The Way We Live Now by Anthony Trollope

The more I read of this author, the more I love him. His stories flow in such a natural way, his characters are complex and true to life, and his writing is engaging and moving.

While it is intended to be a satire, The Way We Live Now is an enjoyable story by itself, due much to Trollope's sympathy for all his characters, even the villains, and his ability to spin a good yarn.

The story starts when a certain Augustus Melmotte migrates to London with his family. He has never been seen in England before, and has left behind him trails of bad feeling towards him throughout 'the Continent', but is instantly welcomed because of his vast wealth, which is said to be boundless. He is vulgar, but one word from him can make or ruin a man, so he is not to be trifled with. More importantly in the minds of all the mothers of London, his daughter will inherit his fortune. Lady Carbury, whose son Sir Felix is a lazy, expensive cad, sees Miss Melmotte as a chance for their fortunes to rise, since her daughter Hetta refuses to marry the very eligible Roger Carbury, and Sir Felix insists on gambling away the rest of the fortune.

If this sounds like the beginning of a depressing story of greed, be comforted: everyone gets their just desserts, and the story ends in a most satisfying way. It is not depressing. For an 825 page book, it surprisingly holds your attention through the winding plot, and you become attached to the very real characters. Satire this may be, but Trollope cannot write bitter satire; his villains are not without good qualities. Even Sir Felix, who is the closest to being completely beyond hope, has a moment of moral righteousness when he tries to protect his sister's honor.

One of the best characters, though, is Roger Carbury, whose struggles with love and jealousy are some of the best I have seen written. In the end he triumphs over himself, in a passage that I particularly liked:

"But then over these convictions there came a third—equally strong—which told him that the girl loved the younger man and did not love him, and that if he loved the girl it was his duty as a man to prove his love by doing what he could to make her happy....[H]e schooled himself to feel that that, and that only, could be his duty. What did love mean if not that? What could be the devotion which men so often affect to feel if it did not tend to self-sacrifice on behalf of the beloved one. A man would incur any danger for a woman, would subject himself to any toil—would even die for her! But if this were done simply with the object of winning her, where was that real love of which sacrifice of self on behalf of another is the truest proof? So, by degrees, he resolved that the thing must be done."