This is another in the continuing series of books I probably
should have read back in High School. In this case, I resisted reading it back
then because it, along with Wuthering
Heights, was a favorite
book of the wrong kind of girl. Too many young women, who rarely read anything
of substance, seemed to be drawn to the Brontes, and for the wrong reasons. I
heard far too much mooning over Heathcliff and Rochester for my taste. I will here
specifically exclude my sister, who did like this book.
However, she read voraciously, and with excellent taste, and was never
frivolous when it came to books, so I would give weight to her judgment.
I read Wuthering Heights for the first time a couple of
years ago. It still is hard to believe that such an atmospheric and emotionally
raw book could have been written by a woman at that time in history.
Jane Eyre, written by Charlotte Bronte, is more in the form of a traditional
novel with its typical Victorian story arc. The protagonist overcomes early
hardship through hard work and good character, finding happiness in the end.
The early chapters to a degree dwell on Jane’s suffering in a manner a bit
foreign to modern sensibilities, although perhaps typical for the era in which
it was written. It is in the middle of the book that the author finds her
unique voice, and the story starts to ring true emotionally.
Charlotte Bronte, 1850 portrait by George Richmond
Indeed, I found the strength of the novel to be its emotional trueness, if that
term may be used. One thing that did surprise me is that Jane’s emotions and
thoughts resonate, even for a male reader. I found it easy to identify with her
as a person, as easily as with a well written male protagonist. Jane is a truly
compelling and interesting character for herself alone. Several female authors
of the era began at this time to write of women who rose above the Victorian
ideal of the quiet and unobtrusive helpmeet, who triumphs through goodness
alone. Jane Austen began the trend with her witty characters, and George Elliot
and others continued it. Of the books I have read, however, Jane Eyre stands
alone as a woman who is determined to find her own way in life, and meet men on
her own terms, as an equal.
I think, too, that her determination to marry only for love was a bit
revolutionary in its way. I imagine that this was a significant reason for the
book’s popularity with young women. Perhaps all teenaged girls dream of the
great romance with a dark, brooding man, who can be rescued from himself only
by their charms. Unfortunately, I think that this idea has been taken far too
literally by girls these days, who lack the experience or depth of knowledge to
distinguish between an unfortunate good man and a truly bad man. I note that
every murderer seems to get a marriage proposal.
I think too that there are many that naively mistake good men for St. John. The point is
not that St. John
is good, or that he is the safe choice. Rather, it is clear that St. John is selfish, ambitious,
and incapable of love. In that sense, he is the religious version of Meredith’s
egoist. He wishes to be the flame that draws the moths, to have a girl that is
content to delight in his glory. It is in this way that the modern girl goes
wrong. The “bad boy” that is sought is the mirror image of St.
John, not of Rochester.
The girl that chases the wicked man becomes the moth, delighting in the glory
of the man of her imagination, ignoring the harsh reality.
I take the real lesson of Jane’s romance with Rochester to be the importance of finding a
person of similar intelligence and depth. Each of them looks beyond the
unattractive exterior of the other, and sees the love for art and literature,
the kindness to the child, Adele, and a focus on something other than wealth
and status. These lessons are perhaps even more important today, in an era when
image is everything, and a spouse is all too often a status symbol. Perhaps
some things never change. In past centuries, a woman would marry to please her
family, to gratify their egos and desire to advance the family name. Now, women
seem to choose mates based on what will impress their friends, someone to make
them feel daring and unique, and, of course, to provide her with the lifestyle
she wishes. Fortunately, a few of us still manage to find a best friend,
someone to talk to about all subjects, serious and lighthearted.
This book also caused me to lament the decline of the novel in recent years,
particularly the decline of the female protagonist. The days of Austen, Elliot,
the Brontes, and others produced most of the memorable female authors. There
was a golden age of the novel, to be sure, and in general there seems to be a
decline in the craft. There are now two forms of writing: the pulp novel, and
the “serious” novel. Pulp tends to have the good characters and plots these
days, but by definition lacks the quality and depth of writing. Those authors
that do focus on the quality are ashamed to write anything that might appeal to
the unwashed masses, and so forgo appealing characters or compelling plots.
As my wife pointed out, starting with Kate Chopin, the trend among female
authors was toward an oddly twisted feminist view. Unfortunately, this view was
not of the admirable feminism of Jane Eyre: self sufficiency, hard work, moral
character even at personal cost. The new feminism focused instead on
selfishness. Men became seen as the cause of women’s unhappiness. Thus, a
feminist act was now adultery, divorce, revenge. The female protagonist was no
longer someone to identify with and admire, unless those values were the
reader’s as well. To be fair, it is near impossible to find an admirable male
character these days. I should also point out such authors as Willa Cather, who
continued to write well for characters of both genders.
I’m sure I am forgetting a number of points I wished to make about this book. I
enjoyed reading it, and marveled at the skill of the author. It still is
incredible that a girl with so little experience could write like that as a
first effort. I am eager to find a copy of Agnes Gray, to complete the trilogy,
if you will.
Note: Since I originally wrote this about two years ago, I
have discovered more modern literature with admirable female protagonists. My
literary friends have assisted me, of course, and I have sought out some on my
own.
I believe that there are two positive developments in the
last couple of decades. First, there seems to have been a reaction against the
dichotomy of “serious” versus “popular” with a number of authors writing books
with high literary standards but that still speak to those outside the confines
of academia and the literati. A few I have reviewed that fit this category are The Kite Runner, The Book Thief, and The Elegance
of the Hedgehog.
The second development that I welcome is that the “men are
the only thing that is keeping women back and therefore divorce is the ultimate
feminist act” meme seems to have at least jumped the shark. Books like Eat,
Pray, Love (more accurately described as Eat, Whine, Divorce) are firmly in the
category of pulp now, and it is therefore acceptable for serious writers to
cast a critical eye on the whole philosophy. For more on this issue, see my
review of Running Away to Home.
