Race and the Warden
How a Victorian Novel That Has Nothing Whatever to Do with Race Can Help Us Reckon with Our Own White Privilege
Like many of you, I’ve felt the crushing weight of events this last week, and like many of you, I’ve been struggling to make sense of them in ways that are faithful to the Gospel. My reaction has often been to oscillate between aggressive confrontation of these evils (Facebook posts!) and a retreat to escapism (Netflix!). But oddly enough, I’ve found something of a convergence between these impulses in meditating on a novel I read with my students this spring for my course “Wealth and Poverty in the Christian Tradition,” a course I teach regularly at Furman. And so I thought I’d put pen to paper, so to speak, and share some of these thoughts. Maybe, like me, you’re looking for a break from the oppressive news cycle, and the escapism of some summer reading outside your ordinary literary habits would be welcome (unless you’re already a member of the small but devoted band of Trollopians!). I hope this won’t disappoint, and I hope that it might also help us think a little bit more clearly about what kind of character is required of us in these turbulent times.
I’d like to introduce you to a friend of mine, the Rev. Septimus Harding, precentor of Barchester Cathedral, in the west of England. (A “precentor” is what Victorian Anglicans used to call an ordained clergyman whose job it was to lead the choir; we would call him a worship leader.) But I’m afraid he does not cut an impressive figure at first glance:
“Mr. Harding is a small man, now verging on sixty years, but bearing few signs of age; his hair is rather grizzled, though not grey; his eye is very mild, but clear and, bright, though the double glasses which are held swinging from his hand, unless when fixed upon his nose, show that time has told upon his sight; his hands are delicately white, and both hands and feet are small; he always wears a black frock coat, black knee-breeches, and black gaiters, and somewhat scandalises some of his more hyper-clerical brethren by a black neck handkerchief.”
As I said, not a very imposing figure. Nor can I say that his career has been exactly brilliant, though not without a certain faithful competence in his own way:
“Mr. Harding’s warmest admirers cannot say that he was ever an industrious man; the circumstances of his life have not called on him to be so; and yet he can hardly be called an idler. . . . He has greatly improved the choir of Barchester, which, under his dominion, now rivals that of any cathedral in England. He has taken something more than his fair share in the cathedral services, and has played the violoncello daily to such audiences as he could collect, or, faute de mieux, to no audience at all.”
This description comes from the opening chapter of Anthony Trollope’s short novel, The Warden, published in 1855. The first of six novels chronicling ecclesiastical life in the (alas!) fictitious diocese of Barsetshire in Victorian England, The Warden tells the story of a Church of England clergyman forced to confront the sources of his own wealth and privilege in a time of rapid cultural change. As such, I think his story—and more importantly, his character—speak to our own moment in some pretty direct and powerful ways. But first, I need to say a bit more about Mr. Harding’s dilemma.
In addition to leading worship at the cathedral, Mr. Harding was also appointed, some years back, as the warden of Hiram’s Hospital, an almshouse established in the fifteenth century for the care of impoverished retirees from the local wool-working trade. John Hiram, whose generosity first endowed the hospital with lands and capital for its ongoing support, had specified in his will that twelve bedesmen should be granted free room and board, as well as a small fixed income from the endowment to cover their miscellaneous expenses. The remainder of the proceeds from the endowment should then be used to support a resident clergyman, who would attend to the physical and spiritual needs of his wards.
Over the four centuries following John Hiram’s death, the value of the property he left to the hospital grew beyond his wildest dreams, with the result that the wardenship of the hospital has become one of the most valuable preferments in the west of England. At the time Mr. Harding was granted the position by his dear friend, the Bishop, he was earning a mere £80 per year as a precentor at the cathedral. The wardenship, however, granted him free lodging in a spacious home attached to the hospital, as well as the fabulous income of £800 per year. To put that in terms of current value, an income of £80 might be roughly equivalent to an annual salary of $60,000 in today’s dollars—a living wage, to be sure, though hardly ostentatious for a man supporting two daughters. An income of £880—the duties of the warden not being so demanding as to prevent Mr. Harding from faithfully carrying those of precentor at the same time—would amount to an annual income of more than $700,000 a year today.
