Posts Tagged ‘smollett’

Sometimes reading a book reminds us of a friend so forcibly that we read the whole thing smiling.

Don’t worry that you’ve never heard of this book. It seems few have. The author published it about five years ago, and her only previous publication on Amazon is a book of poems from fifteen years prior. I enjoyed it rather a lot, so the fact that she doesn’t put something out every other year should be no deterrent. I rather like the idea of a novelist who doesn’t approach writing like a nine-to-five job. I’m not opposed to a slow, reticent muse.

This book is very similar to the picaresque adventures of Smollett and Fielding, which I suppose links them to Gil Blas and Don Quixote as well. Gabriella Mondini is a doctor in Venice in 1590. Trained by her father, of course, because how else would a woman get such an education in the sixteenth century? It turns out that many of the women in Venice prefer a woman as a doctor, a preference I fully understand, so she’s actually fairly successful. Unfortunately, the physicians’ guild is a jealous set, and they expel her from their ranks. It’s sort of fortunate, because ten years before her father had gone on a journey, and he recently wrote that he will not return. The Dottoressa’s goal, then is to travel across Europe in search of her father, in an effort to keep him from disappearing from her life.

The other goal is to finish the book. Her father began writing The Book of Diseases, a compendium of his lifetime of learning about medicine, but he is too disorganized to bring it to completion, so Gabriella has taken this task on as well. Many of the diseases sound more poetical or mythical than real, as are the cures, but if you look past the Renaissance point of view, she’s dealing with a variety of mental illnesses that happen in women who are constrained by the Renaissance point of view. The systematic and extreme thwarting of self-direction of half the population is going to throw society out of balance, and the thwarted individuals as well.

But one dank January, she would not return to us. Every afternoon for a month I visited Messalina, spoke to her, touched her arm or hand, but she didn’t respond. Once, in a moment of weakness, I confided to my friend an unforeseen yearning for other parts of the world. I confess that her silence encouraged me, and I began to work out my plans in the presence of her fixed demeanor. Other times I hoped that my schemes would draw her into my own imaginings or that my discontent would distract her from her own. But it became clear that I wasn’t helping her to recover. She was always seated at the window, her chin resting upon one solemn fist, her eyes blankly measuring nothing.

It seems that in literature, journeys always entail loss. This may be an American tradition – I’m thinking of Captain Ahab and the Bundrens – but often, we read about journeys, the characters lose whatever they brought with them. If the journey is a metaphor for life, then I guess we get filled full of garbage as children that we have to get rid of as adults. The journey is about losing tools, losing friends, until all the traveler has is her own body, which she has to disguise as a man to avoid being robbed, raped, or locked in a convent. Sometimes things come back, sometimes lovers come back, but those moments of joy cannot be expected or anticipated. Sometimes reunions are not as sweet as we had hoped.

The state of medicine in sixteenth century Europe is unrecognizable as medicine today. Part of it seems like sadism, forcing the patient to vomit, bleed, or defecate, and another part of it seems like magic, with rituals involving the position of the moon. The third bit is something we can hang onto, plant cures. Roots, herbs, flowers, many of the parts of plants can be used to cure diseases in humans and animals.

Though rue may be employed internally as a remedy for many ailments, among them headache, colic, and women’s lunar pains, and externally for gout, chilblains, and bruises, the water of rue is marvelous for sight and second sight. Writers, engravers, and artists relish the fresh herb with watercress and brown bread. Dabble the water around the eyes to settle murky vision and to summon foreknowledge in all things. The herb of sorrow is thus also the herb of grace, for the future already repents of its errors. Some also claim that rue repels plague, biting chiggers, and curses. The evil eye squints from the scent of rue.

And this is what her father’s ten-year journey was about, as well as her own training: finding a cure for his own mental illness. I’m not qualified to diagnose her father’s trouble, but he eventually lost all sense of his own identity and ended up a raving lunatic locked in a barn in Morocco. If she had known where he was, she could have skipped traveling through northern Europe in the middle of winter and she might have been able to help him before he needed locking up. But there are other things she would have missed, like the conception of her own child with a handsome Scotsman.

It may seem odd that there are no repercussions for conceiving a child out of wedlock, but people were more relaxed about things than they are now. People have become so polarized in their opinions that it’s hard for many to deal with someone whose life looks different than theirs. O’Melveny may be romanticizing or imagining the past differently than it was, but I really don’t have a problem with that. I do it often enough myself.

One of the reasons I was looking forward to going back to school was for the availability of mental health services, but now I have some anxiety about going to set an appointment. But I was meeting with my kids yesterday, and my eldest wanted to show me some of the things he’s learning in a martial arts elective at school, and it threw me off my internal balance like I was going back to PTSD-land, like I was in Texas. Maybe I do need to go looking for a cure to my own madness.

This book isn’t going to set the Thames on fire, but it’s good. There are so many feminist novels these days that it seems another one could get lost in the crowd, and that may be what happened to this one. But the book deserves to be read and loved, and not only by me.

