Posts Tagged ‘sib7’

So, a little confession to make. It’s been so long since I read The Second Sex that I don’t remember much about the style it’s written in. But, I have read Sartre lately, and I have a general idea of the type of writing done by the French feminists, and this book wasn’t what I was expecting. It is a deeply personal, extremely intimate relation of de Beauvoir’s experience of her mother’s death. And it is beautiful.

Amazement. When my father died I did not cry at all. I had said to my sister, “It will be the same for Maman.” I had understood all my sorrows until that night: even when they flowed over my head I recognized myself in them. This time my despair escaped from my control: someone other than myself was weeping in me. I talked to Sartre about my mother’s mouth as I had seen it that morning and about everything I had interpreted in it – greediness refused, an almost servile humility, hope, distress, loneliness – the loneliness of her death and of her life – that did not want to admit its existence. And he told me that my own mouth was not obeying me any more. I had put Maman’s mouth on my own face and in spite of myself, I copied its movements. Her whole person, her whole being, was concentrated there, and compassion wrung my heart.

Mme de Beauvoir broke her leg, and when she went to the hospital they found a tumor. There was an operation, but she lived in the hospital for four weeks before dying. She loved life, quite passionately, and despite her devotion to religion she dreaded the idea of death. No one tells her that she had cancer; they focus on how her leg is healing. But when the ship of life drifts gradually into death’s harbor, the passengers aren’t fooled. She knows, and she relies on her daughters to protect her, but they can’t save her life.

The issues that de Beauvoir raises about the medical profession seem to me to continue to be in effect here in the United States, fifty years later. Doctors do whatever the hell they want, without any attention to the patient’s wishes. She doesn’t want to suffer? Well, we can keep her alive for a few more weeks, so we’re going to. They spend so much time in contact with other people’s sufferings that they don’t feel for them anymore. And if a patient is terminal and wants to just go ahead and die, they will hold the struggler in this life no matter what she wants. It reminds me a bit of the mother at the end of Coleridge’s “Frost at Midnight,” the one who is deleted in some versions of the poem:

Like those, my babe! which ere tomorrow’s warmth

Have capp’d their sharp keen points with pendulous drops,

Will catch thine eye, and with their novelty

Suspend thy little soul; then make thee shout,

And stretch and flutter from thy mother’s arms

As thou wouldst fly for very eagerness.

Coleridge’s son wants to leap at the icicles and catch their lucent beauty, but his mother holds onto the child, protecting him from a fall but keeping him from flying. I’m not saying that six-month-olds can fly; I’m saying their mothers won’t let them try.

My infrequent contact with Western medicine leads me to believe that things haven’t changed much. The ex and I spent some good time talking through a birth plan with the midwife, who then ignored the whole thing when the birth happened, to the point that she used a lubricant that the ex was allergic to. There are some areas of the body where no one wants an allergic reaction, particularly when that part has just been stretched to expel a larger-than-average head. But doctors don’t care. I think that, instead of healing people, their mission is to avoid malpractice suits. They’re good at that, but it means that the healing can become less important than the procedures.

Mme de Beauvoir completely loses herself, clinging to life at the doctor’s behest. She defined herself by her religion, but she stopped praying and refused to see priests for her last rites. She was too modest to be comfortable with her daughter living in sin with a philosopher, but when the nurses turned her to prevent bedsores, she flashed her genitals at the entire room without a thought. She said that she’d rather die early than suffer long, but she was still in pain while on the maximum dose of morphine yet refusing to die. To give an indication of her suffering, her body was excreting urea through her pores because she had ceased to function properly, and it was getting into and infecting her bedsores. Her life became awful, her daughter saw her as a living corpse, but no one had the courage to defy the medical institution. We are trained to knuckle under to authority, so we do.

I worry about my mother sometimes. A while back she said that she felt that all she had left to do was make sure her children were taken care of, by which she meant married. At the time, only my youngest brother was single, so I was worried that she was ready to pop off at any time. Now my sister and I are both divorced, so I guess my mother will live until we remarry. I don’t imagine she’ll recognize any gay marriage, so if that’s her criteria, I can keep my mother alive forever. And I didn’t realize until I wrote that sentence how much I believe my mother’s life and happiness depend on me.

