desire to castrate. As a woman, she herself cannot be notched, and she attempts to eliminate the Phallic force which oppresses her through her desire to 'notch,' or castrate. Viole(n)t's reference, then, opens a line of inquiry into male castration anxiety. Richard Boothby argues that castration anxiety serves as a reminder of the fragmentation of the subject: 'The anxiety of castration is, in effect, a specialization of and a defense against a more general anxiety. Like certain species of lizard whose tail drops off in the jaws of a would-be predator, castration in its literal meaning as a loss of the penis functions to save the whole by giving up one of its parts. Understood in this way, what is at stake in castration is not only anxiety but a transition from anxiety to fear - a transition, that is, in which an indeterminate restlessness caused by the upsurge of somatic energies lacking psychic representation becomes specified by being attached to a definite content' (148). Boothby adds that the boy's penis 'offers itself as a reassuring presence, the guarantor of a false promise of wholeness' (150). While Lacan is very careful to distinguish the penis from the Phallus, the Phallus being the 'signifier of desire' which 'represents the intrusion of vital thrusting or growth' (Speech 187) , Boothby's argument that the penis is a (false) representation of the Phallus illuminates Violet's speech in Phineas Finn. If the penis acts as a false promise of wholeness (a promise embodied in the Symbolic Phallus), it is this promise that Violet threatens when she makes metaphoric reference to castration. If the penis is removed, so is the promise of wholeness. In addition, if Violet refuses to play by patri-

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archal rules, even the illusion of wholeness is shattered. Because women pose problems to the patriarchal system, which requires their submission in order to appease its subjects' desires for completeness, her words draw direct attention to the system's inability to satisfy its subjects without woman. Not only does Violet's allusion to castration foreground her ability to disrupt the system, it also signals the reasons behind the patriarchal fear of women. The possibility of female violence, figured in Violet's desire to 'notch,' is very much a concern of patriarchal subjects, for if woman refuses her place in the system, its promise of unity is revealed to be a myth. The system plays upon the fear of woman in order to reinforce the status quo, for it implicitly argues that she must be kept subjugated lest she erupt in violence. To digress, I would argue that it is this reasoning that results in the mixed responses to films like Thelma and Louise. On the one hand, the film is liberating, for it depicts women who take issue with their subjugation; on the other hand, it serves to verify the idea that woman must be suppressed because she is dangerous. Since the patriarchal system fears woman for a variety of reasons - as the reminder of split subjectivity, as the site on which the system depends to fulfil male subjects - it presents its effort to control her as justified and justifiable, a line of logic that works to legitimize its subordination of her. The contradictory nature of woman's position within patriarchy is revealed in Violet's actions, for she is split within the system. While she may make metaphoric reference to castration, she does not become a victimizer, but remains a victim of the patriarchal order. As a victim of the system, she displays a desire both to perform as subject and to be desired as object. Hence, she finds Phineas's attraction to her insufficient because he does not recognize her full value. Lord Chiltern desires her enough to appease her desire to be desired, but she also desires subjectivity, which would allow her to attempt to fulfil her desires. While she accepts her position as object, she is aware that her fulfilment depends upon Lord Chiltern's fulfilment, and she entreats him to be kind to her: 'You must not be rough to me, and outrageous, and fierce' (11 124). At the same time, she is disturbed by her object status and fights for a subject position: 'When her lover had frowned at her, Violet had resolved, - had strongly determined, with inward assertions of her own rights, - that she would not be frightened by him' (II 304). Initially Violet attempts to assert control in the relationship, partly to satisfy her own desire to perform as a subject, and partly because she is aware that, as an object, she will be determined by Chiltern's life choices.

Patriarchal Desire and Victorian Discourse But since he perceives her as an object, he resents her interference: 'Then Violet looked into his face and saw that the frown was blacker than ever. The great mark down his forehead was deeper and more like an ugly wound than she had ever seen it; and his eyes sparkled with anger; and his face was red as with fiery wrath. If it was so with him when she was no more than engaged to him, how would it be when they should be man and wife? At any rate, she would not fear him, - not now at least. "No, Oswald," she said. "If you resolve upon being an idle man, I shall not respect you. It is better that I should tell you the truth."' (II 305) . Although Violet struggles against Chiltern, her struggles are ineffectual from the start, since she accedes to his control over her in her acknowledged acceptance of his mastery: She had thought him to be wrong, and, so thinking, had conceived it to be her duty and her privilege to tell him what she thought. But she had no wish to lose him; - no wish not to be his wife even, though he should be as idle as the wind. She was so constituted that she had never allowed him or any other man to be master of her heart, - till she had with a full purpose given her heart away. The day before she had resolved to give it to one man, she might, I think have resolved to give it to another. Love had not conquered her, but had been taken into her service. Nevertheless, she could not now rid herself of her servant, when she found that his services would stand her no longer in good stead. (II 3o6)

Because Violet loves and desires Lord Chiltern, her only means to possess him is to be possessed by him. She cannot fulfil her desires directly by assuming a position of power and control. Although Violet may attempt to posit herself as subject, she is unable to achieve subject status, and, for all intents and purposes, she functions in relation to her future husband. She may baulk at this patriarchal dynamic, but she cannot overcome it. Despite the struggles in which Violet and Chiltern are engaged, they are presented as a happy couple. Hence, while the novel depicts Violet's conflicted position, it also suggests that she finds happiness in acceding to Chiltern's desire. While the fate of Alice Vavasor casts a shadow over this assurance, the textual impetus continues to appeal to women to accept their objectification, and implies that if they play the game, they will eventually be rewarded with a subject position. Phineas Finn thus both acknowledges woman as subject and works to disenfranchise her. Marie Goesler operates in a manner similar to that of Mrs Greenow in Can You Forgi,ve Her?. Since she has functioned as object, she desires the privilege of performing as subject. Where Mrs Greenow, pushed outside

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the textual hierarchy, was able to achieve a semblance of subjectivity, her performance is not easily duplicable for those who wish to maintain a privileged position in the patriarchal social structure. The promise of feminine subjectivity implicitly proffered in Can You Forgi,ve Her?, therefore, breaks down in Marie's characterization. Much like Mrs Greenow, Marie has accumulated money through her first marriage and attempts to forge a place for herself in the textual discourse. She is more of an outsider than Finn, since she is the widow of a Jewish banker, but like him, she seeks admission into the centre. Where patriarchal logic implies that Phineas could be included in the centre if he had enough money (and if he were not Irish), however, it argues that Marie, who has enough money, cannot be included because of her ethnicity. Marie is doubly marginalized in the text. She is not only a woman but, implicitly, a Jewish woman and, hence, can never be included in the centre, despite her material advantages. Phineas Finn works to suggest that it is Marie's position that bars her from subjectivity, and implicitly continues to promise subjectivity to women who have played the game. Therefore, while the textual impetus suggests that Marie has reached the pinnacle of achievement for women, and implies that all women, if they follow the rules, can achieve this level, it also works to discredit her by placing her on the margins of its discourse - it presents her as a special case. Marie is an indefinite character in this text. She is outside the novel's codes because she does not figure in its White Anglo-Saxon Protestant hierarchy. She is indecipherable and elusive, as Epperly observes: 'Marie Goesler takes stock of her own allurements and consciously uses them. She dresses to deceive; she flirts with her brilliant, bold eyes. No one knows - including the reader - whether she is wicked or simply exotically disarming. ('Borderlands' 26). Marie subverts easy definitions, and her indecipherable character is signalled both in her names (she is Madame Max Goesler and Marie Goesler, concomitantly) and in her appearance. Her clothes are 'unlike the dress of other women' (I 25), and while she dresses in black, it is a black shot through with yellow and red silk, which robs it 'of all its sombre solemnity' (II 26). Her behaviour is in accord with social dictates, but she is somewhat risque. Her indeterminacy confuses other characters in the novel who are unsure how to receive her. Even Laura questions whether she should be invited to dinner: The truth was that Madame Goesler had been brought by Miss Effingham, - with the consent, indeed, of Lady Laura, but with a consent given with much of hesitation. 'What are you afraid of?' Violet had asked. 'I am afraid of nothing,'

Patriarchal Desire and Victorian Discourse Lady Laura had answered; 'but one has to choose one's acquaintance in accordance with rules which one doesn't lay down very strictly' 'She is a clever woman,' said Violet, 'and everybody likes her; but if you think Mr. Kennedy would object, of course you are right.' Then Lady Laura had consented, telling herself that it was not necessary that she should ask her husband's approval as to every new acquaintance she might form. (11 53)

Marie is cryptic, and she is textually encoded as a woman of mystery. Lord Fawn notes: 'Oh yes, I know the lady; - that is, as well as other people do. No one, I take it, knows much of her; and it seems to me that the world is becoming tired of her. A mystery is good for nothing if it remains always a mystery' (II 34). And, indeed, Marie remains a mystery to the other characters. I would suggest, however, that her mystique arises from her implicit and indeterminable sexuality. Jane Nardin reads Marie as a manifestation of Trollope's resentment of the strictures that govern patterns of femininity and prose fiction. She contends that Marie 'becomes the first of Trollope's respectable "serious" female characters to have access to a range of conjecture upon sexual matters greater than that of the narrator . . . By allowing Madame Max freedoms that, as the narrator of novels intended for family reading, he feels unable to claim, Trollope protests the restrictions to which society subjects both respectable women and respectable fiction.' (194-5). Certainly Marie breaks down the barriers erected between masculine and feminine behaviour. Nardin goes on to argue that 'Madame Max confidently claims male privileges of sexual aggression. From the beginning of their love affair until they marry, Madame Max is Phineas' suitor' (195). Indeed, Marie is figured as 'masculine' because, like the male characters, she is attempting to forge a subject position. Her behavioural cross-dressing is foregrounded in her introduction in the text: 'She seemed to intend that you should know that she employed [her eyes] to conquer you, looking as a knight may have looked in olden days who entered a chamber with his sword drawn from the scabbard and in his hand' (II 25). Marie is ambiguously gendered. She is female but also male, and yet . she is neither one thing nor the other. She blurs gender distinctions, and her hermaphrodicity is highlighted in her overt sexuality. For the first time in the Palliser novels, fertility plays a role in the characterization of a feminine figure: 'I have said that in the matter of conversation [Phineas's] morsel of seed was not thrown into barren ground. I do not know that he can truly be said to have produced even a morsel. The subjects were all mooted by the lady, and so great was her fertility in discoursing

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that all conversational grasses seemed to grow with her spontaneously' (II 26).

Marie's sexuality may render her a shady character, but it also determines her worth in this patriarchal system, which is emphasized when she interests the Duke ofOmnium: 'Madame Goesler's eyes sparkled as other eyes did not sparkle, and there was something of the vagueness of mystery in the very blackness and gloss and abundance of her hair, - as though her beauty was the beauty of some world which he had not yet known' (II 199). The Duke's interest in Marie establishes her as a valuable commodity; however, she refuses his proposal because she realizes that marriage to him would force her to resume an object position: 'And can the countesses, and the ladyships, and the duchesses do as they please?' 'Ah madame; - I know not that.' 'But I know. That will do, Lotta. Now leave me.' Then Madame Goesler had made up her mind. (II 217)

Marie attempts to fulfil her desire for subjectivity by seducing Phineas Finn. Passively, she appeals to him as the perfect listener and offers him solace: 'It was indeed true that there was one whom she loved better; but of what avail was it to love a man who, when he came to her, would speak to her of nothing but of the charms which he found in another woman!' (II 220). But she becomes more active in her courtship of Phineas. Marie, as outsider, can behave in a way 'foreign' to hierarchized women, and does so when she offers to bankroll Finn: 'She told him that accident had made her rich, full of money. Money was a drug with her. Money she knew was wanted, even for householders. Would he not understand her, and come to her, and learn from her how faithful a woman could be?' (II 98). By attempting to forge a subject position, Marie embodies the text's gift to woman. It promises her subjectivity if she agrees to perform as object. At the same time, Marie's ethnicity allows her more amplitude because she is outside of the novelistic hierarchy. Ultimately, however, when Marie proposes to Finn and offers him herself and her money, she is refused. Metaphorically, this refusal both acknowledges her right to perform as subject and denies it at the same time. Marie remains, then, an unfulfilled character in Phineas Finn. Although she tries to forge a subject position, she cannot achieve it and is left in the margins of the text. While she is rewarded, she is also punished for her attempt to accept her due. It is through rebellious women that the text explores the potential dangers of displaced and unfulfilled desires. Because woman is necessary

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to the power dynamic of the novel, she must agree to perform as object. If she rebels against her status, the novel's system unravels, since her position as object is necessary to its power structure. The text embodies a warning against female rebellion by characterizing women who refuse to abide by the textual codes as disturbed and hysterical. Woman must be persuaded that her objectification is just and right. Lady Laura Standish, who is fraught with disruptive desires, provides a case in point. However, Lady Laura also operates as the locus of the ideological inconsistencies. Where the other ex-centric characters, driven by desires for inclusion, seek to displace their desires onto love relationships that occur offstage, Lady Laura, whose relationship is explored, poses the question of what one does when this love does not suffice. Laura is a contradictory figure in that, like Violet, she attempts to act as both subject and object. Hence, she brings out contradictory responses in her critics. Ramona Denton comments on Laura's reduction but curiously reduces her further through her observation that 'Trollope's portrait of Laura suggests that she cannot be true, because the position she has assumed is in itself false. When she sets out to explain her whole nature and all her experience in terms of one variable, love, she denies her own human complexity, making her life easier to understand but much harder to live' ('That Cage' 6) . Yet, self-reflexively, by perceiving Laura in terms of that 'one variable, love,' Denton singularizes Laura's desire for inclusion, her attempt to interpellate herself into the centre, and her sexual frustration. Laura is a victim of objectification. She believes that, as subject, she has a right to fulfil her desires through political action. When she discovers that she cannot, she displaces those desires onto love, in the form of Phineas Finn, as a site of fulfilment. But, to paraphrase Lacan, Finn is only a symptom; Laura's problems stem from her belief that she can be fulfilled vicariously by acceding to patriarchal dictates. She is a victim of objectification in more ways than one, but like many victims she is criticized for her victimization. Nardin reads Laura as a traditional character and berates her for her lack of action: Trollope's use of tragedy in the Phineas novels suggests that a woman's destruction does not always result from the tyranny of her spouse; its causes are likely to be more complicated than that. Not only Kennedy's conventional view of women, but Laura's as well, dooms him to madness and death, her to lasting unhappiness. For although Laura has a masculine manner, she is in fact much less rebellious than the other London ladies who figure in the Phineas novels. Accepting the feminine code, she thinks she can find happiness by obeying it. But she discovers that the code is far more contradictory and unrealistic than she

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had imagined. The male tragic hero falls when he claims excessive liberty, but Laura is destroyed by her belief that Victorian conventions offer women sufficient freedom. (205)

Nardin goes on to assert that Laura's acceptance of the traditional code of the novel brings about her despair: 'Laura's experience proves the position of even the most privileged Victorian woman to be tragically precarious - but it also proves the need for critical thinking if danger is to be surmounted' (208). On one level, of course, Nardin is correct. Laura does condemn herself to a life of unhappiness, but critical thinking is precisely what she cannot do. Like Alice Vavasor, Laura is a motherless figure. She is raised by her father, and believes that she can find fulfilment within the patriarchal system. Her story becomes a development of Alice's story, in that the narrator traces Laura beyond her acquiesence to the centre and depicts her rebellion. Like her predecessor, Laura initially believes that she can become a subject and perform in the political world she admires: 'It was her ambition to be brought as near to political action as was possible for a woman without surrendering any of the privileges of feminine inaction. That women should even wish to have votes at parliamentary elections was to her abominable, and the cause of the Rights of Women generally was odious to her; but, nevertheless, for herself, she delighted in hoping that she too might be useful, - in thinking that she too was perhaps, in some degree, politically powerful' (I 89). Accepting the codes she has been raised to observe, Laura believes that marriage to an influential man will fulfil her. As a result, she marries Mr Kennedy and rejects Phineas Finn. It is not merely money that drives her, but an effort to obtain power: 'She had married Mr. Kennedy because she was afraid that otherwise she might find herself forced to own that she loved that other man who was then a nobody; - almost a nobody. It was not Mr. Kennedy's money that had bought her. This woman in regard to money had shown herself to be as generous as the sun. But in marrying Mr. Kennedy she had maintained herself in her high position, among the first of her own people, - among the first socially and among the first politically' (II 157). Laura's belief in herself as subject rather than as object is negated when she finds marriage with Kennedy stifling. In the fashion ofJohn Grey, he attempts to master and quell her: 'The Sundays were very wearisome to her, and made her feel that her lord and master was - her lord and master. She made an effort or two to escape but the efforts were all in vain. He never spoke a cross word to her. He never gave a stern command. But yet he had his way' (I 208).

Patriarchal Desire and Victorian Discourse Laura is not fulfilled through marriage to Kennedy, not intellectually and not sexually. Her plea of a headache (I 309) and Kennedy's assertion that she has had a headache for ten days (I 309-u) imply that her marriage is sexually dysfunctional. Laura displaces her desire for self-fulfilment onto Phineas. Intriguingly, she figures her passion metaphorically by speaking of rocks, reminiscent of Mrs Greenow's passionate rocks and valleys: She prided herself on being a pure high-principled woman, who had kept so strong a guard upon herself as to be nearly free from the dangers of those rocks upon which other women made shipwreck of their happiness. She took pride in this, and would then blame herself for her own pride. But though she so blamed herself, it never occurred to her to think that to her there might be danger of such shipwreck. She had put away from herself the idea of love when she had first perceived that Phineas had regarded her with more than friendship, and had accepted Mr. Kennedy's offer with an assured conviction that by doing so she was acting best for her own happiness and for that of all those concerned. (I 158)

Laura's desire for subjectivity, when frustrated, reveals itself in an overwhelming desire for her former lover, Phineas Finn. If she were to be fulfilled in love, presumably, she would be content with her position as object: 'The truth is ... that I have made a mistake ... I have blundered as fools blunder ... I have blundered and stumbled and fallen, and now I am so bruised that I am not able to stand upon my feet' (I 302). However, Laura is unable to satisfy her passion for Phineas. Again, she displaces her sexual desire onto a desire for control, and she attempts to control Finn's behaviour when she learns of his suit of Violet. Her jealousy becomes a tool she uses to manipulate Phineas: 'And yet she was now sick and sore, almost beside herself with the agony of the wound, because this man whom she had been able to throw aside from her heart had also been able so to throw her aside. And she felt herself constrained to rebuke him with what bitterest words she might use' (II 16). When Laura realizes that she cannot control Finn since her position as Kennedy's wife limits her influence over him, she grasps for a semblance of control in her acceptance and even support of his suit of Violet. She begins to perceive Phineas's match with her friend as a displacement of her own desire for him: Would it not be better that they two should be brought together? Would not her

Desire, Control, and Suppression in Phineas Finn friend's husband still be her friend? Would she not then forget to love him? Would she not then be safer than she was now? As she sat alone struggling with her difficulties, she had not as yet forgotten to love him, - nor was she as yet safe. (II 61)

However, this displacement also is frustrated when Violet decides to marry Lord Chiltern, and Laura loses even an indirect control over her former lover. Laura is left consumed by an unfulfilled passion that becomes reflected in her appearance. The reduction she undergoes is apparent in her physical disintegration, and when Phineas sees her in London, 'she seemed to him to be old and worn, and he judged her to be wretched, - as she was' (II 164). At the end of the novel, Laura has visibly aged: 'Now she might have been taken to be nearly forty, so much had her troubles preyed upon her spirit, and eaten into the vitality of her youth' (II 346). Laura's sufferings work to frustrate her: the more she suffers, the more she ages, the less attractive she becomes, the less Phineas desires her. She can no longer function either as object or as subject. She reveals her love for Phineas at the end of the novel, but he will not acknowledge reciprocal feelings for her: 'An expression of love, - of existing love, - she would have felt to be an insult, and would have treated it as such. Indeed, she knew that from him no such insult could come. But she was in that morbid, melancholy state of mind which requires the excitement of more than ordinary sympathy, even though that sympathy be all painful; and I think that she would have been pleased had he referred to the passion for herself which he had once expressed' (II 34&--7). Laura's unfulfilled desires erupt in an all-consuming desire to leave Kennedy. At the end of Phineas Finn, Laura is preparing to depart for Dresden, to escape the Law that Kennedy is about to invoke to force her return. She is left, then, in the margins of the text, a figure of resistance who cannot be incorporated into the novelistic system that denies her a place. The novel hints that were she to be fulfilled in love, she would be satisfied, and hence displaces desire once again onto the promise of love relationships. Her fate, in this light, serves as a warning to women: there is no way out of the system except through acting as the site of fulfilment and achieving satisfaction indirectly. Yet Laura haunts the text and signals the possibility that love relationships may not satisfy desire, suggests that love too is merely a displacement of desire; in so doing, she subverts the idea that desire can be fulfilled and undercuts the text's implicit humanist promise of wholeness and completion.

Desire and Displacement in The Eustace Diamonds

Where Phineas Finn provides for a critique of patriarchal social structures through its demonstration of the dependence of those structures upon the control and subordination of woman, The Eustace Diamonds, which separates the two Phineas novels in the Palliser series, en/ genders a discussion of feminine sexuality and the threat it poses to the Victorian social order. Both Can You Forgi,ve Her? and Phineas Finn present female characters who are implicitly sexual; The Eustace Diamonds, in its portrayal of the socially and sexually resistant Lizzie Eustace, characterizes a female figure who is explicitly sexual. Lizzie is an embodiment of defiant and rebellious femininity, and her representation occasions an analysis of the construction (and the deconstruction) of woman within patriarchy. Overtly, The Eustace Diamonds, like the earlier works, attempts to persuade woman that her position in the power dynamic is just and right. But this text, perhaps more than any of Trollope's other novels, takes woman and the treatment of woman as its focus. Structurally and narratorially, the textual impetus works to appeal to woman, through examples in the text, to accept her fate and to live vicariously through a man. Covertly, the novel details the ways in which a sexualized woman threatens the social order, for it proffers the story of a female character who rebels against objectification and sets out to forge a subject position. Lizzie Eustace, as the novel's anti-heroine, is ultimately unsuccessful in her endeavour; but as she works in opposition to the power dynamic embedded in the novel, she throws into question its ideological premise and provides an alternative to it. Before turning to Trollope's novel, I should note that my reading of The Eustace Diamonds as a text which portrays the disruptive power of feminine desire substantively differs from previous assessments of this

Desire and Displacement in The Eustace Diamonds work. Traditionally, Trollopean critics have not found The Eustace Diamonds to be particularly resistant. I would argue that, by and large, critical analyses of the novel mirror the (overt) textual effort to contain and quell feminine desire, since Lizzie's assessors display an aversion to her character. Kincaid, for example, decides that Lizzie's 'inner life is made as empty as are her attempts at satiric rebellion in public. Lizzie's progress represents a grotesque trivialization of the search for unity and balance conducted throughout the whole series' (Novels 2o6) . As Kincaid points out, Lizzie does indeed upset the balance of Trollope's novel (and of the patriarchal order), but she has been censured as a result. Bradford Booth, more biting in his condemnation than Kincaid, actively rebukes Lizzie and, by comparing her to Becky Sharp (another sexually resistant female character), proceeds to denounce her project: 'Lizzie is a schemer, always pulling some cunning little manoeuver that will extend her power ... Lizzie is rich, and her scheming is almost entirely matrimonial; therefore, by comparison, it is degrading ... Lizzie is hypocritical and self-deceptive, cherishing an illusory belief in her goodness, ... but Lizzie by failing to win our respect for any attribute of heart forfeits the amused tolerance with which Becky is universally regarded' (92). Even feminist treatments of The Eustace Diamonds tend to pillory Lizzie. Richard Barrickman, Susan MacDonald, and Myra Stark, the authors of Corrupt Relations, who frequently find the female characters in the Palliser Novels to be patriarchally resistant, elide the subversive aspects of Lizzie's figuration and assert that she behaves in a male-centred fashion. They argue that Lizzie 'cannot conceive of a woman's life without a man; she looks to men to create a romantic drama of her life and permit her to play the heroine' (212) . Polhemus provides for an extension of the Corrupt Relations authors' contention when he draws attention to an important aspect of the novel and notes that 'one sees in Lucy's Biedermeier existentialism how explicit Trollope's concern is with identity - something that the Victorians obviously could not take for granted' ( Changi,ng l 77) . Certainly, the Victorians could not take feminine identity for granted, since it is precisely woman's lack of identity that is required to sustain the power dynamic which underpins Victorian culture - at least as that culture is represented in the Palliser Novels. And The Eustace Diamonds, even more than Phineas Finn, is devoted to an exploration of the problems effected by femininity and feminine sexuality. As the novel demonstrates, a sexualized woman threatens the structure of the patriarchal power dynamic which constructs her as an asexual object. If woman is to futic-

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tion within patriarchy's dictates, she cannot desire, for she must be content to perform as the object of desire. Traditionally, patriarchy has attempted to downplay feminine sexuality and to contain it by constructing a binary opposition between the 'proper,' asexual space of 'lady' and the 'improper,' sexual space of 'whore.' In this fashion, the patriarchal effort redirects feminine desire from the fulfilment of woman to the fulfilment of man. In 'Guiding Remarks for a Congress on Feminine Sexuality,' Lacan highlights some of the problems one encounters in discussing feminine sexuality from within a masculinist framework. He argues: A principle which can be simply stated: that castration cannot be deduced from development alone, since it presupposes the subjectivity of the Other as the place of its law. The otherness of sex is denatured by this alienation. Man here acts as the relay whereby the woman becomes this Other for herself as she is this Other for him. It is in this sense that an unveiling of the Other involved in the transference can modify a defence which has been taken up symbolically. By which I mean that, in this case, defence should first be conceived of in the dimension of masquerade which the presence of the Other releases in its sexual role. If we start by taking this veiling affect as our reference for object positions, then we might get some idea of how to deflate the monstrous conceptualisation whose credit in analytic circles I challenged above. Perhaps all that this conceptualisation shows is how everything gets ascribed to the woman in so far as she represents, in the phallocentric dialectic, the absolute Other. (Feminine

93-4) As Lacan suggests, woman must be constructed as Other to support the

male-centred logic of Phallocentric discourse. But if the veil to which Lacan alludes is lifted from woman's position, she poses problems to a patriarchal economy. Patriarchal economy, generated through the prioritization of the singular Phallus as the marker of wholeness and unity, is a male-centred system that casts woman as the subordinate Other who works to support the masculine norm. With emphasis placed on Phallic singularity, the patriarchal system tries to enforce a one-to-one referential relationship between ideology and 'reality' through its linguistic structure and its manifestation in culture. This male-centred economy promises wholeness to its split and conflicted male subjects and casts woman as the binary opposite of man in order to establish his 'unified' and privileged

Desire and Displacement in The Eustace Diamonds position. As I discussed in chapter three, man's desire to control is satisfied through woman because she functions in relation to him. By controlling her, he achieves an illusion of wholeness, for he signifies as unified in relation to her disjuncture. If woman does not perform in a single and one-to-one relationship with him, his desires for fulfilment are displaced, and this displacement has the potential to disrupt the patriarchal social order, which rests on control and subordination. Woman, as object, acts in opposition to man's subjectivity. If she refuses to accept her place in relation to him, the fabric of patriarchy begins to unravel in that the wholeness it promises its male subjects is shown to be illusory. Feminine sexuality, with its implication of feminine subjectivity, threatens the social order, which posits woman in an asexual and objectified space. In The Eustace Diamonds, the difficulties involved in confining femininity are dramatized, for woman slips from the space she is accorded as supporter of male autonomy and points to a different economic system, a system that subverts humanism's binary and singular one-to-one basis. Her sexuality, which has no place within patriarchy's privileged Phallic and Phallocentric model, undercuts the singular structure of patriarchal ideology through its plurality. As Luce Irigaray argues, feminine sexuality, which defies a Phallic model, generates a different economy, for woman's 'desire is precisely nothing, and at the same time everything. Always something more and something else besides that one - sexual organ, for example - that you give them, attribute to them. Their desire is often interpreted, and feared, as a sort of insatiable hunger, a voracity that will swallow you whole. Whereas it really involves a different economy more than anything else, one that upsets the linearity of a project, undermines the goal-object of a desire, diffuses the polarization toward a single pleasure, disconcerts fidelity to a different discourse' ( This Sex 29-30) . Woman's plural economy performs in direct and indirect opposition to its Phallic counterpart. In that Phallocentric discourse attempts to replicate the singularity and wholeness it perceives in the Phallus, feminine sexuality, in its multiplicity, decentres the very basis of unity since it cannot be confined to the singular. Lizzie Eustace serves as an indicator of feminine difference in The Eustace Diamonds. Hence, while the novel structurally supports the control of woman and works to legitimize woman's (non)place in the power dynamic, it also provides a critique of that impetus through its representation of Lizzie. In The Eustace Diamonds, much as in Phineas Finn, love relationships are posited as the site of feminine control and serve as a means of singularizing and objectifying

