Mr. Crawley had on one occasion stated his assured conviction that surreptitious dairy supplies were being brought into the house, because he had detected the presence of cream instead of milk in his own cup. As, however, the cream had been going for sundry days before this, Miss Robarts had not thought much of his ingenuity in making the discovery. 

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After I finished the Mary Russell mystery – which was very good – I fished Trollope out of the closet and gave it another go. The political chapters were deadly, but he eases off the dairy references in the second half of the book and I was curious to see who Miss Dunstable would marry, and if Lord Dumbello really intended to break his engagement to Griselda Grantly, how many innocent souls Mr. Sowerby would drag into his shady deals, and which zingers Mrs. Proudie would come up with next (she’s so nasty) and of course if Lucy and Lord Lufton would manage to work things out. Fiction like that is sort of addictive, isn’t it? The whole Barchester cycle is less of a Great Classic Work and more of a long-running soap opera. I guess that’s why it’s still being reprinted. 

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The problem is, four hundred pages of Trollope goes a long way, and I read about one of his books per year, and not in order. So I have a hard time remembering the characters from other books, who show up every so often so the narrative voice can archly remind the reader that there is much more to Barchester than this mere four hundred pages. For instance, the Greshams; I know they were the main characters in a book I read last year (or was it the year before?) but heaven help me, I cannot recall what happened to them then. Every time they popped up in “Framley Parsonage” they reminded me of how old I am getting, and how many brain cells I have parted with over the years.  

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Anyway, I was happy to finish the book – I hate having half-read books lying around in the closet – and now I can start on Ursula LeGuin’s The Dispossessed with a clear conscience. 

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