The Way We Live Now by Anthony Trollope (best fiction novels of all time .TXT) ๐
Description
The Way We Live Now is Anthony Trollopeโs longest novel, published in two volumes in 1875 after first appearing in serial form.
After an extended visit to Australia and New Zealand in 1872, Trollope was outraged on his return to England by a number of financial scandals, and was determined to expose the dishonesty, corruption, and greed they embodied. The Way We Live Now centers around a foreign businessman, Augustus Melmotte, who has come to prominence in London despite rumors about his past dealings on the Continent. He is immensely rich, and his daughter Marie is considered to be a desirable catch for several aristocratic young men in search of a fortune. Melmotte gains substantial influence because of his wealth. He rises in society and is even put up as a candidate for Parliament, despite a general feeling that he must be a fraudster and liar. A variety of sub-plots are woven around this central idea.
The Way We Live Now is generally considered to be one of Trollopeโs best novels and is often included in lists of the best novels written in English.
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- Author: Anthony Trollope
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Then she received a long passionate letter from Paul Montague, written at the same time as those other letters to Roger Carbury and Hetta, in which he told her all the circumstances of his engagement to Hetta Carbury, and implored her to substantiate the truth of his own story. It was certainly marvellous to her that the man who had so long been her own lover and who had parted with her after such a fashion should write such a letter to her. But it had no tendency to increase either her anger or her sorrow. Of course she had known that it was so, and at certain times she had told herself that it was only naturalโ โhad almost told herself that it was right. She and this young Englishman were not fit to be mated. He was to her thinking a tame, sleek household animal, whereas she knew herself to be wildโ โfitter for the woods than for polished cities. It had been one of the faults of her life that she had allowed herself to be bound by tenderness of feeling to this soft over-civilised man. The result had been disastrous, as might have been expected. She was angry with himโ โalmost to the extent of tearing him to piecesโ โbut she did not become more angry because he wrote to her of her rival.
Her only present friend was Mrs. Pipkin, who treated her with the greatest deference, but who was never tired of asking questions about the lost lover. โThat letter was from Mr. Montague?โ said Mrs. Pipkin on the morning after it had been received.
โHow can you know that?โ
โIโm sure it was. One does get to know handwritings when letters come frequent.โ
โIt was from him. And why not?โ
โOh dear no;โ โwhy not certainly? I wish heโd write every day of his life, so that things would come round again. Nothing ever troubles me so much as broken love. Why donโt he come again himself, Mrs. Hurtle?โ
โIt is not at all likely that he should come again. It is all over, and there is no good in talking of it. I shall return to New York on Saturday week.โ
โOh, Mrs. Hurtle!โ
โI canโt remain here, you know, all my life doing nothing. I came over here for a certain purpose, and that hasโ โgone by. Now I may just go back again.โ
โI know he has ill-treated you. I know he has.โ
โI am not disposed to talk about it, Mrs. Pipkin.โ
โI should have thought it would have done you good to speak your mind out free. I know it would me if Iโd been served in that way.โ
โIf I had anything to say at all after that fashion it would be to the gentleman, and not to any other else. As it is I shall never speak of it again to anyone. You have been very kind to me, Mrs. Pipkin, and I shall be sorry to leave you.โ
โOh, Mrs. Hurtle, you canโt understand what it is to me. It isnโt only my feelings. The likes of me canโt stand by their feelings only, as their betters do. Iโve never been above telling you what a godsend youโve been to me this summer;โ โhave I? Iโve paid everything, butcher, baker, rates and all, just like clockwork. And now youโre going away!โ Then Mrs. Pipkin began to sob.
โI suppose I shall see Mr. Crumb before I go,โ said Mrs. Hurtle.
โShe donโt deserve it; do she? And even now she never says a word about him that I call respectful. She looks on him as just being better than Mrs. Bugginsโs children. Thatโs all.โ
โSheโll be all right when he has once got her home.โ
โAnd I shall be all alone by myself,โ said Mrs. Pipkin, with her apron up to her eyes.
It was after this that Mrs. Hurtle received Hettaโs letter. She had as yet returned no answer to Paul Montagueโ โnor had she intended to send any written answer. Were she to comply with his request she could do so best by writing to the girl who was concerned rather than to him. And though she wrote no such letter she thought of itโ โof the words she would use were she to write it, and of the tale which she would have to tell. She sat for hours thinking of it, trying to resolve whether she would tell the taleโ โif she told it at allโ โin a manner to suit Paulโs purpose, or so as to bring that purpose utterly to shipwreck. She did not doubt that she could cause the shipwreck were she so minded. She could certainly have her revenge after that fashion. But it was a womanโs fashion, and, as such, did not recommend itself to Mrs. Hurtleโs feelings. A pistol or a horsewhip, a violent seizing by the neck, with sharp taunts and bitter-ringing words, would have made the fitting revenge. If she abandoned that she could do herself no good by telling a story of her wrongs to another woman.
Then came Hettaโs note, so stiff, so cold, so trueโ โso like the letter of an Englishwoman, as Mrs. Hurtle said to herself. Mrs. Hurtle smiled as she read the letter. โI make this proposition not thinking that anything
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