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the female characters. The text effects a paradigm which is reflexive of woman's position within patriarchy. There is the woman who functions only in relation to her man: Lucy Morris; there is the woman who reacts to her man, thereby establishing an inverse relation to . him: Lucinda Roanoke; but there is also the woman who acts as the man in trying to forge a subject position: Lizzie Eustace. Lizzie's efforts to fulfil her desires upset the binary structure manifested through the other two. The textual impetus suggests that woman can be contained through love relationships, but Lizzie offers a site of resistance to feminine objectification. Through her, the text, perhaps despite itself, offers an alternative to the system it explicitly works to enforce, for her plurality suggests that the patriarchal model is a 'Phallacy,' based on an erroneous humanist assumption of unity, which achieves its illusion of wholeness through a hierarchical structure that subjugates woman. The textual unconscious I discussed in chapter one plays an important role in The Eustace Diamonds. On one level, the novel 'consciously' supports the patriarchal status quo: it structurally trivializes and subordinates Lizzie's efforts to forge a subject position. But on another level, the text 'unconsciously' demonstrates the problems feminine sexuality poses to a system that cannot acknowledge its presence. The novel dramatizes the either/ or situation in which woman is situated and draws attention to the limitations placed upon her. In accordance with patriarchal strictures, woman is confronted with two choices: she can give all in order to please her man and to be indirectly fulfilled through him; or she can refuse him, in which case she will continue to behave in an inverse relation to him, since, by giving nothing, her behaviour functions as a reaction to his presence. Both of these 'choices' reaffirm man's prioritized position in the power dynamic and reinforce woman's subordination. Through Lizzie, the text dramatizes woman's rebellion against the 'choices' provided her and hints at the possibility of a female-centred project. Lizzie's resistance is apparent in her refusal to conform to the established social structure. She attempts to forge a subject position and to fulfil her desire. The patriarchal economy, which cannot encompass woman's multiplicity because that multiplicity works in direct opposition to the singular, one-to-one structure promoted by Phallocentric humanism, is figured in the narrator's efforts to control and to quell Lizzie. Ultimately, the narrator's attempt to singularize Lizzie fails, and her plurality is signified when she becomes a fiction within the fiction. As fiction, she retains her multiplicity and proffers the suggestion of an economy quite different from that privileged by the narrator, an economy

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that disrupts and displaces the system he represents. The system to which Lizzie's character alludes cannot be represented in this text, for it requires the adoption of a different discourse (a discourse that is apparent in the later experimental fictions of Daphne Marlatt, or Ntozake Shange), but the suggestion of an alternative decentres patriarchy's construction of itself as a natural and given order. I would like to focus on the ways in which the system functions and is reproduced in this novel, before turning to the subversion of the system figured in Lizzie. Curiously, the one relationship in the novel that conforms to a traditional pattern is a relationship that is inherently flawed. Frank Greystock and Lucy Morris provide the text with its normative couple. Lucy is the ideal feminine figure in The Eustace Diamonds, and she serves as a role model against which readers can judge and condemn Lucinda and Lizzie. McMaster, who reads The Eustace Diamonds as an allegory of truth and falsehood, argues: 'There is a simple allegorical meaning in the opposition of Lucy to Lizzie, although the novelist works out his theme in a fine and realistic complication of character and incident. The people and the action and the imagery are all arranged with a view to the investigation of truth' (79). If the truth is an ideal, then certainly, Lucy Morris holds this position. She is characterized as the Angel in the House, a figure favoured in Victorian fiction (and by extension, of course, Lizzie Eustace functions as the whore). Nardin perceives Lucy's performance in the text as a critique of woman's position in patriarchy: 'Lucy's painful experiences, in conjunction with the implausible triumph that concludes them, hint that the angel in the house is an outmoded ideal - influential in fiction, powerless in reality. The transparently tacked-on quality of the novel's ending suggests that romantic comedy can now be salvaged only by strenuous intervention on the novelist's part' (183-4). Nardin points to the prolr lems effected by Lucy's representation, since, although she functions as the ideal, her relationship with Frank Greystock is far from idyllic. Yet while Lucy is a problematic figure, she is approved by the narrator, who performs as the voice of the status quo. Lucy is represented as the woman who waits and achieves her prize, and she is the only female figure in the text who receives a reward. Lucy performs as a paragon of patriarchal womanhood. The narrator's introduction draws attention to her passive and submissive nature; he explains: 'Lucy, who was a year younger than Lizzie, had at that time been an orphan for the last four years. She too had been left penniless, but no such brilliant future awaited her as that which Lizzie had earned

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for herself (I 20). Meek, passive, and marginalized, Lucy's outward appearance reflects her docility, for she is but a little thing; - and it cannot be said of her, as of Lady Eustace, that she was a beauty. The charm of her face consisted in the peculiar, watery brightness of her eyes, - in the corners of which it would always seem that a diamond' of a tear was lurking whenever any matter of excitement was afoot. Her light-brown hair was soft and smooth and pretty. As hair it was very well, but it had no specialty. Her mouth was somewhat large, but full of ever-varying expression. Her forehead was low and broad, with prominent temples, on which it was her habit to clasp tightly her little outstretched fingers as she sat listening to you. Of listeners she was the very best, for she would always be saying a word or two, just to help you, - the best word that could be spoken, and then again she would be hanging on your lips. There are listeners who show by their mode of listening that they listen as a duty, - not because they are interested. Lucy Morris was not such a one. She would take up your subject, whatever it was, and make it her own. (I 24-5)

Lucy is in love with Frank Greystock, but it is commonly understood that her love will go unrequited. As a poor governess, she cannot materially help Greystock to fulfil his promise as an influential and successful lawyer. Lucy becomes, therefore, a model of selfless repression: No girl likes to be warned against falling in love ... In this case, Lucy knew very well that the caution was too late ... Frank Greystock was not her lover. Ah, - there was the worst of it all! She had given her heart and had got nothing in return. (I 58-g)

Lucy's selflessness may be approved by the narrator, but it brings her to grief when Frank abuses her good nature. Oddly enough, despite his treatment of Lucy, Frank is characterized as the 'gentleman' figure in this text. Nardin discusses Frank's position in the novel, and notes that his behaviour is justified in the text, for it is in accord with the misogyny of his society: 'Though Frank falls in love with Lucy's moral character, he shares the misogyny of the society this novel depicts, as well as its worship of success at any price . . . Like everyone else, he is obsessed with the money, rank, and beauty Lucy does not have. These attitudes cause him to repent his engagement and to neglect Lucy cruelly while he considers marrying the dishonest - but rich and lovely - Lizzie Eustace ... Everyone in the novel ... acquiesces in the "very standards that have permitted [Frank's] misbehaviour" when they offer him this "prodigal's welcome"

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after his gross misconduct' (185--6). Indeed, Frank's misconduct is forgiven and his actions are presented as reasonable, a presentation that serves to reinforce the tenets of the patriarchal power dynamic. The narrator works to foster forgiveness for Frank's perfidy from the moment of his introduction in the text, and thus lays the groundwork for Frank's 'understandable' betrayal of Lucy: To be in love, as an absolute, well-marked, acknowledged fact, is the condition of a woman more frequently and more readily than of a man. Such is not the common theory on the matter, as it is the man's business to speak, and the woman's business to be reticent. And the woman is presumed to have kept her heart free from any load of love, till she may accept the burthen with an assurance that it shall become a joy and a comfort to her. But such presumptions, though they may be very useful for the regulation of conduct, may not be always true. It comes more within the scope of a woman's mind, than that of a man's, to think closely and decide sharply on such a matter. With a man it is often chance that settles the question for him. He resolves to propose to a woman, or proposes without resolving, because she is close to him. (1 31)

Frank, already excused, is not overtly condemned for his desire to possess Lizzie. As a poor man, he behaves in a proper and culturally acceptable fashion when he becomes interested in his wealthy cousin. Men should marry money, and it is therefore comprehensible that when Lizzie tells Frank that she loves him, Frank is tempted by her 'charms': 'He was engaged to marry Lucy Morris, and to that engagement he must be true. His cousin was very charming, - and had never looked so lovely in his eyes as when she had been confessing her love for him. And he had wondered at and admired her courage, her power of language, and her force . He could not quite forget how useful would be her income to him. And, added to this, there was present to him an unwholesome feeling ... that a woman such as was his cousin Lizzie was fitter to be the wife of a man thrown, as he must be, into the world, than a dear, quiet, domestic little girl such as Lucy Morris.' (I 290). Frank needs to marry a wealthy wife in order to consolidate his position in the social hierarchy. His performance replicates the textual impetus of Phineas Finn, since the illusion that Frank can attain centric status in the power structure motivates his behaviour. As a rising young barrister, he requires money to further his career. Lucy cannot help him attain the centric position he desires, for she has no money. When Frank proposes to Lucy, her acquiescence becomes more of a burden to him than a relief.

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For her part, Lucy is delighted with the match she has made. She gives her all to her hero, and when he asks her to be his wife, she becomes his avid supporter. She even runs the risk of losing her job when she champions Frank and contradicts her employer's assessment of her lover's character: 'Granting that she herself had been wrong in accusing Lord Fawn of untruth, she could not refrain from asking herself whether he had not been much more wrong in saying in her hearing that Mr. Greystock was not a gentleman? And his offence had preceded her offence, and had caused it! She hardly knew whether she did or did not owe an apology to Lord Fawn, but she was quite sure that Lord Fawn owed an apology to her' (I 248). Refusing to accede to the position of docility allotted her, Lucy argues with Lord Fawn when he impugns her hero, and so loses her employment with the family that has adopted her. Lucy's tendency to repress her feelings, then, is textually approved, since when she does not repress them, she is punished. After arguing with Lord Fawn, she is left to the mercy of Frank, and goes to reside with the wealthy Lady Linlithgow. Lucy has gambled her all on her man - and in so doing, she has temporarily lost her home and family. As the ideal figure of submissive repression, she does not blame her lover for her hardships. When others condemn Frank for neglecting her, she is quick to defend him: 'He is not neglecting me. You won't let him come to see me' (II 171). Lucy does write a letter to Frank, in which she offers to end the relationship because she is a burden to him, but she does not send it. Instead, she decides to gain all or lose all by betting on her hero. In allowing him to define her, Lucy allows Frank to determine her position, and by acting as the submissive and passive Other figure, she reaffirms his subject position. She accepts her objectification when she decides to live through him and to perform as his subordinate Other. And since the text overtly supports this economy, her perseverance and her faith in her lover are rewarded. Despite Frank's ongoing flirtation with Lizzie, ultimately he discovers his genuine affection for Lucy and returns to her. Because Lucy has agreed to live vicariously through Frank, she defines him by allowing him to define her. Both are rewarded in the conclusion, and all is forgiven: 'He had seized her in his arms, and was showering kisses upon her forehead, her eyes, and her lips. When she thought of it afterwards, she could not call to mind a single word that he had spoken before he held her in his embrace ... But she well remembered the first words that struck her ear. "Dearest Lucy, will you forgive me?" She could only answer them through her tears by taking up his hand and kissing it.' (II 346). Lucy, who has been spurned by Frank's relatives because she does not consti-

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tute a good match for him, is compensated for her patience. She is received at Frank's home 'with all the affection which Mrs. Greystock could show to an adopted daughter ... At the deanery she remained for fifteen happy months, and then became Mrs. Greystock, with a bevy of Fawn bridesmaids around her' (II 350). Frank and Lucy's relationship serves to illustrate that the woman will be rewarded who can turn her desires to the support of her husband. Lucy gives her all to Frank, and Frank ultimately is thrown back on Lucy. The power dynamic embedded in the text is such that, paradigmatically, Lucy gives everything and keeps nothing. Should Frank have abandoned her, Lucy would have had nothing: no home, no position, no occupation. Ultimately, she gains all that she desires - by winning an object position and performing in relation to her lover. Lucy's story, when she correctly directs her desires, is a happy one - at least superficially. But not all women fare as well, and Lucinda Roanoke operates as an antidote to the sweetness that surrounds Lucy Morris. Lucinda functions through contrast to Lucy, in that her behaviour is the inversion of Lucy's. Where Lucy gives everything, Lucinda gives nothing. And Lucinda becomes no-thing by the conclusion of her tale. Unlike the rebellious Lizzie, Lucinda does precisely what is expected of her. She allows her relatives to place her in the marriage market, and she accedes to the wishes of her suitor, Sir Griffin Tewett, by agreeing to marry him though she does not love him. In this, the novel returns to the question posed in Phineas Finn in relation to Lady Laura Standish: What happens to women when love is not possible, but the only choice left to them is indirect fulfilment through a man? The question is resolved by means of the novelistic suggestion - which recalls the 'resolution' in Phineas Finn - that there is something wrong with Lucinda. Obediently, Lucinda bows to her family's wishes and goes through the rituals expected of her. Like Lucy, Lucinda is poor, and she must find a rich husband. She 'catches' the wealthy Sir Griffin, but finds that she abhors his presence: 'She bowed and smiled to him, - hating herself for smiling. It was perhaps the first time that she endeavoured to put on a pleasant face wherewithal to greet him ... Whatever happened, she would not be a coward. The thing had to be done. Seeing that she had accepted him on the previous day, had not run away in the night or taken poison, and had come down to undergo the interview, she would undergo it at least with courage. What did it matter, even though he should embrace her? It was her lot to undergo misery, and as she had not chosen to take poison, the misery must be endured' (II 21).

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Lucinda refuses to play the patriarchal game. She will not redirect her desires; rather, she allows those desires to dictate her behaviour. Lucinda is repelled by Tewett's sexuality and feels emotionally raped. Her response to him makes her own position as sexual victim painfully clear: 'When she was alone she stood before her glass looking at herself, and then she burst into tears. Never before had she been thus polluted. The embrace had disgusted her. It made her odious to herself. And if this, the beginning of it, were so bad, how was she to drink the cup to the bitter dregs?' (II 24). Even Mrs Carbuncle, Lucinda's aunt, who promotes the match, is shocked by Lucinda's response to her suitor; she 'had been quite confidential in discussing with her friend the dangerous varieties of Lucinda's humours, and the dreadful aversion which she still seemed to entertain for Sir Griffin' (II 27). After seeing The Nobk jilt (an intertextual reference to the play on which Trollope based Can You Forgfoe Her?, a play that documents a woman's folly in refusing to comply with her marriage contract), Lucinda asks: 'May not one have an idea of no man at all? ... Must that be revolting also?' (II 109). The answer of course is that it must be. Lucinda's aversion to Tewett is a negative admission of her forbidden passion: she recoils from him in distaste, so presumably another lover would be more to her sexual liking. Her desire is therefore foregrounded in her physical rejection of her fiance. Moreover, through her refusal to accept her 'proper' position as object, Lucinda abrogates the patriarchal power dynamic. Unlike Lucy, Lucinda does not, correctly, repress her desires, in that she reacts by rejecting men. Such behaviour cannot be condoned in this discourse, for woman must accept her object position if the illusion that male subjectivity is whole and complete is to be maintained. Lucinda proceeds with her wedding plans despite the frequent power struggles between her and her future husband. However, when she is faced with the prospect of marriage the next day, she attempts to erase herself. The night before the wedding, Lucinda says, 'I have papers to burn, and things to put away' (II 274). And she puts away her desire and her self. On the morning of the wedding, Lucinda cries, 'You have destroyed me' (II 276), and sits with her Bible, 'hardly answering, never defending herself, but protesting that nothing should induce her to leave the room on that day' (II 276). Lucinda devotes herself to male authority (God), but she is removed from the narrative. In her final appearance in the novel, Lucinda is characterized as

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the unfortunate girl, [sitting) in the chair from which she had not moved since the morning. There had come over her face a look of fixed but almost idiotic resolution; her mouth was compressed, and her eyes were glazed, and she sat twisting her book before her with her fingers. She had eaten nothing since she had got up, and had long ceased to be violent when questioned by her aunt. But, nevertheless, she was film enough when her aunt begged to be allowed to write a letter to Sir Griffin, explaining that all this had arisen from temporary indisposition. 'No; it isn't temporary. It isn't temporary at all. You can write to him; but I'll never come out of this room if I am told that I am to see him.' (11 280-1)

Lucinda's response to her man is posited as inappropriate and undesirable, and she is punished for refusing to comply with patriarchy's wishes. Women must behave like Lucy and repress their sexuality by sublimating it in a desire to please their husbands. They must not react in anger and become frigid, for frigidity only acknowledges that which is not - should not - be there. Lucinda, as a creature of inverse passion, erupts and is destroyed by her emotions. She is silenced through madness. If feminine desire cannot be redirected, therefore, it must be eradicated. By reacting actively to Tewell, Lucinda foregrounds an absent sexual response, and hence, her performance as object is problematized because her desire merely points to the subjectivity she cannot have. As Lucinda indicates, women are caught in a double bind in this discourse. If they give everything and are rejected, they are left with nothing. If they keep what they have and refuse to play the matrimonial game, they are crushed and quelled. Pitted against this paradigm is Lizzie. The women in this text fluctuate between two standards, with Lucy Morris performing as the ideal and Lucinda serving as the warning. Lizzie's story is a different story. Stronger than the other female characters, Lizzie throws the patriarchal power dynamic into question. The novel details Lizzie's struggle for subjectivity, and while it depicts her necessary downfall, it also generates a critique of the status quo through her characterization. Lizzie's attempt to achieve subject status together with the narrator's effort to deny her that position effects a struggle within the novel, a struggle which the textual impetus ultimately overcomes, but which also exposes its flaws. The novel en/genders a virtual war between Lizzie and the narrator. The narrator desperately tries to trivialize Lizzie by forcing her into a singular role in an effort to subordinate and control her. On the first page of the novel, he proclaims, 'We will tell the story of Lizzie Greystock

Patriarchal Desire and Victorian Discourse from the beginning, but we will not dwell over it at great length, as we might do ifwe loved her' (I 1). Of course, since the book is devoted to Lizzie, her prominence within it undercuts the narrator's assertion that he will not 'dwell over' her story. From the start, then, the figure of Lizzie subverts the narrator's descriptions. While it might be argued that the narrator's tone is ironic, since clearly the novel does dwell on Lizzie, and while the narrator's pose might be attributed to his nervousness over the portrayal of a sexual woman, the irony loses its comic edge as his descriptions work to debase and demean her. In the tradition of Trollopean female characters before her who have married well and wish to perform as subjects in their widowhood, Lizzie wants to fall in love and remarry. Like Marie Goesler and Mrs Greenow, she desires to forge a subject position in a love relationship: 'She had a grand idea, - this selfish, hard-fisted little woman, who could not bring herself to abandon the plunder on which she had laid her hand, - a grand idea of surrendering herself and all her possessions to a great passion ... Now she desired to be so in love that she could surrender everything to her love. There was as yet nothing of such love in her bosom. She had seen no one who had so touched her. But she was alive to the romance of the thing, and was in love with the idea of being in love' (I 43) . Desiring to be loved and longing to surrender herself to her lover, Lizzie is in a split and conflicted position that resembles Violet Effingham 's in Phineas Finn. Her desire for a lover indicates her subjectivity, and her wish to surrender herself to her lover betokens her attraction to objectification. Reflecting her conditioning, she longs both to be subject and to be valued as object. But Lizzie breaks with traditional representations of 'ladies' in that she is a sexual being. She is physically attractive, and one of the ways in which the narrator condemns her is to draw attention to her sexual nature (a nature that precludes her assumption of ladylike status) and to encode it through a comparison with reptiles: 'It must be understood in the first place that she was very lovely ... for her form was perfectly symmetrical. Her feet and hands might have been taken as models by a sculptor. Her figure was lithe, and soft, and slim, and slender. If it had a fault it was this, - that it had in it too much of movement. There were some who said that she was almost snake-like in her rapid bendings and the almost too easy gestures of her body' (I 16). The linguistic 'movement' Lizzie's figure displays in this passage is precisely the movement the narrator wishes to quash in his effort to delegitimize her. He emphasizes Lizzie's reptilian nature in an

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effort to diminish her; he equates her with a snake in this passage and with a lizard in a later passage in which he suggests that she is 'quick as a lizard in turning hither and thither' (I 89). Snakelike, lizardlike, Lizzie is portrayed as a Medusa figure dangerous to men. Her animality is further reinforced by her name, 'Lizzie,' and by Lucy's observation that she looks like a beautiful animal that you are afraid to caress for fear it should bite you; - an animal that would be beautiful if its eyes were not so restless, and its teeth so sharp and so white' (I 110). The sexuality to which the narratorial descriptions draw attention in their focus on animality surfaces in other aspects of the narrative. Lizzie's feminine plurality disrupts the masculinist singular economy that is unable to contain her. Unlike the other characters, Lizzie goes undefined. She is not singular at all, but is (in)consistently plural. Her multiplicity is emphasized again through the narrative descriptions, for the narrator works to set up the ways in which Lizzie wants to appear and the ways in which she does appear. What she desires to project she is, is not what she is, but just what she is goes unsaid because it cannot be determined. Although the narrator insists that Lizzie's beauty belies an ugliness of soul for those who can decipher her meaning, it is intriguing to note that in fact no one can determine what that meaning is: 'Her eyes, in which she herself thought that the lustre of her beauty lay, were blue and clear, bright as cerulean waters. They were long large eyes, but very dangerous. To those who knew how to read a face, there was danger plainly written in them. Poor Sir Florian had not known. But, in truth, the charm of her face did not lie in her eyes. This was felt by many even who coµld not read the book fluently' (I 18). The narrator continues to try to define Lizzie, and she continues to elude his efforts. This sexually ambiguous and hence disruptive character is undefinable from the narrator's singular perspective. Although he repeatedly draws attention to Lizzie's outward adoption of social codes, he presents her inward betrayal of them as a character defect; he does not seem to be aware of the multiplicity her character evokes and which he foregrounds when he emphasizes her contradictory nature. Lizzie, who does not fit into any one position, defies the narrator's desire to reduce her. As a result, he likens her to an actress in an attempt to limit her shifting persona to one delineation: 'She might certainly have made her way as an actress, had fortune called upon her to earn her bread in that fashion. And her voice would have suited the stage. It was powerful when she called upon it for power; but, at the same time, flexible and capable of much pretence at feelingn (I 17) .

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The narrator reiterates the actress metaphor when he tries to dismiss Lizzie's behaviour. It is the only metaphor that seems to fit her varied representation; however, in its very elusiveness, the metaphor draws attention to the ways in which Lizzie manages to subvert the narratorial efforts to place her: 'It is hardly too much to say that [Lord Fawn] quailed before her. And it certainly is not too much to say that, had Lizzie Eustace been trained as an actress, she would have become a favourite with the town. When there came to her any fair scope for acting, she was perfect. In the ordinary scenes of ordinary life, such as befell her during her visit to Fawn Court, she could not acquit herself well. There was no reality about her, and the want of it was strangely plain to most unobservant eyes. But give her a part to play that required exaggerated strong action, and she hardly ever failed' (II 203). Lizzie is determined to forge a subject position for herself, and her efforts are apparent in the ways in which she tries to fulfil her desires. When she covets Frank Greystock, she sets out to seduce him. Lizzie tells Frank that she loves him, thereby gender-shifting and performing as a (male) subject, and while Frank does not respond to her (I 289-90), the narrator grasps this opportunity to deliver a sermon on the wrongs done by a woman who tells a man of her feelings: It is inexpressibly difficult for a man to refuse the tender of a woman's love. We may almost say that a man should do so as a matter of course, - that the thing so offered becomes absolutely valueless by the offer, - that the woman who can make it has put herself out of court by her own abandonment of the privileges due to her as a woman, - that stern rebuke and even expressed contempt are justified by such conduct, - and that the fairest beauty and most alluring charms of feminine grace should Jose their attraction when thus tendered openly in the marltet. No doubt such is our theory as to Jove and Jove-making. (11 126-7; emphasis mine)

What the narrator highlights in his 'theory as to love and love-making' is an economy of desire, but this is a market-place regulated by male desire, which casts woman as commodity. Although Lizzie breaks with social codes and evades the narrator's efforts to contain her, she cannot escape his scathing rebukes. Nor can she escape the reprobation of the other characters. If one dares to defy the social order, one must endure the consequences. As Frank Greystock notes, Lizzie's behaviour affects her appearance and thus diminishes her 'value' in a patriarchal economy: 'It seemed to him now to have been

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almost impossible that he should ever soberly have thought of making her his wife. The charm was all gone, and even her prettiness had in his eyes lost its value. He looked at her, asking himself whether in truth she was pretty. She had been travelling all day, and perhaps the scrutiny was not fair. But he thought that even after the longest day's journey Lucy would not have been soiled, haggard, dishevelled, and unclean, as was this woman' (II 336). The narrator's and the characters' responses to Lizzie do not simply throw into relief her corruption, however, since they also emphasize the potency of her actions. Clearly, she is a threatening figure who frightens men because they do not know how to deal with her. Even Lord George, one of the textual reprobates, decides to forego his suit of Lizzie because she is too dangerous: 'Lord George sat looking at her, and thinking whether he would make the plunge and ask her to be his wife, - with all her impediments and drawbacks about her. He had been careful to reduce her to such a condition of despair, that she would, undoubtedly, have accepted him, so that she might have some one to lean upon in her trouble; - but, as he looked at her, he doubted. She was such a mass of deceit, that he was afraid of her. (II 221). The reasons behind the narrator's and the male characters' fears of Lizzie are encoded in the text. In an interesting passage, the novel highlights Lizzie's adeptness at the things men do, and her competence is proffered as a justification for the distaste with which she is regarded. When Lizzie is finally caught out, and must testify in court as to her perjury over the diamonds, even John Eustace draws attention to her capability: 'The barrister who will have the cros~xamining of her at the Central Criminal Court,' said Mr. Camperdown, as soon as the door was closed behind her, 'will have a job of work on his hand. There's nothing a pretty woman can't do when she has got rid of all sense of shame.' 'She is a very great woman,' said John Eustace, - 'a very great woman; and, if the sex could have its rights, would make an excellent lawyer.' (II 302)

Love relationships are inscribed as the site wherein Lizzie might be controlled. But, unlike other Trollopean female characters who are sexually subdued through domination, Lizzie eludes objectification in love relationships. Her first accepted suitor, Lord Fawn, is in much the same position as Frank Greystock; he attempts to control Lizzie and tries to make her his wife in order to procure the money she holds and which he desperately needs. He proposes to her because of her possessions, and

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she becomes his fi(n)ancee; but when her acquisition of the Eustace diamonds becomes a legal issue, he backs out of their engagement: '"I must declare that under these circumstances, let the consequences be what they may, I must retreat from the enviable position which your favour has given me." The words were cold and solemn, and were illspoken; but they were deliberate, and had been indeed actually learned by heart' (I 128--9). Hence, where Lizzie's tale bears at least a superficial and structural resemblance to Lucy's story, for she too is mistreated by her fiancee, she is represented quite differently. Lizzie is not bereft when Lord Fawn breaks his engagement with her, and she turns to other men for comfort. While Lord Fawn is a weak and foolish character, he is a respectable figure, and the textual structure suggests that Lizzie loses the right to procure a respectable husband. Her efforts to perform as a subject may render her a complex character, but she is punished through the husband with whom she is eventually provided. Mr Emilius, Lizzie's future husband, is like her in his abrogation of social codes, codes which he breaches as a result of his ethnicity. Bill Overton discusses Mr Emilius's function in Trollope's plot and argues that 'Emilius isn't an epitome of the lying and dishonesty which the novel says are epidemic in fashionable life, but a bogy, a projection of phobias. He represents an example of Trollope's either unthinking or cynical acceptance of conventional prejudice, which is the more difficult to forgive because of his ability to penetrate beyond it elsewhere' (165). As Overton suggests, Mr Emilius does not fare well in this novel. Indeed, like Lizzie, he is viciously abused by the narrator. The narrator mocks Mr Emilius because of his appearance: 'He was a dark, hookeynosed, well-made man, with an exuberance of greasy hair, who would have been considered handsome by many women, had there not been something, almost amounting to a squint, amiss with one of his eyes. When he was preaching, it could hardly be seen, but in the closeness of private conversation, it was disagreeable.' (II 311). Clearly, the 'crime' Mr Emilius commits in this text is the 'crime' of being Jewish. The narrator castigates him because his appearance does not conform to the narrator's Anglo-Christian expectations, and proceeds to assault his character: 'The man was a nasty, greasy, lying, squinting Jew preacher; an imposter, over forty years of age .. . He was a creature to loathe, - because he was greasy, and a liar, and an imposter' (II 314) . The one character who is not repelled by Mr Emilius's ethnicity is Lizzie. Lizzie finds Mr Emilius intriguing, perhaps because he does not fit into the social order that also marginalizes her. But her acceptance of

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his proposal provides the narrator with another tool with which to condemn her: 'While he was making his speech she almost liked his squint. She certainly liked the grease and nastiness' (II 314). Mr Emilius proposes to Lizzie, and because 'she liked lies,' she accepts him (II 367). The text thus structurally suggests that if a woman abrogates her allotted role, no 'decent' man will have her. Lizzie is granted Mr. Emilius as a marriage partner, and the marriage serves as the two outsiders' punishment for their refusal or their inability to conform to patriarchal dictates: 'She had never been made love to after this fashion before. She knew, or half knew, that the man was a scheming hypocrite, craving her money, and following her in the hour of her troubles, because he might then have the best chance of success. She had no belief whatever in his love. And yet she liked it, and approved his proceedings. She liked lies, thinking them to be more beautiful than truth. To lie readily and cleverly, recklessly and yet successfully, was, according to the lessons which she had learned, a necessity in woman, and an added grace in man' (II 367). Although Lizzie is socially (and textually) ostracized through her engagement with Mr Emilius and, hence, removed from the sexual marketplace, she is stripped of her sexuality before she is dismissed from The Eustace Diamonds. This movement occurs through the plot permutations that result from Lizzie's retention of her diamonds. In his case study of Dora, Freud draws a connection between feminine sexuality and jewel cases. Since the German word for jewel case is also a slang expression for the female genitals, Freud deduces that Dora's fear that her jewel case is lost symbolically represents her fear of 'her vagina, her virginity, and sexual intercourse' (Ramas 167). The Eustace Diamonds is written, of course, in English, but the term '.jewels' is frequently used in English slang to refer to genitalia (the 'family jewels'). And while the 'family jewels' is a term generally used to connote male genitalia, in The Eustace Diamonds Lizzie's jewels and her jewel case can be read as markers of her feminine sexuality, for they are symbolic of and synonymous with her desire. In turn, and as a result, her jewels manifest an indirect parallel with the purloined letter of Poe's story, which Lacan reads as a metonymic displacement of the Queen's sexuality. Lacan, in explicating 'The Purloined Letter,' draws attention to the letter's metaphoric function within the story: 'For this sign is indeed that of woman, in so far as she invests her very being therein, founding it outside the law, which subsumes her nevertheless, originarily, in a position of signifier, nay, of fetish' ('Seminar' 312). Lizzie's diamonds perform similarly and serve to fetishize her sexuality. However, the location of Lizzie's sexuality in her

