The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins

Source of book: I own this, but we listened to it on audiobook

Years ago, in my teens, The Moonstone was the first Wilkie Collins book I read. After that came The Woman In White, because we owned it. A few years later, I was given two additional books by my violin teacher’s husband. (He had extra paperbacks he didn’t need - and introduced me to P. G. Wodehouse and Anthony Trollope as well.) Those two were Armadale, and my favorite Collins, No Name. 

We had a couple of long road trips planned for this year, so I got the audiobook version (narrated by Peter Jeffrey, who does a good job of making the Victorian language flow, as well as distinguishing between the different narrators and characters.) The reviews from the kids were mixed. Some found it interesting, others not so much. Win some, lose some.

First a bit about the book itself. The Moonstone is generally considered the first true detective novel. True, Poe wrote a couple of short stories which had many of the elements. And Sarah Burney’s novel, The Hermitage lent some key elements to Collins’ plot. But it really was The Moonstone that brought all the elements together, and would go on to influence detective stories from the Sherlock Holmes books on down. 

The Moonstone follows a common Collins pattern in that the story is told by multiple narrators. In this case, the story is set up by the hero, Franklin Blake, who asks the other characters to tell the part of the story they have personal knowledge of. He himself contributes a section as well. No knock on Franklin, but he is the straight man, so the other narrations are more amusing than his, although all of them serve to illuminate the plot - and eventually the mystery. 

The plot itself is a classic: a mysterious diamond, the Moonstone, is stolen from its Hindu shrine by an unscrupulous British officer. From then on, it appears to be followed by a curse, with evil (and often death) pursuing those who possess it. This history is told through the eyes of close associates of the thief as well as those who inherit the diamond. When the main story opens, the reclusive owner of the stone leaves the diamond to his niece, Rachel Verinder, and Franklin is tasked with delivering it to her. She wears the diamond at a party, and it is seen by all, including the three mysterious Indians who are undoubtedly determined to return it to India. 

That night, the diamond disappears, and the best efforts of the local police are insufficient to solve the mystery. Franklin calls in the renowned detective, Sergeant Cuff (a precursor of both Holmes and Joe Friday, so to speak), who presents his theory, but cannot completely solve the case. 

 Sergeant Cuff investigates...

Later, it becomes clear that the moonstone has been placed in a bank vault in London, pledged by an unknown person to a shady moneylender. But who? And how did he or she get the diamond? 

The story is told in turn by three main narrators. The first section is told by Gabriel Betteridge, the Verinder’s head servant, and one of the most delightful characters in Victorian fiction. He is obsessed with Robinson Crusoe, which he believes to be an oracle, a cross between the Bible and Nostradamus. It is his comfort, his guide, and his inspiration. Which he is eager to inflict on those around him. He is also a bit of a misogynist, having had a rather unpleasant marriage, and finding relief in his wife’s death. But, he is loyal, perceptive, and observant, which makes him an excellent servant and a useful narrator. He isn’t exactly a reliable narrator, as he is openly biased, but his attention to detail allows Collins to set the stage with most of the clues needed using just his story. 

The narrative next shifts to Drusilla Clack, Rachel’s impoverished cousin. Miss Clack is a puritanical sort, who pushes her religious beliefs on others with a rather assaultive fervor. 

The final narrator is Franklin Blake, who gets to explain his own investigation into the mystery. He has a particularly personal interest, as he is in love with Rachel, yet she appears to hate him - while refusing to explain why. 

There are other, shorter sections, essentially narrated by other characters: Mr. Bruff, the family attorney; Ezra Jennings, the doctor’s assistant; and Mr. Murthwaite, an adventurer who tells the epilogue. 

While it is pretty tough to spoil a 150 year old book, I will refrain from revealing the solution to the mystery. Suffice it to say that the essential elements of the British tradition of detective story are mostly in place. The “inside job,” the red herring, the bumbling local police, the celebrated investigator, the least likely suspect, and the final twist. It is in bringing all of them together - and in the skillful plotting and writing - that Collins came to be considered the first to do it. 

A couple of things only marginally related to the plot itself stood out. The most notable is the use of opium and addiction. Collins himself became an opium addict, and wrote certain sections of this book from experience. This may have contributed to its sales, as dramatic and lurid opium dreams were all the rage at the time. 