Advertisements

When it comes to picaresque adventure novels, no one quite matches the Eighteenth Century. I’m thinking immediately of Tom Jones and Roderick Random, but I don’t mean to discount Gil Blas and Don Quixote. I know Don Quixote was earlier, but he was sort of the grandfather of the British heroic picaros. So when Stevenson started writing a novel about the famous Appin murder, it was a bit inevitable that things would move in this direction.

What famous Appin murder, you say? I’m glad you asked. Cast back in your mind to the seventeenth century. The Puritan government fell apart after the death of Cromwell, so they restored the monarchy by returning Charles II to the throne. When he died, the throne passed to his Catholic brother James. James was not popular with the people because they were afraid of having a Catholic king, so he had to flee the country. The monarchy was given to his daughter Mary and her husband William, and from them to his second daughter Anne, and from there to the distant cousin who became George I. However, James had a legitimate son, and this son tried to take back the throne in 1715. That son had a son of his own, who started another uprising in 1745. The Battle of Culloden ended these Jacobite claims to the throne, but did not end the partisan feelings between supporters of Bonny Prince Charlie and the Hanoverian king. In Appin, the land belonging to the Stewarts (relatives of Charles, James, etc) was confiscated and managed by the Campbells. Colin Roy Campbell of Glenure seems to have been fairly popular, despite his unfortunate position as Factor of the formerly Stewart lands. But, the Stewarts had to get rid of him to get their property back, so they shot him in 1752. It was widely believed that Alan Breck Stewart pulled the trigger, but he ran off to France, so James Stewart was hanged for it instead. The identity of the real shooter was kept as a family secret until the twenty-first century, when someone announced that James planned it all out, but that Donald Stewart was the real shooter. Two-hundred-fifty-year-old family secrets aren’t incredibly reliable, but that’s the information we have.

Stevenson’s story is of David Balfour, a seventeen-year-old boy denied his title and lands by a selfish uncle. The uncle pays a ship captain to kidnap him. He gets promoted to cabin boy when one of the mates kills the existing boy, and then they pick up Alan Breck, whose ship went down in the Hebrides. Alan and David team up to defeat the bad sailors, and then they travel together through the Highlands so that Alan can escape to France and David can regain what’s rightfully his. During a brief separation, David asks directions of a passing group of people, one of whom is Colin Roy Campbell, and the pause in their travel facilitates the Appin murder. Stevenson sets his story in 1751, a year early, but it’s the Appin murder all the same. David and Alan are both hounded through northern Scotland by the authorities, but everything turns out okay in the end.

Someone has written a gay erotic parody, and while I haven’t read it, I will say that the book lends itself especially well to such treatment. There is exactly one memorable female character, and she only appears for half a chapter. Her role is to be manipulated into providing them with food, drink, and a ride across the loch. A strong lass, she manages the oars herself, but the author doesn’t dignify her with a name. Most of the book is about the close relationship between Alan Breck and David Balfour, the way that Alan takes care of David when he’s sick and teaches him swordfighting when he’s well. For part of the time that they travel, they sleep together under a single coat, which implies some tight spooning. And, when he’s describing their relationship, it starts to sound like the way I feel about mine:

The thought of a separation ran always the stronger in my mind; and the more I approved of it, the more ashamed I grew of my approval. It would be a fine, handsome, generous thing, indeed, for Alan to turn round and say to me: “Go, I am in the most danger, and my company only increases yours.” But for me to turn to the friend who certainly loved me, and say to him: “You are in great danger, I am in but little; your friendship is a burden; go, take your risks and bear your hardships alone –” no, that was impossible; and even to think of it privily to myself, made my cheeks to burn.

And yet Alan had behaved like a child, and (what is worse) a treacherous child. Wheedling my money from me while I lay half-conscious was scarce better than theft; and yet here he was trudging by my side, without a penny to his name, and by what I could see, quite blithe to sponge upon the money he had driven me to beg. True, I was ready to share it with him; but it made me rage to see him count upon my readiness.

These were the two things uppermost in my mind; and I could open my mouth upon neither without black ungenerosity. So I did the next worst, and said nothing, nor so much as looked once at my companion, save with the tail of my eye.

We aren’t in open conflict, nor yet in accord. We’re becoming less guarded in our speech, or at least he is, and it’s becoming clear that we’re just too different. We have different tastes in leisure activities, in television programs, and even in what constitutes healthy food. The money thing just makes it worse; Stevenson’s characters are in physical danger, but our danger is primarily financial. I don’t mean to keep re-covering the same ground, but there it is. Young Balfour takes the same tactic that I’m taking: put up with an incompatible partner for a short time, because I’m going home.

Kidnapped is a good choice from someone who likes boys’ adventure fiction of the late Victorian Era. It avoids the fluid nature of eighteenth-century spelling and capitalization, and includes a number of peculiarly Scottish words and phrases, most of which can be interpreted using context clues. Real eighteenth-century picaresque novels typically included some sexually explicit scenes, but Stevenson avoids any mention of sexuality. That omission is a bit sad and unrealistic, but makes the book appropriate for children.

