Well, I love me some Anthony Trollope. But everyone knows that. I mean, take a gander at all the past wonderful (I say, humbly), Anthony Trollope Cocktail Talk posts – there are a fair number of them where I wander on about Trollope and reading and re-reading his books. So, my Trollope adoration bonafides are in place, which means it’s okay to say that I’m not 100% sure that I love his large novel Orley Farm. There are parts of it I love, lots. And I believe Trollope himself considered it one of his best (it may have been his favorite), as did a few of his writing contemporaries. And it is a big, Trollopean story, with interesting characters, a plot hook or three, threads that start in multiple spots and are drawn together, and insights and actions that, while taking place in a different time, mirror in many ways how people act today. So, all good! However, there’s something that throws me off a bit about the book. I think in some ways, Trollope (this happens in other books on occasion, too, but here it feels off-putting) begins not to like one of the characters he introduces early (one of the spotlight characters, you could say), and brings in a separate thread, fairly late for him, to introduce perhaps some new characters he’s more fond of – if that makes any sense. Which throws me off somewhat when reading it, as I develop an affection for the earlier character. Anyway, let’s just say it’s not one of my favorite Trollope books, but it’s still awesome, with a plot spinning (in the main, outside of the side trips alluded to above) around a codicil to a will that may or may not be forged. Intrigued? Give it a read! There are also lots of convivial drinking moments, as there are apt to be with our pal Trollope, so I plan on sticking with the book here with some good Cocktail Talking quotes. Starting with the below, which focuses on port and one of the lawyers who take part in our tale, there are a number of lawyers, as you might expect with a book circling round a will.
Mrs. Furnival in discussing her grievances would attribute them mainly to port wine. In his early days Mr. Furnival had been essentially an abstemious man. Young men who work fifteen hours a day must be so. But now he had a strong opinion about certain Portuguese vintages, was convinced that there was no port wine in London equal to the contents of his own bin, saving always a certain green cork appertaining to his own club, which was to be extracted at the rate of thirty shillings a cork. And Mrs. Furnival attributed to these latter studies not only a certain purple hue which was suffusing his nose and cheeks, but also that unevenness of character and those supposed domestic improprieties to which allusion has been made.
–Anthony Trollope, Orley Farm