Second, although Victorian literature as a rule (and English Victorian literature in particular) tends to be colonialist and casually racist, I was struck by how little stereotyping Collins did. (For its era - obviously it would have been written very differently today.) The Indians - the three Brahmans tasked with recovering the Moonstone - may be “exotic” in some ways, but they are not savages. Rather, they are skilled at blending in, shapeshifting as necessary to accomplish their goals. Collins also portrays their goals as noble: it is the British officer who has stolen the gem, after all. Sure, the Indians may be ruthless and even murderous, but they are morally consistent and admirable in their own way. 

Third, Collins is a master of obliquely discussing female “purity” in subversive ways, even while maintaining plausible deniability. The Moonstone is a bit of an obvious stand in for virginity, and Rachel’s decision to refuse to defend her own honor is fascinating. Indeed, she feels insulted that she should have to. This is hardly the only Collins book to go there - indeed, the question of purity (and the hypocrisy and double standards of Victorian society) runs through many of his books. His heroines refuse to conform to nice submissive stereotypes. They fight for what is theirs, they pursue love - and money - as they wish. They take risks that only men were allowed to take. The decline to play the game. 

The fourth observation is that Collins had a real eye for the swindlers of his era. No Name skewers medical cons as well as financial. In The Moonstone, it is religious hucksterism in its fundamentalist form that Collins takes on. Collins was religious, but rather unorthodox in his personal life. (He eschewed marriage, choosing instead to live with a woman and raise her daughter as his own, while having a second mistress and three children with her.) He had no patience, however, for Puritans and their determination to create labyrinths of rules. To this end, he lets Miss Clack have enough leash to humiliate herself in her attempts to convert others. Here are some highlights from that. 

I sat down in the hall to wait for my answer--and having always a few tracts in my bag, I selected one which proved to be quite providentially applicable to the person who answered the door. The hall was dirty, and the chair was hard; but the blessed consciousness of returning good for evil raised me quite above any trifling considerations of that kind. The tract was one of a series addressed to young women on the sinfulness of dress. In style it was devoutly familiar. Its title was, “A Word with you on your Cap-Ribbons.”

Betteridge’s daughter, Penelope, to whom the tract was directed, gives an acid response:

She looked at the title. “Is it written by a man or a woman, Miss? If it’s written by a woman, I had rather not read it on that account. If it’s written by a man, I beg to inform him that he knows nothing about it.” 

Yep, the more things change...there is no end of the policing of female clothing. Hey, I wrote a whole series on that! It is pretty hard to disagree with Penelope’s response. MYOB. 

Later in the narrative, Miss Clack tries desperately to convert Rachel’s dying mother with more and more and more books and tracts and sermons. 

Here was a golden opportunity! I seized it on the spot. In other words, I instantly opened my bag, and took out the top publication. It proved to be an early edition--only the twenty-fifth--of the famous anonymous work (believed to be by the precious Miss Bellows), entitled The Serpent at Home. The design of the book--with which the worldly reader may not be acquainted--is to show how the Evil One lies in wait for us in all the most apparently innocent actions of our daily lives. The chapters best adapted to female perusal are “Satan in the Hair-Brush”; “Satan behind the Looking-Glass”; “Satan under the Tea-Table”; “Satan out of the Window”;--and many others. 

“Give all your attention, dear aunt, to this precious book--and you will give me all I ask.” With these words, I handed it to her open, at a marked passage--one continuous burst of burning eloquence! Subject: Satan among the Sofa Cushions.

One wonders if Bill Gothard and Jack Chick took inspiration from this. So many demons lurking in the corners of everyday life. I’d laugh a bit more heartily if I hadn’t had to live through too much of this - and hadn’t been handed the equivalent of these books to convince my wife of the joys of patriarchy. Sigh. Nothing new under the sun, though. 

One final observation. Collins has tremendous sympathy for the outcasts of society, and takes care to show that often our prejudices against people have to do with their appearances, or their socioeconomic status. Rosanna has done time for theft, but is hired by the Verinders, who look past her past. But she is never completely out of suspicion, in significant part because she is deformed. Her tragic end contrasts with the way Godfrey is assumed to be good because of his genteel birth, his charitable work, and his slick manners. Oh, and his handsome face. The lame Lucy is suspected of madness or malevolence because of her deformity as well. Ezra Jennings is a particularly good example. Jennings has a mysterious past which is hinted at, but not stated. Probably, he has an illegitimate child to support, but this is merely an educated guess. He is also of uncertain race, being apparently of mixed heritage. He also describes himself as having a “female constitution,” and being somewhere between male and female. Whether Collins means to hint at intersexuality, homosexuality, or merely some “defect” in “manliness” is unclear. Whatever the case, Jennings is ugly, and thus distrusted and hated by everyone. In each of these cases, though, appearances are deceiving. Rosanna has her demons, but she is ultimately more generous and kind than you would think. Lucy is fiercely loyal and good hearted. And Jennings turns out to be one of the most scrupulously moral and decent people in the book. Godfrey...well, you will have to read the book to find out his fate. 