What is this? A movie review? Are flying pigs next? Perhaps,
but this was a special exception.
I’m not much of a movie watcher, as my friends and family
well know. For the most part, I would rather hold a book than watch a screen,
big or small. I do have a few exceptions. I would rather have something to
watch when I am ironing, for example, and I appreciate sports on occasion.
I also have a weakness for a well-made British literary
series. Pride and Prejudice is probably the best ever, but this one comes
close.
The Barchester Chronicles is based on the first two books of
Anthony Trollope’s Chronicles of Barsetshire series, The Warden, and Barchester Towers. The six-book series covers the
inhabitants, particularly the clergy and gentry, in the fictitious cathedral
town of Barchester
and its environs. There is some overlap in characters (and with characters in
other books, for that matter), but only the first two books concern the same
main characters.
The regular reader of my blog is aware that Anthony Trollope
is one of my favorite authors, on the strength of his memorable and complex
characters. There are rarely pure heroes or villains in his books, as everyone
has a mixture of virtues and vices, strengths and weaknesses, admirable and
shameful motivations. In short, his characters are more genuinely human than
those of most authors.
As one might imagine, this reliance on characterization
makes for a challenge in moviemaking. With a minimum of action and an unhurried
pace, the filmmaker must tease out the nuances of the characters through the
witty dialogue and the skills of the actors.
The casting in this series is extraordinarily well done.
Each character is recognizable from the book, and really looks and sounds as
expected. There is excellent chemistry between the actors, bringing the viewer
into the world of Barchester. As with any truly great movie, one is immersed.
One sees, not actors playing parts, but people, as they existed in the
imaginations of Trollope and his readers over the last century and a half.
I have no wish to spoil the plots of these excellent novels,
so a bare minimum of explanation must suffice.
Mr. Harding is the warden of a retirement “hospital,” a
position appointed by the church. His elder daughter is married to Archdeacon Grantley,
who is the son of old Bishop Grantley, whose death is one of the major events
at the beginning of the second novel. John Bold is a young doctor, whose
impeccable character and zeal outrun his judgment of human character.
The events of The Warden, which occur over the first two
episodes, concern Bold’s attempt to reform the church sinecure that is the
wardenship, while he at the same time falls in love with Mr. Harding’s younger
daughter, Eleanor.
Barchester
Towers, which is
considerably longer, unfolds over the remaining five episodes. The deaths of
John Bold and Bishop Grantley set the forces of the book in motion. The new
bishop, Dr. Proudie, his wife, and the chaplain, Mr. Slope, are from the
opposing political and religious faction from the Archdeacon and Mr. Harding.
Slope, who is the closest person to a true villain of any character in the
books (and perhaps in all of Trollope’s works), antagonizes his opponents, and
attempts to play politics with his influence with the weak Bishop. He is interested
in the widowed Eleanor, perhaps for her late husband’s fortune. Also in pursuit
of the lovely widow are Bertie Stanhope, a feckless and charmingly indigent
young aristocrat; and Mr. Arabin, a young clergyman.
As before, the disposition of Eleanor’s hand in marriage,
and the corresponding disposition of church offices are the concerns of the
plot.
Trollope raises and explores important questions. What does
integrity really mean? How does one balance abstract principles with human
needs? How is one to be truly good? What differentiates good character from
bad? What is the role of kindness in godliness? Trollope embodies the adage of
good writing: show, rather than tell. His refusal to set up easy straw men, and
insistence on conflicted characters makes his writing thought provoking, rather
than didactic.
As I mentioned, the casting is exceptional. I was initially
attracted to the series because Mr. Slope is played by the young Alan Rickman,
whose acting style seemed perfect for the lugubrious Slope. Indeed, it is hard
to imagine a better choice after seeing him in the role. He is Mr. Slope. No
one else should be allowed to play the part from henceforth.
Alan Rickman as the Rev. Obadiah Slope
The one portrayal that I found a little disappointing was
that of Archdeacon Grantley by Nigel Hawthorne. Not that it was bad acting or
that it was an inconsistent portrayal. Rather, I felt that Hawthorne played up the Archdeacon’s
aggression a bit too much. He seems, dare I say it, to be almost “American” in
his passion, rather than “English” in a slow simmer. Again, this is a minor
quibble - if I re-read the books, I suspect that I will not find any reason for
complaint, just that my mind’s eye had a slightly different picture. If
anything, this highlights just how accurate and convincing everyone else was,
that this is the only blemish I could identify.
I should also mention the excellent portrayals of minor
characters, such as John Bold’s spinster sister Mary (Barbara Flynn), Bunce
(one of the retired residents of the hospital, Joseph O’Connor), and journalist
Tom Towers (George Costigan).
Also excellent are the portrayals of the henpecked Bishop
Proudie and his wife (Clive Swift and Geraldine McEwan, respectively). Mrs.
Proudie is properly controlling and vulgar, while the Bishop is simpering, and completely
at odds when confronted by the warring forces of his wife and Mr. Slope.
Bertie Stanhope (Peter Blythe), Eleanor (Janet Maw), and
Signora Neroni (Susan Hampshire): excellent portrayals all.
I was particularly impressed, however, by the late Donald
Pleasence, as Mr. Harding. So many of Trollope’s characters, while not exactly
easy to play, at least are guaranteed to come of right if played true to the
book. Mr. Harding strikes me as the very hardest type of character to inhabit.