Mrs Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.

And lo, from the very beginning, I am in love again.

There is something about this book, this woman, that makes me feel all relaxed and happy, Smollett’s ‘agreeable lassitude.’ I read the first page, the first line, and I am instantly more composed, more reconciled to the world I live in. I’ve been analyzing myself on this reading, trying to figure out why Mrs Dalloway should affect me in this way, and I think it’s her approach to life.

And of course she enjoyed life immensely. It was her nature to enjoy (though, goodness only knows, she had her reserves; it was a mere sketch, he often felt, that even he, after all these years, could make of Clarissa). Anyhow there was no bitterness in her; none of that sense of moral virtue which is so repulsive in good women. She enjoyed practically everything. If you walked with her in Hyde Park, now it was a bed of tulips, now a child in a perambulator, now some absurd little drama she made up on the spur of the moment. (Very likely she would have talked to those lovers, if she had thought them unhappy.) She had a sense of comedy that was really exquisite, but she needed people, always people, to bring it out, with the inevitable result that she frittered her time away, lunching, dining, giving these incessant parties of hers, talking nonsense, saying things she didn’t mean, blunting the edge of her mind, losing her discrimination.

Mrs Dalloway enjoys life indiscriminately. Everything and everyone pleases her. Her servants love her because she makes their work easy for them without losing the ineffable sense of glamour that she casts on everything. I find her enthusiasm compelling and irresistible, though not quite infectious. She awakens in me the desire to love the world as she does, but I’m not quite there yet. She has a gift for making things beautiful that I do not possess. She certainly has a way with people that I do not. For all I try, I do not have the manners that make strangers feel comfortable, and that deficiency makes it harder for me to make new friends and enjoy large parties as she does.

Though I suppose that I lack discrimination as well, and this is one of the reasons that I didn’t quite succeed in academia. Edmund Wilson said that the true connoisseur is the one who can distinguish between the various qualities of literature and always prefers the highest; I’m more in love with the B-List. I can read and enjoy Dickens, but I get much more pleasure from Wilkie Collins, who is not quite as reputable. Indeed, I even find my appreciation for George Eliot fading a bit, though my late-20s self thinks it sacrilege to admit the possibility. As you can see from this blog, I mix classics with zombies and sci-fi. I may be able to distinguish between the various cuts of literature, but I don’t insist on the absolute best. The apathy toward discrimination keeps me from being a true literary connoisseur/critic.

And now Clarissa escorted her Prime Minister down the room, prancing, sparkling, with the stateliness of her grey hair. She wore ear-rings, and a silver-green mermaid’s dress. Lolloping on the waves and braiding her tresses she seemed, having that gift still; to be; to exist; to sum it all up in the moment as she passed; turned, caught her scarf in some other woman’s dress, unhitched it, laughed, all with the most perfect ease and air of a creature floating in its element. But age had brushed her; even as a mermaid might behold in her glass the setting sun on some very clear evening over the waves. There was a breath of tenderness; her severity, her prudery, her woodenness were all warmed through now, and she had about her as she said good-bye to the thick gold-laced man who was doing his best, and good luck to him, to look important, an inexpressible dignity; an exquisite cordiality; as if she wished the whole world well, and must now, being on the very verge and rim of things, take her leave.

Mrs Dalloway as a mermaid here makes me think of that line from Prufrock, and to Peter Walsh she does seem a little inaccessible, uninviting. She and Peter and Sally Seton spent a lot of time together thirty years previously; Peter and Sally were both in love with her, and Clarissa and Sally even shared a kiss that Mrs Dalloway still lingers over in memory. Peter proposed, which she finds much less agreeable. And yet, she chose Richard Dalloway, who seems so much less of a person than the other two. There’s a much clearer portrait of him in The Voyage Out, chapters three through six. It was published ten years earlier, and the Dalloways serve as a type of ideal for the young protagonist. In the earlier novel they travel briefly with a group of academics and/or artists, of that type that you’re not sure if they create art, criticize it, or both. The Dalloways bring a certain elegance to the party, however much the other members may dislike it. But what I really wanted to point out from the earlier story is that Clarissa explains why she chose Richard. He was the first person she felt truly understood her. Despite their devotion, Peter and Sally don’t see to the heart of her. I think that in order to see something in other people, the same quality has to exist in ourselves. Clarissa Dalloway is essentially different from Peter Walsh and Sally Seton. A part of it is class, a larger part is patriotism and duty. It sounds a bit mad to me, but the parties, the clothes, the house in town, the frivolity, all that Peter can’t comprehend, is her responsibility to England. The upper classes have a duty to adorn the nation. The desperate poor need something to hope for, and the wealthy give them that ideal. To many people it seems like selfishness, but Mrs Dalloway sees it as service.