You never truly know sometimes how a book you enjoyed as a kid or teen will age. There have been a few which were disappointing to re-read as an adult. (Looking at you, H. Rider Haggard…) Others turn out to be even better than remembered. (As in The Great Brain or anything by Beverly Cleary.) I can say, however, having re-read two Wilkie Collins books, that he has aged well. The plots are tight, the characters memorable, the writing good. And, while still of an era, they are less sexist and racist than I feared - Collins humanizes his characters too well for that. The Moonstone is rightly considered a classic. 

No Name by Wilkie Collins

Source of book: I own this.

As regular followers of this blog recall, I participate in an online book club, hosted by my friend Carrie at readingtoknow.com. This is our second year, and we are focusing on classics - an even mix of adult and children’s books. This month’s selection was chosen by me. 

What does one do if one is unjustly deprived of fortune, reputation, and indeed, one’s own name?

Well, if one is Thorin Oakenshield, rightful “King Under the Mountain,” one might set off on a quest with eleven close friends, a wizard, and a hired burglar, and die gloriously in battle.

Or, if one is Hamlet of Denmark, one might dither until it is too late, and end up as one of many dead in a Shakespearian tragedy.

Or, if one is the Count of Monte Cristo, one might swear eternal revenge, and proceed to carry it out under a false name, punishing one’s enemies in one of the greatest revenge tales ever.

But what does one do if one is a female in the Victorian era? And what happens if said female chooses option number three?

It is always interesting to reread a book many years after a first reading. I thought about this book, and determined that I must have read it around age 18 or so. Or closer to my birth than my current age. Ouch. I’m getting old.

When I read this, I had not yet begun law school, so I missed many of the delightful legal references and quotable lines. I think that this book may have been at least partially responsible for my eventual decision to enter the legal profession - and to eventually make estate planning and probate a key part of my practice.

This book was also an important milestone in my reading. I believe it was my first foray into Victorian literature beyond Charles Dickens; I would become acquainted with my favorite Victorian, Anthony Trollope soon thereafter. This was also my first acquaintance with a strong heroine in a fully adult book. (I love Anne of Green Gables - at least the first four books, but those are geared toward children and teens.)

Of all the Wilkie Collins books I have read, I still have affection for this particular book because of its ambiguous characters, its transgressive heroine, and the complex issues presented.

In my introduction to this month’s book club selection, I gave some basic biographical information about Collins, which I won’t repeat here.

Like many books of the era, it takes awhile to get into the plot itself. The first hundred pages or so set the stage of a typical upper class English family. The father has a significant inherited fortune, and there are two daughters. Norah, the eldest, is practically an old maid at 26, and is less attractive and vibrant than her younger sister, the tall and gorgeous Magdalen. It is Magdalen who chooses the third option and seeks to repossess her fortune at whatever cost necessary.

The basic plot is driven by a legal issue. The parents are not legally married, because the father entered a disastrous young marriage abroad, but was unable to obtain a divorce. The parents lived together as husband and wife, but never made it legal until the first wife died. After the legal marriage, but before they can make a new estate plan, both die under tragic circumstances. This leaves the girls disinherited and without a name. Due to previous family quarrels, the nearest relative, who inherits the fortune, casts away the girls, considering himself morally justified as the “divine retribution” for the sins of the parents. (Mankind has a history of attempting to prevent illegitimate children by brutally punishing the children. As the family lawyer, Mr. Pendril says, “I am far from defending the law of England as it affects illegitimate offspring. On the contrary, I think it a disgrace to the nation. It visits the sins of the parents on the children; it encourages vice by depriving fathers and mothers of the strongest of all motives for making the atonement of marriage; and it claims to produce these two abominable results in the names of morality and religion.” Modern laws have remedied this result, at least, but I could go on at length at the way that welfare laws - particularly the Medicaid rules - punish marriage still today.)