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diamonds also exemplifies a problem in Phallocentric conceptions of woman, for her sexuality cannot be defined by a single signifier. Like the Queen's letter, Lizzie's diamonds, and her jewels in general, metonymically displace her sexuality. They become her mark of economy (but a singular economy) with the male gender. When Lizzie marries Sir Florian, it is her debts, arising from her acquisition of jewels, that turn him against her. She repossesses her jewels along with the Eustace diamonds upon Sir Florian's death and enters the marriage market. The diamonds become directly equated with Lizzie's character: 'They were very beautiful, and seemed to [Lord Fawn] to outshine all other jewellery in the room. And Lady Eustace was a woman of whom it might be said that she ought to wear diamonds. She was made to sparkle, to be bright with outside garniture, - to shine and glitter, and be rich in apparel. The only doubt might be whether paste diamonds might not better suit her character. But these were not paste, and she did shine and glitter and was very rich' (I 159). Indeed, the fight over the Eustace diamonds develops into a sexual power struggle between Lizzie and Mr Camperdown, the Eustace family lawyer. The diamonds signify to Mr Camperdown not just because of their worth, but because he does not want to be outsmarted by a woman. Hence, the diamonds are important because they will allow him to best a member of the 'weaker sex': 'And yet he was as certain as ever that the woman was robbing the estate which it was his duty to guard, and that should he cease to be active in the matter, the necklace would be broken up and the property sold and scattered before a year was out, and then the woman would have got the better of him!' (I 231). A curious interchange takes place at the beginning of Book II. Lizzie, who is travelling with the diamonds, is robbed at Carlisle. For all intents and purposes, the jewels are stolen. However, while the jewels signify as lost, they remain in Lizzie's possession. It is, in fact, the jewel box that is stolen, for Lizzie had removed the diamonds from the box and placed them under her pillow. Lizzie lies about her possession of the diamonds to the police, and her custody of the jewels becomes her secret. She has beaten Mr Camperdown, since he believes the jewels to be stolen, and she has preserved her sexuality. Her lies become her means of retaining control of her sexuality: 'She was ashamed to tell them that she brought the box empty from Portray, having the diamonds in her own keeping because she had feared that the box might be stolen. And then it occurred to her, quick as thought could flash, that it might be well that Mr. Camperdown should be made to believe that they had been stolen. And so she kept her secret. The reflections of the next half-hour told her

Desire and Displacement in The Eustace Diamonds how very great would now be her difficulties. But, as she had not disclosed the truth at first, she could hardly disclose it now' (II 45). Lizzie is forced to hide the diamonds and to hide her sexuality. She has it, but no one knows she has it, and in order to keep it, she must continue the charade. Indeed, her knowledge of fiction helps her in her attempts to deceive: 'She understood well how great was the peril while the necklace was in her own immediate keeping. Any accident might discover it, and if the slightest suspicion were aroused, the police would come upon her with violence and discover it. But surely there must be some such hiding-place, - if only she could think of it! Then her mind reverted to all the stories she had ever heard of mysterious villainies. There must be some way of accomplishing this thing, if she could only bring her mind to work upon it exclusively' (II 47). The link that is drawn between Lizzie's diamonds and fiction is important, since the diamonds serve as the source of Lizzie's attractiveness to the world, and through the story of her loss, she becomes a minor celebrity. Her sexuality, therefore, which is plural, is best rendered through fiction, which itself is multifaceted. Shortly after Lizzie's return to London, she is robbed again. This twist in the plot is significant, for the burglary occurs directly after Lizzie confides her secret to a man, Lord George, thereby losing literal control of the diamonds and her secret, and symbolic control of her sexuality. This new theft is conducted through a woman, Lizzie's maid. Unlike Lacan's/ Poe's Queen, whose letter is returned, Lizzie's diamonds are overtly lost to her (as is her sexuality). Not surprisingly, then, once the diamonds are stolen, and when 'the Hertford Street robbery was three days old, and was still the talk of all the town, Lizzie Eustace was really ill' (II 118). Lizzie's illness is emphasized in the narrator's explanation: 'And she was ill. Though her mind was again at work with schemes on which she would not have busied herself without hope, yet she had not recovered from the actual bodily prostration to which she had been compelled to give way when first told of the robbery on her return from the theatre. There had been moments, then, in which she thought that her heart would have broken, - moments in which, but that the power of speech was wanting, she would have told everything to Lucinda Roanoke' (II 119). Lizzie, as the advocate of feminine sexuality, loses her voice and is rendered speechless when she loses the diamonds. She is robbed of her overt power within the narrative. Her loss serves as a form of punishment for her assertion of subjectivity and her effort to fulfil her own desires. Hiding the jewels, when the world believed them to be lost, enhanced

Patriarchal Desire and Victorian Discourse Lizzie's power and her attraction. She held what the patriarchal world denied her - her sexuality. She had it, and although no one knew she had it, its very existence posed a threat to the power dynamic. Once the jewels are lost, Lizzie's marketability is no longer recognized within the patriarchal economy. But the textual punishment - the loss of the jewels - also illustrates the Phallocentric inability to conceive of the nature of feminine sexuality, which, as Irigaray argues, is not located in one place - it is diffuse and plural. The patriarchal impetus is to clitoridectomize Lizzie by stealing her jewels, but Lizzie's sexuality cannot be stripped by a simple theft. Hence, while Lizzie is robbed of her jewels, she is not rendered singular or asexual, and although her power is displaced in the narrative, her sexuality continues to signify through her multiplicit status. Lizzie's plural significations threaten the singular textual economy. While the novel figures patriarchal efforts to control femininity through the narrator's war upon Lizzie, in the end it is unable to support the feminine subversion of Phallic logic which she embodies. As provocative as her feminine sexuality might be, she is ultimately discredited when she is set in opposition to Plantagenet Palliser. The novel draws a parallel between Lizzie, who, even bereft of her diamonds, still believes that 'after all, poetry was life and life was poetry' (II 129), and Palliser, who is involved in implementing a decimal coinage system. The two characters are antithetical, and their juxtaposed projects throw into relief the differences that exist between the two economies they represent. Lizzie's lies and subterfuge are contrasted with Palliser's linear and 'honest' logic. In The Eustace Diamonds, Palliser is labouring to introduce a decimal coinage system. The decimal coinage suggests a one-to-one, singular link between ideology and economy. Yet, intriguingly, the decimal system is in jeopardy because of its wording: 'A question, perhaps of no great practical importance, had occurred to Mr. Palliser, - but one which, if overlooked, might be fatal to the ultimate success of the measure. There is so much in a name, - and then an ounce of ridicule is often more potent than a hundredweight of argument. By what denomination should the fifth part of a penny be hereafter known? (II 140) . This is an interesting aside, because it posits the decimal system, which is an attempt to regulate the economy, against language which, like feminine sexuality, gives rise to multiple meanings, meanings that cannot be fixed and indeed that blur the 'truth.' Lizzie, who is equated with language and stories, therefore operates in opposition to Palliser, and her difference from him is emphasized in the ways in which her activities subvert the singular effort to instil order.

Desire and Displacement in The Eustace Diamonds Lizzie obfuscates the distinctions between right and wrong, and her shadings of the 'truth' are highlighted in her behaviour with the Eustace diamonds. The distinctions that humanist ideology establishes between right and wrong, distinctions that are embodied in characters like Palliser, are undermined by Lizzie's interpretation of her right to the jewels. For Lizzie, truth is an interpretation, and she interprets differently according to her purpose. As the narrator asserts in an earlier passage, 'she was not quite sure herself whether the statement was true or false, though she would not have made it so frequently had her idea of the truth been a fixed idea' (I 89). Precisely because Lizzie has no 'fixed idea' of the truth, she disrupts the text and upsets the economy it attempts to instil and to legitimize. Her plural shiftings leave its one-to-one singularity unable to account for her, and in its inability to account for her, the textual logic highlights how she defies singular placement. This alone marks the existence of an alternative economy, one which cannot be represented in the text because it requires a different discourse, but which this discourse, despite its pretension of authoritativeness, cannot supersede. The power of Lizzie's alternative economy is rendered in the narrative, for she upsets the text's privileged ideological movement. Lizzie equates everything with stories, including the 'truth' the court attempts to pry out of her: "'What is a broken promise?" "It's a story," said Lizzie, in innocent amazement' (II 219). Language is a tool which Lizzie is able to use deftly and to turn to her own purpose. Her mastery of the written word is apparent in her response to Lord Fawn's letter to her explaining his decision to end their engagement. Lizzie rewrites the script by pretending to break off the engagement first: 'This epistle Lizzie did send, believing that she could add nothing to its insolence, let her study it as she might. And, she thought, as she read it for the fifth time, that it sounded as though it had been written before her receipt of the final note from himself, and that it would, therefore, irritate him the more (II 307). Lizzie's ability to revise his(s)tory and turn it into herstory emphasizes her adroit manipulation of language - and it is as a result of language that Palliser's decimal system is about to falter. Language, Lizzie's forte, is Palliser's downfall, for it will not allow for the singularity he wishes to impose upon it. Lizzie is trivialized in the narrative and turned into a fiction, which stands in opposition to the supposed objective reality which Palliser represents. However, when Lizzie is turned into a fiction within the fiction, the text offers a postmodern statement that all systems are constructs which serve varying aims. Lizzie, who is, in effect, objectified

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as a character in the story within the story, continues to subvert the patriarchal narrative structure, since she is effective as a story source. And as her story serves to empower, rather than disempower, her function in the novel is different from Palliser's function, which is to reassert an order that depends upon subordination and control. Lizzie is turned into a fiction when her story of the diamonds becomes the talk of the town. This is apparent in the 'frame-narrative' that Patricia Vernon locates in the Matching sections (4) . The theft of Lizzie's diamonds furnishes the basis for storytelling: "'But why shouldn't the diamonds have been in the box?" asked the duke. As this was the first intimation given to Lady Glencora of any suspicion that the diamonds had not been taken with the box, and as this had been received by telegraph, she could not answer the duke's question with any clear exposition of her own' (11 70). The story of the diamonds is what brings Lizzie to the attention of Lady Glencora, and it provides Glencora with the means of amusing the now ailing Duke of Omnium: 'All these matters were told to the duke by Lady Glencora and Madame Goesler in the recesses of his grace's private room; for the duke was now infirm, and did not dine in company unless the day was very auspicious to him. But in the evening he would creep into the drawing-room, and on this occasion he had a word to say about the Eustace diamonds to every one in the room. It was admitted by them all that the robbery had been a godsend in the way of amusing the duke' (II 75). As Glencora comments in the last paragraph of the novel, 'I call that woman a perfect God-send. What should we have done without her?' (II 375). Interestingly, Lizzie's story serves as a tool that is used by women to placate men. Hence, her fiction is supportive of women, for it lightens their load and makes their tasks easier to perform. Lizzie embodies the power of her alternative economy, an economy that intrigues and empowers women, and that is highlighted in the fiction, which reflects her plural sexuality. Moreover, by blurring the distinctions between 'right' and 'wrong,' Lizzie shifts the basis on which the textual economy operates. When she spotlights the fictionality of patriarchal economy, she draws attention to patriarchy as a construct, which, like other constructs, is not the only construction available. The final words of the text are delivered at Matching, which Lizzie has managed to amuse through her behaviour, or, at least, through the fictionalized accounts that result from it. Patriarchy's distaste for Lizzie is clear when Glencora admits: 'I went to her twice, - and got quite scolded about it. Plantagenet said that if I wanted horrors I'd better go to Madame Tussaud' (II 372) . Palliser's dislike of Lizzie is mirrored in Lord

Desire and Displacement in The Eustace Diamonds Chiltern's response to her. Chiltern attempts to dismiss Lizzie's story and, at the same time, to dismiss her from Trollope's novel: 'I never was so sick of anything in my life as I am of Lady Eustace. People have talked about her now for the last six months ... And all that I can hear of her is, that she has told a lot of lies and lost a necklace' (II 375). The dismissal lacks power, however, for Lizzie continues to function as a story through her loss and through her jewels, and the power of this fiction for women is signalled in the frame-narrative. Women's power may be embodied only in a fiction, here, but this fiction points to the fictive quality of patriarchal discourse. The frame-narrative allows Lizzie to become a fiction within a fiction, or a story within a story; and hence signals the text's metafictionality, which subverts the one-to-one relationship between ideology and 'reality' that humanism privileges. As a fiction that cannot be contained, Lizzie disrupts the status quo and the economy it prioritizes. And it is Glencora's words about her that prove to be the more historically accurate, since despite the novel's disapprobation of Lizzie's behaviour, and Chiltern's dismissal of her, and the condemnation of her by Trollope's critics, the reading public has found her story worthwhile and desirable. As Trollope indicates in An Automography, The Eustace Diamonds was one of his most popular novels (344). To speculate that the reading public was largely comprised of women might be to stretch a point, but the novel's success suggests that feminine desire en/genders a powerful narrative. That Lizzie's desire is ultimately disenfranchised within the text is inescapable; nonetheless, when her sexuality signifies as a fiction within the fiction, it draws attention to the Phallocentric construct of the text and, concomitantly, to the 'reality' that patriarchy fabricates.

Subjectivity and Masquerade Phineas Redux

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lll

Phineas Redux, published in 1874, returns to issues raised in Phineas Finn

and continues the story begun in the second Palliser novel. The Phineas saga was initially conceived as one large novel, and many critics have chosen to examine the two texts as one, but the disruption of the linear sequence of the story engendered by The Eustace Diamonds is important. The Eustace Diamonds, a text that points to a different and interventionist feminine sexual economy, establishes a backdrop influential to a reading of Phineas Redux. Indeed, if The Eustace Diamonds implicitly demonstrates the difficulties a sexual woman poses to the patriarchal system, then it is not surprising that Phineas Redux explicitly works to quell and subdue feminine resistance, at the same time that it raises questions about feminine subjectivity. Consequently, Phineas Redux provides an interesting venue through which to explore the question of Trollope's feminism. As I have noted in previous chapters, there are several very incisive feminist critics who applaud Trollope for his positive portrayal of women, and who find evidence in his texts to support their position that the author is sympathetic to the feminine predicament. Phineas Reduxis a text particularly acclaimed for its 'equal' treatment of women. For example, Nardin argues that the marriage between Marie Goesler and Phineas Finn, as depicted in this novel, is the 'Victorian ideal transformed out of recognition, for instead of the wife's providing a sanctified refuge to which the husband can periodically withdraw, both spouses cultivate a mixture of involvement and detachment ... In the Finns' house there is no angel. The Finns are the precursors of the childless, two-career couple' (200-1). Nardin's approval of the resolution of Phineas Redux is shared by other feminist critics. Marie (Madame Max) Goesler, in particular, elicits favourable responses from women scholars, some of whom

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perceive her as the focal point of the novel. Epperly contends that 'Madame Max is more intelligent and has been more ambitious than Phineas, and since her goal is love, Phineas's fate is determined. Sympathy with Madame Max sometimes makes Phineas's development and the political sections seem but interludes to the real story ... With his own hard-won knowledge and with Marie's firm support, the balanced man can relieve the warhorse's trumpet of public skirmish with the inspiring harmony of Park Lane life. Thus the mature Phineas's irony even offers hope for the rhetoric of politics.' (Patterns 141). Like Epperly and Nardin, Morse celebrates the sexual equality she perceives in Phineas Redux. In a chapter entitled 'The "Phineas" Saga: The Terms of Equality,' she explicates the ways in which Phineas Redux sympathetically portrays femininity: 'Within the Phineas novels themselves, [Finn and Goesler's] marriage must be compared to that of Laura and Kennedy, and that of Violet and Chiltern. In contrast to Kennedy's attempt to enslave Laura, the promise in this union - as in the marriage of Violet and Chiltern - is that there will be no mastering, but a reciprocity born of mutual respect. These are, finally, the only "terms" upon which Trollope feels a woman's rights can be secured' (84). As these passages indicate, Epperly, Nardin, and Morse, who are among the most prominent of Trollopean feminist scholars, applaud Trollope's 'feminism'; they approve of the relationships portrayed in Phineas Redux and perceive the match between Marie and Phineas as a match of equality. But is the match between Phineas and Marie equal? And is Trollope sympathetic to women's rights? These two questions are extremely important, not only in themselves, but because they provide a means of reading critically a text and the culture that produces it. While the aforementioned critics foreground important issues in relation to Phineas Redux, and while Trollope's female characters are powerful and appealing, the fact remains that female characters do not triumph in his work. To suggest, then, that Trollope's novels comprise a feminist project is to elide the position in which the female characters are placed in these texts, and to ignore the complexity of the power dynamic that is textually inscribed, and that necessitates the subordination of women. Structurally and narratorially, the Palliser Novels explicitly serve to support the patriarchal system, and provide an appeal to women to accept the role inscribed for them therein. The argument that Trollope's novels affirm women simplifies the machinations of the masculinist logic they dramatize, a logic that must be exposed if woman is to avoid being disenfranchised - again - through its manoeuvres.

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Barrickman, MacDonald, and Stark argue that in Trollope's novels 'some women['s] ... distrust of marriage leads to self-loathing or disparagement of the very state of womanhood. "The curse," as Lady Laura says in Phineas Finn, "is to be a woman at all'" (210-u). These critics assert that Trollope traces the ways in which womanhood is debased within Victorian society, and note that he 'examines the ways in which the unchecked exercise of masculine power produces this fear and hatred' (210). I do not disagree with this contention, nor, for that matter, do I disagree with the observations of Nardin, Epperly, and Morse. Nonetheless, I would like to problematize the idea that Trollope's writing is actively sympathetic to women. I would assert that the Palliser Novels overtly work to legitimize the power dynamic, but that when they trace the 'unchecked exercise of masculine power,' they also generate a critique of the ways in which women are disenfranchised by it. Trollope's novels can be used for feminist purposes; however, that his texts implicitly offer the means of exposing and countering the power dynamic does not mean that he is a feminist. I am suggesting a reading of Phineas Redux that draws upon the critical strategy Tania Modleski outlines in Feminism without Women. Modleski asserts that 'in seeking to reevaluate the very criteria by which we judge historical and ideological significance, and to counter the violence of patriarchal rhetoric (and break the vicious cycle whereby the performative and mimetic aspects of texts mutually reinforce each other, representation producing reality and reality affirming representation), feminism must martial its own illocutionary force to "detrivialize" women. In doing so it should avoid falling into "the trap of seduction" and reject as an ideological ruse the attempts to render language and literature trivial that often take place in the very name of the feminine.' (51-2). The 'trap of seduction' is precisely what is manifested in Phineas Redux. This novel details a careful and skilful effort (an effort all the more intensive given the disruption caused by Lizzie Eustace in the previous novel) to seduce its female readers into accepting happily their submission to a Phallocentric system. In so doing, the text also provides a critique of the masculinist logic it embodies; it proffers the means by which readers can decode the ways in which patriarchy disguises its motivations by appealing to women to be content with their lot. If read critically, Phineas Redux foregrounds a patriarchal masquerade, that is reflected in the masquerade effected by its female objects' attempts to perform as subjects. Trollope's novels are particularly useful in locating the effort to disempower women because, as I outlined in chapter one, they clearly detail

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the ways in which the Phallocentric system operates. Trollope's own position as ex-centric subject enables him effectively to explicate the workings of patriarchy. While 'consciously' his texts may work to disempower women, 'unconsciously' they reveal the ways in which feminine disenfranchisement is necessary to the male-centred power dynamic, which depends upon the subordination of women to support the status quo it supports and perpetuates. Phineas Redux, in dramatizing its female characters' discovery of the joys of a happy union in which they, assuming their rightful place as the helpmates of man, will find full satisfaction, exposes the contradictions and inconsistencies in their ideological basis. The novel, devoted to rendering patriarchy desirable for women and replete with explanations justifying the control of female objects, also provides the means for a feminine resistance. There are other assessments of Phineas Redux which do not address feminist issues directly but point to the masculinist logic embedded in the text. Examining the constructions of masculinity in Phineas Redux, Polhemus observes, in light of one of Trollope's passages on fox-hunting: 'Substitute "bull" for "fox" and this could be straight out of Death in the Afternoon. That Trollope, the social novelist par excellence, understands so well the antisocial sentiment which has created everything from The Giaourto the fiction of private detectives, lone rangers, and international spies (not to mention actual world wars), proves how strong that feeling is in most men who have lived during or after the Industrial Revolution. The problem is to find or preserve ways of safely getting rid of men's deep uncivilized urges' (Changing 182). Polhemus's emphasis on 'men's deep uncivilized urges' draws attention to the similarities between Trollope's novel and certain contemporary efforts to reconstruct masculinity. The problems apparent in these efforts are delineated by Susan Faludi in Backlash: The Undec/,ared War against American Women, where she deconstructs the program of Robert Bly and shows it to be an appropriative attempt to suppress femininity (304-II). Phineas Redux can be read similarly, for the inherent masculinism apparent in the text can be used as a basis from which to analyse the psychoanalytic implications of its ideological formulation; the novel draws upon a belief system that fosters a male subject's desire to control and dominate, in order to incorporate him into the power dynamic, which itself depends upon control and suppression. Overton locates the motivating force of Phineas Redux in Phineas's desire to rise to the top of his social order. Overton argues that Phineas must recognize 'at some level that he must eventually pay, psychological-

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ly, for his ambition. Since it is his exaggerated awareness of insecurity that brings him to quarrel with Bonteen, which in tum leads to his being accused of murder, his ordeal may be seen as a paradigm of the stresses suffered by the man who tries to rise in society' (99). Overton contends that Phineas is aware he must pay for his social aspirations. To extend this argument and to place it theoretically, Phineas's position is that of the subject who mistakenly believes himself to be a unified and coherent being (I use the masculine pronoun deliberately here, for women are denied subjectivity in patriarchal discourse) and attempts to consolidate the position he believes he should occupy; his desire to be whole and unified is reinforced by the culture in which he lives, which promises him inclusion and fulfilment. But the subject is not unified - he is split and conflicted - and he is reminded constantly of his inability to achieve that which he desires. Since he can never attain unity because unity is illusory, he attempts to grasp control through possession (be it in the form of wealth, status, or something else), for it lends him the authority he believes he should have, but which he can achieve only through subordinating an/Other. Because of the conflicting motivations of the hierarchical social structure, the subject cannot attain the centric social or political status he desires, and the area of control and mastery open to him resides in his possession of woman. Once he possesses woman, he can satisfy his desires through her, for his 'mastery' of her lends him the illusion of coherence for which he longs. The female object, therefore, is necessary to this 'unifying' process, for she performs as the Other through which male subjectivity is established. As Overton observes, Phineas Finn tries, in both the earlier and the later novel, to move from an outside position into the nexus of power. Again, such a movement is a result of the illusion of inclusion promised by the system, an illusion that keeps patriarchal subjects under control by preying upon their desires for centricity; it is an illusion that cannot be actualized, however, for the power discourse is rigidly class-defined. Phineas cannot become centric, despite the centre's promise that he can, so in order tO function as a 'complete' subject, he must find an Other to fill his lack. This process is more prominent in Phineas Redux than in Phineas Finn because Phineas is more disillusioned. At the end of Phineas Finn, Phineas turned his back on politics and returned to Ireland to begin married life with Mary Flood Jones. He displaced his desire for centricity and wholeness onto his desire for sexual union, which lent him the illusion of coherence he desired. At the beginning of Phineas Redux, Phineas is left without an Other. Mary has died in

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childbirth and can no longer serve as the Other through which his self is affirmed. As a result, Phineas welcomes a return to politics, participation in which again promises him wholeness and inclusion in the social structure. Phineas's belief that politics will fulfil him confirms the idea that the subject cannot function without an/Other upon which to play. That is, Phineas's success in politics would consolidate his 'inside' status, which would consolidate his self by providing him with an Other in the form of those outside the centre. Without an Other, Phineas cannot function: 'As for going back to Dublin, that was now out of the question. He had entered upon a feverish state of existence in which it was impossible that he should live in Ireland. Should he ultimately fail in regard to his seat he must - vanish out of the world' (I 51). The Phallic drive that leads Phineas to attempt to insert himself into the centre also works against his fulfilment. Interestingly, in Phineas Redux, sex and politics are inextricably intertwined, and Phineas explains his situation in a remarkably sexual metaphor: 'He had opened the oyster for himself once, though it had closed again with so sharp a snap when the point of his knife had been withdrawn. Would he be able to insert the point again between those two difficult shells?' (I 54). Not surprisingly, Phineas's ability to 'pry open the oyster' will largely rest, in this novel, upon his sexual conduct. Consequently, the basis of the patriarchal structure is exposed when the textual impetus directly equates success with sexual achievement: success, if one is outside the centre, can be achieved only through sexual dominance. As the novel details the machinations of the power dynamic, therefore, it also provides an explanation of the ways in which it functions, and explicates how Phineas is thrown back upon sexuality as the only means available to him to achieve 'unification' within himself. The reasons given for Phineas's lack of success are his sexual exploits (whether 'real' or imagined), and the introduction of sexuality, here, works to expose the text's power dynamic. Mr Kennedy, who, in Phineas Redux, is attempting to repossess Lady Laura, is jealous of Phineas's friendship with his wife. He blames Phineas for the collapse of his marriage, and his jealousy of Phineas's presumed sexual prowess underpins his effort to injure his rival both physically and politically. Early in the novel, Kennedy confronts Phineas and accuses him of adultery: 'Has she never spoken to you of love since? Did she not warn you from the house in her faint struggle after virtue? Did she not whistle you back again when she found the struggle too much for her? When I asked you to the house, she bade

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you not come. When I desired that you might never darken my eyes again, did she not seek you? With whom was she walking on the villa grounds by the river banks when she resolved that she would leave all her duties and desert me? Will you dare to say that you were not then in her confidence? With whom was she talking when she had the effrontery to come and meet me at the house of the Prime Minister, which I was bound to attend? Have you not been with her this very winter in her foreign home?' (1 2o6)

Kennedy proceeds to write a letter to The Peojile's Banner in which he describes Finn's sexual misdemeanours, and when Phineas attempts to persuade Kennedy not to publish the letter, Kennedy tries to shoot him. Metaphorically, Kennedy tries to castrate Finn, in the sense that he endeavours to eliminate the sexual threat Phineas poses to him and to his marriage. While Kennedy's physical threat is unsuccessful, the rumours of the attempted assault work to discredit Phineas and to castrate him politically. Phineas's relations with Lady Laura become the talk of the town, and his enemies seize upon this opportunity to discredit him. While Phineas's friends disbelieve the story, it nonetheless colours his reputation. Phineas desperately needs a cabinet post in order to support himself, but his chances of obtaining one, in light of Kennedy's accusations, are slim. This situation only exacerbates Phineas's feelings of impotence: 'He had given up everything in the world with the view of getting into office; and now that the opportunity had come, - an opportunity which if allowed to slip could hardly return again in time to be of service to him, - the prize was to elude his grasp!' (I 325). The sexual innuendoes surrounding Phineas lead him to begin to abandon his desire for centric inclusion. He no longer feels comfortable in Parliament - 'He seemed to be more than ever disjoined from his party' (I 321) - and his ex-centric status appears to be confirmed. Phineas perceives the loss of a cabinet post as a harbinger of doom, and his disillusionment grows. To Lady Laura he proclaims: 'I am sick of the whole thing. There is no honesty in the life we lead' (II 37). These passages are important, for they foreground an inconsistency in Phallocentric logic. The power dynamic promises inclusion in the centre to its ex-centric subjects as a means of fulfilment, but it cannot include them because their presence as ex-centric is necessary to confirm the position of the centric. As a result, explicable reasons as to why the ex-centric subject cannot achieve centric inclusion are offered. Phineas could never succeed in Parliament because he is outside the rigid class structure that governs the centre of power. But his inability to centre

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himself is ascribed to his sexual exploits. Hence, the illusion of inclusion remains intact, and the textual impetus posits other means by which male subjects can consolidate themselves. Just as Kennedy attempts to secure power over Phineas by dominating and controlling his future, so Phineas attempts to dominate in a political arena. But Phineas cannot succeed politically, for he is an outsider in the money- and class-defined structure. His relations with women, on the other hand, are fruitful, a state of affairs that underscores the metonymic slippage between power and sexual potency. Where Phineas fails politically, he succeeds sexually; Phineas Redux is a testament to his sexual powers, which will ultimately garner him the illusion of inclusion which he desires. Indeed, sexual dominance is the only avenue open to Phineas if he is to perform as a 'unified' subject. Phineas, who is not without charm, is able to function within this system as a result of the support of women. It is the influential women of his party who band together in order to help further his career. As Marie tells him: 'It's all arranged. You'll be called the ladies' pet, but you mustn't mind that. Lady Laura will be here before it's arranged, and she will get hold of Mr. Erle' (I 332) . Yet the women's campaign hurts Phineas politically, for, as he puts it, 'It shuts the door to me for ever and ever' (I 362); and the text performs a dual purpose. On the one hand, Phineas's inability to succeed is explained 'rationally,' and the illusion of inclusion which the system promises its ex-centric subjects is maintained; on the other hand, the text reaffirms the patriarchal 'truism' that women have no place in a political arena. Women do, however, perform a very important role in a domestic arena, and Phineas's popularity with women ultimately garners him the Other which he requires if he is to achieve coherence as a subject. Phineas does not find fulfilment immediately, however, and the humiliation he endures is significant. He is upset when he is excluded from the centre, and his state of mind leads him into a quarrel with Mr Bonteen. Unfortunately, the two argue publicly in a gentlemen's club, and afterwards Bonteen is murdered. Phineas is indicted for the crime. Public opinion, once again, is against Phineas, who smarts under the censure. In jail, he notes that 'it was the condemnation of those who had known him that was so terrible to him; the feeling that they with whom he had aspired to work and live, the leading men and women of his day, Ministers of the Government and their wives, statesmen and their daughters, peers and members of the House in which he himself had sat; - that these should think that, after all, he had been a base adventurer un-