Mr. Harding, we are told, never sought this position—indeed he tried to talk the Bishop out of the appointment when it was first offered him. And there is every indication that he has handled his newfound wealth with grace and humility, attending to the needs of his bedesmen with great devotion and even voluntarily increasing their meager allowance from his own ample funds. Indeed, Mr. Harding is such a kind-hearted, gentle soul, that even though the occasional whisper is heard in town questioning whether John Hiram’s will is really being executed according to its founder’s intent, most of the townsfolk are unwilling to trouble Mr. Harding’s conscience on the matter.
Except, that is, for John Bold. A surgeon by training, in reality Mr. Bold is what was called in the nineteenth century a “reformer;” today, we might call him a “social justice warrior.” Consider the following description:
“John Bold is a clever man, and would, with practice, be a clever surgeon; but he has got quite into another line of life. Having enough to live on, he has not been forced to work for bread; he has declined to subject himself to what he calls the drudgery of the profession, by which, I believe, he means the general work of a practising surgeon; and has found other employment. . . . His passion is the reform of all abuses; state abuses, church abuses, corporation abuses (he has got himself elected a town councillor of Barchester, and has so worried three consecutive mayors, that it became somewhat difficult to find a fourth), abuses in medical practice, and general abuses in the world at large. Bold is thoroughly sincere in his patriotic endeavours to mend mankind, and there is something to be admired in the energy with which he devotes himself to remedying evil and stopping injustice; but I fear that he is too much imbued with the idea that he has a special mission for reforming. It would be well if one so young had a little more diffidence himself, and more trust in the honest purposes of others—if he could be brought to believe that old customs need not necessarily be evil, and that changes may possibly be dangerous; but no, Bold has all the ardour and all the self-assurance of a Danton, and hurls his anathemas against time-honoured practices with the violence of a French Jacobin.”
Mr. Bold—who, I must also add, is in love with Mr. Harding’s youngest daughter, Eleanor—has taken it into his head that Mr. Harding cannot in justice be entitled to so vast a sum as £880 per annum from the proceeds of a charitable endowment, and he has launched a campaign to reform the institution and effect a more equitable distribution of its proceeds. This he has done by hiring attorneys to launch a legal investigation (at his own expense), while at the same time drumming up public outrage in the press against the established church and its vampire-like predations on the poor. In so doing, Mr. Bold has made it clear that he intends no aspersions on Mr. Harding’s character—indeed, Mr. Bold holds him in the highest personal esteem, and despite being at odds with him over this matter, hopes soon to claim him as a father-in-law. However, matters have spiraled out of control and gone viral, so to speak: Mr. Bold’s campaign has caught the attention of the editors at The Jupiter, and now poor Mr. Harding is mortified to have become the object of derision for some 100,000 readers of England’s most powerful tabloid.
But Mr. Harding is not without his defenders. Chief among these is his son-in-law, the Rev. Theophilus Grantly, Archdeacon of Barchester and Rector of Plumstead Episcopi—
“…a fitting impersonation of the church militant here on earth; his shovel hat, large, new, and well-pronounced, a churchman’s hat in every inch, declared the profession as plainly as does the Quaker’s broad brim; his heavy eyebrow, large, open eyes, and full mouth and chin expressed the solidity of his order; the broad chest, amply covered with fine cloth, told how well to do was his estate; one hand ensconced within his pocket, evinced the practical hold which our mother church keeps on her temporal possessions; and the other, loose for action, was ready to fight if need be for her defense; and, below these, the decorous breeches and neat black gaiters showing so admirably that well-turned leg, betokened the decency, the outward beauty, and grace of our church establishment.”
With so doughty a culture warrior at his side, Mr. Harding should have no fear from the likes of John Bold or The Jupiter. And indeed, despite the occasional amusement one must feel at the Archdeacon’s pomposity and self-importance, one cannot help but admire his determination and sheer competence in defending the Church’s interests. I don’t want to give too many spoilers, but it is critical to my thesis to observe that Archdeacon Grantly is ultimately successful driving Mr. Bold and his supporters from the field. No less a personage than Sir Abraham Haphazard, the Attourney General himself, renders the infallible view that Mr. Bold’s grievance is utterly without legal basis, and indeed, Mr. Bold has no legal standing to question the Church’s administration of its own funds.