He is one of the most admirable persons possible. He is almost impossibly good
at heart (although his distaste for conflict nearly does him in), and could
easily come off as an insufferable prig. Trollope’s genius is at full flower in
this character, who is impossible to dislike. Pleasence re-creates Mr. Harding,
from the cello related tics, to the timidly spoken, but simple and profound
truths that come from the best part of his heart. The series would be worth
watching just for Donald Pleasence alone.
Donald Pleasence as Mr. Harding
I hesitate to recommend watching any movie before reading
the book. I’m old-school that way. However, if one were to pick a time to do
this, I could heartily recommend watching this series. It is faithful to the
books in detail and in spirit, contains many of the best lines, and will do
nothing to spoil the experience of the books.
Source of book: I own a beautiful hardback edition of this
book. See below.
Rabindranath Tagore lived from 1861 to 1941, and is best
described as a Bengali Renaissance Man. He had a breathtaking range of
knowledge, and wrote well in many genres, and in multiple languages. It would
not be exaggeration to say that he brought the romance of India to the
Western world more than any other figure, perhaps even Ghandi himself. (Thy Hand, Great Anarch, which I
previously reviewed, has a fascinating chapter on this remarkable man.)
Tagore received the Nobel Prize in literature for Gitanjali, the first Indian national to
do so. He later repudiated the prize after the British opened fire on a crowd,
an event which probably was decisive in triggering the Indian Independence
movement. (Tagore may or may not have appreciated that the Nobel Prize
committee is awarded by a Swedish, not English, committee.)
Gitanjali means
“song offerings,” a title which captures its essence fairly well. The work is a
series of 103 poems which are largely devotional in nature, and which combine
and synthesize the divine with both nature and romantic love. This is not
exactly a new idea, of course, nor one limited to any particular religious
tradition. (The Old Testament, for example, contains numerous beautiful
examples of both. I might use both Song
of Solomon and Psalms as a
comparison.) Rather, this work exemplifies a universal, eternal, longing of the
human spirit: that of unity and fellowship with the Creator.
At the outset, I would like to offer two observations:
first, poetry is not the ideal medium for the exposition of clear theological
thought and argument. Poetry at its best does convey truth, and often truth
that cannot be thought, but rather felt. However, one should not try to parse
every word of the poet and build a systematic school of thought from it. I
would thus urge the reader to read this collection, not with the goal of
agreeing or disagreeing with the details of the theology or worldview, but with
the goal of finding common ground in the “groanings that cannot be uttered.”
Second, this is, without a doubt in my mind, one of the most
beautiful collections of introspective poetry ever written. I am not a scholar,
so I can merely guess that Tagore, with his wide range of knowledge and
experience, intentionally made use of language that his English speaking (and
largely Christian) audience would find familiar. Thus, there are references
that those familiar with the Bible (and the Greek philosophers) would
recognize. If anything, this renders the sentiments more universal and
resonant.
I can only quote a few excerpts, but will note that there
are few weak poems in this collection. Tagore arranges them in a rough arc from
youth to death, and each poem builds and follows on the last.
Gitanjali opens as
follows:
I
Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. This frail vessel thou
emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life.
This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales, and
hast breathed through it melodies eternally new.
At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in
joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable.
Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine.
Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill.
The poet responds to this inspiration from the deity with a
wish for simplicity of worship.
VII
My song has put off her adornments. She has no pride of dress and
decoration. Ornaments would mar our union; they would come between thee and me;
their jingling would drown thy whispers.
My poet's vanity dies in shame before thy sight. O master poet, I have
sat down at thy feet. Only let me make my life simple and straight, like a flute
of reed for thee to fill with music.
Or this:
LVIII
Let all the strains of joy mingle in my
last song---the joy that makes the earth flow over in the riotous excess of the
grass, the joy that sets the twin brothers, life and death, dancing over the
wide world, the joy that sweeps in with the tempest, shaking and waking all
life with laughter, the joy that sits still with its tears on the open red
lotus of pain, and the joy that throws everything it has upon the dust, and
knows not a word.
I love how the poet focuses on worship expressed as Joy and
Love.
LXV
What divine drink wouldst thou have, my God, from this overflowing cup of
my life?
My poet, is it thy delight to see thy creation through my eyes and to
stand at the portals of my ears silently to listen to thine own eternal
harmony?
Thy world is weaving words in my mind and thy joy is adding music to
them. Thou givest thyself to me in love and then feelest thine own entire
sweetness in me.
Tagore also writes a number of beautiful lyrics about nature
and its relationship to life and the divine. There are many good examples, but
I am partial to this one:
XXI
I must launch out my boat. The languid hours pass by on the shore---Alas
for me!
The spring has done its flowering and taken leave. And now with the
burden of faded futile flowers I wait and linger.
The waves have become clamorous, and upon the bank in the shady lane the
yellow leaves flutter and fall.
What emptiness do you gaze upon! Do you not feel a thrill passing through
the air with the notes of the far-away song floating from the other shore?
I also liked this musing on separation:
LXXXIV
It is the pang of separation that spreads throughout the world and gives
birth to shapes innumerable in the infinite sky.
It is this sorrow of separation that gazes in silence all nights from
star to star and becomes lyric among rustling leaves in rainy darkness of July.
It is this overspreading pain that deepens into loves and desires, into
sufferings and joy in human homes; and this it is that ever melts and flows in
songs through my poet's heart.
It was interesting, too, to contrast Tagore’s worldview with
that of New Testament theology. To me, Tagore is always expressing a longing
for a knowledge he will never have, at least until death. He wants to call the
unnamed deity a friend, but feels a sense of distance. He is always longing,
but never finding fulfillment. He is ever reaching toward his desire, but that
desire only comes to him while asleep, and he ends up missing the connection he
longs to have. This lack of a two-way relationship lends a bittersweet feeling
to many of the poems.
It is only in death that the poet expects to find
fulfillment.
