We are quite ready, for example, to accept Nettie as the saving angel of The Doctor’s Family, but when the drunken Fred says ‘Nettie’s a wonderful creature, to be sure, but it’s a blessed relief to get rid of her for a little,’ it’s impossible, just for the moment, not to see his point of view. Later on, when Nettie’s responsibilities unexpectedly disappear, she feels, not gratitude or ‘delight in her new freedom,’ but a bitter sense of injury. She has never had to see herself as unimportant before. Again, Freddie, the youngest child, adores her and refuses to leave her. But this passion, says Mrs Oliphant, is simply ‘a primitive unconcern for anyone but himself.’ Anybody who has looked after young children must reluctantly admit the truth of this. ‘When I am a man, I shan’t want you,’ says Freddie. In The Rector, young Mr Wentworth, even in his deep concern for the dying woman, cannot help feeling annoyed that the Rector was there before him. Mrs Oliphant hardly implies that men, women, and children should not be like this, only that this is the way they are. The often not-quite-resolved endings of her novels produce the same bittersweet effect. In Hester (1883) the strong heroine, who has shown herself perfectly capable of an independent career, is left without hope of the work she meant to do, but with two men, neither of them up to her mark, who want to marry her. ‘What can a young woman desire more,’ writes Mrs Oliphant dryly, ‘than to have such a possibility of choice?’ To take a very different example in one of her short stories, ‘The Open Door’ (1882), the ghost of a young man knocks at the door of a house in Edinburgh, ceaselessly trying to make amends to the family who lived there a century ago. A minister persuades the spirit to leave its haunting, but whether it is at peace as a result there is no way of telling.
As to the conclusion of The Doctor’s Family, Mrs Oliphant herself was not satisfied with it. ‘Sometimes,’ she wrote to Miss Blackwood in 1862, ‘one’s fancies will not do what is required of them.’ I think she underrated herself here. Surely she was right, in any case, to leave her readers to reflect on whether the end of the story is a defeat for Nettie. This, in turn, raises the question of the balance of power between men and women, and the world’s justice towards them. ‘If it were not wicked to say so,’ Nettie remarks, ‘one would think almost that Providence forgot sometimes, and put the wrong spirit into a body that did not belong to it.’ Nettie has had no education. One might call her self-invented. She speaks for her creator here. Still more so, when she has rejected Dr Edward and let him drive off, full of love and rage, into the darkness, while she goes into the house. ‘As usual, it was the woman who had to face the light and observation, and to veil her trouble.’ This is all the more effective because of its restraint. Mrs Oliphant is not asking even for change, only for acknowledgement.
The letter to Miss Blackwood makes it clear that her imagination was not always under the control of her will, and shows the natural spontaneous quality of all she wrote, as indeed of all she did. The mid-Victorian novel, Walter Allen once pointed out, ‘was an unselfconscious, even primitive form,’ and it suited her admirably. When she had good material—and in the Carlingford Chronicles she had—she was a most beguiling novelist. She saw her novels, she said, more as if she was reading them than if she was writing them. ‘I was guided by the human story in all its chapters.’
V. Salem Chapel
‘When I die I know what people will say of me,’ Mrs Oliphant wrote. ‘They will give me credit for courage, which I almost think is not courage, but insensibility.’ In the winter of 1861 she was living in a small house in Ealing. She was deep in debt and had three young children to support, one of them born after her husband’s death. Working, as usual, in the middle of the night, she continued her chronicles of provincial life with Salem Chapel.
At the heart of her new book is the unwelcome clash of the idealist with the world as it is. The world, this time, is represented by Salem—the Dissenters of Carlingford, in satisfied possession of their thriving shops and of the red brick chapel which they have built themselves. Salem, in appearance, is modest. On the shabby side of Grove Street, the chapel is surrounded by the ‘clean, respectable, meagre little habitations’ where the congregation live. They, of course, are condescended to by the gentry; they are tradespeople. But their independent worship and their free choice of their own minister, to be replaced if he fails to suit, give them an agreeable sense of power. Salem folk, the women in particular, are never happier than when they are ‘hearing candidates.’ As a community they are inward-looking—the poor of Carlingford are the church’s business, not theirs—but there is warmth and dignity in Salem, the warmth of neighbourliness and the dignity of self-help. To them comes Arthur Vincent, their just-elected minister, a gentlemanly young scholar fresh from theological college, ‘in the bloom of hope and intellectualism,’ asking only for room to proclaim the truth to all men. He is met by what Mrs Oliphant calls ‘a cold plunge.’ Salem wants him to fill the pews with acceptable sermons, and to do his duty at tea-meetings.
There is a strong hint, too, that the very best a young minister can do is to choose a wife from the flock, which in practice means the pinkly blooming Phoebe Tozer, the grocer’s daughter. He is told of another young pastor who failed ‘all along of the women; they didn’t like his wife, and he fell off dreadful.’ Arthur’s instincts prompt him to escape. ‘Their approbation chafed him, and if he went beyond their level, what mercy was he to expect?’ As in the two previous novels of the series, Carlingford will prove a test for the newcomer that is all the more painful because it is only half understood. Salem Chapel makes no claim to show the impact of Dissent on English life. There can be no kind of comparison, for instance, with George Eliot’s treatment of Methodism in Adam Bede. Non-conformism is not even shown as a significant moral force. ‘As a matter of fact,’ Mrs Oliphant admitted, ‘I knew nothing about chapels, but took the sentiment and a few details from our old church in Liverpool, which was Free Church of Scotland, and where there were a few grocers and other such good folk whose ways with the ministers were wonderful to behold.’ One of her earlier editors, W. Robertson Nicholl, pointed out that she got several of these details wrong. But this, even if she had realized it, would not have deterred Mrs Oliphant.
What she did understand, from the depths of her Scottish being, was the power of the spoken word as a communication from heart to heart. Arthur Vincent’s progress as a preacher, through the length of the book, is from mere eloquence to a painful success (which he no longer wants) before an assembly that ‘scarcely dares draw breath.’ In the second place, Salem, as she presents it, is a small community which, however comfortable and unassuming it is, claims a power that may be beyond the human range. Her concern is still with the urgent question that she had raised in The Rector: what does it mean for a man, living among men, to call himself their priest? Vincent has received his title to ordination, not from a bishop, but from the vote of the congregation itself, and when he first arrives in Carlingford he is proud of this. He agrees to deliver a course of lectures attacking the Church of England, a hierarchy paid for by the State. But the experience of ministry makes him question not only what he is doing, but who he is. If he is answerable to God for the souls of human beings, can these same human beings hold authority over him?
Almost certainly Mrs Oliphant had in mind two great unorthodox Scottish ministers, Edward Irving and George Macdonald, both rejected for heresy by their congregations. Only a year earlier, in 1860, she had been writing her memoir of Irving, in which she let fly, with generous indignation, at the ‘homely old men, unqualified for deciding any question which required clear heads,’ who had passed judgement on the great preacher. And Arthur Vincent, like Irving, comes to dream of a universal Church, with Christ as its only head, ‘not yet realised, but surely real.’ Irving, however, was the son of a tanner, and Macdonald the son of a crofter. Both of them were giants of men, with their own primitive grandeur, quite unlike the dapper young man from Homerton. But the distant echo of their battles can be heard in Salem Chapel.