I read The Voyage Out three years ago, and in response I wrote, “I read to escape as most fiction readers do, but I also read for the people. I see patterns of being that I would like to emulate, models of what I could be. Some are happy, some are sad, some are lovable, some are evil, but I see the seeds of them in myself, and I see that it’s possible for me to be other than as I am. Novels serve as a mirror in which I see my own potential.” It continues to hold true. I love Mrs Dalloway because she has a grace and social talent that I don’t have but that I would like to develop. My social anxiety and social position keep me from large parties with the Prime Minister, but the comfort under observation would be a real benefit.

Mrs Dalloway is all light and beauty and elegance, but for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Her dark Other is Septimus Warren Smith, a young man still suffering from the post-traumatic stress of World War I. The officer he loved and served under died in the War, and five years later Septimus is still insane with grief.

So they returned to the most exalted of mankind; the criminal who faced his judges; the victim exposed on the heights; the fugitive; the drowned sailor; the poet of the immortal ode; the Lord who had gone from life to death; to Septimus Warren Smith, who sat in the arm-chair under the skylight staring at a photograph of Lady Bradshaw in Court dress, muttering messages about beauty.

Paranoia, hallucinations, delusions of grandeur . . . It’s bad. Many of his symptoms were Woolf’s own, such as the belief that the birds were giving him messages in Greek, which he does not speak. The thing that touches me about the portrayal is not so much him as his wife. He married Lucrezia in Milan before he came back from the war, and she does her best to take care of him. I can’t imagine what it must be like to be afraid of going crazy, and then inventing a character who loves you and takes perfect care of you. And then acknowledging that it isn’t enough. Rezia can’t save him. The doctor comes again, but he just can’t take it any more and escapes.

Even though they never meet, Mrs Dalloway hears about what happened and she understands. She knows that the pressure of doctors could drive someone to suicide, and she doesn’t judge him for it. She knows, and feels sympathy. Between The Voyage Out and Mrs Dalloway, there was the influenza epidemic, and Clarissa fell deathly ill. She recovered, but with a fresh awareness of death, which follows her throughout the day of this story. Facing the reality of her death takes some of her sweetness away. There is strong rage hiding under the white or red roses and mermaid gowns. Most people see only the surface; Peter and Sally see only the depths; but she is both. Mrs Dalloway is a real human being, which means she has rivals and hatreds and friends and loves and everything that makes a life. She sees all of life, whether good or evil, and values it all. She loves life so much that she loves even the pain. She accepts herself completely.

Last week, when I went back to North Carolina, I was baffled by these last six months. How could I have imagined I could be content in the Midwest, when so much of what I love is hundreds of miles away? My children, the friends who helped me through my divorce and coming-out, so much of what really matters to me, so much of what I consider my life is there. I want to go home. And when I think of Mrs Dalloway, I’ve been realizing that I don’t have faith in myself. I don’t think that I will be able to make it there. The him that I’m with now I think can really help me reconcile myself with my family, as well as give me the courage to go after what I really want in life, even if it’s without him. He can show me the way, but I have to do the work myself. I need to continue to decide that my happiness is worth working toward. That could involve a new life, a new career, all kinds of scary things. But if it gets me home, that will be worth it. I just can’t bear the thought of dying here.

 

This one seems like a strange direction for Hardy. The Return of the Native was such a triumph, I suppose it’s a little natural for me to feel a letdown as I move to the next thing (that isn’t The Woodlanders). It’s like when I first listened to White Blood Cells. I thought, White Stripes are the most amazing band ever! and I ran out and got another album, and I was disappointed. So I let it go for a little bit, and then I listened again. De Stijl is a great album, it’s just a different album than White Blood Cells. Not less than, just different. Similarly, The Trumpet-Major isn’t necessarily less than Return of the Native, it’s just different.

We’re reading about Wessex six or seven decades before Hardy’s writing about it, which means Nostalgia. And possibly anachronisms – I don’t know enough of the minutiae of nineteenth century life to speak to that, but scholars more dedicated than I say it’s remarkably accurate.

The present writer, to whom this party has been described times out of number by members of the Loveday family and other aged people now passed away, can never enter the old living-room of Overcombe Mill without beholding the genial scene through the mists of the seventy or eighty years that intervene between then and now.  First and brightest to the eye are the dozen candles, scattered about regardless of expense, and kept well snuffed by the miller, who walks round the room at intervals of five minutes, snuffers in hand, and nips each wick with great precision, and with something of an executioner’s grim look upon his face as he closes the snuffers upon the neck of the candle.  Next to the candle-light show the red and blue coats and white breeches of the soldiers—nearly twenty of them in all besides the ponderous Derriman—the head of the latter, and, indeed, the heads of all who are standing up, being in dangerous proximity to the black beams of the ceiling.  There is not one among them who would attach any meaning to ‘Vittoria,’ or gather from the syllables ‘Waterloo’ the remotest idea of his own glory or death.  Next appears the correct and innocent Anne, little thinking what things Time has in store for her at no great distance off.  She looks at Derriman with a half-uneasy smile as he clanks hither and thither, and hopes he will not single her out again to hold a private dialogue with—which, however, he does, irresistibly attracted by the white muslin figure.  She must, of course, look a little gracious again now, lest his mood should turn from sentimental to quarrelsome—no impossible contingency with the yeoman-soldier, as her quick perception had noted.