XCII
I know that the day will come when my sight of this earth shall be lost,
and life will take its leave in silence, drawing the last curtain over my eyes.
Yet stars will watch at night, and morning rise as before, and hours
heave like sea waves casting up pleasures and pains.
When I think of this end of my moments, the barrier of the moments breaks
and I see by the light of death thy world with its careless treasures. Rare is
its lowliest seat, rare is its meanest of lives.
Things that I longed for in vain and things that I got---let them pass.
Let me but truly possess the things that I ever spurned and overlooked.
Tagore comes closer to the Apostle Paul’s view of grace in
several other poems. He notes the universal tendency of humans to attempt to
reduce the divine to a set of rules and regulations. He resists the attempts at
bondage, but looks to the love of the Divine as the higher calling.
XXXII
By all means they try to hold me secure who love me in this world. But it
is otherwise with thy love which is greater than theirs, and thou keepest me
free.
Lest I forget them they never venture to leave me alone. But day passes
by after day and thou art not seen.
If I call not thee in my prayers, if I keep not thee in my heart, thy
love for me still waits for my love.
This freedom he longs for is not just personal, but
national. Indeed, if any country has suffered as a result of its blind
traditions (the Caste system, widespread corruption), it is India. Tagore’s
vision remains unfulfilled, but it is still a most noble vision, shared by
luminaries such as Milton.
This is my personal hope for myself and those I love: that our world may not be
continually narrowed, but that it may be ever expanded into the infinite
goodness and truth of the divine. Simply one of the best of the collection.
XXXV
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic
walls;
Where words come out from the depth of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary
desert sand of dead habit;
Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and
action---
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.
One more poem spoke to me in a personal way. In I
Corinthians 13, the Apostle Paul speaks of the three truly eternal things that
will remain after all else passes away: Faith, Hope, and Love. Of these, of
course, the greatest is love. Everything else will pass away, and we will be
left with Love, as personified in the Divine. “For
now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face.
Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.” This is
the ultimate hope and longing. This is the true meaning of fulfillment.
Tagore expresses this in a way
that encompasses both the aspiration and the knowledge that, in this life at
least, we fail. In the end, I will give myself up, through love, into His
hands.
XVII
I am only waiting for love to give myself up at last into his hands. That
is why it is so late and why I have been guilty of such omissions.
They come with their laws and their codes to bind me fast; but I evade
them ever, for I am only waiting for love to give myself up at last into his
hands.
People blame me and call me heedless; I doubt not they are right in their
blame.
The market day is over and work is all done for the busy. Those who came
to call me in vain have gone back in anger. I am only waiting for love to give
myself up at last into his hands.
Note on the edition: My brother, who is also a book junkie, has always had a
knack for finding outstanding gifts for me. He located this hardback edition of
Gitanjali, published by Floating
World Editions, a small, artsy publisher of Asian works. This book is a pure
pleasure to hold, to feel, and to read. It is a perfect size (8 x 5) for a
poetic work, the materials are high quality, and the layout is beautiful. The
illustrations by Mark W. McGinnis are interesting and apropos without being
overwhelming or distracting from the text.
Mark W. McGinnis' illustration for VII, quoted above.
My only quibble is that there are a
couple of obvious typographical errors. (For example, at one point, “now” is
printed where “know” is the obviously correct word.) Regardless of this, the
book is a joy to own and read.
Note on the translation: This is Tagore’s own translation of
his work. Interestingly, it is not a direct translation from the original
Bengali work. Tagore edited, omitted, and combined the poems to make a new
work. Many Bengalis consider William Radice’s later translation to be more
accurate to the original. I would be interested in reading that version.
However, Tagore’s own translation is excellent for what it is, whether it is
“authentic” or not. The English version can be simply regarded as a separate
work in its own right, equally representing Tagore’s artistry.
This is one of the few works I have read where I can
honestly say that I disliked every single character. Every last one. Which, I
suppose, is partially the point. The main character, Ivanov, hates everyone
too, but most of all hates himself.
This play is the first of Chekhov’s dramas, and it feels a
bit like a first effort. It has plenty of witty lines, some humor, and enough
darkness for the most modern-minded critic. However, I found it a bit difficult
to make out exactly what the author was trying to say.
On the one hand, the plot is simple and easy to follow. The
basic flow of ideas is likewise comprehensible. On the other, Chekhov seems
unsure of himself when it comes to deciding on the point he wishes to make.
Perhaps this is related to the inherent unlikeability of the characters. It
would have been helpful had even one of the characters felt sympathetic or
recognizably human, and therefore allowed the reader to identify with someone,
anyone.
I’m not saying that unpleasant characters are automatically
unsympathetic. In The Brothers Karamazov,
for example, part of the power of the characterization is that the reader can
see his or her worst self in Dmitri, Ivan, or Smerdyakov. Each of these characters
has a passion or motivation that feels real and human – something that just
seems lacking in Ivanov.
The basic outline of the plot is thus: Ivanov is a nobleman
who married a Jewess who was subsequently disinherited by her family. Ivanov is
in debt, his wife is dying of tuberculosis, and he has lost his appetite for
life and love. In an effort at escapism, he either seduces or is seduced by the
young daughter of a friend. After his wife dies, he is set to marry the young
lady, but instead kills himself. Ivanov’s behavior throughout the play is
despicable, but Chekhov seems to treat him as the hero, or at least
the protagonist.
In contrast to Ivanov is the young doctor, Lvov, who is an unbearably self-righteous
prig. He is continually reminding everyone of how “honest” he is, and considers
it his life’s mission to unmask Ivanov. (This is ludicrous, if for no other
reason, than that everyone already knows about Ivanov.) If Ivanov (or someone
else) were sympathetic, then it would make sense for Lvov to be the villain. The play could then
be about hypocrisy. Or it could be about not judging without knowing all the
facts.