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worthy of their society! That was the sorrow that broke him down, and drew him to confess that his whole life had been a failure' (II 17g-80). Phineas is released, owing to the skilful manoeuvrings of Marie Goesler, but he is released a broken man. He is discouraged with the system that has mistreated him, but rather than criticizing the construction of the social structure, he attempts to excuse it. Normalizing his inability to centre himself, Phineas suggests that whereas he can be included in Parliament - thus testifying to the 'flexibility' of the centre - he is unable to perform effectively because of his poverty. He supports the constitution of the status quo through his new-found understanding that Parliament is not the place for a poor man. He says to Lady Glencora (now Duchess of Omnium): 'When office first comes, unasked for, almost unexpected, full of the charms which distance lends, it is pleasant enough. The new-comer begins to feel that he too is entitled to rub his shoulders among those who rule the world of Great Britain. But when it has been expected, longed for as I longed for it, asked for by my friends and refused, when all the world comes to know that you are a suitor for that which should come without any suit, - then the pleasantness vanishes' (II 346) . More to the point, Phineas later argues: 'A man of fortune may be independent; and because he has the power of independence those who are higher than he will not expect him to be subservient. A man who takes to parliamentary office for a living may live by it, but he will have but a dog's life of it' (II 352). Although Phineas may lament the inability of the centre to include those outside its boundaries, he also supports its structure when he affirms the system that marginalizes him. Phineas accepts his inability to centre himself politically and begins to consider marriage as an alternative to his disillusionment. Marriage is, of course, the sole means left to him now to consolidate his fractured subjectivity: As he returned home he tried to make out for himself some plan for his future

life, - but, interspersed with any idea that he could weave were the figures of two women, Lady Laura Kennedy and Madame Max Goesler. The former could be nothing to him but a friend; and though no other friend would love him as she loved him, yet she could not influence his life. She was very wealthy, but her wealth could be nothing to him. She would heap it all upon him if he would take it. He understood and knew that ... He was poor, broken in spirit, and almost without a future; - and yet could her devotion avail him nothing! But how might it be with that other woman? (II 246--7)

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Marriage is the only avenue open to Phineas if he is to function as a seemingly coherent subject in the narrative. That he cannot do so without a female Other is apparent in the nervous collapse he undergoes as a result of his incarceration. Revealingly, when he breaks down, he is likened to a woman. "'I am womanly," said Phineas. "I begin to feel it. But I can't alter my nature" ' (II 250). At this point, the narrator seizes an opportunity to reflect on the differences between the sexes and sets forth at some length the distinctions he perceives between men and women: The property of manliness in a man is a great possession, but perhaps there is none that is less understood, - which is more generally accorded where it does not exist, or more frequently disallowed where it prevails. There are not many who ever make up their minds as to what constitutes manliness, or even inquire within themselves upon the subject. The woman's error, occasioned by her natural desire for a master, leads her to look for a certain outward magnificence of demeanour, a pretended indifference to stings and little torments, a would-be superiority to the bread-and-butter side of life, an unreal assumption of personal grandeur ... Manliness is not compatible with affectation. Women's virtues, all feminine attributes, may be marred by affectation, but the virtues and the vice may co-exist. An affected man, too, may be honest, may be generous, may be pious; - but surely he cannot be manly. The self-conscious assumption of any outward manner, the striving to add .. . is fatal, and will at once banish the all but divine attribute. Before the man can be manly, the gifts which make him so must be there, collected by him slowly, unconsciously, as are his bones, his flesh, and his blood. (11 251-2)

Unlike the narrator, I would argue that the gender differences he perceives result from man 's ability to procure himself a female object who can be used to solidify his sense of wholeness. Phineas, denied the illusion of sexual control while incarcerated, begins to fragment and becomes incoherent. He behaves 'like a woman' because he is placed in a feminine position: he has no means of procuring an Other through which to affirm his self. Ultimately, Phineas is able to achieve coherence through his alliance with Marie Goesler, and thus he secures his place by marrying a moneyed woman. The ostensible reasons given for Phineas's choice are 'honourable,' for Phineas believes himself to be in love with Marie; concerning his proposal to her, he resolves as follows: 'He had to tell her that he, now coming to her as a suitor and knowing her to be a very rich woman, was himself all but penniless. He was sure, or almost sure,

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that she was as well aware of this fact as he was himself; but, nevertheless, it was necessary that he should tell her of it, - and if possible so tell her as to force her to believe him when he assured her that he asked her to be his wife, not because she was rich, but because he loved her' (II 353). Whether or not Marie believes Phineas's protestations of love, she accepts him and, hence, secures him a position in the power hierarchy. Phineas therefore does succeed - if not in the way he wished - as a result of his alliance with woman, the only alliance that proves hospitable to him. While the text implicitly suggests that man's desires can be satiated singularly through the possession of woman, it also demonstrates the link between sex and violence in the constitution of the Phallocentric subject. Both sex and violence lend the subject the illusion of coherence through the domination and subjection of the Other. The link between the two also points to the problems that might ensue if woman refused to accept her position as object and sought subjectivity herself. In this power dynamic, man requires an Other to satisfy his sense of selfhood; should he be denied an Other in the form of woman, presumably he would erupt in violence, which could be directed against the social order. Indeed, the text even suggests that there are some men who are not fulfilled (and hence controlled) through possession of objectified woman, and that Other outlets are necessary for these subjects' successful integration into the Phallic order. Polhemus's suggestion that the novel actively explores methods of keeping men's disruptive desires in check through fox-hunting and other textually inscribed 'masculine sports' is astute. Not only are these sports legitimized in the novel as traditional and proper, they also serve as outlets for excessive male passion, which, if not satisfied, could prove threatening to the power dynamic embedded in the novel. Fox-hunting (a sport which Trollope himself enjoyed) is presented in the text as a quintessentially English pursuit. The narrator's exploration of the importance of keeping foxes in order to perpetuate a hunt ironically draws attention to its particularly British nature. After lengthy examination of the argument for keeping foxes, the narrator concludes, 'A good deal had been said which, though not perhaps capable of convincing the unprejudiced American or Frenchman, had been regarded as cogent arguments to country-bred Englishmen' (II 310-11). Since only an 'Englishman' would understand the importance of the sport, fox-hunting is a patriotic activity, and a liking for it bespeaks a thoroughly British and, hence, superior nature.

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Lord Chiltern is now a Master of Hounds, and his position as a proper Englishman is confirmed. This is interesting, given that Chiltern is a man whose passions are potentially disruptive. In Phineas Finn, Chiltern frequently was associated with violence, was rumoured to have killed a man, and was involved in a duel with Phineas. His overwhelming sexuality initially frightened Violet Effingham, but since his marriage to her, this violence appears to have found an outlet in both his relations with her and his passion for hunting. For Chiltern, obtaining a female object was insufficient; his explosive passion required yet further relief in order for him to function within this social order. Interestingly enough, the link between blood sports and the social order is implicitly acknowledged in an equation between Lord Chiltern's passion for fox-hunting and Palliser's love of decimal coinage: 'To kill a certain number of foxes in the year, after the legitimate fashion, had become to him the one great study of life; - and he did it with an energy equal to that which the Duke devoted to decimal coinage' (II 313). This passage is important, since Palliser's decimal system metaphorically represents the singular order privileged in Phallocentric discourse. The referential one-t~ne logic that lies behind a decimal system implies a relationship between perceptions and things that is unified and complete. This is the same logic that explicitly governs the text and motivates the subjects it depicts. However, as the novel indicates, if this order is to be upheld, man's 'natural' passions must be given a vent, and fox-hunting provides one such release. Insofar as the order is an illusion based upon a desire for wholeness, those desires which might jeopardize the esta~ lished social structure must be granted outlets. The dispute over the foxes in Trumpeton Wood serves a further purpose. Trumpeton Wood belongs to the Pallisers, and their gamekeeper has been killing the foxes that live there and that are necessary to Chiltern' shunt. Glencora performs as the mediator in this misunderstanding between Chi~tern and Palliser, and manages to resolve the conflict: 'My dear Lord Chiltern, everything has been done. Vested interests have been attended to. Keepers shall prefer foxes to pheasants, wires shall be unheard of, and Trumpeton Wood shall once again be the glory of the Brake Hunt. It won't cost the Duke above a thousand or two a year' (II 315). Glencora's intercession here provides for the continuation of the hunt and allows. for a mediation of the disagreement between Chiltern (Phallic passion) and Palliser (Phallic order). The outlets for passion are legitimized, as is the feminine task of maintaining patriarchal harmony. Violence is dangerous since it can become uncontrollable, even if it is

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given a vent in accepted activities. Woman's function as conduit of male desire, therefore, is a preferred means of satiating man's passion. Woman is necessary to the perpetuation of the system, and, in this novel, she both secures alternative modes for disruptive passions and performs as such a mode herself. Indeed, Glencora's involvement in solving the Trumpeton Wood problem is paradigmatic of the power dynamic, which posits woman as the ultimate outlet of male passion, but which works to convince woman that her position as object in the system is to her benefit. The novel overtly supports this logic by portraying as happy the lives of women who have been or are in the process of being controlled. Violet Effingham, now Chiltern, performs in such a fashion and provides the text with a picture of the content and subdued woman. When Phineas sees Violet again, 'she was not in the least altered since he had last been with her, and yet during the period she had undergone that great change which turns a girl into a mother' (I 19). Violet, fulfilled through marriage and motherhood, becomes an example of woman's approved purpose in life. She is the ideal woman - friend, lover, mother. Her function as feminine role model is foregrounded when, testifying for Phineas at his trial, she wins over the crowd largely because of the pretty picture she presents: 'And it was pretty too to watch the unwonted gentleness of old Chaffanbrass as he asked the questions, and carefully abstained from putting any one that could pain her. Sir Gregory said that he had heard her evidence with great pleasure, but that he had no question to ask her himself. Then she stepped down, again took her husband's arm, and left the Court amidst a hum of almost affectionate greeting' (II 212). Fittingly, Violet is kind to all, even to Lady Laura in her torment over Phineas Finn. She merely admonishes Laura to 'control [her] thoughts about this young man' (II 226) so as not to embarrass herself, and, in so doing, reinforces what is considered to be 'proper' behaviour for women in this traditional system. Violet is presented as an 'honourable' woman, whom all admire. Towards the end of Phineas Redux, Laura and Phineas assess Violet's charms. Phineas notes that Violet is 'one of the best women that ever lived ... and one of the best wives' (II 344), but Laura draws attention to that which underscores Violet's performance: 'She ought to be, for she is one of the happiest. What can she wish for that she has not got?' (II 344). Several things may come to mind, but the logic of the power dynamic suggests that if a woman marries wisely and well, her future will be secure and happy. Yet procuring such a future is not always easy to do, and the story of Adelaide Palliser is a case in point. Adelaide and her matrimonial pros-

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pects provide Phineas Redux with a subplot. As do most, this subplot reiterates the implicit theme of the novel: woman will be happy when she consents to accept her position as object. But, in order to become an object, woman must align herself with a man who can afford to purchase her, particularly if she has no money of her own. Adelaide, despite her connections with the Palliser family, is a poor woman. She is in love with Gerard Maule, a man as impoverished as she is, and their attempts to build a life together without money inadvertently highlight the difficulties of attaining happiness without wealth. Interestingly enough, where foxhunting provides a means of venting male passion, woman's parallel function is foregrounded in Adelaide's story when she is likened to a horse. Adelaide's rejected suitor, Mr Spooner, and his cousin liken her to a 'filly' (I 257), and her accepted suitor spends time assessing the ways in which marriage will affect his hunting. Whereas Spooner equates Adelaide with the hunt, for Maule she is an alternative to it. Again, this is an intriguing situation, in that Maule will trade in his horses when he marries, thus substituting one outlet of passion for an/Other. He can focus only on one outlet at a time, however, and he ignores Adelaide as he concentrates on his hunting. Adelaide defends Maule's inattention to her by arguing that once his affairs are in order, he will turn to her: 'He will settle about his horses, and arrange everything' (II 5). But after Chiltern questions Maule as to his intentions regarding Adelaide (by asking Maule when he is to 'take possession' of her [II 151), the lovers quarrel and end their engagement. Adelaide's role as equine surrogate resurfaces in the text when Maule tries to discern how to win her back and is advised to 'let her out on the grass for a couple of months' (II 257). The portrayal of Adelaide as on an equal footing with the beasts of the hunt highlights her purpose as outlet for male passion. The quarrel between Adelaide and Maule is settled when Glencora intercedes. Glencora persuades Marie Goesler to bequeath Adelaide the money Marie inherited from the Duke of Omnium. As a result, 'true love' prevails and Adelaide and Gerard, their financial future secure, are able to marry and prosper. Once again, the status quo is sustained and perpetuated through the intervention of women who have elected to become a part of it, and who work to ascertain other women's submission to it. This pattern suggests the naturalness and rightness, as well as the 'strength,' of the social order. Although happiness in marriage without money is presented as near impossible, marriage with money does not always engender the happiness

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that the portrait of Violet would suggest. In this portrait, the textual 'unconscious' comes into play, since the novel works to support the status quo at the same time that it provides the means by which to critique it. As the novel delineates woman's role and place in patriarchy, it also dramatizes the problems presented by such a system, particularly to the female objects who attempt to forge subject positions within the discourse. Lady Glencora Palliser, who becomes the Duchess of Omnium in Phineas Redux, serves as an indication that even if one marries wisely, wisdom does not necessarily satisfy passion, nor does a 'wise' marriage always produce contentment in its female objects. Glencora is largely caught within the system of which she is now a part. Although she attempts to perform as a subject and is frequently heralded within the novel for her independent spirit, on the whole she is an ineffectual figure. She has found satisfaction in acting as a social mover and shaker, but her position as a social lion makes little difference to the way in which things run. Glencora's inability to effect change raises some interesting questions concerning woman's position in patriarchy. Elizabeth Grosz's assessment of woman's attempt to perform in a Phallic system illuminates some of the problems faced by Glencora. Extrapolating from Lacanian theory, Grosz contends: 'In one sense, in so far as she speaks and says "I," [woman] too must take up a place as a subject of the symbolic; yet, in another, in so far as she is positioned as castrated, passive, an object of desire for men rather than a subject who desires, her position within the symbolic must be marginal or tenuous: when she speaks as an "I" it is never clear that she speaks (of or as) herself. She speaks in a mode of masquerade, in imitation of the masculine, phallic subject. Her "I," then, ambiguously signifies her position as a (pale reflection of the) masculine subject; or it refers to a 'you,' the (linguistic) counterpart of the masculine "I"' (71-2). In practical terms, then, when Glencora speaks as a supporter of patriarchy (in her involvement in the dispute over Trumpeton Wood and in Adelaide's marriage), her "I" reflects her masquerade as a male subject (similar to Alice Vavasor's masquerade in Can You Forgi,ve Her?'). When she speaks for herself, she becomes a 'you' in relation to a masculine subject position. She has no place in the discourse. She can support the system, but she cannot influence it because her location within it is tenuous at best. When Glencora attempts to alter the system - to make her mark, so to speak - her efforts are inconsequential. That is, when she attempts to perform as an 'I' indicative of feminine subjectivity, she is trivialized. Her attempts to promote Phineas Finn's career, for example, are ineffectual:

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'She had sworn an oath inimical to Mr. Bonteen, and did not leave a stone unturned in her endeavours to accomplish it ... Phineas Finn must be allowed a seat also, and a little nectar, - though it were at the second table of the gods. For this she struggled, speaking her mind boldly to this and that member of her husband's party, but she struggled in vain. She could obtain no assurance on behalf of Phineas Finn' (I 356). Glencora does succeed in getting Mr Bonteen demoted, but rather than effecting change, her efforts merely cause trouble. Her support of Phineas works to his disadvantage, and she makes things more difficult for the Whig party. What she creates, therefore, is confusion and dissatisfaction. Even Phineas criticizes Glencora's support of him when he compares her to Marie Goesler, to Glencora's disadvantage. He perceives Glencora as capricious: 'He was thinking of [Marie] much more than of her companion, though he knew also how much he owed to the kindness of the Duchess. But what she had done for him had come from caprice, whereas the other had been instigated and guided by affection.' (II 301-2).

After Phineas's problems are resolved, largely as a result of Marie's work on his behalf, Glencora turns to her husband's cousin's plight and decides to help Adelaide Palliser. This she is able to do, for her involvement here is within the domestic sphere - a sphere properly allotted woman. Her 'I' in this case effects a masquerade of male subjectivity, since she acts in imitation of man's position in discourse and works to support patriarchy. Ultimately, Glencora is able to perform effectively only when she supports the social order. Her acceptance of her nonposition is clear when she actively espouses patriarchal logic in a conversation with Gerard Maule, in which she admits that she likes things to fit: 'Romance and poetry are for the most part lies, Mr. Maule, and are very apt to bring people into difficulty. I have seen something of them in my time, and I much prefer downright honest figures. Two and two make four; idleness is the root of all evil; love your neighbour like yourself, and the rest of it' (II 327). Yet while Glencora can arrange some 'things' to fit, she cannot 'fit' herself into the system. She remains primarily a discontented figure who has no place within the power dynamic, a situation that is accented when her new name does not match her temperament. As Lady Laura observes: 'The greatest change is in the name. Lady Glencora was so especially Lady Glencora that she ought to have been Lady Glencora to the end. Everybody calls her Duchess, but it does not sound half so nice' (II 343). The novel ends with the narrator's assurance: 'Of the Duchess no word need be said. Nothing will ever change the Duch-

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ess' (II 360), but, of course, Glencora has changed a great deal, for she has metamorphosed from the young woman who bucked the system into the matron who supports it. The fruits of the system are sweet to those who desire power, but once one tastes them, one is caught within a power dynamic that has no place for women. Marie Goesler provides for interesting study, particularly since her performance as an independent female character elicits frequent praise. It is largely as a result of Marie that feminist critics assess the novel favourably. Epperly notes in 'From the Borderlands of Decency: Madame Max Goesler': 'The gradual accumulation of thought, gesture and comment in Phineas Finn prepares the reader for the moment when Madame Max stands before Phineas as an honest, loving woman. Marie steps from the "border-lands" a woman of strength and virtue, but thank goodness, retains some of the aura that may at first have tempted Trollope to keep her amid "the sweet-smelling flowers" where "danger lies"' (34). Epperly expands on this theme in Patterns of Repetition in Trollope, where she states unequivocally that 'Phineas Redux is Madame Max's novel ' (141). Whereas in Phineas Finn Marie is transformed from 'a siren into a generous, kind woman' (141), in the later novel she takes over the plot line so that 'sympathy with Madame Max sometimes makes Phineas's development and the political sections seem but interludes to the real story' (141). Nardin, in turn, argues that Marie 'successfully challenges the powerful institutions of Victorian patriarchy. Trollope's extraordinary characterization of this privileged woman breaks down the barriers that separated men and women in Victorian theory and practice - and it points the way to the future' (193) . But the future does not accord woman a place without struggle, and Marie's successful 'integration' is problematic. Other critics point out some of the difficulties apparent in the depiction of Marie when they foreground disturbing aspects of her story. John Christopher Kleis, for example, approvingly notes that Marie 'is not irrational or sinister, for her effect on others is not one of imbalance, but of integration' (1412), thus pointing to Marie's usefulness to the system. Bertha Keveson Hertz argues that Marie performs as a 'good' Jew (in opposition to Mr Emili us, the 'bad' Jew): 'Trollope delivers a double message therein: good crypto-Jews (like Madame Max) may serve their superiors. They may be considered quasi-equal only if they act as if they are not' (381) . In turn, when Marie is heralded as ' the first female detective in fiction' (Nardin 199), the accolade gives rise to queries as to what exactly Marie is detecting, and which order it is that she restores. This, perhaps, consti-

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tutes the crux of the problem, for Madame Max, while an adept portrayal of a seemingly independent woman, is only questionably the triumph of feminism that some of the aforementioned critics suggest. Marie, like Glencora, constitutes a portrait of feminine dissatisfaction. As the narrator notes when Marie is first reintroduced in Phineas Redux, 'She could always seem to be happy with her companion of the day, and yet there was ever present a gnawing desire to do something more and something better than she had as yet achieved' (I 126). Indeed, the narrator draws attention to Marie's masquerade when she is first reunited with Phineas in the later novel: 'When one wants to be natural, of necessity one becomes the reverse of natural. A clever actor, - or more frequently a clever actress, - will assume the appearance; but the very fact of the assumption renders the reality impossible' (I 132). This aside underscores the idea that woman's performance in a Phallic system manifests a masquerade of subjectivity. Grosz argues that when woman assumes a subject position in masculinist discourse, her 'I' is displaced and deferred, for she is not accorded a subject position within it. She therefore serves merely as a shadow of the male 'I' or becomes a transformed 'you• in relation to him (71-2). Irigaray takes this idea a step further in her argument that, in patriarchy, femininity itself is a masquerade: 'I think the masquerade has to be understood as what women do in order to recuperate some element of desire, to participate in man's desire, but at the price of renouncing their own. In the masquerade, they submit to the dominant economy of desire in an attempt to remain "on the market" in spite of everything. But they are there as objects for sexual enjoyment, not as those who enjoy' ( This Sex 133-4). According to Irigaray, woman's desire undergoes a convoluted form of expression, for in order to fulfil it, woman must also renounce it. This analysis of feminine desire finds expression in Marie, who has functioned as the site of man's desire, but who, in so doing, has had to deny her own. Marie alludes to her function in the household of the Duke of Omnium when she tells Phineas of her recent life and of her position as nursemaid to the Duke. She outlines her duties: 'Read to him; - talk to him; - give him his food, and do all that in me lies to make his life bearable' (I 150). She goes on: 'I have wondered at it myself sometimes, - that I should have become as it were engulfed in this new life, almost without will of my own. And when he dies, how shall I return to the other life?' (I 151). Marie, thus, has devoted herself to the power structure in the form of the Duke and has made herself serviceable to it. However,

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with the Duke's pending death, Marie's position, in that it depends upon him, is about to dissolve. Although Marie tries to stress the service she has performed, she cannot squelch the sexual rumours to which her position as the Duke's nursemaid gives rise, and when he dies, he bequeaths Marie money and jewellery and thereby places her in the ambiguous sexual position she wished to avoid. Marie believes herself to be a friend of the family, but the Duke's legacy carries with it the suggestion that she has performed as his mistress. She is disturbed by the implications of the Duke's attachment to her, and later she reflects upon her own asexual existence: Two old men had loved her; one had become her husband, and the other had asked to become so; - and to both she had done her duty. To both she had been grateful, tender, and self-sacrificing. From the former she had, as his widow, taken wealth which she valued greatly; but the wealth alone had given her no happiness. From the latter, and from his family, she had accepted a certain position. Some persons, high in repute and fashion, had known her before, but everybody knew her now. And yet what had all this done for her? Dukes and duchesses, dinner parties and drawing-rooms, - what did they all amount to? What was it that she wanted? She was ashamed to tell herself that it was love. But she knew this, - that it was necessary for her happiness that she should devote herself to some one. (I 266)

Marie's life has been a life of service. She has performed as an outlet for the passion of two old men, in one way or another, but she has reaped little benefit, for her desires were disallowed in the position she was allotted. She has benefited financially from her abjection, but this benefit only reinforces the market economy in which she has been placed. Marie is not a simplistic character, and while I would argue that she is ultimately quelled within the novel, the masquerade effected by her performance renders her position plural. Although, given her relations with old and wealthy men, she is something of an adventuress, she nonetheless achieves a certain legitimization within the system. Marie masquerades as a woman who 'knows her place' and mouths platitudes that are pleasing to the patriarchal establishment. Asked if she is an advocate of the rights of women, Marie replies, 'Oh, no. Knowing our inferiority I submit without a grumble' (I 288) . But her words belie a commitment to independent action, even if this action ultimately reinforces the systemic status quo of the novel.

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Marie goes to work on Phineas's behalf when he is indicted for murder. Like Glencora, she does not trust the legal system and attempts to establish Phineas's innocence. She does so by ostensibly opposing the social order: Madame Goesler when she left the attorney's room was very ill-satisfied with him. She desired some adherent to her cause who would with affectionate zeal resolve upon washing Phineas Finn white as snow in reference to the charge now made against him. But no man would so resolve who did not believe in his innocence, - as Madame Goesler believed herself. She herself knew that her own belief was romantic and unpractical. Nevertheless, the conviction of the guilt of that other man, towards which she still thought that much could be done if that coat were found and the making of a secret key were proved, was so strong upon her that she would not allow herself to drop it. (II 150)

Yet despite her very real help to Phineas, Marie, like Glencora, is trivialized by the text's male subjects. She is condescended to by the lawyers 'You know what an alibi is, Madame Goesler?' (II 149) - and while her endeavour may derive from her desire to perform as a subject, it works only to secure her objectification. Marie manages to ascertain Phineas's innocence through her travels to Prague, and she becomes the toast of London. However, she secures Phineas's acquittal at the expense of the 'bad Jew,' Mr Emilius, who is taken into custody. She therefore rids the system of its ethnic taint, and she is ultimately rewarded for her service when she wins her lover. Phineas asks Marie to marry him after he recovers from his mental collapse, and while she proclaims that their marriage must be 'an even partnership' (11 355), she is happy to share her wealth with him. Whereas in Phineas Finn her performance constituted a hermaphrodization into male subjectivity, in Phineas Redux, Marie has learned her lesson. She does not attempt to assume a subject position; she allows Finn to propose to her, thus behaving in a properly submissive fashion. Marie may manage to fulfil her desires in this text through marriage to Phineas, but if this is the case it is outside the purview of the novel. Although critics have asserted that Marie and Phineas's relationship is 'equal,' there is no evidence in the text to support this contention. There is, however, ample evidence to support the idea that Phineas does well by his marriage, as I have been suggesting. Indeed, even if Marie does achieve 'equality' within the relationship (and the assumption of 'equal' status is itself problematic, for many feminist theorists perceive equality

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as a concession to humanist logic) , that 'equal' relationship is not depicted in the novel. Its non-depiction suggests that patriarchy, while it may give lip-service to feminine subjectivity, cannot portray it, perhaps cannot conceive of it. In turn, what is in the text undermines the idea that Marie achieves her desires. Interestingly, the metaphor used in The Eustace Diamonds to connote feminine sexuality resurfaces in Phineas Redux. Marie, as mentioned earlier, is bequeathed the Duke of Omnium's jewels, a bequest she refuses. She does ask for a small diamond ring - 'a small ring with a black diamond, - I suppose it was a diamond, - which he always wore . . . I should like to have that' (I 232) - but she will not accept the bulk of the Palliser gems. Given that jewels performed as metonymic displacements of feminine sexuality in The Eustace Diamonds, their appearance in Phineas Redux points to the idea that Marie tempers her own sexuality. Her refusal of the jewels bequeathed her signals her problematic relation to feminine desire. That she does accept one diamond suggests that she is somewhat sexual, and her sexuality is apparent in her plural nature: she abrogates the system by her successful masquerade and is able to win the man she desires. However, her decision to reject the jewels also symbolically figures her effort to shelve feminine desire along with them: 'As for the diamonds, the difficulty could not be solved. Madame Goesler still refused to take them, and desired her lawyer to instruct her as to the form by which she could most thoroughly and conclusively renounce that legacy' (II 322). The text thus implies not only that Marie refuses to partake fully of desire, but also that she effectively contains that desire - her refusal of the Palliser gems does not release them to be taken up by someone else, but rather leaves them ownerless, caught in a legal system that takes them out of commission. Although Marie's own desire is partially satisfied in the novel - she does desire Phineas and she engages herself to him - she loses her overt power in the narrative. After she marries Finn, she becomes a part of the system, like her friend, Glencora, and assumes an object position within it, since it offers no other place to her. Her masquerade of subjectivity ceases when she accepts Phineas's proposal and is objectified in the power dynamic. Marie's wealth is an asset, since it ultimately enables Phineas to centre himself, yet if a woman is in control of her own fortune, she wields a power that is potentially dangerous. Lizzie Eustace and Mr Emilius reappear in Phineas Redux, and their relationship provides an antidote to Phineas and Marie. Lizzie has married Mr Emilius, who, in many ways,

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performs as the antithesis of Phineas. Lizzie seeks to separate herself from Mr Emilius, who is 'not an Englishman by birth, - and [had been], as was supposed, a Bohemian Jew in the earlier days of his career' (II 38). Mr Emilius (who, it is stressed throughout the narrative, is really 'Yosef Mealyus') attempts to force her to return to him, or, failing that, to give him half her money. She seeks refuge with her friends the Bon teens and attempts to prove Mr Emilius a bigamist. He tries to thwart the investigation and, it would seem, poisons the clerk Mr Bonteen sends to Bohemia to investigate his marital affairs. The anti-semitism in the text reaches its climax when Mr Emilius, who is frequently referred to as 'Lizzie Eustace's Jew' (II 89), is shown to be the murderer of Mr Bonteen. His bigamy is also proven, and Lizzie is thereby let off the matrimonial hook. But she does not get off scot-free: it is commonly believed, after Mr Emilius's conviction, that 'that little wife of his ... got no more than she deserved' (II 231), and Mr Emilius's behaviour thus reflects more on Lizzie than on him. Yet while 'the world at large seemed to be sick of her' (II 291), Lizzie is not suppressed. Indeed, she 'would still continue to play her game as before, would still scheme, would still lie; and might still, at last, land herself in that Elysium of life of which she had been always dreaming. Poor Lizzie Eustace! Was it nature or education which had made it impossible to her to tell the truth, when a lie came to her hand? Lizzie, the Liar! Poor Lizzie!' (II 292). Structurally Lizzie is trivialized and demeaned, yet despite the narrator's lack of sympathy with her position, she fares better than many. She tries to perform as a subject but performs outside the social order the novel works to support. Lizzie's disruptive capabilities are foregrounded once again in this novel when the narrator notes, 'There remains to us the very easy task of collecting together the ends of the thread of our narrative, and tying them into a simple knot, so that there may be no unravelling' (II 357). Two sentences later, he turns to Lizzie, 'left a free woman' (II 357): although the narrator hints that she will 'join her fate to that of Lord George de Bruce Carruthers' (II 357), she nonetheless remains a loose end in the narrative, a woman who refuses to play the textual game by Phallic rules. Despite her disruption of the masculinist system, Lizzie remains outside the social order. To be included within that order, women must abide by patriarchy's rules and help to reaffirm its norm. Women cannot always abide by its decisions, however, and if they do not, they, like Lizzie, constitute loose ends in the text. Lady Laura Standish, the odd woman out in this novel as in Phineas Finn, has even less of a place in Phineas