I’m writing this the night of the election, and I feel a similar sense of participating in a historical moment that is in the process of being written. Tonight they will either declare the first female U. S. president or the granting of nuclear weaponry to a buffoon who is unqualified to lead and hates everyone. History, no matter what the outcome. As with Hardy’s soldiers, glory, death, or both.

One of the things that feels anachronistic is the ratio of men to women. By mid-century British thinkers were focused on The Surplus Woman Question, the issue of what to do when women are not allowed to work for their own support, and yet they far outnumber the men whom society allows to support them. Perhaps in 1805 there wasn’t such an issue, but really. Overcombe seems like a giant frat party.

Anne was so flurried by the military incidents attending her return home that she was almost afraid to venture alone outside her mother’s premises. Moreover, the numerous soldiers, regular and otherwise, that haunted Overcombe and its neighbourhood, were getting better acquainted with the villagers, and the result was that they were always standing at garden gates, walking in the orchards, or sitting gossiping just within cottage doors, with the bowls of their tobacco-pipes thrust outside for politeness’ sake, that they might not defile the air of the household. Being gentlemen of a gallant and most affectionate nature, they naturally turned their heads and smiled if a pretty girl passed by, which was rather disconcerting to the latter if she were unused to society. Every belle in the village soon had a lover, and when the belles were all allotted those who scarcely deserved that title had their turn, many of the soldiers being not at all particular about half-an-inch of nose more or less, a trifling deficiency of teeth, or a larger crop of freckles than is customary in the Saxon race. Thus, with one and another, courtship began to be practised in Overcombe on rather a large scale, and the dispossessed young men who had been born in the place were left to take their walks alone, where, instead of studying the works of nature, they meditated gross outrages on the brave men who had been so good as to visit their village.

Which explains why Anne Garland has three suitors, all of whom are locals. Anne and her mother live in an apartment that is part of the local miller’s house, and he has two sons. The older is a trumpet major in a squadron training in town, the younger is at sea. John makes up to Anne, but she’s only interested in being friends, so he respects that. John Loveday is really a great guy. Festus Derriman, on the other hand, is a problem. He’s a giant, but he’s a coward. He talks big, but acts small. He’s a drunk bully who has a hard time with the idea of consent. Anne is very definitely not interested, but he keeps finding ways to trap her, and she keeps escaping. Fess’s father is a local landowner, but he’s determined to keep everything away from the blowhard, so he keeps trying to hide the tin box with all his deeds and will and saved cash. No hiding place is ever quite good enough, so he keeps moving it, which puts the box at risk in a comic-relief sort of way.

The third suitor is Bob, the sailing son of the miller. Anne and he had a thing when they were younger, but when he comes back he brings a fiancée, Matilda Johnson. And in her reaction, Anne shows her naivete in the matter of men and marriage.

She would not be critical, it was ungenerous and wrong; but she could not help thinking of what interested her. And were there, she silently asked, in Miss Johnson’s mind and person such rare qualities as placed that lady altogether beyond comparison with herself? O yes, there must be; for had not Captain Bob singled out Matilda from among all other women, herself included? Of course, with his world-wide experience, he knew best.

“Singled out from among all other women”? No, sweetie, Bob found a pretty girl that he wanted to have sex with and she wouldn’t do it without marriage. Or at least he thought she wouldn’t. John puts him off of her by telling him a story about Miss Johnson and his regiment. [His entire regiment? Really? Score one for Victorian vagueness.] And Bob understands himself better than Anne understands him:

You know, Miss Garland,’ he continued earnestly, and still running after, ‘ ’tis like this: when you come ashore after having been shut up in a ship for eighteen months, women-folks seen so new and nice that you can’t help liking them, one and all in a body; and so your heart is apt to get scattered and to yaw a bit; but of course I think of poor Matilda most, and shall always stick to her.’

She was the first one he saw when he got off the ship; that’s all. She’s an actress who gets slut-shamed, and the tradition of marrying castoff mistresses to inferior or inadequate men goes back over a hundred years before this, to Fielding and Smollett.

It’s like Hardy suddenly decided to write a Jane Austen novel. It’s set during the Napoleonic Wars and includes the Battle of Trafalgar (Pride and Prejudice, Persuasion). A young woman loses her father and has to live in reduced circumstances in a place that uses Combe in its placenames (Sense and Sensibility). She meets a young man she was enamoured of in the past and must re-win him from his new love (Persuasion). The problem is, Elinor Dashwood and Anne Elliott and Elizabeth Bennet are not interchangeable. This collaged heroine doesn’t feel believable to me; she’s just too contradictory. I’m not saying that Hardy is well known for his deep insight into the female mind; I’m just saying that in my opinion, Anne Garland is too much of a weather-cock to be real.