Another alternative interpretation is that the play could be
about Ivanov’s loss of vitality. His lament in Act III is a good representative
of the various renditions of that theme, as stated by Ivanov and other
characters:
IVANOV: I’m just a nasty, miserable
nobody. Only another pathetic, bedraggled wreck like Paul could to on liking
and respecting me. God, how I despise myself. How I loathe my own voice,
footsteps, hands – these clothes, my thoughts. Pretty ridiculous, isn’t it? And
pretty mortifying. Less than a year ago I was strong and well, I was cheerful,
tireless, and dynamic. I worked with my hands. My eloquence moved even ignorant
louts to tears, I could weep when I saw unhappiness and protest when I met
evil. I knew what inspiration meant, I knew the charm and magic of quiet nights
when you sit at your desk from dusk to dawn or indulge in flights of fancy. I
had faith, I looked at the future as a child looks into its mother’s eyes. But
now, oh God! I’m worn out, I’ve no faith, I spend days and nights doing
nothing. My brain doesn’t obey me, nor do my arms and legs. The estate’s going
to rack and ruin, the woods fall before the ax. [Weeps.] My land seems to look at me like a lost child. There’s
nothing I hope or care about, and my spirit quails in fear of the morrow. Then
there’s Sarah. I swore to love here for ever, told her how happy we’d be,
offered her a future beyond her wildest dreams. She believed me. These five
years I’ve watched her giving way beneath the weight of her own sacrifices and
wilting in the struggle with her conscience, but God knows she’s never looked
askance at me or uttered one reproach. What then? I stopped loving her. How?
Why? What for? I can’t understand. Now she’s unhappy and her days are numbered.
And I’m low and cowardly enough to run away from her pale face, sunken chest,
and pleading eyes. How shameful. [Pause.]
Little Sasha’s touched by my misfortunes and tells me, at my age, that she
loves me. It goes to my head, so I can’t think of anything else. I’m
spellbound, it’s music in my ears. So I start shouting about being born again
and being happy. But next day I believe in this new life and happiness about as
much as I do in fairies. What’s the matter with me? What depths have I sunk to?
Where does my weakness come from? What’s happened to my nerves? If my sick wife
touches me on the raw, or a servant does something wrong, or my gun misfires –
then I’m rude, bad-tempered and quite beside myself. [Pause.] I just don’t understand. I might as well shoot myself and
be done with it.
In true Russian fashion, Ivanov may say all of these things
about himself, but he cannot stand to hear others say them about him. Thus,
when Lvov
confronts him soon afterward, he complains that he is being insulted.
Ivanov himself cannot figure out what has happened to him.
He vehemently assets that he loved Sarah once, and now does not, for reasons he
doesn’t understand. The accusation that he married Sarah for her money (which
was then denied her) infuriates him, but it is impossible to know what the
truth really was at the time.
While this potential theme is interesting, Chekhov never
really gives an explanation of what caused Ivanov’s decline. Ivanov thinks he
has overloaded himself with responsibilities, and that he eventually broke his
figurative back. However, Ivanov is hardly a reliable explainer of anything,
and all we have is his own word.
I suspect I will need to mull over the play for a while
before drawing any firm conclusions. Perhaps that is what Chekhov intended.
Some other themes warrant mention. The play opens and closes
with music and firearms. Ivanov’s wife Sarah is a musician, and the music stops
with her death between acts III and IV. Firearms are everywhere, from the
opening scene where a brandished shotgun precedes the first words of dialogue,
to the final suicide. Guns are strategically placed throughout the scenes, even
when they are not actually involved in the action.
Many of the characters also lament the sorry state of young
men.
LEBEDEV: …No offence meant, but young
men are a pretty spineless, wishy-washy crew nowadays. God help them. Can’t
dance, can’t talk, can’t drink properly.
Chekhov also takes aim at doctors while giving a backhanded
dig at lawyers. Shabelsky is the loose cannon – both comic relief, and the one
person able to say what others are only thinking.
SHABELSKY: Doctors are like lawyers,
only lawyers just rob you, while doctors rob you and murder you as well.
And later:
SHABELSKY: …I’ve never trusted doctors,
lawyers, or women in my life, it’s all stuff and nonsense, quackery and
jiggery-pokery.
Of course, there is an extra layer of irony here: Chekhov
was a physician as well as an author.
The drunken Lebedev, who is pretty much Ivanov’s sole friend
(apart from Sasha, at least) does his best to console Ivanov, but can’t avoid
making a muddle of it. He attempts a profound statement about life, which
doesn’t quite work.
LEBEDEV: A man’s like a samovar, old
boy. He doesn’t always stand on a cold shelf, there are times when he gets
stoked up and starts fairly seething. The comparison’s no damn good, but I
can’t think of anything better.
The best aphorism, however, belongs to Borkin, who manages
Ivanov’s estate, but is always coming up with get-rich-quick schemes. He comes
up with a simile so pessimistic, it incites a laugh.
BORKIN: [sighing.] Our life - . Man’s life is like a bright flower blooming
in a meadow. A goat comes along and eats it up. No more flower.
So maybe, after all, this is the theme of the play, spoken
by one of many fools. It is a theme that has run through literature, ancient
and modern. From Ecclesiastes:
“Meaningless!
Meaningless!” says the Teacher. “Utterly meaningless! Everything is meaningless.”
To Shakespeare:
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and
to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
All the intentions and actions of the characters, good or
evil, are ultimately meaningless. In the end, tragedy carries the day, and
everyone becomes or remains profoundly unhappy. The flower that was has been
eaten by the goat.