Before this tragedy, the family enjoys some typical amusements, which end up being portents of the future. First, the girls accompany their father to a concert. As an orchestral musician myself, I snickered at the description of the scene wherein the audience seemed confused about when a symphony ended. While it was common at one point to clap between movements - and individual movements were often encored immediately - by Collins’ time, it had already become gauche to fail to wait until the very end for applause.

Later, Magdalen is convinced to take part in an amatuer production of Richard Sheridan’s play, The Rivals. (While I have not read The Rivals, I did read Sheridan’s other masterwork, The School for Scandal.) The Rivals is notable for the character of Mrs. Malaprop, who uses the wrong words to comic effect. It is also notable for matrimonial schemes involving impersonations and fraud. Magdalen takes naturally to acting, and steals the show. Both this fact and the subject matter of the play will be important later in the book.

During this time, Magdalen falls in love with Frank Clare, who she has known since childhood. Frank’s father is a scandalous free thinker - and the references to his favorite philosophers escaped me when I first read this, but were amusing on the second reading. Frank is, as his father fears, irresponsible and flighty. Magdalen correctly decides that he would be best served by marrying money.

When I first read the book, I didn’t really understand why Collins bothered writing the character of Frank Clare. He is a motivating factor in Magdalen attempting to regain her fortune, of course, but he abandons her soon into her quest, and appears at the end only when he has married a far older widow for her money.

What I did not realize at the time was that Collins has cleverly turned gender expectations upside down. Frank does exactly what a proper Victorian female was expected to do. He was a gentleman without a fortune, but a handsome face. What should a girl do? Marry an older man with money, of course! But Frank is castigated for his lack of fortitude in seeking an alternate means of making a living. (As he should be: he is an irresponsible and rather ungrateful slacker. Although he also resembles the young Wilkie Collins a bit.)

However, Magdalen has exactly what Frank lacks, which is determination and fortitude. Frank takes the passive, “female” approach, while Magdalen opts for the “male” approach. Although she has fewer options, she basically opts to imitate the Count of Monte Cristo and win back what is hers by whatever means are available.

If the genders had been reversed, both Frank and Magdalen would have taken socially acceptable attitudes about their fate.

Of course, this is a Collins novel, so Magdalen’s attitude will lead her to go beyond any reasonable course of action, stooping to shocking lows and nearly destroying herself in the process. What makes her unable to embrace the “female” approach? Surely she could, with her good looks and vivacious personality, charm a handsome and wealthy suitor despite her illegitimate birth.

I found the musings of the old governess, Miss Garth, to be interesting on this point.

Does there exist in every human being, beneath that outward and visible character which is shaped into form by the social influences surrounding us, an inward, invisible disposition, which is part of ourselves, which education may indirectly modify, but can never hope to change?  Is the philosophy which denies this and asserts that we are born with dispositions like blank sheets of paper a philosophy which has failed to remark that we are not born with blank faces—­a philosophy which has never compared together two infants of a few days old, and has never observed that those infants are not born with blank tempers for mothers and nurses to fill up at will?

The “nature” versus “nurture” argument is as old as time, and both extremes have been used as justification for evil acts. Racists and eugenicists have always pointed toward nature as an excuse for the superiority of some. In contrast, the Stalinists, as I noted in my post on Iron Curtain, believed in human beings as a completely blank slate - and that by changing the nurture, one could change the nature.

Certainly, Norah and Magdalen are strong arguments for nature as a determining factor. One of the surprising things about being a parent was that I found that I had far less control than I had thought. My children have been pretty well set in personality since birth, really. I have five children with strong wills and characteristics of their own, totally different from each other.

Old Mr. Clare, curmudgeon extraordinaire, has no high opinion of his child, but neither does he think much of women.

"These are the creatures," he thought to himself, "into whose keeping men otherwise sensible give the happiness of their lives. Is there any other object in creation, I wonder, which answers its end as badly as a woman does?"

Mr. Clare underestimates Magdalen, of course. And Magdalen herself has yet to realize what she can do. Late in the book, as she finds herself falling for Captain Kirke, (did Gene Roddenberry steal the name?), she thinks, “Oh, if I could be a man, how I should like to be such a man as this!” That is, a man who is both strong and decisive, but also gentle and kind. Magdalen is capable of both, but she simply cannot be passive, which is the very thing society demands of her. 