De Beauvoir had a troubled relationship with her mother. She inherited all her mother’s vitality, but she didn’t have the childhood that continually beat her down and made her dependent on others, so she became a famous writer, even though everyone knew that she was living in sin. Her mother was proud of her success and ashamed of the scandal that made it possible. My relationship with my mother is hardly straightforward (click on the word mom in the tag cloud on the left there to read more), and she also loves me and is proud of my professional success even though she can’t stomach my private life. And de Beauvoir and I both love our irritating mothers. We don’t want them to die, but we don’t want them to suffer either, and if I am ever faced with this decision, I will probably freeze up too. The difference is, I’m the fifth of seven children, so when it comes time to decide things, my opinion will hardly matter. I doubt it will be asked for or listened to.

I am tempted to send this book to my mother, but I fear it would be misunderstood. Would she hear that this is a book about filial regret? I’d like to have a closer relationship with my mother, but so much about her puts me off – her politics, her religion, her voracious consumption of her children’s love, her need to be needed by us, her way of making me feel like her cats are more important to her than I am – that it’s hard for me to reach out more than I do. I let her know when there are major changes in my life, such as moving to a new state or starting a new job, but otherwise, we talk once or twice a year, which is plenty enough for me. Few people enjoy bad news so much; her excitement in relating family tragedies gets me depressed. And yet, my mother loves her life in a way that she never did when I was young. It started when she quit teaching and worked as a hospital secretary instead, and now since her retirement, it’s only getting stronger. This were rough for a while, as she battled with feeling useless without her job, but now she spends so much time with her sister and her grandchildren that she’s happy most of the time. And if my cousins can produce another interracial illegitimate child, that’ll feed her sense of moral superiority and make everything just that little bit better. Besides, it looks like my baby brother may actually be getting married soon. A marriage for each of seven children is no small accomplishment (not that she did anything to produce these marriages, and a third of them have failed, but I won’t remind her of that).

I’m knitting my mother a winter hat, at her request, but I wish there were more ways that I could show her that I love her that don’t make me depressed. Maybe if I see her dying I’ll react as de Beauvoir does, I’ll discover a desire for closeness that overrides the personality issues that keep us apart. Maybe I don’t have to wait that long.

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Yeah, I should have seen this coming. I know that Edith Wharton writes endings that are right, satisfying because you can’t imagine her stories ending any other way, but not happy. I often wish things could have happened differently, but no. They never do.

In some ways, this story felt a lot like it was written by William Faulkner. No stream-of-consciousness or insanity, that losing of one’s grip on the passage of time that is so important for him, but the plot and characters could be his, if he had been writing fifteen years earlier. Wharton generally gives us a view of wealthy society in New York around the turn of the century, but in Summer New York is only ever mentioned once, as too far away to be imagined. We’re dealing with very small towns in rural New England; Springfield, Massachusetts is the height of splendor in their world, a place that is important in the town imagination but that we never reach. The protagonist’s rich rival Annabel Balch lives there, and she and the town represent everything that Charity wants in her life but cannot have.

Once upon a time, a loose woman named Mary went on off up the Mountain with one of them, a criminal named Hyatt. (They’re all named Hyatt up there.) She lived out the rest of her life in poverty and squalor with the Mountain people. When her lover gets sent to jail, the lawyer decides to take their daughter and raise her in the town. Thus Charity Royall grows up with all the comforts of one of the best houses in town, and the acute knowledge that she doesn’t belong there. She’s one of the shiftless heathens from up the Mountain, and she’ll never be anything else because she lives in a gossipy small town with a long memory.

The story begins (as love stories should) in a library.

Suddenly the door opened, and before she had raised her eyes she knew that the young man she had seen going in at the Hatchard gate had entered the library.

Without taking any notice of her he began to move slowly about the long vault-like room, his hands behind his back, his short-sighted eyes peering up and down the rows of rusty bindings. At length he reached the desk and stood before her.

“Have you a card-catalogue?” he asked in a pleasant abrupt voice; and the oddness of the question caused her to drop her work.

“A what?

“Why, you know –“ He broke off, and she became conscious that he was looking at her for the first time, having apparently, on his entrance, included her in the general short-sighted survey as part of the furniture of the library.

The fact that, in discovering her, he lost the thread of his remark, did not escape her attention, and she looked down and smiled. He smiled also.