Note on the translation: I read the translation by Ronald
Hingley, which is generally well regarded. It is occasionally criticized for
being more “British” than “American” in idiom, but to this Anglophile, that is
not a real drawback. I have also heard good things about Paul Schmidt’s
translation. I found Hingley’s version to be vastly superior to the
unattributed (but obviously older) version available from Project Gutenberg.
Hingley captured a certain poetry and vitality completely missing from the
rather dry free version. Since Hingley’s and Schmidt’s translations are readily
available for a reasonable price, I would recommend going with one or the
other.
I previously read the first two books in this series. The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie was Bradley’s debut novel (at the age of 70!) I reviewed that book in
some detail. The second book, The Weed
that Strings the Hangman’s Bag, was also excellent, although I did not
write a long review for that one.
As I mentioned in my review of the first book, this series
combines elements of the English and the American detective novels. The
eleven-year-old heroine, Flavia, is observant, and gathers information through
conversations; but she also is a chemistry buff, and solves the mysteries
partially through procedure.
This book, the third in the series, continues the high
standard of writing established in the first two. Literary, artistic, and
scientific references are lovingly hidden in the narrative – and the author
takes care that they are accurate. Even the musical references have been
carefully chosen. As a musician, I love to hear mentions of more obscure works,
and this book does not disappoint. (Case in point: Flavia’s rather mean oldest
sister, Ophelia, plays Schubert’s B Flat Major Piano Sonata when she is
distraught. This piece is more sublime than turbulent, which adds a bit of
interesting nuance to the character.)
Really, only a cold, cold heart could resist this music.
This book also continued the development of the various
characters in the drama. Flavia and her sisters and father continue to gain a
significant back story, and are revealed, despite the unreliable narration of
Flavia, to have more depth than previously revealed.
Another notable and welcome development is the reappearance
of Dr. Kissing, the frail old man introduced in the first book. His quiet
rebellion against the strict life of the nursing home where he resides is both
inspiring and poignant, and laced with his characteristic wry sense of humor.
I also liked the exploration of Flavia’s need for a true
friend. This wish is not truly granted in this book, but Flavia’s growing
awareness of the void makes for an additional layer to her psyche. Throughout
the series, I have enjoyed the way the author develops the characters through
the eyes of Flavia. She is a believably precocious young lady: arrogant,
callow, immature, selectively perceptive, and self absorbed. One cannot help
but like her, while realizing that she would be maddening in person. Bradley’s
writing brings all of this out without letting the technique get in the way of
the story. The reader can zip through the book without difficulty, but the
characters and their inner conflicts remain with the reader every bit as much
as the plot.
He Knew He Was Right
is not merely the title of the book, nor the defining factor in the main plot:
it could rightfully be considered to be the underlying theme of Trollope’s
treatment of each of the characters and of all the myriad subplots. Everyone is
sure that he or she is right. Trollope could have made the book about
stubbornness and preached against a strong nature. He also could have done the
typical Victorian thing, and punished the assertive women while rewarding those
with a meek spirit. Instead, Trollope’s loyalty lies with the truth. Each
character must confront the question of whether his or her cherished views are
true or false.
It is difficult to know exactly where to begin with this
length and complex book. At around 800 pages of fairly small print, it is epic,
even for Trollope, who is hardly known for his brevity. Perhaps I should start
with the author himself.
Anthony Trollope is one of my favorite authors for a number
of reasons. He was formerly one of the more popular Victorian novelists, but
made the ill-advised choice to write an autobiography. In said autobiography,
he admitted that he set aside a certain amount of time each day to write, and
made himself write a certain number of words. This did not jive with the idea
of the author as inspired genius, writing as the spirit led him, so his
reputation suffered.
I find Trollope to be more subtle in his characterizations
than his contemporaries, Dickens and Collins. Rarely do even his minor
characters become “types,” and his books rarely contain true villains. Even
those who exist, such as the unforgettable Obadiah Slope are complex
characters, who seem psychologically true to life, even though they populate a
world foreign to a modern American reader. He
Knew He Was Right is no exception, being full of realistically drawn
characters.
The main plot of the book revolves around Louis Trevelyan
and his wife Emily. Even before the marriage, there are signs of future trouble.
Louis likes to have his way. His future father-in-law, Sir Marmaduke notes
that, “his way is such a good way,” but his wife realizes that, “Emily likes
her way too.”
The trouble begins when the rakish Colonel Osborne attempts
a not-so-innocent-on-his-part flirtation with Emily, who is half his age. Louis
demands that she cut off contact with him. She protests that he is unfairly
accusing her of unfaithfulness. In this way, the conflict is not one primarily
of behavior, but of ego. Emily will not admit any fault, and Louis will not
admit to wrongfully suspecting her. This feud grows all out of proportion until
it results in a prolonged separation and the use of the couple’s child as a
pawn in a battle of wills which consumes the parties and destroys their
happiness. Of this plot, I will have more to say later.
Meanwhile, a number of subplots are developed. Emily’s
younger sister, Nora, falls in love with Hugh Stanbury, a gentleman who is
forced to earn his own living due to financial circumstances. Hugh’s sister
Dorothy goes to live with her Aunt, Jemima Stanbury; who is an epically strong
willed and stubborn old lady, in the vein of Miss Havisham, perhaps, in her
manipulation and bitterness, but less crazy, and still capable of kindness on
rare occasions. Dorothy’s mother and sister are called upon to share a house
with Emily after she is banished from her husband’s presence. The French girls,
Camilla and Arabella, fight over the hand of Mr. Gibson, who wishes to marry
Dorothy.
Each character has the opportunity to display a stubborn
commitment to his or her values and preferences. Louis, of course, wishes for
his wife to admit fault. Emily likewise desires to be acquitted of the
accusation of unfaithfulness. Dorothy, who is rather mild mannered at the
outset, has no desire to marry Mr. Gibson. Nora and Hugh must defy the wishes
of her parents in order to court each other. Miss Stanbury continues her feud
with the family of her late beau, who left her his fortune at their expense.