So, does Magdalen have a defective nature? Or does is she just not cut out for the role that society has set for her? The novel ends with a conventional Victorian ideal. Norah’s approach wins in the end. By being the good girl, patiently resigned to her fate, she is eventually rescued by a wealthy man. This is ludicrously unlikely to have really occurred, as Collins is clearly aware. In fact, he sets up the scenario exactly so that it is unrealistic. Norah is the unattractive sister, and she is already age 26 when the story opens. By the time of her marriage, she would be around 28, if I am counting the months correctly. Certainly past the average age of marriage, and unlikely to have caught the eye of a dashing young gentleman.

(Side note: I shouldn’t be unfair to Norah here. While she must play the part of the Good Victorian Girl, she is more human than I remembered from my first reading. She is too good and perfect to be realistic, of course, but she has her moments of humanity. She is jealous of Magdalen’s beauty and charm. When she objects to Magdalen’s infatuation with Frank Clare, she knows that mixed with her good sense is also a certain amount of envy. She isn’t exactly an angelic Dickens female.)

Magdalen herself also succumbs at last to the societal ideal, by falling in love with a man twice her age who will rescue her. (Collins makes a big point of the age difference - at the same time as he notes Frances Clare’s marriage to an older widow. I doubt this was accidental. Although the Victorian reader would probably not find it bothersome, we moderns find this idea a bit icky - at least I do, and Collins portrays Kirke as uncomfortable as well.)

Thus, the ending of this book is ostensibly happy, but tragedy lurks below the surface. In reality, we know that it would be more likely that Norah would live out her life as a governess, and probably end it in the workhouse. Magdalen would die of her fever, and the insufferable Noel Vanstone would live to hoard his wealth for his eventual children. As in Shakespeare’s A Winter’s Tale, we escape disaster, but only by unbelievable coincidences and turns of the plot.

Not only does the plot turn on a legal issue, there is much in this book about lawyers and clients. Collins studied for the law prior to his writing career, and was actually admitted to the bar, although he never practiced.

Thus, unlike many authors (and even more television shows), he writes accurately. One of the curses of being a lawyer is that we wince whenever we watch courtroom dramas or read about legal cases. The ignorance is usually laughable, but we can’t even do that. Collins gets it right, however, and his portrayals are quite familiar.

First of all, Mr. Pendril is an ideal lawyer. He is scrupulous in his confidentiality and management of potential conflicts of interest. (The other attorney, Mr. Loscombe is likewise admirable for his professionality.)  

Collins also notes a tendency of elderly clients to fail to plan their estates, because doing so would mean contemplating their own death. In Michael Vanstone’s case, “He announced his own positive determination not to die.” Until he did, of course. I see this all the time in my own practice. Clients are afraid that if they go see an attorney, they will die. Well, they will die, but not because they saw an attorney. And then everyone else will be left with the mess.

As a final legal note, additional trouble was caused by a legal document drafted by a non-lawyer. As is common with such documents, it had the opposite effect from what was intended. Again, I see this all the time. As Mr. Loscombe puts it, this “constantly happens when uninstructed persons meddle with law...”

My friend Carrie, in her review of this book, noted that she initially groaned when Captain Wragge was introduced, but later decided he was the best character in the book. I agree. Captain Wragge has to be one the most memorable characters in literature, and it is his duel with the equally formidable Mrs. Lecount that is, in my opinion, the best part of the book. 

Magdalen and Captain Wragge. Illustration by John McLenan (from my edition of the book).

Captain Wragge calls himself a “moral agriculturist,” that is, a swindler. He separates fools from their money, by whatever non-violent means he can find. While usually motivated by pure greed, he eventually becomes fond of Magdalen while he helps her further her own schemes. However, it is once he meets the equally unscrupulous and scheming Mrs. Lecount that he finds he is fighting for pure principle. As the two of them try to gain the upper hand and stay a step ahead of the other, it becomes a “wizard’s duel” of duplicity. 

Magdalen and Mrs. Lecount also have a duel going. Lecount seems motivated both by a desire to get the money she feels she deserves, but also a self-righteous desire to see Magdalen get her just deserts as a bastard. Her low opinion of Magdalen leads her to form an “astonishment...which is akin to admiration” upon learning that Magdalen has sought only to recover her father’s fortune and stopped there. (Lecount is led by this admiration to hate Magdalen even more.)