With this bare outline before us, one might think that Mr. Harding would justly exult in his vindication: a decisive victory in the inns at court, as well as in the court of public opinion; his tormentor vanquished, humbly begging his (and his daughter’s) pardon; his friends, family, and professional colleagues all rallying to his defense. And yet, Mr. Harding is uneasy in his conscience. More than uneasy, in fact: despite the unqualified support of the law, his family, and his profession, he has come to conclusion that he cannot justly keep the wardenship. Here is how he announces his intention to the incredulous Attourney General, to renounce his benefice:
Sir Abraham listened in pitying wonder. “I really think, Mr. Harding, you had better wait for the archdeacon. This is a most serious step—one for which, in my opinion, there is not the slightest necessity; and, as you have done me the honour of asking my advice, I must implore you to do nothing without the approval of your friends. A man is never the best judge of his own position.”
“A man is the best judge of what he feels himself. I’d sooner beg my bread till my death than read such another article as those two that have appeared [in The Jupiter], and feel, as I do, that the writer has truth on his side.”
“Have you not a daughter, Mr. Harding—an unmarried daughter?”
“I have,” said he, now standing also, but still playing away on his fiddle with his hand behind his back. “I have, Sir Abraham; and she and I are completely agreed on this subject.”
“Pray excuse me, Mr. Harding, if what I say seems impertinent; but surely it is you that should be prudent on her behalf. She is young, and does not know the meaning of living on an income of a hundred and sixty pounds a year. On her account give up this idea. Believe me, it is sheer Quixotism.” The warden walked away to the window, and then back to his chair; and then, irresolute what to say, took another turn to the window. The attorney-general was really extremely patient, but he was beginning to think that the interview had been long enough.
“But if this income be not justly mine, what if she and I have both to beg?” said the warden at last, sharply, and in a voice so different from that he had hitherto used, that Sir Abraham was startled. “If so, it would be better to beg.”
“My dear sir, nobody now questions its justness.”
“Yes, Sir Abraham, one does question it—the most important of all witnesses against me—I question it myself. My God knows whether or no I love my daughter; but I would sooner that she and I should both beg, than that she should live in comfort on money which is truly the property of the poor. It may seem strange to you, Sir Abraham, it is strange to myself, that I should have been ten years in that happy home, and not have thought of these things till they were so roughly dinned into my ears. I cannot boast of my conscience, when it required the violence of a public newspaper to awaken it; but, now that it is awake, I must obey it.”
I have taken such pains in exposition here because both Mr. Harding’s predicament and his character are essential to my point. Mr. Harding has the letter of the law on his side, and eventually, public opinion begins to swing his direction as well, against the obnoxious SJW and his self-righteous campaign. He is under tremendous pressure from friends and colleagues not to act so rashly and imprudently as to throw away so generous an income, and yet that is precisely what he does. He renounces his benefice, moves out of his comfortable home, and takes up a small room in town suitable to his straitened circumstances.
So what does any of this have to do with white privilege?
Nothing. And everything. After all, privilege, like money, is a form of power. It is the unseen, unfelt wind at the backs of white people, a form of cultural capital that makes our lives easier, more comfortable, more secure. But it is no less real for being unseen. Like Mr. Harding’s income, our privilege is encoded in law, supported by professional norms, and reinforced by dense webs of unwritten cultural habits. Above all, and most excruciatingly, it is bound up with our family lives. By renouncing his benefice, Mr. Harding was putting his own daughter’s future at risk: no more carriage, no more gentile independence, no servants, no dowry to secure a match at the social station to which she had become accustomed.
Dismantling white privilege will be no easier. It will mean, for example, that if our children have to compete on an equal footing with black and brown children for places in selective colleges and universities, prestige professions, or other places of social and political influence, they will have to work that much harder, and that hard work will of necessity be met with diminished returns. Is it any wonder that even with the best intentions, we waver like Mr. Harding at the point of decision, plying away on an imaginary fiddle behind our backs while we stammer out our excuses?