Arabella and Camilla French both wish to be married and to dominate the other.
And on it goes.
Nora’s case is particularly interesting because she is
offered the hand of Mr. Glascock, the future Lord Peterborough. Glascock is one
of the truly admirable men in the book. (Hugh Stanbury is the other.) After
making a rather kind and affectionate proposal and being refused, he acts as
graciously as possible. Later in the book, he goes far out of his way on behalf
of Nora and Emily, despite no duty to do so. In every respect, he is a true
gentleman, and one that most girls would be eager to marry. However, there is
no chemistry between him and Nora, perhaps on account of the difference in age,
or perhaps because of temperament. Mostly, however, it is because Nora loves
Hugh.
Hugh is also a worthy man, but in a different way. He knows
that he will never inherit wealth, so he chooses to use his talents writing for
a newspaper – something which horrifies his aunt Jemima. He has a world-wise
and jaunty air, and puts a good face on his lack of a fixed income. He is,
moreover, kind to his sisters and mother, and also takes action at personal
expense to assist Emily. As Nora recognizes, there are tradeoffs in making this
choice. She chooses love over money, but Trollope allows her to truly understand
the factors on both sides.
As usual, there are too many quotable passages to choose
from. Trollope’s extended description of Louis and Emily while they are not
speaking to each other is brilliant, as is his use of repetition to show Louis’
obsession as his mind slowly crumbles. Indeed, this continual and recurring
internal discussion was disconcertingly familiar to one like me who tends to
spend time thinking things through. As Trollope puts it near the end, “Thought
deep, correct, continued, and energetic is quite compatible with madness.”
Perhaps the line between a reflective introvert and a madman is not so broad as
could be hoped.
In this book, Trollope also questions some of the orthodoxy
of the Victorian Era (and previous eras) regarding the role of women. Nora,
while realizing that she did not love Mr. Glascock, laments to herself that,
“The lot of a woman, as she often told herself, was wretched, unfortunate,
almost degrading. For a woman such as herself there was no path open to her
energy, other than that of getting a husband.” Hugh makes a perfect potential
match with her. In a discussion with Louis Trevelyan, he notes that women do
not like being “looked after.” “[I]f I were married, - which I never shall be,
for I shall never attain to the respectability of a fixed income, - I fancy I
shouldn’t look after my wife at all. It seems to me that women hate to be told
about their duties.” I might add that men don’t fancy it much either, but this
was less of an issue 150 years ago, I suspect.
Hugh may be flippant in his speech, but he is fiercely loyal
to Nora. He stands up to his future father-in-law, who thinks him too poor: “And
I, Sir Marmaduke, have been brought up in the idea that when a man has won the
affections of a woman, it is the duty of that man, - as a man, - to stick to
her through thick and thin; and I mean to do my duty, according to my idea.”
Trollope has the ability to slip little self-effacing asides
into the narrative. “Who would ever think of learning to live out of an English
novel?” Or, his subtle dig at the conventions of the novel: “It was for the
welfare of England
at large that the eldest sons of good families should marry the sweetest,
prettiest, brightest, and most loveable girls of their age. It is a doctrine on
behalf of which very much may be said.”
I also love the extended riff on the ending of books in a
marriage.
We must now go back to Exeter and look after Mr. Brooke Burgess and
Miss Dorothy Stanbury. It is rather hard upon readers that they should be thus
hurried from the completion of hymeneals at Florence
to the preparations for other hymeneals in Devonshire;
but it is the nature of a complex story to be entangled with many weddings
towards its close. In this little history there are, we fear, three or four
more to come. We will not anticipate by alluding prematurely to Hugh Stanbury's
treachery, or death, or the possibility that he after all may turn out to be
the real descendant of the true Lord Peterborough and the actual inheritor of
the title and estate of Monkhams, nor will we speak of Nora's certain fortitude
under either of these emergencies. But the instructed reader must be aware that
Camilla French ought to have a husband found for her; that Colonel Osborne
should be caught in some matrimonial trap, as how otherwise should he be fitly
punished? And that something should be at least attempted for Priscilla
Stanbury, who from the first has been intended to be the real heroine of these
pages. That Martha should marry Giles Hickbody, and Barty Burgess run away with
Mrs. MacHugh, is of course evident to the meanest novel-expounding capacity;
but the fate of Brooke Burgess and of Dorothy will require to be evolved with
some delicacy and much detail.
Of course, much of what he alludes to here does not come to
pass – he is only messing with the reader.
As a final dig at English tradition, Mr. Glascock, after
having had an argument with Caroline Spaulding, the daughter of the American
diplomat (who he eventually marries), makes a tongue-in-cheek reference to the
infamous “rule of thumb” in the English common law. “Caroline and I have had a
little dispute, but we have settled it without coming to blows.”
Carolyn’s cousin, the feminist “poet” Wallachia
(one of the few caricatures – and a good one), retorts, “I don’ suppose that an
English gentleman ever absolutely strikes a lady.”
In his wonderful, self confidently wry manner, Glascock
replies, “Not except on strong provocation. In reference to wives, a stick is
allowed as big as your thumb.”
In another exchange with Caroline’s younger sister, who
opines in her “ugly American” way, “I’d sooner be senator from Massachusetts than be
the Queen of England.”
“So would I,” said Mr. Glascock. “I’m glad we can agree
about one thing.”
In general, I would say that Trollope does a better satire
of American manners than Dickens. Trollope is more
gentle, and therefore more perceptive, in his approach. Dickens feels the need
to demonize the Americans, while Trollope’s darts are more true to the mark by
their very charity.
Even Wallachia, who is
obnoxious even by modern American standards, is given a few good lines.