One more thing that I had completely forgotten since the last time I read the book was that Wragge eventually goes from being a swindler of the usual sort, to a swindler of the medical sort; or, as he puts it, “medical agriculture.” Selling what we would now call “alternative medicine,” in the form of pills, he uses language which is so familiar today. “Down with the Doctors!” Nothing mainstream can be trusted, and so forth. Nothing has changed about the nature of medical swindles - or about swindles in general. Captain Wragge delivers a penetrating line as he leaves the book forever:

“Don’t think me mercenary - I merely understand the age I live in.”

And this is why all swindles have been the same in all places and times in history. No matter what is being sold, it preys on the fears and insecurities and greed of the age. This holds true for financial scams (which I often see in my practice), medical scams (which I discussed in my post on The Flying Inn by G. K. Chesterton), and spiritual scams (which I discussed in my post about Tolkien and witchcraft).

One final thought on a line from this book. There is a scene in which Madalen is intentionally slighted by her fellow servants (she has taken a job as a parlor maid). Despite the fact that she outranks them (which they do not know), she still feels the cut deeply.

Resist it as firmly, despise it as proudly as we may, all studied unkindness—­no matter how contemptible it may be—­has a stinging power in it which reaches to the quick.

And this is to a large degree what fuels Magdalen. Her relatives, first her uncle and then her cousin, and then Mrs. Lecount, cut her and Norah off without feeling, because of an old family grudge. The girls must be punished for a quarrel that occurred long before they were born, and had no way of curing. They all get satisfaction from being unkind to Magdalen and Norah, and that is what stings. Surely all of us have felt at one time or another, the cut of a “studied unkindness.”

Although this book is less well known that Collins’ more famous works, The Woman in White and The Moonstone, it is a gem worth seeking out and reading.

Introduction to Wilkie Collins - Book Club 2013

For those new to my blog, I am participating for the second year in an online book club, hosted by my friend Carrie, who has a popular book blog, Reading to Know. I am no longer the token male member, as she has convinced her husband to participate this year. My selection is No Name by Wilkie Collins.  If you want to join in or see what we are reading, the link to that post is here:

Wilkie Collins (named William Wilkie after his father) was one of the most influential authors of the Victorian era, yet his name is often just a side note. He is known for The Woman in White and maybe The Moonstone, but little else. During his lifetime, his best known novels were classified as “sensation novels.” We now recognized them as early examples of detective and suspense fiction. Although Edgar Allan Poe wrote the first true detective story, “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” which set the conventions of the genre that would eventually be associated primarily with Sherlock Holmes, it was Collins who expanded the form into the full length mystery. The Woman in White is his first effort, containing most of the usual elements; but it was The Moonstone that is the fully developed prototype of the genre. T. S. Eliot and Dorothy Sayers (herself a master of the mystery) both gave high praise to The Moonstone.

No Name belongs to the other side of Collins’ writing: suspense fiction. There is no mystery to be solved - unless you count the mystery of what will happen next. The book begins a bit slowly, and appears to be a novel of domestic manners, perhaps in the vein of Jane Austen, or Anthony Trollope (one of my favorite authors); but it eventually goes completely off the tracks as tragedy strikes. The two daughters are orphaned, left without an inheritance or means of support and must fend for themselves. The elder, Nora, is quiet and staid - completely the conventional Victorian female. She finds work as a governess. Magdalen, on the other hand, is a force of nature. It is her adventures that are chronicled in this book. Actually, “chronicled” is a completely insufficient description of what happens. Magdalen drags the author and the reader along on her outrageous escapades at a breathtaking pace. When I first read this book in my late teens, I found myself gasping at the crazy things she does, and her supreme force of will. Whether she is a heroine or an antihero is an open question, but she is unforgettable.

Collins and Charles Dickens were close friends throughout a good part of their lifetimes. They were each influenced by the other, collaborated on several projects, and probably influenced each other’s writing. Certainly they both shared a concern for social issues, and brought servants from their roles as background figures to the forefront as human, sympathetic characters. Although Dickens was more successful in his social criticism, Collins has some good points to make in this book. The ending (which I will not disclose) would have been affirming to many Victorians, but it is about as convincing as the living statue in A Winter’s Tale. I believe Collins, like Shakespeare before him, backed away from the more realistic tragic ending, while understanding that those of his readers that would look beneath the surface would find the underlying injustice readily apparent.

You don’t have to be an official member of the book club to read along. We post our reviews the last week of April. Feel free to link your thoughts on my page in the comments.