There are some situations that are horrible to live in. Anne Garland lives in a straitened economic circumstance with people who are almost completely uncongenial. She has no friends except a mother who is more romantic and less class-conscious than she is, trying to live this unrealistically privileged life in a community that doesn’t understand privilege. Small towns are marvellously effective at leveling society. Maybe Anne Garland makes more sense if I imagine her, not an intellectually independent woman in her twenties, but an American teenager who reads a lot of books. Like the protagonist of David Bowie’s Labyrinth movie. She makes her men prove their worth and devotion time and time again; it’s not enough just to love her. They have to suffer for it.

So, how does a young woman choose? Two honourable men, both doing service for their country? How do you choose between equal suitors? It’s not a choice Austen’s women ever had to make. Captain Benwick himself withdraws from Anne Elliott, and the other women have only to consult their code of ethics to choose between the men who are interested in them. Fortunately, we’re in a Hardy novel and not an Austen. One of them dies in the Wars, the other gets the girl.

I think one of the important differences between Austen and Hardy is in the equality of the hero and heroine. Anne Elliott is not Captain Wentworth’s prize for getting honorably rich in the war, and she has to do more than wait in a tower for him to come sweep her off her feet. I love the fact that the film ends with her on his ship, heading into the war together. Anne Garland, on the other hand, insists on acting like some sort of Holy Grail, a valuable and symbolically weighted object, but an object nonetheless. Austen’s women learn to take action and think for themselves; Anne Garland learns to force healthy, able-bodied men into ideological corsets. There must be a better life than forcing oneself to live with Anne’s disapproval.

“Worthy” is such a poisonous concept; during a war, when men are dying all around, there’s just no time for it. Show love. Even if it’s just for a few hours. And don’t shame others for loving temporarily. Miss Garland erases the double standard by holding men to the same ideal of celibate fidelity that she holds herself to, but that doesn’t make the ideal healthy or good. My briefest sexual relationship was one of the most satisfying; it is the one that involves the fewest regrets and the simplest emotions. I’m not saying that a one-night stand is the same as a decades-long commitment; I am saying that there’s no shame in it. I’m also saying that it’s not fair to expect commitment when you don’t offer it in return. Love people for who they are and what they have to offer, not for what you think they ought to be.

 

I believe that many people will find my attachment to this novel to be somewhat singular, yet I must confess that my affection for Evelina can hardly be surpassed by that of the hero for the eponymous heroine.

Fanny Burney, who would later become Madame d’Arblay and write a moving account of her unanaesthetized mastectomy in 1811, wrote a novel in her teens called Caroline Evelyn, about a nice girl who gets lured into a private marriage and then abandoned, pregnant, with no proof of her child’s legitimacy. This type of story was quite common among novels written by women in the eighteenth century, actually, and even Charlotte Temple, America’s first bestseller, was a similar don’t-trust-handsome-men warning tale for young women. Writing was not seen as an appropriate activity for a young lady in the 1770s, though, so Burney burned all her early writings. By her mid-20s, when she had passed the age that women of the era pinned all their future hopes on marriage, she wrote a sequel and got it published without her family’s knowledge. Caroline Evelyn is summarized in the first few chapters, and then we move on to the story of her daughter, Evelina.

The novel is in the epistolary style so popular to the eighteenth century, and chronicles a young lady’s first introduction to society. It reminds me of Lydia Melford’s letters in The Expedition of Humphry Clinker, but Lydia’s letters are balanced by others of her family while Evelina’s are so numerous that the few other writers hardly seem mentioning. The structure of the story lends itself well to the three-volume division that was common at the time, as Evelina spends each volume with a different set of people, the Mirvans, the Branghtons, and Mrs Selwyn. At one point there is a mention of Justice Fielding, and I can’t help thinking she’s consciously referring to Henry Fielding, the comic novelist who later became a magistrate. The humor of the novel is very much in his style, and I sometimes feel sorry for Evelina because her writer makes her narrate so many practical jokes that she herself fails to enjoy. It’s a bit like asking Richardson’s Pamela to become the protagonist of Tom Jones.

Burney seems fully aware of some of the issues that we in the twenty-first century recognize as of prime importance: gender and class. Women are expected to be decorative, and one of the characters actually says that he doesn’t understand why women live past the age of thirty because then they’re only in someone else’s way. The same guy later has a conversation about how important it is that a woman never seem to be more intelligent or stronger than any of the men around her. Compare this with Burney’s own life, and the fact that she didn’t marry until she passed forty. After she was considered a confirmed old maid, she met someone who found her desirable enough to marry and gave her time to continue her writing, and they seem to have been very happy together. And as for strength, she was almost sixty years old when she had a breast removed, let me repeat with no anaesthetic, and then she lived for nearly thirty years more in apparent good health. She’s kind of amazing. However, the best she can do for her time is to have the moral centre of her novel say,

Though gentleness and modesty are the peculiar attributes of your sex, yet fortitude and firmness, when occasion demands them, are virtues as noble and as becoming in women as in men: the right line of conduct is the same for both sexes, though the manner in which it is pursued may somewhat vary, and be accommodated to the strength or weakness of the different travellers.

Today we would cavil at the idea that women are somehow essentially gentle and modest, and indeed, Burney’s characters call this idea into question. But think of the 1770s, before Wollstonecraft’s Vindication, and give her credit for the gesture toward gender equality.