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Redux than in the earlier work. Yet Laura, unlike Marie, does not receive positive responses from critics. Denton, praising Trollope's perspicacity, condemns Laura in noting that the author 'may have begun his portrait of Laura as an indictment of female ambition,' but that the portrait suggests how he 'glimpsed the treacheries of the love religion that she comes so vigorously to espouse' (That Cage' 8--g). To extrapolate from Denton, then, not only does Trollope indict female ambition, he launches an assault upon the misguided beliefs that give rise to that ambition. Denton goes on to note that 'we do not have to rely upon female writers alone to tell us of this conflict within women. Trollope also understood it and made it part of the fabric of his political novels'; he writes tellingly of the 'betrayals of selfhood that may be occasioned by love' (g). Trollope, therefore, understands as well as women what causes women's downfall. While Denton's logic has disturbing similarities to patriarchal efforts to disenfranchise women, she is certainly not alone in her dismissal of Laura. Kincaid notes that Laura's 'continued bitterness ... seems a little like self-indulgence' (Novels 215), and McMaster observes that 'Lady Laura secretly hopes that [Phineas] will be acquitted, but acquitted on those terms that Phineas himself finds unacceptable - because if all the world rejects him then he will be hers' (70). Polhemus calls Laura a 'guilt-ridden hag' ( Changi,ng 179) and compounds this assessment with the statement that she becomes 'a self-lacerating neurotic bore' ('Being' 393). Clearly, therefore, as a selfish, self-indulgent, boring hag, Laura brings her troubles upon herself. Or does she? Laura loves Phineas, and it is her love that proves to be her downfall. Her feminine passion, presumably indicative of her feminine sexuality, governs her behaviour. Her passion is so strong that she is, ultimately, consumed by it: 'I have passed the period of a woman's life when as a woman she is loved; but I have not outlived the power of loving. I shall fret about you, Phineas ... I did not credit myself with capacity for so much passion' (I 104). But as the exemplar of feminine sexuality run rampant, Laura gets little sympathy in this novel, and, within the society the novel depicts, is perceived to be to blame for her fate: •As to Lady Laura Kennedy, she [Mrs Low] seemed to think that the poor husband had great cause of complaint, and that Lady Laura ought to be punished. Wives, she thought, should never leave their husbands on any pretext, and ... there had been no pretext at all in this case' (I 211-12). The text fulfils Mrs Low's wish when Laura is 'punished' for her behaviour. She learns that Phineas does not love her, and that 'the game [is] all over' (I 346). After Phineas is arrested, Lord Chiltern brings Laura the news

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and sees her 'worn out, withered, an old woman before her time' (1191). He then watches her burst into hysterics: 'The poor woman, half-lying, half-seated, on the floor, still hiding her face with her hands, still bursting with half suppressed sobs' (II 93) . Although Laura argues, 'I feel no shame. There is no disgrace in love' (II 96), she knows that Chiltern and Violet find her behaviour disgraceful and adds, 'I know that it is shameful. I do know that I am covered with shame. But I can bear my own disgrace better than his danger' (11 99). Laura visits Phineas in jail and looks after him, but she is well aware that her love for him will go unreciprocated: 'When she returned to Dresden that night she stood gazing at herself in the glass and saw that there was nothing there to attract the love of such a man as Phineas Finn' (II 223). In turn, throughout the novel, the narrator frequently draws attention to her appearance, and notes that she is 'old and worn' (I 96), a sin that renders woman powerless and useless in this market economy. Laura's all-consuming desire becomes apparent in her face , and since her face constitutes her only currency, she can no longer function within the narrative. A woman follows the inclinations of her sexuality at her own risk, and if she persists in doing so, she is physically erased: 'What was there in store for her? She was banished from the society of all those she liked. She bore a name that was hateful to her. She loved a man whom she could never see. She was troubled about money. Nothing in life had any taste for her. All the joys of the world were over, - and had been lost by her own fault' (II 27~1). Laura hates Marie Goesler, and the text posits her jealousy as a symptom of her overwhelming passion for a man who does not want her. In doing so, the text dramatizes women's apparent separation from other women, a position that leaves them weak and conquerable: 'Lady Laura hated her as a fair woman who has lost her beauty can hate the dark woman who keeps it' (II 225). Laura seems aware of her segregation from her sex, for she later observes that she suffers from a lack of female friends: 'I do feel now that I have mistaken life in having so little used myself to the small resources of feminine companionship' (II 274). But cut off, isolated, alone, Laura must live with her past error, which continues to haunt her: 'When she accepted the hand of Robert Kennedy she had known that she had not loved him; but from the moment in which Phineas had spoken to her, she knew well that her heart had gone one way, whereas her hand was to go another. From that moment her whole life had quickly become a blank' (II 268) . Not only is Laura punished, therefore, she is abolished from the narrative. There is no place

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for her in this social order, and, hence, she has no prospect of improving her fate. When Phineas tells Laura of his intention to marry Marie, she cries, 'Phineas, you have killed me at last' (II 348), and she is relegated to obscurity: 'Of poor Lady Laura hardly a word need be said. She lives at Saulsby the life of a recluse, and the old Earl her father is still alive' (II 360).

Laura's fate is the fate of a woman in a system that seeks to eliminate her because it cannot contain her. And the fates of the textual women who uphold the system are not much more hopeful. Beneath these female characters' guise of contentment lies dissatisfaction and even erasure; yet their performance in the novel points to the reasons underpinning the apparent systemic concern for women. Patriarchy's masquerade of sympathy for women disguises its effort to disenfranchise them in order to perpetuate the power dynamic it promotes, which depends upon feminine submission if it is to function. Unfortunately, as the novel indicates through its portrayal of women, the seductive rhetoric ofmasculinist logic serves only to reinforce the position of male subjects; if women are seduced by that logic, they are denied the desire (their own) that rendered the seduction seductive in the first place. Caveat emptor.

Ego Drives . and Difference Ill The Prime Minister

The Prime Minister, the fifth of the Palliser Novels, focuses on power politics and sexual politics, and demonstrates the ways in which sex and power intertwine. It thus provides for an in-depth analysis of the concerns and motivations that govern patriarchy. The Prime Ministerdiffers from the earlier novels in that it concentrates to a lesser extent on the margins of the social structure and is more directly concerned with the centre. Indeed, this text, in its dramatization of the disastrous consequences of the margins' encroachment on the centre, generates a critique of the patriarchal power dynamic's perpetuation of itself. As The Prime Minister highlights the problems that arise when the Phallic system is disrupted, it exposes precisely that upon which the 'order' it promotes depends, and reveals the ways in which the centre (which it nonetheless privileges) will not hold. The Prime Minister draws attention to the weakness of the power structure and outlines how chaos results when it is undermined. The novel's portrayal of a marginalized character who tries to interpellate himself into the centre, as well as its depiction of female characters who attempt to perform as subjects, explicitly works to strengthen the argument that such interventions weaken the fabric of the social order. But, at the same time, the novel implicitly exposes its underlying rationale, which necessitates that the marginalized remain in the margins in order for the centre to function. It therefore foregrounds the centre's dependence upon the margins, for it illustrates the breakdown of the Phallic system that occurs when the Other refuses to perform a subordinate role. Several critics have analysed the marginalized characters in this text and have drawn attention to the threats they pose to the power dynamic that is evident within it.John McCormick, in his introduction to The Prime

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Minister, examines Ferdinand Lopez, and notes that 'Trollope's crude portrait is so completely at odds with his finesse in drawing the other characters that the reader may be justified in believing that Lopez comes to threaten British insularity, the imperial calm and confidence in the righteousness of Her Majesty's governments, and the propriety of the prevailing economic and social system' (xix). While, as McCormick suggests, the novel demonstrates Lopez's disruption of the social structure, it also links the problems he causes with the problems caused by female characters. Barrickman, MacDonald, and Stark argue that Lopez's struggles draw attention to the machinations of the power dynamic in the text: While Lopez's struggles are never very admirable, they do demonstrate how the uglier aspects of capitalistic economics and sexual dominance result from social inequality ... In his exploration of the oppressive and constricting patterns of sexual relations under patriarchy, Trollope can be said to have developed feminist themes. But although the integrity of his perceptions led him to explore the patriarchy, he never directly questioned its fundamental claims. (233-5)

Barrickman, MacDonald, and Stark maintain that sexual relations are influenced by (and I would argue that they influence) the social structure. These critics examine the power relations in the novel and equate them with struggles for sexual dominance. More specifically, they contend that the novel focuses on the power struggle between the Duke and the Duchess of Omnium (216-17), and suggest that Emily Wharton serves as a pawn in a male power game: 'Emily is only a pawn in the struggle first destined for Fletcher, then caught by Lopez, struggled over by Lopez and Mr. Wharton, quarrelled about by Fletcher and Lopez during the Silverbridge election, and finally recaptured to keep Lopez out of power' (234).

While Lopez may be kept out of power and Emily restored to her rightful place, Polhemus argues that the system depicted in the novel is inhumane: To be successful, you must handle people like the levers of machines. One must be objective, which means that life becomes dehumanized as one learns to treat people as objects' ( Changi,ng 209). Polhemus uses humanist logic to argue against the 'dehumanization' that he finds in the text, but his study itself becomes caught up in the power drive that governs humanism. What he does not discuss are the ways in which women are objectified within such a system, which relies upon feminine subordination to effect the coherence and the wholeness

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it promises. Similarly, The Prime Minister, which foregrounds the problematic nature of a humanist system, does not attack that system, but overtly works to reinforce it. At the same time, however, the textual depiction of the operation of the power dynamic can be used to critique it. I would like to pull together some of the critical positions outlined above because I think they serve as pieces of a larger puzzle. While I agree with McCormick that Lopez threatens the social order, I would like to analyse the reasons why; but in so doing, I would like to dismantle the humanist logic that cloaks and makes palatable the Phallic power drive that legitimizes the social structure. The contention of Barrickman, MacDonald, and Stark that the novel exposes the sexist underpinnings of the power dynamic is perceptive; however, I cannot agree with their assertion that Trollope develops feminist themes. Although Trollope's portrayal of women can be used to unpack the masculinist rhetoric that supports feminine objectification, his novels, at least superficially, work to legitimize woman's inscribed (non)place in the system. While my study, to this point, has focused primarily on the representations of women in the Palliser Novels in order to expose the necessity of their objectification in the Phallic order, in this chapter I would like to broaden my focus to incorporate the constructions of masculinity. Although this kind of move elsewhere has allowed for the colonization of feminism in the hands of certain 'postfeminist' critics who seek to recentre masculinity as the focus of feminism, my purpose in examining masculinity is not to elide or deride women in favour of men; rather, I would like to show how women and marginalized men are used to reinforce the centred 'norm,' and, hence, provide a basis for the propagation of the patriarchal system. Within The Prime Minister, the female characters are implicated in the struggle to keep ex-centric men out of power, and this connection is interesting, for it foregrounds the fear that I believe propels the novel. While, in themselves, the text's rebellious women manifest a threat to the order the novel upholds since they are reacting to their placement within it, that they are each connected to Ferdinand Lopez, the marginalized male, is not irrelevant. Lopez embodies a danger to the status quo because he represents an ostensible alternative to it. And his ability to align himself with women, who are themselves necessary for the construction of the Phallic ego, merely reinforces the threat he manifests. The power dynamic embodied in the narrative works to uphold the patriarchal norm, and hence, anything that falls outside that construction is rele-

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gated to an/Other position, a position that serves to support the norm by satiating its singular desire for control and mastery. This is a system that preys upon its subjects' desires for wholeness and completeness; its only means of fulfilling those desires lies in procuring an Other which will consolidate the subject's position by playing a subordinate role and contributing to the subject's illusion of mastery. The alignment of White Anglo-Saxon Protestant women with Lopez (who is Jewish and therefore 'Other' in the narrative) marks the breakdown of the Phallocentric order embedded in the text, for that order must - necessarily - include these women within it, if its normative male subject is to function. Women, therefore, are used as pawns in the power struggle between the Christian and the Jewish men, a state of affairs that provides a variant upon what Eve Sedgwick has called the 'homosocial' nature of Victorian literature,' but which also foregrounds the ways in which this system requires difference in order to establish its operative norm. Lacan, in The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis, discusses the ways in which the Other is essential to the formation of the ego ideal: 'The single stroke [ the foundation, the kernel of the ego ideal], in so far as the subject clings to it, is in the field of desire, which cannot in any sense be constituted other than in the reign of the signifier, other than at the level in which there is a relation of the subject to the Other. It is the field of the Other that determines the function of the single stroke, in so far as it is from it that a major stage of identification is established in the topography then developed by Freud - namely, idealization, the ego ideal' (256) . In other words, if the ego is to function, its desires for coherence must be satiated, and this necessitates the construction of an Other that will allow the subject to signify. Patriarchal desire is such that it is able to fulfil itself only through mastery and control because it is driven by a desire for unity within the self, a unity that can never be achieved. The Other, which is posited in a subordinate position, grants the subject the illusion of control, which indirectly serves to fulfil the subject's desire for completeness. In turn, the subject's difference from the Other works to reinforce that subject's sameness with other subjects and fosters the subject's sense of inclusion in the social order. This power dynamic is singular and functions through domination, as Irigaray suggests: This domination of the philosophic logos stems in large part from its power to reduce all others to the economy of the Same. The teleologically constructive project it takes on is always also a project of diversion, deflection, reduction of the other

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in the Same ... [To see this in operation, it is necessary to examine] the scenography that makes representation feasible, representation as defined in philosophy ... without overlooking the mirror, most often hidden, that allows the logos, the subject, to reduplicate itself, to reflect itself by itself. All these are interventions on the scene; they insure its coherence so long as they remain uninterpreted. Thus they ~ave to be re-enacted, in each figure of discourse, in order to shake discourse away from its mooring in the value of 'presence'. (lrigaray 123)

Irigaray's suggestion, coupled with Lacan's reconstruction of the ego, points to the idea that the subject is created and creates himself through his desire for and difference from the non-subject, or s/he who resides in the margins and works to uphold the centre. The marginalized who most resembles the discursive subject (thus establishing sameness) but who is different enough to serve to consolidate the subject (thus establishing difference) is the White Anglo-Saxon Protestant woman. But when WASP women refuse to accept their position as object, they can no longer be used to reinforce 'normative' male subjectivity. Concomitantly, minority males manifest a threat to the system because they exhibit the potential to overthrow the extant power structure and to replace it with a new hierarchy which could cast normative (or ethnic-majority) males as Other and so decentre the social order. And when Christian women align themselves with the Jewish male, the system is jeopardized on both counts. In this chapter, I would like to explore the ways in which the Other is necessary to the system, as I have done previously, and also to examine the fear of a WASP woman/ minority male alliance which is apparent in the text, and which is exposed through the textual suggestion that women inevitably make disastrous choices when left to their own devices, and, hence, fare better when they do as patriarchy bids. My interpretation here serves a dual purpose, for it both encompasses an analysis of the constructions on which the text rests and explores the fear of an intercultural alli.mce that results in the bid for feminine cooperation. I will turn first to the need for the Other in the construction of masculinity in Phallocentric discourse. The tenets that govern the power dynamic are presented in a double textual movement. The concerns of the arbiters of the norm in the country sections of the text are echoed in the concerns of the arbiters of the norm in the London sections: each serves to support and reinforce the other. The values of the country gentry are dramatized through the preoccupations of the Whai-tons and the Fletchers. Polhemus argues that

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'whining self-pity and complaints about the deteriorating morality of the times are the opiates of the middle class' ( Changing 203), but it is nonetheless the middle class that marks stability (a stability that Polhemus might well urge is stifling) in this novel. The text opens with the country gentry's efforts to define a 'gentleman.' The definition initially appears to be open and inclusive, as the narrator ironically suggests: 'It was admitted on all sides that Ferdinand Lopez was a "gentleman".Johnson says that any other derivation of this difficult word than that which causes it to signify "a man of ancestry" is whimsical. There are many, who in defining the term for their own use, still adhere to Johnson's dictum; - but they adhere to it with certain unexpressed allowances for possible exceptions. The chances are very much in favour of the well-born man, but exceptions may exist' (I 3) . While the narrator continues to assert that the rank of 'gentleman' can include Others, it quickly becomes clear that the term is quite narrow in its application. Although the word is difficult to define in itself, it does not refer to such a man as Ferdinand Lopez: 'This man who was now in [Mr Wharton's] presence and whom he continued to scan with the closest observation, was not what he called a gentleman. The foreign blood was proved, and that would suffice. As he looked at Lopez he thought that he detected Jewish signs, but he was afraid to make any allusion to religion, lest Lopez should decare that his ancestors had been noted as Christians since St. James first preached in the Peninsula' (I 28). The definition of 'gentleman' may not be established in these passages, but what are established are the class and ethnic distinctions that the Phallic system implements, and that work to separate and to divide the 'same' from the Other. The class and ethnic dependency of the social order is emphasized when Wharton observes: 'The world as it was now didn't care whether its sons-in-law were Christian or Jewish; - whether they had the fair skin and bold eyes and uncertain words of an English gentleman, or the swarthy colour and false grimace and glib tongue of some inferior Latin race. But he cared for these things; - and it was dreadful to him to think that his daughter should not care for them' (I 132). Without the class and ethnic distinctions, a 'gentleman' would be hard to recognize, as Everett Wharton's position attests. When Everett becomes the heir of the Wharton estate, it is noted that his fitness for his job as member of the landed gentry is established because he is not fit for other things: 'It seemed to be taken as a mark of his special good fortune that he had not clung to any business. To have been a banker immersed in the making of money, or even a lawyer attached to his circuit and his

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court, would have lessened his fitness, or at any rate his readiness, for the duties which he would have to perform. He would never be a very rich man, but he would have a command of ready money, and of course he would go into Parliament' (II 277). Since, as the text emphasizes, a 'gentleman' is not definable, in that it is that indefinable something that makes him a gentleman, and since a gentleman doesn't do anything in particular - there is never a question that Everett Wharton is not a gentleman - 'gentlemanliness' is knowable only in relation to its absence, and that absence is located in Ferdinand Lopez. Whatever a gentleman is, he is not Lopez, and Lopez's presence helps to solidify the meaning of the term through difference. Lopez functions as a minority male in this narrative, and his difference is encoded in his physique. Lopez is Jewish and thus a 'white' male from a late-twentieth-century perspective, but in the Victorian discourse of the text, his 'colour' serves as a marker of his difference from the discursive norm. Within the narrative, Lopez's darkness is used to affirm the fairness of Arthur Fletcher, who is the 'true gentleman' characterized in the country sections of the novel: How glorious was that other man in [Emily's) eyes, as he stood there at the door welcoming her to Longbarns, fair-haired, open-eyed, with bronzed brow and cheek, and surely the honestest face that a loving woman ever loved to gaze on. During the various lessons she had learned in her married life, she had become gradually but surely aware that the face of that other man had been dishonest. She had learned the false meaning of every glance of his eyes, the subtlety of his mouth, the counterfeit manoeuvres of his body, - the deceit even of his dress. He had been all a lie from head to foot; and he had thrown her love aside as useless when she also would not be a liar. And here was this man, - spotless in her estimation, compounded of all good qualities, which she could now see and take at their proper value. She hated herself for the simplicity with which she had been cheated by soft words and a false demeanour into so great a sacrifice. (11 289-90)

Clearly, 'gentlemen' can be known through their difference from the Other, but the way to ensure the continuation of 'gentlemanliness' is through the closed nature of the old order. As a result, the Wharton clan is able to perpetuate itself through intermarriage. When Mary Wharton entreats Emily to marry Fletcher, she inadvertently draws attention to the near incestuous make-up of the Wharton-Fletcher family: '[Arthur] is my sister's brother-in-law, and if he could become my husband's brother-in-

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law too, I should be so happy' (II 339). Even Glencora, now Duchess of Omnium, comments upon the insularity of the country gentry: 'She knew enough of such people as the Whartons and the Fletchers to be aware that as a class they are more impregnable, more closely guarded by their feelings and prejudices against strangers than any other. None keep their daughters to themselves with greater care, or are less willing to see their rules of life changed or abolished' (II 352-3). Indeed, the power dynamic apparent in the novel rests upon sameness, for with sameness comes comfort. Difference provides for the disruption of the social order. Wharton draws attention to his desire for sameness when he tries to explain proper marital choices to Emily and urges her to choose the same over the different: 'I like Arthur Fletcher, because he is a gentleman, - because he is a gentleman of the class to which I belong myself; because he works; because I know all about him, so that I can be sure of him; because he had a decent father and mother; because I am safe with him, being quite sure that he will say to me neither awkward things nor impertinent things' (I 92). The power drive re-establishes itself through replicating itself; it cannot include Others, for then the Other would cease to be Other and could no longer function, through its absence, as the upholder of the norm. The Whartons perform as the country gentry in the novel, members of the Conservative party. The reiteration of their concerns by the London Liberal aristocracy establishes a 'sameness' among all good Englishmen, whatever their political bent. The Duke of St Bungay is, in effect, the London Liberal counterpart of the Whartons and Fletchers, and also serves as the novel's 'kingmaker.' Through his manoeuvrings, the Duke tries to encourage the values he wishes to perpetuate. His empire-building powers are apparent in his instrumental role in the founding of the new Coalition government, which is to be headed by Plantagenet Palliser, now Duke of Omnium. The Duke of St Bungay is aware that he had been right enough in laying it down as a general rule that Prime Ministers are selected for that position by the general confidence of the House of Commons; - but he was aware at the same time that it had hardly been so in the present instance. There had come to be a dead-lock in affairs, during which neither of the two old and well-recognized leaders of parties could command a sufficient following for the carrying on of the government ... When that deadlock had come, politicians who were really anxious for the country had been forced to look about for a Premier, - and in the search the old Duke had been the foremost. The Duchess had hardly said more than the truth when she de-

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dared that her husband's promotion had been effected by their old friend. (II 220-1)

Much like Mr Wharton, the Duke is the upholder of political propriety, and again like his Conservative counterparts, he is the arbiter of the 'fitness' of things, as is clear when he is unable to define what constitutes a Knight of the Garter, but 'knows' it: 'There is an aptness, a propriety, a fitness in these things which one can understand perhaps better than explain' (II 230). And it is when the Prime Minister ceases to listen to the Duke of St Bungay's advice that his time as government leader is acknowledged to be over. When the next government is formed, it is the Duke of St Bungay who is at the centre of the constitution of the new political order: He had been engaged during that and the last two previous days in lending his aid to various political manoeuvres and ministerial attempts ... He did not go to Windsor, but as each successive competitor journeyed thither and returned, some one either sent for the old Duke or went to seek his counsel. He was the Nestor of the occasion, and strove heartily to compose all quarrels, and so to arrange matters that a wholesome moderately Liberal Ministry might be again installed for the good of the country and the comfort of all true Whigs. In such moments, he almost ascended to the grand heights of patriotism, being always indifferent as to himself. (II 349).

With characters like Wharton and the Duke of St Bungay, order is effected, restored, and perpetuated. They are the arbiters of the 'code,' which they work to keep intact - even if it is kept intact only so that it will reproduce itself. This is a closed system; it can offer little movement within it, and that which it does offer, it offers at its own expense in an effort to maintain the illusion that it is open. This same logic is clear in Palliser's famous speech about proper government for England. Palliser argues that Liberals and Conservatives are alike in their desire 'to improve the condition of the people by whom we are employed, and to advance our country, or at any rate to save it from retrogression' (II 263). When he notes that the 'idea that political virtue is all on one side is both mischievous and absurd' (II 263), he draws attention to the sameness that motivates both parties, and, by extension, that exists among all good Englishmen (providing of course that they are men, and, more specifically, white middle-to-upper-class Christian men). For Plantagenet, both political parties exist to promote Equality: 'Men's intellects are at present

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so various that we cannot even realize the idea of equality ... Equality would be a heaven, if we could attain it. How can we to whom so much has been given dare to think otherwise? How can you look at the bowed back and bent legs and abject face of that poor ploughman, who winter and summer has to drag his rheumatic limbs to his work, while you go a-hunting or sit in pride of place among the foremost few of your country, and say that it all is as it ought to be?' (II 265). What Plantagenet suggests, here, is benevolent paternalism. If the poor ploughmen of the world will only wait, those in power will look after them and make things right. This is a time-consuming project, however, and it will not be put into effect overnight. The ex-centric, therefore, must be patient, but may rest assured that the powers that be will look after them. Palliser's rhetoric is seductive, for it shrouds the power dynamic that underpins it. His speech may well constitute a plea for 'equality for all,' but that argument in itself is an argument for sameness rather than difference and only perpetuates the logic that generates the Phallic order. Palliser's speech embodies a cry for sameness, for if sameness is not enforced, the consequence will be the destruction of the system. Certainly, as the novel indicates through its dramatization of patriarchal logic, when order is wrested from the hands so amply able to supply it, chaos results. In order to expose the political impetus that underpins Palliser's logic, I would now like to turn to those who are outside the centre he privileges, and who constitute the difference on which depends the sameness he advocates. Ferdinand Lopez, Emily Wharton-Lopez, and Glencora, Duchess of Omnium, threaten the novelistic hierarchy. Their efforts to rise above their stations and to grasp the power that rightfully belongs to the powered centre engender the disruptions evident in the text. Lopez destroys everything he touches, Emily makes a mockery of the patriarchal order, and Glencora gender-shifts to such an extent that her 'womanly' role is indistinguishable from the 'manly' role allotted men. Through them, The Prime Minister discloses the machinations of the order it attempts to support by demonstrating the dangers involved in allowing the ex-centric to have their way. In the Phineas novels, Phineas was an outsider who was allowed limited access to the centre. Through his marriage to Marie Goesler, he was able to centre himself (he becomes First Lord of the Admiralty in The Prime Minister). Despite his Irish background, he was allowed limited entry because he conformed to the centre's edicts: he was middle class, white, and Christian. As a lower-class Jewish male, Ferdinand Lopez does not

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conform to this pattern. The flexibility of the system extends only so far, since it requires that its oppositional Other remain in a subordinate position so that the hierarchical structure will be perpetuated. Lopez highlights the ethnic and class boundaries of the social order, for he abrogates them in his quest for centricity. Ferdinand Lopez helps to locate the term 'manly' in the discourse because he demonstrates what is 'unmanly.' As I have discussed, he is the negative that supports the norm. Lopez's Jewishness situates him as 'Other,' and much is made of his supposed non-English status. Although no one can establish Lopez's difference from the norm, the worst that can be said about him, and, indeed, that is said about him, is that he is 'not' English. As Mr Wharton observes, 'The man was distasteful to him as being unlike his idea of an English gentleman, and as being without those far-reaching fibres and roots by which he thought that the solidity and stability of a human tree should be assured' (I 77) . Lopez's non-status background impedes his relations with his father-in-law, for Wharton cannot accept the difference he embodies: 'The fact of his being a "nasty foreigner", and probably ofJewish descent, remained. To him, Wharton, the man must always be distasteful' (I 117). The classism and ethnocentrism apparent in Wharton are also apparent in the narrator, who again serves as the voice of patriarchal logic. The narrator draws attention to Lopez's ex-centricity when he introduces him: 'Ferdinand Lopez was not an honest man or a good man. He was a self-seeking, intriguing adventurer, who did not know honesty from dishonesty when he saw them together. But he had at any rate this good about him, that he did love the girl whom he was about to marry. He was willing to cheat all the world, - so that he might succeed, and make a fortune, and become a big and a rich man; but he did not wish to cheat her' (I 227). Lopez may love Emily, but he is jealous of her former lover, Arthur Fletcher, who, in a sense, functions as his alter ego. Where Lopez fails, Arthur Fletcher succeeds, and it is through Lopez, as I discussed earlier, that Fletcher's signification in the narrative is affirmed. When Lopez runs for Parliament in Silverbridge, the Duke of Omnium's borough, he loses the election to Fletcher. Fletcher's success works to emphasize Lopez's failure, and Emily's previous attachment to Fletcher serves only to construct him as that which Lopez abhors. In a curious way, Lopez's own construction of Fletcher as 'enemy' indicates a similarity between his ideological bent and that of the centred characters, all of whom are involved in constructing Others. That such concerns motivate subjects of different and differing ideologies is by no means certain, but an analysis