Back in the day when card catalogues represented the newest information technology, Charity reluctantly keeps the local library so that she can earn enough money to get out of her little town. Instead, she falls in love. Rumors fly, nothing stays secret, and at the end of the summer he leaves again. The story is simple enough, told many times, but Wharton uses it for a frank representation of attitudes toward sex. She’s writing in 1917, so we don’t get to watch like we did in Lady Chatterley’s Lover, but her characters’ thoughts and actions seem rather contemporary. Everyone does it. Everyone knows that everyone does it. No one really feels bad about it. But they feel like they ought to make everyone else feel bad for doing it. The culture creates a situation where a man can sexually abuse the girl living in his house and still remain a pillar of the community, but if she has consensual sex with a boy she loves, then she becomes a pariah. The abortion clinic in the next town over seems pretty successful, financially speaking.

There are three kinds of women: bad women who do it shamelessly, decent women who do it privately, and old maids who don’t do it at all. But there’s only one kind of man: they take their opportunities where they find them without any thought for consequences.

Charity among her own people on the Mountain makes me think of Temple Drake at the Old Frenchman’s place. She has the same fish-out-of-water feeling that would become disdain if it could overcome its own shock. Isolated mountain communities are pretty much the same, whether they’re out in Yoknapatawpha County or up by the border with New Hampshire. They provide a cautionary tale, but like Annabel Balch, they’re more important in their effect on Charity than for anything they actually do.

This story interests me personally because I used to live there. I try to remember that period of my life sometimes, but I never come up with much. That was the last time we lived in a house that was really large enough for all of us, and I really feel as if I ought to remember when my youngest brother was born, but all I get is an image of looking down on what seems like twelve feet of snow from an upper-story window. When you’re little, everything looks big, and I was smaller than average until high school.

My parents are both from the Baltimore-Washington area, but in 1983 my dad was working for the Marriott hotel chain and they transferred him to Springfield. Less than a year later, we skedaddled back down to the South, but somehow my pronunciation got stuck. My family tells me that I had a real thick Boston accent at first; it’s calmed down to regular New England (I’ve learned to pronounce the letter R), but I’ve never picked up the Southernness that almost all the rest of them have. In 2008 I worked briefly with someone from Boston, and I could feel my pronunciation changing to match his, like iron filings shaping themselves around an electromagnet. I hear it in words like dog or talk, when in my mouth they become dowag or towak instead of dawg and tawk. But I do use a lot of Southern words for things, so in the end I don’t feel as if my speech belongs here or there. I try to place myself on a dialect map of the United States, and only come to the conclusion that no one talks like I do.

Summer is a nice little book, a bit sad but nice. It’ll do to while away a few hours in the tub, away from the nearly omnipotent social pressure that Charity has to deal with. I don’t think she makes good choices, but then, she doesn’t actually read the books in her library, does she?

According to Hardy’s own preface, this was meant to be a bit of a joke, a funny story between the more dramatic Far From the Madding Crowd and The Return of the Native. Don’t let that make you think it’s any shorter than the others; it’s quite as long as any late Victorian novel can expect to be. And personally, I didn’t think the joke was very funny. I’ve spent too much time on the edges of society to be amused by the struggles inherent in the position.

In some ways, this book feels a little like a sequel; the exposition is pretty serious, as in Jane Austen’s Persuasion. Four years ago, Christopher Julian was in love with Ethelberta Chickerel. He was rich and she was a butler’s daughter, so nothing came of it. Instead, she married even further above herself; her husband died a few weeks later, still a minor, so she was sort of adopted into the in-laws’ family. Now he’s fallen in the world; she’s the young, wealthy, beautiful widow Mrs Petherwin, and he’s just Kit Julian, the local music teacher and church organist. It seems like they’d be a good fit for each other, but one of Hardy’s jokes is the way that things build up and then come to nothing.

‘I thought at one time that our futures might have been different from what they are apparently becoming,’ he said then, regarding her as a stall-reader regards the brilliant book he cannot afford to buy. ‘But one gets weary of repining about that.

In the end, he gets a happy finish, a happier one than Ethelberta gets, I believe.

Ethelberta is not a woman to be envied.

A talent for demureness under difficulties without the cold-bloodedness which renders such a bearing natural and easy, a face and hand reigning unmoved outside a heart by nature turbulent as a wave, is a constitutional arrangement much to be desired by people in general; yet, had Ethelberta been framed with less of that gift in her, her life might have been more comfortable as an experience, and brighter as an example, though perhaps duller as a story.