Class is rather an important issue in the novel. At the time the novel was praised for its accuracy in portraying working-class dialect, but I didn’t meet any characters I could really think of as working class. There are servants, of course, but they rarely speak. I think they must be referring to the Branghtons, who are only working class in that they do work. Mr Branghton owns a shop and rents rooms – he is an employer, not an employee. He is in trade, which separates him from most of the characters, but there are hardly any Dickensian brickmakers, or even any of Fielding’s shrill dairymaids. Evelina’s world only contains one named character who is really poor, and even he is revealed to be the son of a baronet. The Branghtons torture Evelina by trying to seem aristocratic, as in this description of one of their close friends:

In the afternoon, when he returned, it was evident that he proposed to both charm and astonish me by his appearance; he was dressed in a very showy manner, but without any taste; and the inelegant smartness of his air and deportment, his visible struggle, against education, to put on the fine gentleman, added to his frequent conscious glances at a dress to which he was but little accustomed, very effectually destroyed his aim of figuring, and rendered all his efforts useless.

This group is entertaining to us who don’t have to associate ourselves with them, but Evelina is miserable with them. Mr Branghton is always insisting on doing everything as cheaply as possible while his children want to live the high life with the upper class who frequent their shop. In the end nothing is done well and they are only spared embarrassment by their colossal insensitivity. They are Evelina’s cousins through her grandmother Madame Duval, an English barmaid who married up twice and now has a rich French husband, so she pretends to be native French gentry. But no matter how she’s dressed, she’s still a barmaid with an inflated sense of self-worth. In this, she’s not really that different from ‘the quality.’

The Mirvans are more highly placed than the Branghtons, but it seems that Burney isn’t quite sure what to do with well-behaved people. Mrs and Miss Mirvan are so self-effacing that they practically disappear from the narrative. It’d be tempting to forget the family altogether if it weren’t for the Captain. Captain Mirvan has just arrived in England after a seven years’ absence at sea. His time abroad has unfit him for the life his wife and daughter lead, and he compensates for this by abusing Madame Duval for being French. He concocts several practical jokes to play on her; he only injures her dignity and her clothes, but that may be more of an accident than evidence of care. He’s often joined by Sir Clement Willoughby, one of Evelina’s suitors. Sir Clement is one of those guys who can’t take a hint; he pursues Evelina through three hundred pages without realizing that she can’t stand him. Captain Mirvan and Madame Duval seem equally matched in terms of manners, and Sir Clement only talks better than they do. The people who don’t need a profession are just as vile as those in trade; money and status aren’t the best indicators of worth or respectability.

The shining star of the aristocracy is Lord Orville, who alone seems to care how other people are feeling. At first, Evelina mistakes his manners for ordinary:

These people in high life have too much presence of mind, I believe, to seem disconcerted, or out of humour, however they may feel: for had I been the person of the most consequence in the room, I could not have met with more attention and respect.

But more contact with Sirs and Ladies puts that notion out of her head. Indeed, I find that to encounter such a person is just as rare in real life as it is in this book. This passage reminds me of a line from the otherwise-forgettable Brendan Fraser/Alicia Silverstone flick A Blast from the Past, when he explains to her that a gentleman is someone who tries to make everyone around him feel comfortable. I try to be like this, but generally I fail through oversensitivity. My emotions shout so loudly within me that it’s sometimes hard to hear what anyone else has to say; I only seem still and silent to others.

In fact, I am far more like Evelina than I feel I ought to be. Being a seventeen-year-old raised in isolation, she has a marvelous excuse that I can’t claim. I’m twice her age and was raised in a large family, so I was constantly around people. Maybe the problem is that I was with too many different kinds of people, so I never learned to ally myself with any particular cultural niche. Even today I feel uncomfortable if I find that I’m typical of any group of people. If I’m told that I’m classic gay, I’ll ‘straighten’ myself out. If I seem too high for my company, I’ll start dressing like a lumberjack. And if I’m too much of an Appalachian cracker, I read plenty of books, and especially books that are hundreds of years old or written by international authors.

But as I mentioned, she and I are similar in a lot of ways. I felt that Mr Villars was talking to me when he tells Evelina,

But you must learn not only to judge but to act for yourself: […] do not, by a too passive facility, risk the censure of the world, or your own future regret.

I have been blessed with a splendidly passive facility, which leads to my own future regret and sometimes the censure of the world. I need to struggle against it, particularly as the time comes for me to re-embark on the job search. I’m great at thinking for myself, but taking active steps comes less easily. And even though I’ve been travelling all over the country and the world, I still find myself, like her,

unused to the situations in which I find myself and embarrassed by the slightest difficulties, I seldom, till too late, discover how I ought to act.

