Ronald Firbank, _Vainglory_

STRANGE TO THINK that this was published in 1915, the first full year of World War I, because it depicts characters and milieus about as removed as possible from the mud, blood, and shit of the Western Front trenches. Most of it is set among wealthy, leisured women--the wives of deans and bishops in the Church of England and other members of the upper-class--who are jockeying for position as to who will take the lead on providing a major new stained glass window for St. Dorothy's, the cathedral in Ashringham. 

The dictionary on my computer defines "vainglory" as "inordinate pride in oneself or one's achievements; excessive vanity," so Firbank's intentions may be satirical. The women are mainly interested in impressing or one-upping or undermining each other, with only the most superficial consideration for the dignity of the sacred. 

Much of the novel is dialogue. A short sample suggests the characters' typical preoccupations:

   "Such a pity not to have gone halves. You and Lady Castleyard together. A Beaumont and Fletcher--"

   "So, actually, you've come!"

   "What a wonderful wrap. My dear, what skins!"

   "In case you should feel faint at all in the night you'll find a lobster mayonnaise and some champagne in the vestry!"

   "Dear Lady Anne, how could you dream of such a thing?"

   "In the grey of dawn, when a thousand grinning fiends peer down on you, you may be very glad of a little something...."

Ashringham is a long way from Barchester, in many respects. But then Firbank is a long way from Trollope, apart from a shared interest in what a bishop's wife may get up to. Firbank seems scarcely more interested in the nation's spiritual wellbeing than any of his characters do, and much more interested in creating and sustaining a sphere of studied artificiality that has nothing to do with anything but itself. Which almost makes him sound like Mallarmé...but he's not exactly that, either. 

Lady Barrow lolled languidly in her mouse-eaten library, a volume of Mediaeval Tortures (with plates) propped up against her knee. In fancy, her husband was well pinned down and imploring for mercy at Figure 3.

So suppose we had a Venn diagram with circles representing Trollope, Mallarmé, and Wilde. That little corner where all three intersect is where Firbank hangs out.