Like Mr. Harding, we are living in a moment when many of us have been awakened to the injustice of our claims to the power of our privilege. It is so much more tempting to take to the field with Archdeacon Grantly in defense of our position, or merely to give in to the soothing worldly wisdom of Sir Abraham Haphazard, content in the knowledge that “nobody now”—at least, nobody we care about—“questions its justness.”
But for many white Christians, these reassurances are beginning to ring increasingly hollow. We know that hanging on to this power and using it charitably is not enough. We know that we don’t have a right to this power, despite the fact that we’ve done nothing that is legally wrong. We didn’t ask for this power, we inherited it. Even if it was constructed with appalling injustice and brutality on the backs of African slaves, that was all very long ago. Why should we suffer—why should our children suffer—for the sins of our ancestors who constructed this regime of white supremacy?
I suspect that there is no argument that will persuade everyone—certainly not those for whom faith is merely a cultural accoutrement or a prop for political identity. The Archdeacon Grantlys and Sir Abrahams of the world will always have their respectable Christian acolytes, law-and-order Christians more concerned about maintaining their place in the social pecking order than in faithfulness to the Gospel. But Christian faith has never primarily been a system of social or even ethical norms, but a way of life oriented to a particular story. And that story is irreducibly one of self-emptying love. Here’s how St. Paul summarized it in his epistle to the Philippians (2:5-7):
Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus,
who, though he was in the form of God,
did not regard equality with God
as something to be exploited,
but emptied himself,
taking the form of a slave.
This is why I find Mr. Harding’s story so compelling, why I’ve come to regard him as a “friend” ever since I first made his acquaintance: his character reflects with great clarity both the costs and the irony of Christian discipleship. Cost: because it often requires that we act against all good judgment, common sense, and political interest. Irony: because it often pits us against the very people who taught us these things and welcomed us into Christian community in the first place.
I’m not suggesting that this is the only book you should read this summer to help you think about race, nor even the most important. For many, the top priority should be reading one of the many helpful primers on racism and white privilege (like this or this), or attending more carefully to the many fine black writers and theologians who have been doing this work for more than a generation. The Warden does not give us any help in mapping out a practical template for dismantling systemic racism and white supremacy, and there are some excellent resources out there that do. After reading Mr. Harding’s story, we are no closer to answering the question that presses so hard at this moment: what do we do now? But if we believe that our actions are the fruit of our character, then I think it’s worth attending to lives—even fictional lives—that mirror the kind of character we need to answer the challenge of our urgent moment. Mr. Harding models for us the virtues of a fearless integrity that refuses the blandishments of self-serving comfort. His mild-mannered simplicity is worlds away from the chest-thumping toxic masculinity that seeks only to dominate others, but his courage and resolve show us that he has a backbone of steel.
Perhaps most importantly, Mr. Harding models for us the virtue of meekness—an overlooked virtue if ever there was one! The world is full of John Bolds. I suspect your Facebook and Twitter feeds are full of them right now. That’s OK. There are even a few of them in the Bible: Samuel, Nathan, Elijah, Jeremiah, Amos—even Jesus, on occasion (e.g., in Matthew 23-24). We need John Bolds. In fact, we ourselves may even need to engage in some “code switching” from time to time, playing the part of John Bold in speaking out against injustice, and the part of Mr. Harding in yielding to justice’s demands. But as disciples of Jesus, I think the latter role should be our default position, our first language. Because when the dust settles from the protests, dismantling white supremacy will require that we who benefit from it be willing to renounce some of our power and privilege. If we’re not willing to do that, none of the practical steps will matter. But if we are willing, we must be ready to react not with defensive ferocity, but with gentleness, with circumspection, and with a Christlike readiness to yield. We may not be able to boast of our consciences when it took George Floyd’s death to awaken them, but if we obey them, we may still inherit the earth.
Note: Interested in reading more? Trollope died a long time ago, so his works are all free! You can find a link to a nicely-formatted ebook here: https://standardebooks.org/ebooks/anthony-trollope/the-warden