The ex was once in a group of students listening to a well-known author, and someone asked what it took to become a good writer. He explained to the group that from his youth he had had the habit of replaying events from his day in his mind, imagining how things would have happened if someone (usually himself) had behaved differently. This tendency to correct reality doesn’t guarantee a writing career, but he had never met a successful writer who didn’t have it. I do this all the time. It’s annoying, frankly. But when I’m dissatisfied with my own behavior, I play the scene back and write myself a different part. Sometimes that part fits my character, sometimes not. Sometimes I picture myself acting so far out of character that I wonder if I really know who I am at all, and who I would have been if the circumstances of my life had been different. But things being as they are, I keep making false steps, offending where I mean to comfort, wasting time being shocked, and ignoring real affection in favor of the conditional love that I expect. Like Evelina,

my intentions are never wilfully blameable, yet I err perpetually!

Which may explain why I’m alone on the wrong side of the world, and why I keep remembering things that I probably ought to have apologized for, but that happened so long ago that I doubt anyone else remembers, or cares. My perpetual erring is particularly noticeable when I’m around people I’m attracted to. I don’t know how to act, so I’m offensively silent, or I interrupt when I ought to have kept my mouth shut; I’m either too aloof or too familiar; I start to get close and then I push people away. Or run off to another city, state, or country for a few years.

Perhaps my closest affinity for Evelina is in the manner in which we fall in love.

Young, animated, entirely off your guard, and thoughtless of consequences, Imagination took the reins, and Reason, slow-paced, though sure-footed, was unequal to a race with so eccentric and flighty a companion. How rapid was then my Evelina’s progress through those regions of fancy and passion whither her new guide conducted her! – She saw Lord Orville at a ball, – and he was the most amiable of men! – she met him again at another, – and he had every virtue under heaven!

I mean not to depreciate the merit of Lord Orville, who, one mysterious instance alone excepted, seems to have deserved the idea you formed of his character; but it was not time, it was not the knowledge of his worth, obtained your regard; your new comrade had not patience to wait any trial; her glowing pencil, dipt in the vivid colours of her creative ideas, painted to you, at the moment of your first acquaintance, all the excellencies, all the good and rare qualities, which a great length of time, and intimacy, could alone have really discovered.

You flattered yourself, that your partiality was the effect of esteem, founded upon a general love of merit, and a principle of justice: and your heart, which fell the sacrifice of your error, was totally gone ere you suspected it was in danger.

Yup. That’s me. I might be in my thirties, but this passage still describes me well. It was eleven years ago that I met the ex and imagined her to have all sorts of good qualities that I desired, rather than knew, her to have. In eight years of marriage, continually treating her as if she were kinder than she is helped her to develop that quality, and her treating me as I were more assertive than I am helped me to develop that as well, but after the breakup we snapped back to our original characters like rubber bands suddenly relieved of pressure. Not quite back to where we had been, of course, but separating from a spouse is such a paradigm-shifting event that you change very quickly, mostly by rebelling against the person the former spouse wanted you to be. And it was just this summer that I had that sudden crush on the guy I’m trying not to think about, because I don’t want a repeat of the same experience. The ex and I spent all our free time together for nine weeks and got married (not decided to get married – I proposed after twenty-three days, and she had already made up her mind to accept if I should ask), and it was good for a while, but I don’t want to rush into things again. I certainly don’t want to end up smitten with someone who’s going to treat me badly, again. This time I’m going to pay more attention to reality – how does he treat strangers, for instance. The ex could be nice to me, and to people she knew were important to me, but not to cashiers or office clerks who didn’t follow her idea of how she should be treated. Besides, after being with a couple of guys who become intimately violent, and paying attention to who I feel attracted to in films, I’ve realized that I tend to fall for psychos. Sure, David Tennant is my favorite Doctor on Doctor Who, he seems the most capable of really loving someone, but when The Master has him trapped and is dancing around singing, “I can’t decide whether you should live or die,” I wish I were dancing with him instead of trying to save DT. I love villains, the more self-loving the better, and that makes me very suspect of anyone I might feel attracted to in real life. The next time I enter into a relationship, I’m going to be more careful.

So. Who would I recommend this book to? Anyone who loves Jane Austen. Burney’s society here is set a little higher than Austen’s gentry, but it’s also about thirty-five years earlier, so the manners are pretty similar. It’s also a good recommendation for someone who likes Ann Radcliffe, though it’s more comic than Gothic. Someone who likes Fielding but not Richardson may find it too sedate, someone who likes Richardson but not Fielding may find the humor too physical, and someone who loves Smollett and no one else may find it a bit too feminine, but if (like me) you like most of the eighteenth-century authors whose works have survived this long, don’t miss this one. Evelina is the best introduction to Burney fiction because it’s a normal length for the time period, but it’s the shortest of her novels. Cecilia and Camilla went to five volumes instead of three, and I think The Wanderer was four. I’ve not been brave enough to read them yet; The Mysteries of Udolpho was the last four-volume novel I read, and I’m not in a hurry to do that again. It’s also good for students of the history of English, since several spelling and grammatical choices are different than what we now consider standard. Choose is spelled chuse, happy people are chearful, and educated people say ‘you was.’  Evelina is cute, funny, imperfect, an impressive debut novel, a pure delight.