She’s precisely the type that people enjoy reading about, but very few would actually want to be. She was always intelligent and sensitive, so her family gave her a better education than her brothers and sisters received. She became a teacher, then a governess, then married the boss’s son and became a lady. She’s acutely aware of how precarious her social position is and is determined to keep that position no matter the cost. During the first third of the story, she lives with her mother-in-law with a cover story to explain where she came from, so she’s fairly secure and has time to say things like:

Well, no; for what between continually wanting to love, to escape the blank lives of those who do not, and wanting not to love, to keep out of the miseries of those who do, I get foolishly warm and foolishly cold by turns.

But when the mother-in-law dies, she has to shift for herself. How does a single woman work without losing her social position? This is the 1870s, not the 2010s, so this is a serious question for her. The dilemma is easier to understand if we see the social position not only as a circle of friends, but as an identity. Ethelberta is struggling to maintain the vision she has of herself, to continue being the person she truly believes herself to be. It’s more serious than most modern readers would consider.

Persons waging a harassing social fight are apt in the interest of the combat to forget the smallness of the end in view; and the hints that perishing historical remnants afforded her of the attenuating effects of time even upon great struggles corrected the apparent scale of her own. She was reminded that in a strife for such a ludicrously small object as the entry of drawing-rooms, winning, equally with losing, is below the zero of the true philosopher’s concern.

She’s apparently not a true philosopher, because this is only a brief flash on her consciousness. She sets herself up running a rooming house for wealthy, respectable foreigners; since she can’t advertise too extensively (she can’t seem to need money), it never pays well. She supplements her income by becoming a public storyteller, one step removed from an actress. That one step preserves her respectability and position. Unfortunately, she doesn’t go about it sensibly; one show a week, or a fortnight, would keep her audience coming back and preserve the novelty of the entertainment. Going out every night, people get used to it. She loses her popularity and her position declines.

She stood there, as all women stand who have made themselves remarkable by their originality, or devotion to any singular cause, as a person freed of her hampering and inconvenient sex, and, by virtue of her popularity, unfettered from the conventionalities of manner prescribed by custom for household womankind. The charter to move abroad unchaperoned, which society for good reasons grants only to women of three sorts – the famous, the ministering, and the improper – Ethelberta was in a fair way to make splendid use of: instead of walking in protected lanes she experienced that luxury of isolation which normally is enjoyed by men alone, in conjunction with the attention naturally bestowed on a woman young and fair.

And thank God for the improper. They introduce the world to new possibilities. They may be shunned for their audacity, but they are eventually copied and end up setting the ton of the next age. There is no question for Hardy that the fact of her being a woman is the defining feature of her life. As a man, Ethelberta would have been able to fight up the social ladder through education and success in some public enterprise; as a woman, the education is indispensable, but success in public enterprise would prevent her attaining the position she’s after. For a woman to be a public personality is too vulgar. Her only avenue to success is marriage.

Which is why poor Kit doesn’t stand a chance. It doesn’t matter how she feels about him – he’s not moving in the right circles any more. There are several other suitors to her hand, but she doesn’t love any of them and she’s afraid that they wouldn’t love her if they knew about her family. The poor old woman who ‘owns’ the rooming house where she lives is really her mother; the cook and the housemaid are her older sisters; the footman is her fourteen-year-old brother. And her father, of course, is still butler to one of the gentry’s best families.

I could really feel where Ethelberta is coming from, for most of the book. My parents were not well suited to one another – my father started working on a farm when he was fourteen, and the highest he ever rose was to an HVAC technician, the kind of maintenance worker who fixes your heating and air conditioning. My mother studied French and Latin at school and became a teacher, one of the most respectable positions for middle-class American women in the late 1960s. But pregnant women couldn’t teach in elementary schools in the early 1970s, so she had to leave work before my oldest brother was born. Then followed more than a decade of poor financial decisions, six more children, and a divorce. I grew up with a sense of decayed grandeur, surrounded by the feeling that we’re somehow better than the other people in our economic position and the only way to get what I truly deserve is to get a scholarship to a good university, work hard, get a good job, and never come back to rural North Carolina again. I wanted my mother to be proud of me, so I did get the scholarship and work hard, though the rest of that hasn’t quite played out. Some of my siblings got out like I did, but others accepted the reduced circumstances and found work as electricians and auto mechanics. Ethelberta’s family accepts her snobbery and the inequality of their positions, but my family hasn’t been quite as successful. We’re all pretty sensitive, so the fact that our ambitions have led in different directions has created some possibly irreparable conflicts. I try to keep peaceful relations with everyone. It’s not always easy to mix with the more country siblings because I still talk like I’m from Massachusetts, but I find that the rewards are worth the effort. My oldest brother’s wife has invited me to stay with them when I come Down East for Christmas, and this weekend my youngest brother drove twelve hours in one day so that he could see me for about ninety minutes. He’s been listening to the news, so he’s been worried about IS detaining or killing me. He held me so tight – I have a hard time believing in my ability to produce such intensity of feeling, but I can’t doubt that it’s there. The friends I’m staying with were impressed with our similarities: they knew one of my more ambitious brothers ten years ago, and apparently #3 and I have enough resemblance that you can see it, but #7 and I look like we’ve spent years studying each other to get our mannerisms exactly identical. Yet he loves big trucks, Mustangs, and wearing baseball caps, and I read Thomas Hardy novels when I’m vacationing in Paris or São Paulo. Cultural differences that arise from economic disparity may determine whom we feel comfortable living with, but with a little forbearance and good manners, those differences don’t have to limit whom we love.