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of the constructions of alternative discourses or different patriarchal formulations is beyond the purview of this analysis. I am concerned here with the constitution of the power dynamic as apparent in the Victorian discourse of the Palliser Novels, and I do not want to generalize beyond these ideological confines. But whether or not patriarchy functions in a similar fashion 'universally,' the fear that drives this power dynamic is apparent, for the suggestion is that should Lopez become powerful, the new system he would establish would necessarily displace the centred Englishmen and cast them as Other, since Lopez would be driven by desires similar to those that govern the normative subjects. However, since Lopez is an outsider, he lacks the power necessary to construct an Other, and he deteriorates as a result. Lopez's financial dealings begin to sour, and he considers a move to the colonies (in this case, to Guatemala) as a step that might salvage his career. The recourse offered by the colonies here makes it clear that English colonization works to support the existing domestic structure: that which cannot fit into the domestic social structure can be relegated to that 'outside' which makes the structure possible. Lopez's fitness for colonial duty is apparent in his reflection upon his background and progress, which draw attention to his ex-centricity: His father had been little better than a travelling pedlar, but had made some money by selling jewellery, and had educated his son. Lopez could on no score impute blame to his father for what had happened to him. And, when he thought of the means at his disposal in his early youth, he felt that he had a right to boast of some success. He had worked hard and had won his way upwards, and had almost lodged himself securely among those people with whom it had been his ambition to live. Early in life he had found himself among those who were called gentlemen and ladies. He had been able to assume their manners, and had lived with them on equal terms. When thinking of his past life he never forgot to remind himself that he had been a guest at the house of the Duke of Omnium! And yet how was it with him now? He was penniless. He was rejected by his fatherin-law. He was feared, and, as he thought, detested by his wife. He was expelled from his club. He was cut by his old friends. And he had been told very plainly by the Secretary in Coleman Street that his presence there was no longer desired. (II 173)

While the textual impetus implicitly suggests that Guatemala might be a suitable place for an outsider like Lopez, Lopez loses even this opportunity and must admit that he is ruined (II 176) . He cannot fight the forces

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against him because he cannot change his background. His ignorance of the values privileged by the power dynamic works against him: 'He did not know that there was such a quality as honesty, nor did he understand what the word meant' (II 187) . And not knowing what the word means, for no one can tell him, Lopez throws himself under a train at the Tenway Junction and ends his life (II 190) . Lopez's death constitutes his erasure from the narrative, and this erasure allows for the perpetuation of the inside/ outside boundaries constructed in the discourse of the novel, since, while the power dynamic requires an Other in order to function and, thus, cannot erase Otherness altogether, the Other must accept its rightful place as sul>ordinate. Lopez is problematic, because he refuses to accede to his outside position and attempts to rise above his station. The textual women in this novel perform similarly. And to compound matters, each is associated in one way or another with Lopez, the minority male - a state of affairs that, from an ethnic-majority perspective, magnifies the danger these women pose to the power dynamic through their refusal to cooperate with its dictates. Although the folly of the women's actions is emphasized narratorially and serves to demonstrate the desirability of the social order, these feminine depictions also foreground the ways in which the Phallic system relies upon the submission of women to maintain its hierarchical structure. The feminine representations in The Prime Minister provide an uncertain basis for the masculinist status quo, for the female characters refuse to accept the position allotted them. Glencora attempts to assume a sul>ject position, and Emily, who defies her father in order to marry Lopez, later so clings to the code which dictates feminine behaviour that she renders that code ludicrous. But though both women attempt to fulfil their own desires, both are crushed. The novel thereby dramatizes the patriarchal fear of feminine rebellion as well as the patriarchal fear of intercultural alliances, since these characters' connections with Lopez bring about their respective downfalls. Further, as if to illustrate the prol>lems a woman encounters if she rebels and if she aligns herself with a minority male, Lizzie Eustace is reintroduced in the margins of the text. Lizzie appears briefly in The Prime Minister as a member of a group of people of whom Lopez approves, and, thus, serves two purposes. She provides evidence of Lopez's inability to perceive 'quality,' and also illustrates the dangers inherent in resisting the power structure. Lizzie is described in this novel as one of those people ' having a piquant relish of fastness and impropriety' (II 73) , and her impropriety is highlighted by

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the fancy she develops for the married Lopez (in The Eustace Diamonds, she fancied Mr Emilius, another ex-centric man). Lizzie likes romance, and Lopez seems to offer it to her: 'All is fair in love and war, and Lizzie amidst the hard business of her life still loved a dash of romance' (II 1389). Lizzie's alliances with minority males underscore the threat posed to the system, for if WASP women were to abandon the normative power structure, the structure itself would collapse. Structurally, Lizzie's fate suggests that minority male/ WASP female alliances end in disaster. In Phineas Redux, Lizzie repents her union with Mr. Emilius, who is a bigamist and a murderer, and, in The Prime Minister, her dalliance with Lopez results in his offer to make her his mistress. But Lizzie is too wary to comply with Lopez's request, as she points out when she refuses to go with him to Guatemala: 'Mr. Lopez, I think you must be a fool' (II 141). Throughout the Palliser Novels, alliances between WASP women and minority males lead to the ruin of the female characters. Although Lizzie continues to function as a free agent, she loses her place within 'proper' society and becomes an outcast. But while, overtly, Lizzie is punished in this novel, covertly, her characterization points to the ways in which her loss of place enables her to continue to attempt to assume a subject position, an effort that is doomed from within the Phallocentric order, as Glencora's situation attests. The Glencora plot in the novel serves to dramatize the chaos that ensues when a woman tries to perform as a subject. Glencora's history throughout the Palliser series is important, for she undercuts the masculinist argument that if women behave well and properly, they too can perform effectively. Early in the series, Glencora rebelled against her arranged marriage to Palliser; thereafter, she gradually learned to accept her marriage, and, in Phineas Redux, she even worked to support patriarchy. In The Prime Minister, Glencora seems to wish to collect the reward she feels is her due. She has done her duty and desires a subject position; however, given that women are not accorded subject positions in this discourse, she must gender-shift and perform as a man. Through Glencora, the novel demonstrates how sexual politics and power politics are intertwined. McMaster argues that the Glencora plot raises questions about love and power, since Glencora appears to love power more than she loves the Duke (125). From another perspective, the only way Glencora can wield power is through love, or, rather, through her husband. And even this indirect power is dangerous, for the power Glencora wields in this text is minimal, and her resistance to the authority of the Duke works her own and the Duke's downfall.

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Glencora's attempt to perform as a subject illustrates Irigaray's explication of mimesis and mimicry in feminine hands. Irigaray inquires: How can we introduce ourselves into such a tightly-woven systematicity? There is, in an initial phase, perhaps only one 'path', the one historically assigned to the feminine: that of mimicry. One must assume the feminine role deliberately. Which means already to convert a form of subordination into an affirmation, and thus to begin to thwart it. Whereas a direct feminine challenge to this condition means demanding to speak as a (masculine), 'subject', that is, it means to postulate a relation to the intelligible that would maintain sexual indifference. To play with mimesis is thus, for a woman, to try to recover the place of her exploitation by discourse, without allowing herself to be simply reduced to it. It means to resubmit herself - inasmuch as she is on the side of the 'perceptible,' of 'matter' - to 'ideas', in particular to ideas about herself, that are elaborated in/by a masculine logic, but so as to make 'visible', by an effect of playful repetition, what was supposed to remain invisible. (bigaray 124)

Irigaray suggests that when women mimic they expose the difference that relegates them to a subordinate space. In that mimics mimic - they do not become the same - the act of imitation emphasizes their difference and, thus, their exclusion from the system. She also goes on to note that to attempt to assume a masculine subject position is to eliminate difference and to enforce sameness (/rigaray 126-7). Glencora illustrates this double movement, for she does both. She mimics Palliser's performance, but she also attempts to gender-shift and assume a subject position. Her mimicry manifests her subversion of the Phallic order, but her efforts are trivialized and her gender-shifting serves to bring about her erasure. Certainly, Glencora attempts to obtain power through Plantagenet, since power so obtained is the only kind open to her, and when he is made Prime Minister, she imitates his behaviour and herself convenes cabinets: 'There were solemn cabinets held, at which she presided, and Mrs. Finn and Locock assisted. At other cabinets it is supposed that, let a leader be ever so autocratic by disposition and superior by intelligence, still he must not unfrequently yield to the opinion of his colleagues. But in this cabinet the Duchess always had her own way, though she was very persistent in asking for counsel' (I 94-5). Glencora's mimicry of Plantagenet's prime ministerial actions draws attention to her desire for power, a desire she acknowledges when she compares herself to Lady Macbeth: 'I begin to find myself filled to the full with political ambition. I feel

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myself to be a Lady Macbeth, prepared for the murder of any Duncan or any Daubeny who may stand in my lord's way' (I 96). Although the analogy is Glencora's, the parallel drawn between her and Lady Macbeth serves to cast her project in a dubious light. Like Shakespeare's antiheroine, Glencora will bring about her husband's downfall. The explicit textual movement suggests that when women assume positions of power, their unlimited desires lead them to attempt too much. But Glencora's performance implicitly hints that she is much more successful at 'party' politics than her male counterpart. Glencora tries to control popular opinion through social events; so, even when she is at her most influential, her manoeuvrings are confined to a domestic sphere. Yet although her efforts are minimalized, her parties make a great contribution to the functioning of the centre. The Duke, who realizes the extent of her influence (I 161), suggests that the glory Glencora achieves is not for her but for him: 'I know that you are working for me quite as hard as I work myself, and that you are doing so with the pure ambition of seeing your husband a great man' (I 170). Glencora's reply, however, indicates her desire to centre herself: 'And myself a great man's wife' (I 1 70). While the only glory allowed to Glencora is to bask in reflected light, this she tries to do. Hence, although her 'I' is much like the feminine 'I' in Phineas Redux (in that it serves only to reinforce the male ego and functions as a 'you'), she nonetheless attempts to gather all the benefits she perceives as her due. Despite Glencora's efforts to solidify the Duke's position (and through his, her own), the Duke and the narrator condemn her efforts as tasteless. The Duke notes that her parties are 'vulgar' (I 177); and when she persists in trying to influence the world outside the domestic sphere, she runs into trouble. Glencora attempts to exert as much power as she can indirectly, and she tries to demonstrate her power in the Silverbridge election: 'She certainly had a little syllogism in her head as to the Duke ruling the borough, the Duke's wife ruling the Duke, and therefore the Duke's wife ruling the borough' (I 196). But Glencora's support of Ferdinand Lopez is the straw that breaks the back of the Duke's ministry; thus, her alliance with a minority male destroys the particular hierarchical structure to which she is directly exposed. I would argue that Glencora's support of a minority male at the expense of his normative counterpart is the underlying motivation for the disapproval she engenders in the text. There are several factors contributing to the suppression of her work. On the one hand, from an ethnicmajority perspective, WASP women cannot be allowed to align themselves

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with minority males against normative males, for that would take WASP women out of commission in the patriarchal order; on the other hand, Glencora's attempt to assume a subject position also would take her out of commission, for her objectification is necessary to consolidate male subjectivity. Hence, when she interferes in the Silverbridge election in opposition to the Duke's wishes, she makes his life more difficult: 'I don't think you know how much you add to my troubles' (I 300). Glencora's response goes far in illuminating the reasons behind the objections to her actions, for she argues: 'Really you are becoming so autocratic that I shall have to go in for women's rights' (I 301) . If Glencora were to begin to fight for women's rights, she could no longer perform as a patriarchal object, for she would be struggling for subjectivity. While Irigaray argues that such a stance would only reinscribe woman within masculine logic (and such may be the case), the power dynamic cannot afford to risk losing its feminine objects, and this text, which explicitly works to support the power dynamic, structurally dismisses Glencora. The importance of naming is highlighted when Glencora's support of Lopez at Silverbridge becomes known and is used to discredit the Duke. Glencora is named in the newspapers (II 151), but when the Duke refuses to name her as the culprit, he is lauded for his chivalry in refusing to cast blame on his wife (II 164-5). Phineas Finn, acting on behalf of the Duke, addresses the Silverbridge election in Parliament, but despite the fact that the House is full, with everyone eager to hear of Glencora's involvement, Phineas refuses to name her in his explanation (II 162, 164-5). By not naming Glencora, the Duke and Phineas ensure that her interference will go unrecorded; her presence and her connection with a minority male are erased from the official record of the Ministry. This theme will be continued, for Glencora is ultimately erased from the Palliser series. Glencora's spirit wanes after the failure of the Coalition government, and after the resignation of the Duke from office: 'She had toiled and struggled, she had battled and occasionally submitted; and yet there was present to her a feeling that she had stood higher in public estimation as Lady Glencora Palliser, -whose position had been all her own and had not depended on her husband, - than now she had done as Duchess of Omnium, and wife of the Prime Minister of England. She had meant to be something, she knew not what, greater than had been the wives of other Prime Ministers and other Dukes; and now she felt that in her failure she had been almost ridiculous (II 343). Glencora loses her position and, with it, any semblance of influence, for she can no longer work

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effectively in any sphere. When she calls on Emily Wharton-Lopez, she is unable to further the romance between Emily and Arthur Fletcher (II 256--7). This failure is striking in relation to her success in arranging Adelaide Palliser's engagement in Phineas Redux. Glencora does not recover from the loss of the Ministry, and she likens herself to Lady Macbeth again in one of her last speeches: 'But when he became Prime Minister, I gave myself up to it altogether. I shall never forget what I felt when he came to me and told me that perhaps it might be so; - but told me also that he would escape from it if it were possible. I was the Lady Macbeth of the occasion all over; - whereas he was so scrupulous, so burdened with conscience! As for me I would have taken it by any means. Then it was that the old Duke played the part of the three witches to a nicety. Well, there hasn't been any absolute murder, and I haven't quite gone mad' (II 382-3). Glencora does not go mad (like Lucinda Roanoke), nor does she commit suicide (like Ferdinand Lopez); nonetheless, she is removed from the narrative. Her refusal to accept her 'proper place' within the hierarchy leads to her elimination from the Palliser series - she is dead at the opening of the next novel, The Duke 's Children. The text thereby illustrates how female rebellion, and more, an alliance between WASP women and minority males, cannot be tolerated and must be eradicated. But the power dynamic cannot simply work to eliminate all women who rebel, because it needs women in order to function; hence, some women must be reinscribed within the social order. Emily Wharton-Lopez is, in her own way, as rebellious a figure as Glencora. She too aligns herself with a minority male, against the wishes of her father, and she too abrogates her 'proper' role in patriarchy. Lopez's suicide paves the way for the text's 'happy ending,' which is manifested through the union of Emily and Arthur Fletcher. Yet critics like Nardin perceive Emily not as a passive object bandied about between Fletcher and Lopez, but rather as a figure of resistance. Nardin asserts that 'Emily soon finds herself treating her husband as she treated her father: with a technically feminine submission quite inadequate to hide the anger she cannot repress' ( 189). While Nardin is careful to note that Emily continues to enforce the 'code' of female behaviour, she reads Emily as a rebellious figure . Certainly, Emily's firm stand against her father in support of Lopez goes far in convincing Mr Wharton that he must accept the match she desires. But when Emily secures her coveted husband, she finds that the submission expected of her is too great a price to pay, and she continues to resist male influence. Female rebellion

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is not greeted with equanimity in a Phallocentric system, however, and Emily is punished for her refusal to comply with masculinist dictates. Emily's story is a story of wife abuse. Her object status is magnified in her relations with Lopez, who behaves as a tyrant: 'She was frightened as well as horrified and astounded. She had not a word to say to him. She did not know in what language to make her complaint of such treatment. She burst into tears, and throwing herself on the sofa hid her face in her hands' (II 36). Emily discovers that 'she had given herself over body and soul and mind to some evil genius, and that there was no escape' (II 70). Since there is no escape, Emily begins to cling to the tenets of the normative code of feminine behaviour to such an extent that she emphasizes the problematic nature of that code. Her enforcement of masculinist dictates for women manifests a type of mimicry that renders them ridiculous. In this way, she dramatizes Irigaray's argument that mimicry too is a form of rebellion. Emily begins to behave according to the letter of the law inscribed for women. Although Lopez continues to abuse her, she decides that it is her duty to obey her husband: 'I have a feeling of pride which tells me that as I chose to become the wife of my husband, - as I insisted on it in opposition to all my friends, - as I would judge for myself, - I am bound to put up with my choice. If this had come upon me through the authority of others, if I had been constrained to marry him, I think I could have reconciled myself to deserting him. But I did it myself, and I will abide by it.' (II u6). Against her father's wishes, Emily decides to follow Lopez to Guatemala, but Lopez's loss of the position promised him in the colony and his eventual suicide free her from her decision. Perversely, however, she does not accept her new-found freedom, but throws herself into deep mourning for her husband. Arthur Fletcher notes, 'It cannot be for the benefit of any one ... that she should immolate herself like an Indian widow, - and for the sake of such a man as that!' (II 238). In a sense, Fletcher highlights Emily's 'disastrous' life-choice, in that her intimacy with a minority male has tainted her behaviour patterns - she now behaves like an 'Indian widow.' And her adoption of widow's weeds angers her father, who cannot bear to see her mourn for her late husband. Indeed, 'that obstinate resumption of her weeds on her brother's wedding day had nearly broken his heart' (II 373) . On one level, Emily's mourning is the result of her belief that she has defiled herself through her union with Lopez. She undergoes the selfpunishment she believes is required of her in order to purge Lopez's presence: 'I am disgraced and shamed. I have lain among the pots till I

Patriarchal Desire and Victorian Discourse am foul and blackened' (II 330) . Hence, Emily believes that she is no longer worthy of another marriage, which would solidify her position in the status quo: 'As a woman utterly disgraced it could not become her again to laugh and be joyful, to give and take loving embraces, to sit and smile, perhaps a happy mother, at another man's hearth' (11 283). The name she bears becomes a fetter for which she feels she must atone, since it functions as the unutterable in the narrative in its representation of her union with a minority male. Arthur Fletcher cannot name her himself 'He came, and asked for Mrs. Lopez, slurring over the word as best he could' (II 324) - and, upon hearing her named, he 'shrank at the sound' (11325). Fletcher's reaction is similar to the reaction of Emily's father. Mr Wharton encloses Emily's letters in packages to others so as to avoid addressing her. Her alliance with the Other must be obliterated, and she must be brought back into the fold. Emily's self-inflicted punishment serves as a means of purging her relations with Lopez, and she denies her own desires because they led her to grief in her first marriage. While she suggests that her behaviour results from a belief in her own unworthiness of a future union, her reaction also indicates her fear of the desires she feels: 'She had made herself unfit to have any dealings of that nature. It was not that she could not love. Oh, no! She knew well enough that she did love, - love with all her heart. If it were not that she were so torn to rags that she was not fit to be worn again, she could now have thrown herself into his arms with a whole heaven of joy before her. A woman, she told herself, had no right to a second chance in life, after having made such shipwreck of herself in the first' (II 293). As this passage indicates, Emily's effort to repress her desires is a further means of enforcing the code of feminine behaviour, which is, in turn, undercut by her actions. Since patriarchy asserts that feminine desires are untrustworthy and must be suppressed, she attempts to repress her passion for Fletcher: When a woman really loves a man, as she loved this man, there is a desire to touch him which quivers at her fingers' ends, a longing to look at him which she cannot keep out of her eyes, an inclination to be near him which affects every motion of her body. She cannot refrain herself from excessive attention to his words. She has a god to worship, and she cannot control her admiration. Of all this Emily herself felt much, - but felt at the same time that she would never pardon herself if she betrayed her love by a gleam of her eye, by the tone of a word, or the movement of a finger. What, - should she be known to love again after such a mistake as hers, after such a catastrophe? (II 256)

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Yet Emily's resistance to Fletcher also serves as a means of fighting her reinscription within the Phallic order. That Fletcher is a patriarchal figure is clear when, in talking to Mr Wharton about his love for Emily, he objectifies Emily's body and at the same time denies that he does so: 'It is not a matter of looks now, as it used to be. It has got beyond that. It is not that I ani indifferent to seeing a pretty face, or that I have no longer an opinion of my own about a woman's figure' (II 323-4). Further, his behaviour towards Emily is consistent with his words, for she believes that he treats her as though she were a piece of furniture: 'Did he think that a woman was a piece of furniture which you can mend, and revarnish, and fit out with new ornaments, and then send out for use, secondhand indeed, but for all purposes as good as new?' (II 341). The narrator attempts to diminish Emily's concerns and to present her union with Fletcher as a gift to her, when he points out that Fletcher's 'love' for Emily is a concession, in that she is no longer a desirable commodity. Much like Laura Kennedy's, Emily's abrogation of patriarchy's wishes is recorded in her appearance, which, in a male commodityexchange economy, is her primary asset: 'The heavy care of life was already beginning to work furrows on her face' (I 240). Emily's years of suffering become apparent in her face and diminish her value: 'Her face was much thinner, her eyes apparently larger, and her colour faded. And there had come a settled seriousness on her face which seemed to rob her of her youth' (II 353). Ultimately, despite Emily's attempts to ward off reinscription within the power dynamic, she is forcibly brought back into the fold. When Arthur is 'rough' with her in his final proposal (reminiscent of John Grey's treatment of Alice Vavasor in Can You Forgive Herr,, she ceases to rebel and acquiesces to his effort to interpellate her, through marriage, within the Phallocentric order. McMaster comments in her analysis of Emily, 'I feel I should admit at this point what is no doubt already plain enough - I find Emily a real pain, one of the most unpleasant characters in the novels' ( 120). Nardin contends that 'McMaster's response to Emily demonstrates how effectively Trollope controls his readers' (191). Certainly, it is difficult to sympathize with Emily if one follows the narrator's directives. Emily is much like Lizzie Eustace in this respect, for both are trivialized and demeaned within their narratives; however, Emily's resistance, unlike Lizzie's, is ineffective, and patriarchy consumes her. Indeed, patriarchy must consume her, given that other female characters refuse to play the game (Lizzie), or refuse to be reinscribed (Glencora). The power dynamic cannot tolerate such feminine behaviour because it takes its toll on the

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constructions of masculinity. The point is effectively dramatized through the Duke of Omnium. In Phineas Redux, Phineas Finn began to break down in jail and was labelled 'womanly.' He lacked his Other and could no longer function. This same movement is apparent in the Duke of Omnium in The Prime Min1,5ter. Curiously, in this novel, the Duke of Omnium, formerly Plantagenet Palliser, is centrically centred in that he becomes Prime Minister of the Coalition government. His leadership is jeopardized, however, when he begins to undergo a nervous collapse. Formerly, Palliser had acted as the textual order's locus of reason, now it is he who embodies the systemic breakdown. For Trollope, Palliser is 'a perfect gentleman' (Autobiography 361). Yet Trollope, like Wharton and the Duke of St Bungay, cannot articulate what the term means, and can assert only, 'If he be not, then I am unable to describe a gentleman' (Autobiography 361). Conversely, Trollope's portrayal of the 'gentleman,' here, only foregrounds the problems inherent in traditional constructions of masculinity. As Ellie Ragland-Sullivan argues, difference is crucial to the normative function of the sexes: 'Neither femininity nor masculinity is natural. Thus both play themselves out as a masquerade around reified myths and inexplicable desires. If the phallic signifier is, indeed, the agent denoting a symbolic division of each subject into speaking and repressed ( aphanisis) parts, taking its privilege on the side of law and language, this is because - and merely because it interprets the one observable image for an identificatory distinction between the sexes; the single thing in nature of which there are only two, privileging the function of difference itself. ('Seeking' 42-3). RaglandSullivan's assertion is useful to an analysis of the Duke of Omnium in The Prime Minister, for, in this novel, Palliser is not the perfect gentleman, but is weak and inept. He requires the (in)stability of the Other in order to function, and when the Other threatens his dominant position, he cannot perform. The Duke, like many of his class, has been trained for office. He is 'fit' for his station, if anyone is. He draws attention to this 'fitness' when he observes, 'I have put myself into a groove, and ground myself into a mould, and clipped and pared and pinched myself all round, - very ineffectually as I fear, - to fit myself for this thing' (I 58). Of course, the 'thing' to which he refers is the office of Prime Minister. But Plantagenet is not the 'real' Prime Minister, as he discovers: 'There was creeping upon him the idea that his power of cohesion was sought for, and perhaps found, not in his political capacity, but in his rank and wealth. It

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might, in fact, be the case that it was his wife the Duchess .. . with her dinner parties and receptions, with her crowded saloons, her music, her picnics, and social temptations, was Prime Minister rather than he himself (1 161) . The Duke may be fit for office, but he is ineffectual in performing the duties of that office. He is too remote to acquire devoted followers. Even Phineas Finn, one of his most faithful supporters, notes: 'In serving with the Duke I find a lack of that sympathy which one should have with one's chief. He would never say a word to me unless I spoke to him' (1 248).2 In fact, it is the Duke's fitness for office - his position as a peer and as a gentleman - that works against him, for his remoteness, fostered by his position and wealth, only alienates his colleagues. The one person in whom the Duke takes comfort is Lady Rosina De Courcy, a member of the old aristocracy and a supporter of its values, which suggests his 'fitness' with that order - as opposed to an order effective in governing the country. Elaine Showalter, describing in Sexual Anarchy the cHmate of the later years of the nineteenth century, notes that constructions of masculinity were besieged by a shift in roles. She contends that fears of revolt fuelled the times: 'In periods of cultural insecurity, when there are fears of regression and degeneration, the longing for strict border controls around the definition of gender, as well as race, class, and nationality, becomes especially intense. If the different races can be kept in their places, if the various classes can be held in their proper districts of the city, and if men and women can be fixed in their separate spheres, many hope, apocalypse can be prevented and we can preserve a comforting sense of identity and permanence in the face of that relentless specter of millennial change' (4). Showalter's observation illuminates the fears that underpin the fin de siede, and also some of the fears that underpin Trollope's 1876 novel. I have detailed the threat posed by the minority figure Lopez to the established order, but there is a further threat dramatized in Plantagenet's story that parallels ethnic fear with class fear. When Quintus Slide, editor of The Peopk's Banner, decides to attack the Coalition government, Plantagenet is unable to perform effectively. Interestingly, Slide takes a dislike to the Ministry when he is refused an invitation to one of Glencora's parties, and the narrator places the blame for the Duke's unpopularity on Glencora. But it is the attack in print that disables the Duke, for he is not equipped to deal with the written word used against him: 'In his heart of hearts the Prime Minister was more afraid of Mr. Slide's attacks than of those made upon him by Sir Orlando

Patriarchal Desire and Victorian Discourse Drought ... The papers had taken the matter up generally, some accusing the Prime Minister and some defending. But the defence was almost as unpalatable to him as the accusation' (II 150) . The Duke's class position impedes him from countering an attack by the outside; he has been taught that he is sacrosanct from such assaults, and because he fears the lower classes, he is unable to fight back. His aristocratic background has sequestered him from this type of abuse, and, assaulted and besieged as Prime Minister, the Duke begins to break down. The Duke's masculinity is frequently questioned in this text. Glencora observes: 'I should have been the man, my skin is so thick; and ... you should have been the woman, yours is so tender' (II 21). When the Duke attempts to perform his 'manly' duties, she believes him to be a tyrant: 'When he came in she had been seated on a sofa, which she constantly used herself, and he had stood over her, masterful, imperious, and almost tyrannical' (II 21). Nor is Glencora the only character who has difficulty with the Duke's performance. Even the Duke of St Bungay questions Plantagenet's fitness for duty: 'He had almost admitted to himself that he had been wrong in recommending a politician so weakly organized to take the office of Prime Minister. He had expected the man to be more manly' (II 95). Plantagenet also begins to perceive himself as weak. When Glencora's involvement in the Silverbridge election becomes public knowledge, he is loath to expose her to public scrutiny. He tries to assert his superior masculinity by shielding his wife: 'Though the stain were but a little spot, and the thing to be avoided political destruction, I could not ride out of the punishment by fixing that stain on my wife. I will not have your name mentioned. A man's wife should be talked about by no one' (II 103). Notably, it is Plantagenet who aligns himself with Lady Macbeth, in this passage; the analogy usually describes Glencora, and its use here throws the Duke's 'masculinity' further into question. In addition, although the Duke believes that his defence of Glencora will prove his strength, his support of her merely foregrounds his weakness: 'He was weak, - he told himself; - notoriously weak, it must be; and it would be most mean in him to ride out of responsibility by throwing blame upon his wife' (II 156).

The Duke's weakness manifests itself in signs elsewhere used to trivialize women. Palliser ages and grows ill: 'He was beginning to have the worn look of an old man. His scanty hair was turning grey, and his long thin cheeks longer and thinner' (II 214). As he begins to lose his grip on the office he neither sought nor desired, his desire for it grows: 'The

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greed of power had fallen upon the man ... and the man's fall was certain. Alas, alas; had he been allowed to go before the poison had entered his veins, how much less would have been his suffering!' (II 232). The Duke begins to crack under the pressure his position places on him: 'I am driven ... almost beyond myself (II 244). And his anxiety becomes his most characteristic trait: 'Anxious! Yes, indeed. His anxiety was of such a nature that it kept him awake all night, and never for a moment left his mind free by day' (II 303). Glencora believes that the Duke is not made for office: 'If he had only been a little stronger, a little thicker-skinned, made of clay a little coarser, a little other than he was, it might all have been so different!' (II 346). But the Duke is as he is, and his construction cannot withstand the gender-shifting and the class disruptions that are evident in this novel. The Duke is asked to resign his ministry and to join the new government in his old role as Chancellor of the Exchequer. Indeed, throughout his time in office, the Duke has found relief in remembering his old passion for decimal coinage (II go), a system that reflects an order he has been unable to establish in the new job. However, his time in office has jeopardized his belief in an ordered system, and he refuses the position, for, seemingly, things no longer 'fit' for him, and he is not 'fit' to be in charge of the Phallic economy. Even his role as husband and father is thrown into question, since, as Glencora suggests, he cannot order his family according to his wishes: 'But what will you do? It's all very well to talk of me and the children, but you can't bring in a Bill for reforming us. You can't make us go by decimals. You can't increase our consumption by lowering our taxation. I wish you had gone back to some Board' (II 366). The Duke ultimately decides to return to public life at some later date, but he continues to believe that his ministry was a failure precisely because it did not effect the order he desired: 'Look at monetary denominations. Look at our weights and measures.' 'Well; yes,' responds the Duke of St Bungay, 'I will not say that everything has as yet been reduced to divine order' (II 385). The ordering is the job that is left undone, and, if anything, the Duke of Omnium has demonstrated that such an order is impossible - impossible, that is, without an Other upon which to draw for coherence. The Prime Minister stands as a testament to the disruptions caused to the patriarchal system by women and marginalized men who refuse to accept their position as Other. The text points to the ways in which these characters jeopardize the hierarchical social structure, for when they abrogate

Patriarchal Desire and Victorian Discourse their inscribed roles, the hierarchy is threatened. This novel poses an explicit call to maintain an order that will allow men like the Duke of Omnium to continue to function . At the same time, however, it implicitly demonstrates how heavily the order depends upon the subordination of women and minority men. Without the Otherness which they comprise, the construction of masculinity deconstructs, and the system breaks down. What The Prime Minister highlights is not the value of the order it seeks to support, but its dependence upon the exclusion and marginalization of Others. This centre cannot support itself, and the final novel in the Palliser series, The Duke's Chi/,dren, points again to the centre's reliance upon control and domination in its effort to perpetuate itself.