Trollope eventually notes that, “The hope in regard to all such women, - the
hope entertained not by themselves, but by those that are solicitous for them,
- is that they will be cured at last by a husband and half-a-dozen children.”
Occasionally, I suspect that this is what my in-laws hoped would happen to my
wife. (She is much nicer than Wallachia, but
she would have had a hard time with Victorian Era English gender roles. Whether the kids and I have “cured” her is
debatable, of course.)
Jemima Stanbury is also another worthy character in this
book, and she gets some of the great lines. As a guy, I was a bit unfamiliar
with the idea of the chignon,
although my wife and other women presumably have an idea about this. Trollope
himself was no fan of the Victorian version of this hairdo, and pokes fun at it
later in the book. However, he cannot resist a little dig at Miss Stanbury.
Mr. Gibson and Arabella French. Illustration by Marcus Stone.
“She would talk of ‘those bandboxes which the sluts wear behind
their noddles;’ for Miss Stanbury allowed herself the use of much strong
language.” Unsurprisingly, the battle between the generations over styles has
been in existence as long as recorded history, and Trollope makes a
particularly effective satire of the desire that the younger generation dress
exactly as the older did.
That Trollope did not exactly wish to identify with Miss
Stanbury is made clear in a later incident involving the posting of a letter.
Anthony Trollope’s primary career was that of a postmaster, and writing was
originally a diversion for him. He was the inventor of the ubiquitous “pillar
box” – the curbside mail collection device. Miss Stanbury, along with many of
the older set, disapproved.
Miss Stanbury carried her letter all the
way to the chief post-office in the city, having no faith whatever in those
little subsidiary receiving houses which are established in different parts of
the city. As for the iron pillar boxes which had been erected of late years for
the receipt of letters, one of which--a most hateful thing to her--stood almost
close to her own hall door, she had not the faintest belief that any letter put
into one of them would ever reach its destination. She could not understand why people should
not walk with their letters to a respectable post-office instead of chucking
them into an iron stump as she called it out in the middle of the street with
nobody to look after it. Positive orders had been given that no letter from her
house should ever be put into the iron post.
Dorothy’s sister, Priscilla, is very like Miss Stanbury in
temperament, if not in opinions. The two, predictably, do not get along.
Trollope has an odd affection for Priscilla, even though she is clearly out of
place in Victorian society. She refuses to cater to the expectations of others,
and will not accept charity, even from those she loves. She also has a
delightfully witty tongue, which is why she is the one young female in the book
that I truly liked. Sure, Nora is strong in her way, but it is Priscilla that I
would marry, if I were placed in that world, despite her misgivings that she
would make a man miserable.
Her thoughts on “self esteem” are illustrative: “All that is
twopenny-halfpenny pride, which should be thrown to the winds. The more right
you have been hitherto, the better you can afford to go on being right. What is
it that we all live upon but self esteem? When we want praise, it is only
because praise enables us to think well of ourselves. Every one to himself is
the centre and pivot of all the world.”
Another great line occurs in reference to the rather
cowardly Mr. Gibson, who is continually at the mercy of a variety of strong
women. After a particularly bad “foot-in-mouth” moment, Trollope opines, “But
there are men so awkward that it seems to be their especial province to say
always the very worst thing at the very worst moment.”
I also liked his explanation of benign government
incompetence. Sir Marmaduke is the governor of some Asian islands, and he is
recalled to explain his policies for some useless government committee. His
explanation is amusingly accurate, “It had worked well; - that is to say,
everybody had complained of it, but he, Sir Marmaduke, would not recommend any
change.”
Despite all of the wit, and despite the happy ending for
many of the characters, the story of Emily and Louis is a devastating tragedy.
Louis Trevelyan at Casalunga. One of many excellent illustrations by Marcus Stone in the edition I own.
I think that Trollope was at the height of his powers in his
analysis of the situation. The rift is devastating precisely because it was
avoidable. Had either Louis or Emily made a different step, at least during the
first few months of the feud, reconciliation was likely. Trollope is too good
of a writer to come out and directly state the reason why the parties could not
understand each other, but the point cannot be missed: Louis and Emily cannot
express what they truly desire of the other. Instead, they make demands based
on the conventional gender roles of their time, and never take the time to hear
and understand the other.
Louis says that he wants obedience. Emily is willing to
obey. But, really, what Louis wants is to know that Emily cares about his
feelings and insecurities, and will voluntarily avoid hurting him. It pains him
to demand obedience, where love should have attained the same result.
In contrast, Emily desires to be treated like an adult. She
wants to be trusted, and not treated like an errant child for innocent
behavior. And really, any wrong that has occurred has been on the part of
Colonel Osborn (who is really slimy), not on Emily’s part.
Trollope makes it clear that if Louis had simply expressed
his feelings and fears, Emily would have seen his point. Likewise, if Emily had
simply validated Louis insecurities, he would not have demanded obedience in a
high-handed manner.
If either had given a millimeter, the whole tragedy could
have been avoided.
This is one area in which I think that certain religious
movements have gone astray in focusing on some form of “submission,” by which
they often mean, “obedience.” A decent man does not want a servant to do his
bidding. A decent man wants to know that his wife values his feelings and
desires. In a loving relationship, each party should care enough about the
other to avoid causing pain to the other. Louis and Emily cannot and will not
see this until it is too late. Eventually, it becomes more important to each
that he or she be RIGHT, and that the other admit it, than that the marriage
ever be put back together.
Louis himself eventually begins to subconsciously hope that his
fears may be true. That is, he would be happier to find out that Emily had been
unfaithful than that he had been unreasonably jealous. It is this pride and
stubbornness that tears the relationship apart. The love that they once had for
each other is slowly destroyed, until all that is left is pride and despair.