Hardy’s characters don’t necessarily practice the forbearance unless it’s within their own family circle. Ethelberta’s brother and future brother-in-law end up traveling together one night, and the carpenter and the peer don’t really see eye to eye.

If every man of title was as useful as you are to-night, sir, I’d never call them lumber again as long as I live.’

‘How singular!’

‘There’s never a bit of rubbish that won’t come in use if you keep it seven years.’

In the final third of the novel, Ethelberta’s secret is in danger of getting out, so she determines that a hasty marriage is the only solution.

Life is a battle, they say; but it is only so in the sense that a game of chess is a battle – there is no seriousness in it; it may be put an end to at any inconvenient moment by owning yourself beaten, with a careless “Ha-ha!” and sweeping your pieces into the box.

Hardy says this, but Ethelberta can’t own herself beaten. She can’t see her quest for social position as unimportant or a game. She’s serious; she plays for keeps. She angles for the guy with the highest title, even though he’s older than her dad and has a very low character. Toward the end the novel gets a little Radcliffean, with the vicious viscount in the castle with the beautiful young heroine married in ignorance and partially against her will, but it turns out all right. This book is supposed to be funny, after all.

There are some jokes I appreciated, but they’re generally one-liners.

Ethelberta breathed a sort of exclamation, not right out, but stealthily, like a parson’s damn.

Or

‘O Joey, you wicked boy! If mother only knew that you smoked!’

‘I don’t mind the wickedness so much as the smell.

Or

Like the British Constitution, she owes her success in practice to her inconsistencies in principle.

There’s one little piece that I enjoyed because it seems so realistic, and I think must have happened rather frequently, despite its absence from most novels. Two maids and a footman have just prepared the upper dining room for the dinner in the middle of a ball, and while the quality are dancing on the lower floor,

Away then ran the housemaid and Menlove, and the young footman started at their heels. Round the room, over the furniture, under the furniture, out of one window, along the balcony, in at another window, again round the room – so they glided with the swiftness of swallows and the noiselessness of ghosts. Then the housemaid drew a jew’s harp from her pocket, and struck up a lively waltz sotto voce. The footman seized Menlove, who appeared nothing loth, and began spinning gently round the room with her, to the time of the fascinating measure

‘Which fashion hails, from countesses to queens,
And maids and valets dance behind the scenes.’

One of the most important messages of the novel is the reminder that servants are real people too. They may be treated like furniture, but the only difference between them and their supposed masters is the accident of birth. Their emotional lives are as rich, their pleasures both as simple and as complex. A good servant can still be a man of feeling who takes a bit of fun when no one’s looking.

Hardy introduces some new vocabulary that I like, such as ‘man-famine.’ In the 1870s, young men were being sent out to the colonies to build the empire, so there weren’t many at home. Another example of the hidden effect of imperialism that Said talks about. He also gives us the word ‘indifferentist,’ which I rather like. It seems to imply not only that someone doesn’t care about a given situation, but that he’s studied his indifference and employs it as a tool.

There are also some passages that strike me as beautiful, even in a book that treats serious questions of gender and class as jokes. When Christopher Julian meets Mr Chickerel for the first time, he responds to the family resemblance without knowing that this is Ethelberta’s father.

Ethelberta’s face was there, as the landscape is in the map, the romance in the history, the aim in the deed: denuded, rayless, and sorry, but discernible.

I’m kind of surprised that this novel isn’t more popular with the critics. Hardy is more explicit in his criticism of social structures and gender strictures than in his other books, so it would seem that the Marxists and feminists would have been all over it. But I guess not; some people can’t understand the concept of serious comedy.