Desire and Disenfranchisement in The Duke's Children

The Duke's Children, the last of the six Palliser Novels, is a study of the abdication of paternal authority. This abdication seemingly promises change and growth, and the novel's mediatory and reconciliatory theme is figured in the two marriages with which it concludes. Yet while, on the surface, The Duke's Children portrays a new order that will supersede and replace the old, it also provides for a critique of this systemic change. The changes the novel delineates do not change the patriarchal structure, but work to perpetuate the power dynamic and the hierarchy it en/genders. As the novel dramatizes a solution to the problems that beset the harmony of the Phallic order, then, it also foregrounds the ways in which that 'harmony' is effected through the subordination and suppression of Others. The Duke's Children has been read as a mitigating text, for it dramatizes how the Duke of Omnium is thwarted in his desires for his children and is forced to re-evaluate his own motivations and values. In so doing, he allows his children to have their way, thus lending the illusion of openness and adaptability to the order for which he stands. The Palliser children appear to represent a 'new and improved' order, which builds upon, extends, and thereby modifies the old. The new power structure differs little, if at all, from its predecessor, however, and Lord Silverbridge, heir to the Omnium title, is also heir to the Duke's position in the novel as the arbiter of social values. Consequently, the system depicted in The Duke's Children remains closed and exclusive; it may promise the possibility of modification, but it is unable to deliver on its promise because of the restrictive nature of its conclusion. Many Trollopean critics have commented on the 'power shift' evident in The Duke's Children, and several accept it as a signifier of change.

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Hermione Lee, in her introduction to the Oxford Centenary edition of The Duke's Children, focuses on the political implications of the Duke's effort to dictate to his children and suggests that he is rightly concerned with the perpetuation of his line: 'Though the Duke is to a comical extent inflexible and emotional about his children's marriages, he is right, Trollope suggests, to feel an anxiety about them which is public as well as personal. It is an anxiety about how the Liberal aristocracy, which should be governing England, shall perpetuate itself ... Trollope provides a choice for the ex-Prime Minister's heir between two different dynasties and civilisations. It is a mark of his narrative dexterity and discretion that the rivals for Silverbridge's love are so sharply individualized, while carrying the weight of this historical significance' (xvii). While the 'choice' the novel depicts may demonstrate Trollope's narrative abilities, as Lee suggests, it is also a mark of his skill that he is able clearly to delineate the workings of the patriarchal power dynamic. It is not coincidental that the choice to which Lee points is embodied in the female characters. McMaster suggests that the resolution of the novel is satisfactory because the textual women respectively represent progress and decay: The Duke's Children is a humanely progressive and hopeful book. The two genera-

tions of the title can be reconciled and come to accord only by some accommodation, but love and understanding successfully mediate. Only Lady Mabel, left motionless and portionless on her sofa in the middle of the room where the very furnishings are changing and being taken away, remains as an uncomfortable vestige of a past best abandoned. The other major characters, both the older generation and the younger, move hopefully but faithfully forwards towards a future that is filled with promise. It is a cheerful book for an old man to have written. (154)

Yet the past which McMaster believes is 'best abandoned' is a past directly associated with the novel's female characters. And what is perhaps more to the point in relation to these female figures is the logic that dictates their fates. Overton offers insights into the textual resolution in his suggestion that the Duke's resignation of power serves as a means of perpetuating selfhood: 'Plantagenet Palliser, whose two most important acts are resignations of power - political in The Prime Minister, patriarchal in The Duke's Children - tends to be touchily dominant, wrapped up in self .. . Trollope shows how personality can be affirmed through self-sacrifice' (87). Kincaid expands upon the connection between the political and the familial and argues that the two are intertwined: 'The private realm is

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riddled through with political forces; it always has been, only now it is riddled through much more obviously. What The Duke's Chil.dren does is to expose the political underpinnings of the attempt to construct an unpoliticized personal realm' ('Anthony Trollope' 103). As Overton and Kincaid point out, if in different ways, The Duke's Children is largely about the reaffirmation of self and the perpetuation of lineage. The Duke of Omnium attempts to secure the succession of his family in the manner he deems most appropriate. But, as Kincaid argues, the personal and the political cannot be separated. That which motivates the Duke is also that which motivates the system of which he is a part, and it is located in the effort to reaffirm and to extend. This effort arises out of the Phallic desire for wholeness and inclusion, a desire that manifests itself through domination and control. Indeed, the ultimate control lies in the ability to control the future, for that control ensures the continuation of the power dynamic and those who benefit by it. The novel depicts an ostensible familial and political crisis. The things for which the Duke of Omnium stands - aristocracy, nobility, gentility are apparently under siege, and the Duke's children appear to abrogate his value system. Lord Silverbridge, heir to the Omnium title, is reckless; he involves himself with lower-class men, gambles, and is generally 'unmanly.' The commoner Frank Tregear wishes to marry Lady Mary Palliser and thus to centre himself through a union with the Duke's family. The hierarchical structure seems to be in flux, and the Duke tries to restore harmony. Ultimately, he accepts Tregear's suit of Mary, along with Silverbridge's decision to wed Isabel Boncassen, and his problems are solved. Through that solution, however, The Duke's Chil.dren also provides for an alternative reading, since the lineage with which the Duke is concerned is firmly established and maintained, and even appears to be flexible as a result of his magnanimity. Hence, the order that is restored, here, does not change or alter the status quo: Silverbridge merely needs a good woman to set him right, and Tregear is as class-conscious as the Duke, if not more so. As the novel indicates, to 'open' the structure to include Tregear is to reaffirm the very values his inclusion appears to place in jeopardy. And the rebellious female characters are shown to be suppressed and subdued as a result of these two marriages. Lady Mary Palliser, who insists upon fulfilling her own desires, and Lady Mabel Grex, who refuses to adopt a subordinate position, are either quelled or removed from the narrative by the conclusion. It is not the flexibility of the operative hierarchy that The Duke's Chil.dren dramatizes, then, but its inflexibility.

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With the inclusion of Isabel, the power dynamic evident in the text is given the appearance of adaptability. As an American, Isabel is outside the class system, and her inclusion thus lends its mandated structure the appearance of openness - though as the daughter of a prospective President of the United States, she is not exactly a kitchen maid. More important, her 'inclusion' in the aristocratic centre works to reinforce the masculinist economy. As a product of the New World, Isabel figures the Phallic dependence upon suppression and control, a dependence that is perhaps most apparent in the system's imperial thrust. Isabel, a 'colonial,' is used as a resource on which the imperial centre can draw to strengthen itself.' Even more to the point, her presence points to the ways in which rebellious English women will be suppressed if they refuse to conform to patriarchal dictates. Isabel's presence in the narrative implies that if women do not behave, they will be replaced, for new women can be imported from the colonies who will perform the subordinate function the system requires, and thereby render the rebellious English women redundant. Hence, while, on one level, Isabel serves as proof of the Duke's flexibility - and the Duke performs as the locus of order in this text - on another, she illustrates the exclusive nature of the social structure for which he stands. Patriarchy must, necessarily, objectify women and erect ethnic, race, and class barriers in order to affirm and reaffirm the privileged position of its normative subjects. That colonization comes into play in this novel is not coincidental, and it serves to demonstrate the political and social implications of the Phallic ego drive. Edward Said writes of imperial colonization of the Orient: 'If we believe that Kipling's jingoistic White Man was simply an aberration, then we cannot see the extent to which the White Man was merely one expression of a science - like that of penal discipline - whose goal was to understand and to confine non-Whites in their status as non-Whites, in order to make the notion of Whiteness clearer, purer, and stronger' (224). Said indicates the ways in which people of colour have been used to support the dominant position of the 'norm.' He also draws attention to the role played by colonial characters in imperial fiction in his contention that in Jane Eyre, Bertha Mason becomes 'Bronte's way of telling us that denizens of the outlying Empire are useful as a source of wealth' (273). In the same way, Isabel Boncassen (a WASP female) is used to replenish the coffers of the British centre in The Duke's Chi/,dren. The colonies serve as a source of wealth as well as of oppositional affirmation of the status quo through their difference from it, and the imperial system's reliance upon colonial support derives from the con-

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struction of the patriarchal subject. Gayatri Spivak highlights the desire that drives the imperial impetus: 'When you're talking about colonization you are talking about settling a place which was unsettled ... before: the assumption that when the colonizers come to a world, they encounter it as uninscribed earth upon which they write their inscriptions' (129). What Spivak foregrounds in this passage is the need to subordinate, a need that arises from the formulation of the Phallic subject. Since Spivak is writing in reference to Australia here and Said is discussing Orientalism, their contentions may appear to bear little relevance to the action of The Duke's Chiulren; however, their arguments point to the practical and political repercussions of the Phallic ego drive. When Spivak speaks of the blank on which the colonizers write their inscription, she draws attention to the ways in which the patriarchal subject, in order to assert himself, requires the construction of a blankness for his representation. This impulse arises from the subject's desire for completeness and wholeness, the illusion of which can be maintained only through the domination and control of the Other, as I have discussed throughout this study. Since the subject requires an Other in order to fulfil its desire for wholeness, it needs to construct an Other against which to play. This need has its repercussions in imperialist actions and in the imperial structure of the patriarchal family, for woman is inevitably cast as the ultimate Other in the power dynamic. It is not my intention to elide the hierarchical status of women here - since women of colour do not perform in the same way as white women - but to underscore the function of (white) women in the particular discourse embodied in Trollope's texts, texts which exclude presentations of women of colour. Within the discursive context of the Palliser Novels, therefore, when the (white) female object refuses to accept her objectification, the (white) male subject, if he cannot function in relation to other ex-centric or peripheral figures, breaks down. The threat to male subjectivity posed by rebellious women underpins the action of The Duke's Chiulren, and the importation of Isabel Boncassen to reaffirm male subjectivity highlights the Phallic ego drive's reliance upon the Other to replenish and sustain itself. Isabel is necessary to a system that is beset on the home front, for she performs as a resource on which the male subject can draw in order to affirm himself. She also figures the centre's ability to transport an Other from the colonies to maintain itself. The text dramatizes the ways in which rebellious and resistant women threaten the Phallocentric dynamic, and it also points to the ways in

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which class disruption jeopardizes the established hierarchy. As Showalter summarizes in Sexual Anarchy, class disruptions were much feared in the late Victorian period: The crisis in race and class relations in the 188os had a parallel in the crisis in gender. 'That both women and "natives" simultaneously began to manifest frightening drives toward independence just as England's great century of empire drew to its uneasy close,' Sandra Gilbert and Susan Gubar point out, 'would, of course, have sealed the fin-de-siecle connection between these two previously silent and disenfranchised groups. ,c.J And many Victorians, such as Karl Pearson, saw 'two great problems of modern life' as 'the problem of women and the problem of labour.' 131 Feminism, the women's movement, and what was called 'the Woman Question' challenged the traditional institutions of marriage, work, and the family. (6-7)

In keeping with Showalter's summation of the British climate in the late nineteenth century, the class structure apparent in The Duke's Children is jeopardized by lower-class characters who try to align themselves with the centre. Ultimately, these characters are firmly put in their place (like Major Tifto), and the reasons for the class disruption they generate are posited as the result of woman's refusal to perform her appointed function. When woman is brought back into the fold, the lower-class characters resume their ex-centric position, and order is restored (but restored as a result of the marginalization of those outside the centre). The centric inclusion of the middle-class Tregear and the outsider Isabel Boncassen suggests that the hierarchical system is open, but the inclusion of these characters serves only to sustain the hierarchical structure effected by the patriarchal power dynamic, and their inclusion works to quell and subdue the rebellious female characters. In The Duke's Children, the Duke of Omnium performs a function similar to the narrator's in The Eustace Diamonds, for he acts as arbiter of propriety and social values. While the novel 'consciously' works to legitimize the Duke of Omnium's concerns (he is Trollope's 'perfect gentleman'), it also, 'unconsciously,' points to the problematic nature of the Phallic system embodied by the Duke in this text, and, through him, it proffers a critique of the power dynamic and of the constrictive nature of the attempt to instil order and unity. The Duke's Children begins with the Duke feeling lost and alone. The first sentence of the novel signals his breakdown: 'No one, probably, ever felt himself to be more alone in the world than our old friend, the Duke

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of Omnium, when the Duchess died' (1). The narrator's assertion highlights the operation of the power dynamic, for it demonstrates how a feminine Other is necessary to the affirmation of the self. Yet although Glencora has been erased from the Palliser series, she continues to infiltrate the action of The Duke's Children in (and perhaps through) her absence, and the text also draws attention to the power of women who refuse to conform. John H. Hagan notes that 'Lady Glen 's [influence] must seemingly go on forever' (14), for, though 'dead in the flesh ,' she 'pervades the action in spirit' (13) . And her presence continues to influence the Duke's visions of the future, since, despite the narrator's suggestion that the Duke is lost without her ('he was helpless, and knew himself to be helpless' [2]), it is as a consequence of the loss of his Other that the Duke attempts to perpetuate his lineage and thereby reinforce his selfhood. Glencora threatened the social order in The Prime Minister when she aligned herself with Ferdinand Lopez against the wishes of the Duke, and her daughter, Mary, defies the Duke's wishes in The Duke's Children when she falls in love with and engages herself to a commoner, Frank Tregear. In fact, Mary's refusal to comply with the Duke's desires indicates her refusal to accept the object position allotted her, a disposition to which the Duke draws oblique attention when he notes that her behaviour jeopardizes the maintenance of his lineage: 'There is a propriety in things; - and only by an adherence to that propriety on the part of individuals can the general welfare be maintained. A King in this country, or the heir or the possible heir to the throne, is debarred from what might possibly be a happy marriage by regard to the good of his subjects. To the Duke's thinking the maintenance of the aristocracy of the country was second only in importance to the maintenance of the Crown. How should the aristocracy be maintained if its wealth were allowed to fall into the hands of an adventurer!' ( 175). The Duke links class disruption with feminine rebellion, here, and emphasizes how Tregear will upset the class system if he is allowed to accede to the centre. The Duke counsels Mary to behave in the manner he desires when he outlines for her the doctrine of repression and subordination that must govern a woman's life: 'You must conquer your love. It is disgraceful and must be conquered' (65). The Duke wants Mary to accept her proper role as object. Tellingly, he does not look upon her rebellion as a mark of her desire for subjectivity, but perceives her as an object besmirched and in need of purification:

Patriarchal Desire and Victorian Discourse In such bargaining for a wife, in such bargaining for a husband, there could be nothing of the tremulous delicacy of feminine romance; but it would be better than standing at a stall in the market till the sufficient purchaser should come. It never occurred to him that the delicacy, the innocence, the romance, the bloom might all be preserved if he would give his girl to the man whom she said she loved. Could he have modelled her future course according to his own wishes, he would have had her live a gentle life for the next three years, with a pencil perhaps in her hand or a music-book before her; - and then come forth, cleaned as it were by such quarantine from the impurity to which she had been subjected. (90-1)

The problem posed by Mary to the power dynamic in her refusal to perform as object is not highlighted in the text, and the Duke suggests that the difficulties she engenders arise from her choice of marriage partner. He does not approve of the middle-class Frank Tregear, and while Silverbridge argues that Tregear is a 'gentleman,' the Duke both comments on the indeterminacy of the term, and acknowledges Tregear's middle-class (as opposed to lower-class) standing: 'So is my private secretary [a gentleman] . There is not a clerk in one of our public offices who does not consider himself to be a gentleman. The curate of the parish is a gentleman, and the medical man who comes here from Bradstock. The word is too vague to carry with it any meaning that ought to be serviceable to you in thinking of such a matter' (67) A middle-class man, Tregear does not upset the aristocratic hierarchy to the extent that a member of the lower classes would do. The threat posed by the lower classes is figured through Lord Silverbridge's actions. Silverbridge's predilection for lower-class companions, along with his tendency to gamble, leads the Duke to question his son's 'manliness.' His attempts to solidify Silverbridge's masculinity revolve around his effort to procure an appropriate mate for his son. Here, the power dynamic's reliance on women is linked with a concern for class control. When the Duke attempts to explain politics to Isabel Boncassen, his political liberalism works to shroud his belief in the importance of the class system: 'But a Prime Minister can make a Duke; and if a man can raise himself by his own intellect to that position, no one will think of his father or his grandfather. The sons of merchants have with us been Prime Ministers more than once, and no Englishmen ever were more honoured among their countrymen. Our Peerage is being continually recruited from the ranks of the people, and hence it gets its strength' ...

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He, in all this, was quite unconscious of the working of her mind. Nor in discussing such matters generally did he ever mingle his own private feelings, his own pride of race and name, his own ideas of what was due to his ancient rank with the political creed by which his conduct in public life was governed .. . But there was an inner feeling in his bosom as to his own family, his own name, his own children, and his own personal self, which was kept altogether apart from his grand political theories. (390-1)

The social structure, of course, is not as open as the Duke would suggest here, but in drawing attention to its flexibility, the Duke paves the way for Isabel's inclusion within it. Not inconsequentially, while the Duke talks to Isabel of political theories, he also speaks of his love for decimal coinage, thus indicating his desire for a singular order, and an order which she will help to sustain: 'The Duke was explaining to her the beauty of quints, and expatiating on the horrors of twelve pennies, and twelve inches, and twelve ounces, - variegated in some matters by sixteen and fourteen! He could not know that she was ambitious of becoming his daughter-in-law, while he was opening out to her the mysteries of the House of Lords' (422) . Although the Duke initially disapproves ofSilverbridge's choice of wife, he is 'forced' to give way to Isabel, and although he dislikes Mary's choice of husband, he is 'forced' to give way to Tregear. He believes that all his desires are thwarted: 'In every way he had been thwarted. In every direction he was driven to yield. And yet now he had to undergo rebuke from his own son, because one of those inward plaints would force itself from his lips!' (564) . The Duke's desires, however, are in fact fulfilled. Isabel helps to make a 'man' ofSilverbridge, thus ensuring the perpetuation of the Omnium line, and Tregear is a fitting husband for Mary. The Duke's love for order is therefore satisfied, and his belief in an ordered system is seemingly confirmed through these solutions to his problems. On one level, Frank Tregear is the locus of textual disruption in his apparent threat to the class system. Lowry Pei notes the contradiction in Tregear's behaviour: 'Tregear, a Conservative who believes that Liberal politics must lead to communism ... nevertheless helps to break down the distinctions he relies on by courting a woman out of his own class' (290). But including Tregear in the Palliser family through an alliance with Mary does not in fact threaten the social structure, for Tregear's behaviour indicates his firm observance of the codes (providing those codes do not exclude him) that the Duke seeks to preserve. Nardin finds Tregear a problematic figure precisely because of his patriarchal bent: 'Tregear

Patriarchal Desire and Victorian Discourse is a very conservative man - and a conceited one as well. His callous behaviour toward his first love, Mabel Grex, proves that he cares more about his own advancement than about the feelings of others. In an early draft of The Duke's Children, Tregear was portrayed as an unscrupulous adventurer, and he is not much more likable in the published version' (182-3).

Certainly, Tregear's interaction with Marie Goesler Finn is in keeping with Nardin's view, since it indicates his inability to accept female guidance. Marie is not favourably impressed by Tregear's demeanour when she attempts to convince him that he must speak to Mary's father: 'They hardly parted as friends, and her feeling was, on the whole, hostile to him and to his love. It could not, she thought, be for the happiness of such a one as Lady Mary that she should give herself to one who seemed to have so little to recommend him' (32). For his part, Tregear thanks Marie for her pains by writing 'a most chilling note to [her], informing her with great precision' that he will speak to the Duke (33). Tregear's treatment of Lady Mabel Grex also attests to his disregard for women. He and Mabel have been in love, but she has dismissed the idea of marriage to him because of their poverty. After his disappointment with Mabel, Tregear is easily consoled: 'Then he had encountered Lady Mary Palliser. There had been no doubt, no resolution after that, no thinking about it; - but downright love. There was nothing left of real regret for his cousin in his bosom. She had been right. That love had been impossible. But this would be possible, - ah, so deliciously possible, - if only her father and mother would assist! ( 183). Ironically, although Mabel claims that Tregear is 'unmanly' (295-7) in his treatment of her because he forgets her so quickly, she later echoes the dictates of patriarchy when she cites his actions as indicative of his 'manliness': 'And the sooner a man can do that the more manly he is. Is it a sign of strength to wail under a sorrow that cannot be cured, - or of truth to perpetuate the appearance of a woe?' (615). The Duke, however, accepts Tregear's behaviour at face value and begins to perceive his persistent appeals for Lady Mary's hand as evidence of his 'manliness' (404). And if'manliness' is measured by intensity of pursuit, then certainly Tregear merits the description. However, his cold-blooded treatment of Mabel does not bode well for Lady Mary, and his arrogance is signalled at the end of the novel when the Duke confesses, 'Now I will accept that as courage which I before regarded as arrogance' (633). While Tregear may be of a lower class than Lady Mary, he is surely 'man' enough to deal with her intransigence, and his inclusion within the hierarchy ensures Mary's reinscription

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within the masculinist order. Tregear is indeed a fit custodian for a rebellious woman. Whereas Tregear is the outsider who is included in the centre and helps to restore uniformity, Lord Silverbridge is the Duke's heir. Although, initially, Silverbridge appears to be ill fitted for the position, he comes to occupy the patriarchal site inhabited by his father and his prospective brother-in-law. Silverbridge is frequently described as 'unmanly' by his father ( 144), but he is no less masculinist as a result, and he comes into his 'manhood' through the course of the novel. Certainly, his concern for the perpetuation of the social structure is evident early in the text when he expresses his dislike of a Tregear-Palliser marriage: 'Money and rank and those sort of things are not particularly charming to me. But still things should go together. It is all very well for you and me to be pals, but of course it will be expected that Mary should marry some-• (108) . But Silverbridge's own predilection for lower-class companions upsets his father and goes far in proving his 'unmanliness' to the Duke. Silverbridge is the co-owner of a racehorse with Major Tifto, a 'sporting gentleman' clearly not of his class. Tifto ' could never hit off his familiarity [with Silverbridge] quite right. He had my-Lorded his young friend at first, and now brought out the name with a hesitating twang, which the young nobleman appreciated. But then the young nobleman was quite aware that the Major was a friend for club purposes, and sporting purposes, and not for home use' (49) . Given that, at this point, Silverbridge lacks a female object who would reinforce his subjectivity, he finds an Other in the lower-class Tifto. Silverbridge establishes an illusion of control in relation to Tifto, who, in his subordinate function, serves as Silverbridge's Other. Silverbridge is well aware of the class differences that exist between him and his companion, and he uses them to support his own social position; however, these differences become problematic when Tifto meets the Duke: 'Silverbridge was not prone to turn his back upon a friend because he was low in the world. He had begun to understand that he had made a mistake by connecting himself with the Major, but at the club he always defended his partner. Though he not unfrequently found himself obliged to snub the Major himself, he always countenanced the little Master of Hounds, and was true to his own idea of "standing to a fellow." Nevertheless he did not wish to introduce his friend to his father' (211) . Silverbridge shares his father's views, and he is aware that his alliance with Tifto is unbefitting a man of his station. But he needs a subordinate Other to

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affirm his position through difference, for, at this point in the novel, his love interest, Lady Mabel, is unwilling to submit herself to him. Mabel causes difficulties for Silverbridge because she refuses to perform in a subordinate fashion when with him. He is thus thwarted in his attempt to be 'manly' in relation to her, a state of affairs that necessitates his alliance with Tifto to establish his own dominance. Silverbridge finds Lady Mabel unsatisfying because he perceives her to be his superior: 'Lady Mabel as his wife would be his superior, and in some degree his master. Though not older she was wiser than he, - and not only wiser but more powerful also. And he was not quite sure but that she regarded him as a boy. He thought that she did love him .. . but that her love would be bestowed upon him as on an inferior creature. He was already jealous of his own dignity, and fearful lest he should miss the glory of being loved by this lovely one for his own sake, - for his own manhood, and his own gifts and his own character' (148). The narrator, again performing as the voice of patriarchal authority, confirms the validity of Silverbridge's fear that Mabel is superior to him. He corroborates Silverbridge's feelings and asserts that Mabel's demeanour is threatening to Silverbridge's position: 'In truth he saw everything as it was only too truly. Though she might choose to marry him if he pressed his request, she would never subject herself to him as he would have the girl do whom he loved. She was his superior, and in every word uttered between them showed that it was so. But yet how beautiful she was; - how much more beautiful than any other thing he had ever seen!' (153) . Silverbridge satisfies his desire for Mabel along with his desire for superiority by courting two different women. He does not initially consider Isabel Boncassen a serious marital prospect, but flirts with her because she makes him feel special. Indeed, 'it would be pleasant to have a six-month's run of flirting and love-making before this settlement, and he had certainly never seen anyone with whom this would be so delightful as with Miss Boncassen' (302-3). Yet Silverbridge finds himself falling in love with Isabel and eventually deserts Lady Mabel. I would argue that it is Isabel's worship of Silverbridge that induces him to propose to her, since, unlike her rival, she believes him to be her superior: 'She had never seen anything like him before; - so glorious in his beauty, so gentle in his manhood, so powerful and yet so little imperious, so great in condition, and yet so little confident in his own greatness, so bol.s tered up with external advantages, and so little apt to trust anything but his own heart and his own voice' (37!:r-80). Through his love for Isabel, Silverbridge becomes a man in accordance with the traditional construe-

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tion of masculinity. Even Lady Mabel perceives his maturity, when he tells her of his love for Isabel: 'Now at any rate he was a man. She was sure of that now. This was more, very much more, not only than she had expected from him, but more than she had thought it possible that his character should have produced' (4 75). Although the Duke continues to believe that his son is 'weak as water' (486) in his preference for Isabel over Mabel, Silverbridge's 'manliness' is evident in his treatment of his fiancee. When Isabel asks him not to kiss her, he persists; when 'she gave him her cheek to kiss ... of course he took more than she gave' (542). Silverbridge's desire to dominate becomes more apparent throughout the text, as does his wish to objectify women. He becomes possessive of Isabel, and reifies her when an acquaintance entreats him to desist in his courtship: 'There was a sanctity about her, - a divinity which made it almost a profanity to have talked about her at all to such a one as Dolly Longstaff. She was his Holy of Holies, at which vulgar eyes should not even be allowed to gaze' (550). Ultimately, Silverbridge's ascension to 'manhood' is confirmed when he switches political parties at the end of the novel (623). He had initially entered Parliament as a Conservative, but now changes back to the family's preferred political party, and, in so doing, situates himself as proper heir to the family values and valuables. The text points to Isabel Boncassen's function as a tool used to affirm and strengthen Silverbridge's manliness; in her subordinate role, she reinforces his sense of self. Because Silverbridge cannot perform as a subject without an object to lend him the illusion of subjectivity, Isabel becomes the means by which his masculinity is established. This process is not unique to a Trollopean novel, but, as Toril Moi argues, provides the basis of Western philosophy: 'By positing woman as the symbol of lack and negativity, western philosophy turns her into the ground of its own existence: by her very inferiority she guarantees the superiority of philosophy. In this way the idea of "woman" as defective becomes a defence against the thinking male subject's potentially devastating insight into his own lack. Historically, such strategies have not only been used against women, but also against "primitive tribes", "slaves", "blacks", "children", 'Jews", "Moslems", and so on' (195). In The Duke's Chi/,dren, the lower classes and women fall into the category Moi delineates. Their constructions in this text serve to support and substantiate male subjectivity. Ragland-Sullivan contends that such a manoeuvre is necessary to deflect attention away from the fragility of the male subject: 'If, indeed, masculinity gives rise to myths grounded on this representational differ-

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ence [having or not having a penis], one begins to grasp that the masculine ego might well be fragile. It is he who risks loss, not she. Moreover, in the name of this difference - away from nature toward the social - he is supposed to be a cultural symbol of power, prestige, and knowledge' ('Seeking' 43). The fragility of the male ego is apparent throughout the Palliser Novels and is dramatized in this text through Silverbridge's actions. When Isabel worships him, Silverbridge begins to perform according to the myths of his society and becomes a symbol of power, prestige, and knowledge. The Palliser Novels do not explicitly highlight the problematic nature of the construction of the Phallic subject (perhaps because they cannot), but they do foreground how male supremacy is established through the subordination of women. Isabel provides a solution to the problems that beset the established hierarchy in this novel. She happily accepts her position as patriarchal object and willingly accedes to the codes governing feminine behaviour. She thus serves as the female ideal, for her conduct is in accord with the 'correct' conduct for young women. Pei outlines the dictates of the code in this observation: Women guard the flame of those human capacities that do not belong in the market place: the power to he self-denying, to he nurturing, to put beauty before utility. For that, men can 'admire, and approve, and perhaps worship' women, hut to he an object of worship is to be both exalted and restricted. There is very little room on the top of a pedestal ... They must feel that to love one man is the important business of their lives; they must not change their minds about love (at least not without agonizing repentance); they must not be centres unto themselves . .. Men revere women for their moral and spiritual superiority; yet at the same time they feel that women have attained that superiority by being in a different sense inferior and weak. (288-9)

In keeping with Pei's observation, Isabel is demure, honest, pure, and virginal. Like Frank Tregear, she is an outsider - as an American, she has no place in the British class system - but she is aligned with the centre through her marriage to Silverbridge. Again, much like Tregear, her position does not constitute a systemic breakdown, for she works to reinforce masculinity in her function as female object. In turn, her presence in the text also serves as an implicit threat to English women: if they do not behave, women can be imported from the colonies who will behave, and who will replace them.

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It is not coincidental that Isabel is an American, in that the connotations of the 'American girl' in Victorian discourse signify Isabel's independence and free-spiritedness. These qualities render her inscription within the British social structure valuable to a power dynamic which rests upon the idea that women can be happy within its confines (and so legitimizes itselO. Isabel's American free-spiritedness is highlighted in her introduction by the narrator, who at the same time objectifies her, thus mirroring the overt role she will play in the n.ovel. The narrator details Isabel's charms and emphasizes her value: That her figure was perfect the reader must believe on my word, as any detailed description of her arms, feet, bust, and waist, would be altogether ineffective. Her hair was dark brown and plentiful; but it added but little to her charms, which depended on other matters. Perhaps what struck the beholder first was the excessive brilliancy of her complexion. No pink was ever pinker, no alabaster whiteness was ever more like alabaster; but under and around and through it all there was a constantly changing hue which gave a vitality to her countenance which no fixed colours can produce. Her eyes, too, were full of life and brilliancy, and even when she was silent her mouth would speak. Nor was there a fault within the oval of her face upon which the hypercritics of mature age could set a finger. Her teeth were excellent both in form and colour, but were seen but seldom. (218-19)

The narrator's description of Isabel has similarities with a horse dealer's description of a prize filly. Having established her assets, the narrator goes on to minimize her potential defects. He discusses the problems an independent American girl might pose to British society, but hastens to assure readers that they need not worry about Isabel: 'In American circles, where girls congregate without their mothers, there is a danger felt by young men that if a lady be once taken in hand, there will be no possibility of getting rid of her, - no mamma to whom she may be taken and under whose wings she may be dropped ... But in her present phase of life Miss Boncassen suffered no misfortune of this kind' (243). The narrator both dismisses the difficulties that might ensue from the social inclusion of an American girl and derives the benefits of her signification. If a free-spirited American girl can be happy within the normative order, so, the narrator suggests, can properly-bred English ladies. Accordingly, Isabel's American background is frequently foregrounded in the novel. She herself makes reference to her nationality

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when she tells Silverbridge of her willingness to become a part of the Palliser family: 'If all the grandeurs of all the Pallisers could consent to put up with poor me, if heaven were opened to me with a straight gate, so that I could walk out of our republic into your aristocracy with my head erect, with the stars and stripes waving proudly round me till I had been accepted into the shelter of the Omnium griffins, - then I would call him-' (387). What is of real importance, here, is not Isabel's supposed independence, but the nature of her response to Silverbridge. She is infatuated with her lover and worships him in a manner that clearly signals her delight in surrendering to him: 'He is my hero; - and not the less so because there is none higher than he among the nobles of the greatest land under the sun' (382). Isabel's love for Silverbridge is balm to his ego, for she believes him to be a superior being, a prize above all else: 'You ask if I love you. You are entitled to know the truth. From the sole of your foot to the crown of your head I love you as I think a man would wish to be loved by the girl he loves. You have come across my life, and have swallowed me up, and made me all your own' (419). Isabel is a sexual creature, but her sexuality is oblique and given vent in ways that are acceptable in the Victorian discourse of the text. Like Violet Chiltern, Isabel is content to fulfil her sexual desires indirectly through her male partner, and she correctly represses her feelings until they are properly sanctioned through marriage: 'I have bound myself to myself by certain promises, and you must not ask me to break them. You are as sweet to me as I can be to you, but there shall be no kissing till I know that I shall be your wife' (429) . Isabel.therefore, performs appropriately, and when Silverbridge compares her to Lady Mabel, he draws attention to the ' naturalness' of her femininity as opposed to the 'artificiality' of Mabel's. In so doing, he normalizes the code of feminine behaviour by which Isabel abides: 'Lady Mabel with all her grace, with all her beauty, with all her talent, was a creature of efforts, or, as it might be called, a manufactured article. She strove to be graceful, to be lovely, to be agreeable and clever. Isabel was all this and infinitely more without any struggle' (543-4). Isabel's 'naturalness' also appeals to the Duke, and when he accepts her into the family, it is largely because he perceives her to be a 'natural' lady rather than a lady to the manner born. By focusing on her apparent differences from his conception of a fitting addition to the Palliser family, he foregrounds her similarities:

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'We who wear black coats could not bring ourselves readily to put on scarlet garments; nor should we sit comfortably with our legs crossed like Turks.' 'I am your scarlet coat and your cross-legged Turk,' she said, with feigned selfreproach in her voice, but with a sparkle of mirth in her eye. (571)

Isabel's alignment with a minority male (a 'cross-legged Turk') works to suggest an apparent difference in her, yet, in fact, the analogy affirms her sameness. The difference she apparently embodies is a difference that is contrived. She is a 'natural' candidate for inclusion in the aristocracy. The Duke gives Isabel Glencora's ring in order to indicate his final acceptance of her. This gesture symbolically brings Isabel within the golden circle of the Palliser family, but it also highlights a potential link between Isabel and Glencora. Like Glencora, Isabel is sprightly and willing to speak for herself, and that Glencora came to grief through her interpellation in the social order does not bode well for Isabel. Hence, even while the text overtly dramatizes how the patriarchal inscription of woman can bring her happiness, it covertly suggests that such inscription may prove to be unsuccessful. The text does not describe the Silverbridges much beyond their wedding, however, which takes place in the month of May and thus symbolizes the fruitfulness and prosperity of their union. The seeming disruption to the power structure evinced by Isabel's marriage to Silverbridge in fact disrupts nothing. Isabel is ostensibly the ideal woman, willing to submit herself to the superiority of her man. Such is not the case with the other major female figures in the text, Lady Mary Palliser and Lady Mabel Grex. Indeed, a comparison of these three female characters makes clear Isabel's purpose in the narrative, for she acts in direct opposition to her English counterparts. Lady Mary and Lady Mabel abrogate patriarchal dictates in their efforts to perform as subjects. They persist in trying to fulfil their own desires and refuse to accept objectification in the system that demands it. Isabel, who is brought in to perform as an object, bolsters the centre at the same time that she lends it the illusion of openness. Lady Mary, like Isabel, is a young woman attempting to fulfil her desires. But, unlike Isabel's, her behaviour is problematic, since she attempts to fulfil her desires and refuses to abide by the wishes of her father. Nardin suggests that Mary's assertiveness renders her 'a disturbing ingenue' (183). Indeed, although the Duke argues that Mary must be

Patriarchal Desire and Victorian Discourse 'made to obey' his dictate that she forget her love for Frank Tregear (187), she persists in her demand for her lover, to the point where Silverbridge asks her, 'You are not going to take up woman's rights, I hope.' She responds: 'I think I shall if I stay at The Horns much longer. What would papa say if he heard that I was going to give a lecture at an Institute?' (228). This passage highlights the larger fear that is generated by Mary's actions: her determination to act independently of her family's wishes in this matter points to a deeper refusal to accept her objectification. Mary is a sexual being, and her sexuality indicates her effort to assume subject status. Her sexuality and her willingness to express it are apparent when she embraces Tregear in public: 'She stopped herself, rose from the sofa, sat down, and then rising again, stepped up to her lover, who rose at the same moment, - and threw herself into his arms and put up her lips to be kissed' (232). When she is kept from seeing her lover, she succumbs to illness and suffers from headaches, much like Laura Kennedy: 'The girl [was] in great pain, lying with her two thin hands up to her head, and hardly able to utter more than a word' (328). In light of Laura's performance in the Palliser Novels, Mary's headaches hint that she suffers from unfulfilled sexual desires. But Mary's sexuality is posited as active, here, when it is supposed to be passive. The correct comportment for young women is suggested by Mary's duenna, Lady Cantrip. When speaking to Lord Popplecourt, the Duke's favoured suitor for Mary's hand, she describes her charge in sexually suggestive language that indicates the acceptable - that is, the submissive - feminine sexual response: 'A softer, purer, more unsullied flower never waited on its stalk till the proper fingers should come to pluck it' (368-g). Mary feels that life without her lover is meaningless, and her feeling draws attention to the plight of unmarried women in Victorian society. She argues: 'I have got nothing but him. I know he is true; - quite as true as I am. But it is I that have the suffering in all this. A man can never be like a girl' (509). Yet although life without Tregear may be 'nothing,' life with him lacks the promise of fulfilment. When the Duke accedes to Mary's choice of husband, she is 'aware that she was thought to have done evil by introducing her lover into her august family' (588). Hence, she pleads with Tregear to be good to her because of the suffering she has endured to gain his love. She says, 'I suppose it was worse for me than for you ... and therefore I ought to have it made up to me now' (627). It is doubtful, however, that it will be made up to her.

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Nardin draws attention to the difficulties she believes Mary will undergo at the hands of Tregear: 'By the end of the novel, Mary has articulated a conception of her own rights that goes too far for any of the men in her family and has persistently pursued an aim that those men find positively disgraceful. How then will it be between her and the conservative, strong-willed Tregear - who is neither sweet nor tender, and who has supported her rebellion for purely selfish reasons?' (182-3). And Nardin's concerns are implicitly corroborated by the descriptions of Mary's wedding. This wedding takes place in November (630), hardly an auspicious month for a matrimonial celebration, and stands in marked contrast to the May nuptials of Silverbridge and Isabel. Further, the conclusion of the novel is ambiguous. Shoes are thrown after the bridal party, 'enough for luck, - or perhaps there might have been luck even without them, for the wife thoroughly respected her husband, as did the husband his wife' (633). The narrator's assertion that 'there might have been luck even without them' suggests his uncertainty as to Mary's prospects, and if Tregear's treatment of his former love, Lady Mabel, serves as a precedent, Mary's future is indeed dubious. Lady Mabel Grex, who vies with Isabel for Silverbridge's love, is a woman aware of the need for marriage. Requiring a profitable marriage to improve her family's fortunes, she attempts to do her duty by 'catching' Lord Silverbridge. Mabel's domestic life leaves much to be desired, and her father hammers home to her the need for a union with a suitable (that is, 'wealthy') husband that will alleviate his parental burden: 'I don't see why the deuce you don't get married. You'll have to do it sooner or later' (154). In addition to this paternal pressure are the social pressures placed on young women. Without husbands, women are 'nothing' - a state of affairs to which Lady Mary has drawn attention in her plea for Tregear, and which is made clear in a textual aside. When Lord Popplecourt, the Duke's chosen suitor for Mary's hand, attends a dinner party at which he is seated next to the unmarried Lady Rosina de Courcy, he shows a contempt that is chilling: 'On the other side of him sat Lady Rosina de Courcy, to whom, as being an old woman and an old maid, he felt very little inclined to be courteous. She said a word, asking him whether he did not think the weather was treacherous. He answered her very curtly, and sat bolt upright, looking forward on the table, and taking his dinner as it came to him' (373). Women without men are treated as beneath contempt, not worthy of notice; Mabel's awareness of their lot drives her to try to secure a fitting mate.

Patriarchal Desire and Victorian Discourse Mabel attempts to conform to the dictates of patriarchy, and she discovers in Lord Silverbridge a man with whom she believes she might live with some happiness. The social and familial pressures exerted upon her take their toll, however, and she is presented as worldly-wise, aged by experience: 'How was it that she was so old a woman, while [Silverbridge] was little more than a child? .. . It might be good for her that she should marry him. She was ambitious. And such a marriage would satisfy her ambition. Through her father's fault, and her brother's, she was likely to be poor. This man would certainly be rich (128). Mabel and Silverbridge engage in a courtship that is prolonged largely as a result of Mabel's desire to 'spare' him (16o) . When Silverbridge comes close to proposing to her, she 'lets him go' because she believes he deserves better (16o) . She reflects: 'I could never feel him to be my superior. That is what a wife ought in truth to feel' (161) . And Mabel's superiority is highlighted in the text when she equates herself with a gentleman at a time when Silverbridge's own manliness is in question: 'I might have had the feelings of a gentleman as well as the best man that ever was born ' (159) . This passage, in turn, indicates Mabel's lack of passivity and abrogation of her feminine role. Like many of Trollope's female characters, Mabel draws attention to the differences between the conduct open to men and that open to women. She rails against her own enforced passivity and longs for subjectivity: 'We are dreadfully restricted. If you like champagne you can have a bucketful. I am obliged to pretend that I only want a very little. You can bet thousands. I must confine myself to gloves. You can flirt with any woman you please. I must wait till somebody comes, - and put up with it if nobody does come' (280). The conflict which male-centred logic instils in women is obvious in this passage, for Mabel is caught in a bind: she must appear to be passive and at the same time actively pursue a husband. Mabel's worldliness detracts from her charms for Silverbridge, who is unable to establish his own supremacy in relation to her. As a result, he turns to Isabel Boncassen, and his rejection of Mabel only fuels her bitterness. She realizes that she cannot compete with the young American, for she cannot love Silverbridge in the way he wishes to be loved. The differences Silverbridge perceives between the two women is signalled in the text by references to gemstones. Silverbridge believes that Isabel is a pearl: 'This girl was so infinitely superior to anything of feminine creation that had ever hitherto been seen or heard of . . . He did believe himself that he had found such a pearl, that no question of

Desire and Disenfranchisement in The Duke's Children

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setting need be taken into consideration. If the Duke would not see it the fault would be in the Duke's eyes, or perhaps in his own words, - but certainly not in the pearl' (543). Silverbridge bestows a diamond ring on Mabel; the 'diamond was a large one, and she had heard it spoken of as a stone of great value' (313). Given the signification of diamonds in the Palliser Novels, the diamond with which Mabel is associated draws attention to her sexuality. Unlike Isabel, who is content to repress her desire for Silverbridge until after marriage, Mabel is a creature of sexual desires, who longs for a man she cannot have. Mabel is in love with Frank Tregear, and this love colours her behaviour with Silverbridge. She cannot marry Frank, who is poor, and she turns to Silverbridge because she must secure a wealthy husband. Her adherence to the demands placed upon her leads her to perform like a high-priced call girl: 'Frank Tregear knew that having lost her heart to one man she was anxious to marry another. He knew that she was willing to accept the coronet of a duchess as her consolation. That bloom of her maiden shame, of which she quite understood the sweetness, the charm, the value - was gone when she had brought herself to such a state that any human being should know that, loving one man, she should be willing to marry another. The sweet treasure was gone from her. Its aroma was fled. It behoved her now to be ambitious, cautious, - and if possible successful' (470). The passage implicitly equates Mabel with a prostitute, for she must sell herself to the highest bidder. This is an important allusion, for prostitution was an issue much discussed among Victorian patriarchs, particularly in relation to 'superfluous' women. Mary Poovey, drawing upon W.R. Greg's writings, examines the cultural climate that surrounds prostitution in the Victorian age: If Greg viewed competing for work with men as the 'evil' that 'redundant women' inflicted on England's economy, then the 'evil' with which they threatened the moral order posed just as serious a problem. This evil, which Greg only alludes to here, was epitomized in prostitution, a subject Greg had explored in an essay published in 1850. In his essay on redundant women, he merely reiterates the point he drove home in that earlier essay: if the disproportionate number of women could be diminished and their 'value thereby increased, men [would] not be able to obtain women's companionship and women's care so cheaply on illicit terms ... If men were necessitated either to marry or be chaste ... so far from there being too many women for the work that must be done, ... there would be too few.' (4-5)

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In Trollope's novel, Mabel fears becoming redundant and, hence, susceptible to the 'evils' that befall unmarried women. The implicit link drawn between Mabel and prostitution points to Mabel's bleak prospects if she does not succeed in attracting an acceptable suitor. Her textual encoding, here, serves to reinforce her shady 'moral' position in the text and in the power dynamic it delineates. When Silverbridge is lost to her, Mabel returns to Tregear and tries to reactivate the love he once felt for her. She decides to marry him, despite his poverty, and indirectly asks him to run away with her. But Mabel's illicit request recalls the spectre of prostitution that shadows her presentation in the novel. Her frankness is an indication of her 'disintegration,' as is her proposal to him: 'Frank, is it wicked that I should love you? ... If it be so wicked that I must be punished for it eternally, still I love you. I can never, never, never love another. You cannot understand it. Oh God, - that I had never understood it myselfl I think, I think, that I would go with you now anywhere, facing all misery, all judgments, all disgrace. You know, do you not, that if it were possible, I should not say so. But as I know that you would not stir a step with me, I do say so' (616) . But Tregear is now content with Lady Mary, and Mabel is left with few prospects, for she has abrogated the codes of appropriate feminine behaviour. Mabel's fate is not a happy one. Her father dies and leaves her penniless, and the worries of her existence take their toll on her face . Meeting her after her father's death, Tregear is astonished by the blackness of her appearance. She looked as though she had become ten years older since he had last seen her' (6o8) . Her demeanour has lost its feminine appeal; Tregear notes: 'She was leaning over from her seat, looking, black as she was, so much older than her wont, with something about her of that unworldly serious thoughtfulness which a mourning garb always gives. And yet her words were so worldly, so unfeminine!' (6ll) .

Although Mabel may no longer be 'feminine' in Tregear's assessment, she continues to love him, and this love consumes her: 'I did not know then the virulence of the malady which had fallen on me. I did not know then that, because of you, other men would be abhorrent to me' (613). As a result, Mabel will be left with nothing, for, as she well knows, a girl who cannot marry is nothing: 'A girl unless she marries becomes nothing, as I have become nothing now' (614) . Despite her initial promise of success, Mabel's chances are ruined; her love for Tregear has destroyed her potential:

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'Think of my advantages at that moment when you and I agreed that our paths should be separate. My fortune then had not been made quite shipwreck by my father and brother. I had before me all that society could offer. I was called handsome and clever. Where was there a girl more likely to make her way to the top?' 'You may do so still.' 'No; - no; - I cannot.' (613) Mabel has defied masculinist conventions to such an extent that she cannot be redeemed, and she is erased from the narrative. Tregear leaves her 'putting both her hands before her face, and throwing herself on to the sofa, bur[ying] her head among the cushions' (617), and this is her last appearance in the novel. She does send Tregear a wedding gift, a signet ring he had once given her, along with a note ('I pray that you may be happy. This was to have been given to you long ago, but I kept it back because of that decision' [632)), but he crumples the note, much as he has crumpled her. Mabel is left then, much like Laura Kennedy, alone, isolated, pushed to the margins of the text and the discourse that cannot afford her a place. Her presence, however, casts a pall over the two marriages with which the text concludes, and indicates that the cost of this conclusion is paid at her expense. The Duke's Chil.dren, despite its mitigating theme, does not effect a reconciliation of the problems it depicts, nor of the problems that have beset the Palliser Novels. Instead, the novel implicitly points to the ways in which female characters are subordinated and constrained in a Phallic system. It explicitly and structurally suggests that if women do not abide by patriarchal rules, they will be unhappy (like Mary), or simply replaced by women imported from the colonies (like Mabel); women who refuse to play the game are left without prospects - superfluous, useless commodities that lack a market-place. Although The Duke's Chil.dren ends with two unions, thereby dramatizing a continuation of the patriarchal order, the novel also exposes the limitations and the weaknesses of the Phallocentric structure by depicting its dependence on the submission of women. The narrative content of The Duke's Chil.dren undercuts the sexist assertion that women are delightful, if passive and trivial objects, and demonstrates how they provide the very supports upon which the basis of the hierarchy rests. Rather than affirming the legitimacy of the social formation, the final novel in the Palliser series can be read as a critique of that formation, for it delineates the vital role women play in the machinations of the power dynamic.

Conclusion: Discourse and Desire

As I have argued throughout this study, Trollope's Palliser Novels serve

as exemplars of patriarchal desire and masculinist discourse. On the surface, and much like contemporary anti-feminist 'backlash' texts, these novels display narratorial and ideological attempts to legitimize the social order and to affirm the hierarchy it generates. Structurally, the texts embody an appeal to woman to accept her subordination within a malecentred system: the female characters who abide by patriarchy's wishes are shown to be happy and content; the female characters who defy those wishes are disenfranchised and silenced. While several astute and perceptive feminist critics have argued that Trollope's novels display feminist themes, this is not, I think, a productive means of approaching his writings. If readers focus only on the resistance apparent in the narratives, they risk eliding the structural movement evident within them, a movement that seeks to relegate women to a subaltern space. The novels appeal to women, but the appeal they proffer should be interrogated, for these texts overtly suggest that only the woman who accepts the role patriarchy inscribes for her will be (indirectly) fulfilled. When their textual impetus is uncovered and critiqued, however, the Palliser Novels en/gender an analysis of the machinations of their operative power dynamic and the means by which it sustains itself. The rebellious and resistant female characters covertly point to the difficulties that confront women, and also foreground the problematic nature of the order the texts explicitly work to support. I have relied upon Lacanian psychoanalytic theory to investigate the power structure apparent in the novels. Lacan's writings are useful in untangling patriarchal logic, for they point to desire as the means by which the subject is formulated and ultimately controlled in this dynamic.

Conclusion: Discourse and Desire As a result, they also explicate how the female Other is necessary to a system that promises fulfilment to its subjects but cannot realize its promise and must depend upon woman to perform as a site of control. It is through the objectification of woman that man's desires are satiated, and it is through the 'difference' she embodies that male subjectivity is affirmed. Woman becomes the support by which the social order is able to establish and maintain its hierarchical structure. Although Lacan is useful to feminism for this particular project, his theories, in themselves, do not provide for feminist strategies of resistance. It is feminist psychoanalytic theorists like Luce Irigaray, Teresa Brennan, Elizabeth Grosz, Ellie Ragland-Sullivan, Juliet Flower MacCannell, and Shoshana Felman who point to the important ways in which woman functions in the Phallocentric order, and so draw attention to the active role she can play in altering and transforming the trajectory of the power drive. These theorists' work offers the potential for re-vision, as evidenced in their efforts to explore the role played by the Other in subject formation, and to formulate conceptions of the subject which do not depend upon notions of wholeness and completeness. Yet while future theoretical studies unquestionably will benefit from the significant work done by these women, Lacanian theory remains pivotal to an understanding of that which is being re-visioned, for it locates and maps the basis of traditional subject constructions. In a similar fashion, Trollope's writings are also useful to feminist thought. Although Trollope does not overtly critique the Phallocentric order, his novels trace the effects of its manifestation in Victorian discourse. The author's own position as an ex-centric subject who tries to interpellate himself into the centre affords him a vantage point from which to view the complexity of the power dynamic, a dynamic that continued to keep him firmly outside the centre for which he longed. Certainly, his novels detail the operation of the Phallic drive, and this operation must be understood if masculinist ideology is to be divested of its seductive rhetoric and appeal. The Palliser Novels, in their focus on desiring ex-centric subjects and rebellious female objects, reveal man's dependence upon woman. Without her, the 'unity' he desires cannot be achieved, for he lacks the Other which would consolidate his subject position. Woman's role in this discourse is covertly highlighted as a result, since it is her subordination that enables the perpetuation of the order. Indeed, the Palliser Novels attest to the ways in which Victorian novels continue to speak to the problems of the present, for the logic that propels them continues to influence mainstream contemporary discourse.

Patriarchal Desire and Victorian Discourse An analysis of Trollope's writings provides insights into current attempts to disenfranchise women, for, as the Palliser Novels indicate, male-centred systems must quell and subdue woman in order to fulfil the desires which they foster and utilize to perpetuate social demarcations. Hence, while the Palliser Novels do not explicitly develop feminist themes, they do serve implicitly as a means of consolidating female strength in their revelation of woman's necessity to patriarchy. As they structurally elide and dismiss women, the novels also dramatize the crucial role woman plays in the power dynamic, since they illuminate the reasons why women must be either reinscribed in or removed from it. To elide the repercussions of the female characterizations is to elide that which motivates the endeavour to interpellate woman into a social order that seeks only to suppress her. Conversely, to foreground the drive that propels this social order is to confront the critical position of woman in the novels and in the masculinist economy they manifest. The intricacies of woman's traditional discursive role must be confronted if feminist and pro-feminist scholars are to unpack the rhetoric which renders that role desirable. Indeed, Western women are again facing an active and hostile effort to invalidate the small changes effected by the second wave of feminism in the 1970s; accordingly, it is of the utmost importance to feminist theory that the power dynamic be interrogated as a means of countering and challenging the present backlash. Strategies for change are not outlined in this study, which concentrates on what is at hand rather than on what might be accomplished, and future projects might focus on extended analyses of the effects of the power dynamic, and on interventions of its project. At the same time, the writings of other Victorians, particularly those of marginalized authors, might be examined for alternative constructions of social structures and conventions, an undertaking that could strengthen endeavours to theorize different social formations. In addition, analyses of the power dynamic would be of interest to anti-imperialist scholarship, since, as Trollope's novels demonstrate, the ramifications of the social order may impact primarily on woman but are not restricted to her. My study, then, is a preliminary work which outlines past efforts to disenfranchise women in the hope that it will generate further thought on the construction of normative social and cultural formations, and on the position of women within them. As Trollope implicitly demonstrated in the nineteenth century, if woman must be coaxed, seduced, even forced to accept her place in the power hierarchy - be it the Victorian hierarchy or its contemporary equivalent - her inclusion within it is

Conclusion: Discourse and Desire imperative to its continuance. Hence, should woman refuse to abide by the dictates of the prevalent social system, her refusal has the power to dismantle it. While Trollope's novels may not develop feminist themes, therefore, they do serve feminist purposes, for they draw attention to the 'seminal' role women play within Phallocentric social structures. And in this, the Palliser Novels expose the limitations of patriarchal discourse and the desires that motivate it, and can serve as springboards for further cultural critique.

Notes

Chapter I: The Politics of Desire in An Autobiography 1 The academic climate would be well known to Amanda Cross, since 2

'Amanda Cross' is the pen-name of the literary scholar Carolyn Heilbrun. R.H. Super's The Chronicler of Barsetshire: A Life of Anthony Trolwpe (1988), Richard Mullen's Anthony Trolwpe: A Victorian in His World (1990), and N. John Hall's Trollope: A Biography (1991) are the other three.

Chapter 4: Desire and Displacement in The Eustace Diamonds I

2

Given the relationship the novel establishes between diamonds and feminine sexuality and passion, the narrator's reference to diamonds in describing Lucy points to elements of passion in her character. Certainly, her ardour is evident in her later argument with Lord Fawn over Frank. This passage also draws attention to the strength and adaptability of Lizzie's voice, which is apt in light of her role as the advocate of feminine sexuality.

Chapter 6: Ego Drives and Difference in The Prime Minister I

In Between Men, Sedgwick argues that Victorian novels expand upon LeviStrauss's contention that women are the highest form of commodity in male barter systems, and she analyses the ways in which many Victorian texts focus primarily upon triad structures, wherein male friendship is solidified through the woman each man desires. Sedgwick foregrounds the power dynamic at play in this construct, as well as its homoerotic potential in that the men are able to love each other through the intermediary woman.

168 2

Notes

It is interesting that, unlike the Duke, Glencora is able to establish and maintain solid personal support. She and Marie Goesler enjoy a strong friendship, and, at one point, Glencora tells Marie, 'I can't very well live without you' (II 347). Hence, once again, Glencora is shown to be more socially effective than her husband. McMaster perceives Glencora's ability to make and retain female friends as indicative of her unhappy marriage: 'Glencora's frequently mentioned need for a female confidante seems to be one result of her rather arid relations with her husband' (123) . Unlike McMaster, I see this ability as a measure of Glencora's strength. Although patriarchy attempts to divide women, Glencora is able to overcome the division, and the friendships she shares with other women strengthen her. Indeed, she and Marie are inseparable: 'There had grown up from accidental circumstances so strong a bond between these two women, that it was taken for granted by both their husbands that they should be nearly always within reach of one another' (II IO).

Chapter 7: Desire and Disenfranchisement in The Duke's Oiildren

The United States, of course, is not a colony of the British Empire at this time. But Isabel is nonetheless posited as a colonial resource, for she is used to support the imperial centre. 2 Sandra M. Gilbert and Susan Gubar, Sexchanges (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989) , p. 37. 3 Karl Pearson, 'Woman and Labour,' Fortnightly Review 129 (May 1894): 561. 1

Selected List of Works Consulted

Primary Sources Trollope, Anthony. An Autobiography. Ed. Michael Sadleir and Frederick Page. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989. - Can You Forgive Her? Ed. Andrew Swarbrick. Centenary Edition of Anthony Trollope's Palliser Novels, Oxford World's Classics. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1982. - The Duke's Children. Ed. Hermione Lee. Centenary Edition of Anthony Trollope's Palliser Novels, Oxford World's Classics. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1983. - The Eustace Diamonds. Ed. WJ. McCormack. Centenary Edition of Anthony Trollope's Palliser Novels, Oxford World's Classics. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1983. - Phineas Finn. Ed. Jacques Berthoud. Centenary Edition of Anthony Trollope's Palliser Novels, Oxford World's Classics. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1982. - Phineas Redux. Ed. John C. Whale. Centenary Edition of Anthony Trollope's Palliser Novels, Oxford World's Classics. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1983. - The Prime Minister. Ed. Jennifer Uglow. Centenary Edition of Anthony Trollope's Palliser Novels, Oxford World's Classics. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1983. Secondary Sources

apRoberts, Ruth. Trollope: Arlist and Moralist. London: Chatto and Windus, 1971.

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Selected List of Works Consulted

- 'Trollope's Casuistry.' Novel3 (1969): 17-27. Barreca, Regina, ed. Sex & Death in Victorian Literature. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1990. Barrickman, Richard, Susan MacDonald, Myra Stark. C