The School for Scandal by Richard Sheridan

Source of book: Borrowed from the library

This play is on my reading list because the Bakersfield Symphony is performing Samuel Barber’s overture, written over a century later to accompany the play. I usually attempt to familiarize myself with the back story for the works we perform, and this one promised to be a good read as well.

The School for Scandal (the play) was first performed in 1777, the era of Mozart and Haydn, Boswell and Johnson, Goethe and Schiller, Kant and Wollstonecraft. Aristocratic society was an irresistible target for an acerbic wit, and Sheridan was one of the finest.

Sheridan wrote The School for Scandal and his other hit play, The Rivals, before the age of thirty. (The Rivals contains the memorable Mrs. Malaprop, whose name became a word in its own right.) Sheridan used the proceeds from his plays to purchase the Drury Lane Theater, later plowing the profits of this business into his career in parliament.

Gossip and hypocrisy take center stage in The School for Scandal. Lady Sneerwell and her lackey, Snake, spread malicious rumors for fun and profit. As the stage directions for the opening of the play state, she “entertains her intimates to relieve the tedium of being idly rich.” Furthermore, she delights in the fact that her rumors have caused engagements to be broken, and children to be disinherited.

Lady Sneerwell herself justifies this occupation as follows:

Wounded myself in the early part of my life by the envenomed tongue of slander, I confess I have since known no pleasure equal to the reducing others to the level of my own injured reputation.

Lady Sneerwell is hardly the only character who gossips, and is indeed one of many with a razor-sharp wit and tongue. Indeed, one of the criticisms of the play is that the characters are a bit too similar – most of them display Sheridan’s wit rather than an original wit of their own.

One exception in this case is Maria, who is the one honorable female in the play. She simply wants to marry the spendthrift Charles Surface; while her guardian, Sir Peter Teazle, wishes for her to marry the more respectable brother, Joseph Surface.

Lady Sneerwell: Nay, but we should make allowance; Sir Benjamin is a wit and a poet.

Maria: For my part, I confess, madam, wit loses its respect with me, when I see it in company with malice.

…

Lady Sneerwell: Pshaw! There’s no possibility of being witty without a little ill nature: the malice of a good thing is the barb that makes it stick.

Sir Peter himself has a low opinion of gossip, particularly as he is the butt of many of the jokes, having married a wife half his age. Lady Teazle was once relatively poor, but her elevation to high society has failed to inspire gratefulness. She spends his money with impunity, and considers it to be owed to her. Sir Peter feels humiliated by her lack of love for him, but is fascinated by her nonetheless.

Sir Peter: …yet with what a charming air she contradicts everything I say, and how pleasingly she shows her contempt for my authority! Well, though I can’t make her love me, there is great satisfaction in quarreling with her; and I think that she never appears to such advantage as when she is doing everything in her power to plague me.

Lady Sneerwell and her fellow gossips cannot resist twisting the knife a little:

Lady Sneerwell: But you are a cruel creature – too phlegmatic yourself for a jest, and too peevish to allow wit in others.

Sir Peter: (seriously) Ah, madam, true wit is more nearly allied to good nature than your ladyship is aware of.

Lady Sneerwell: (walking up to him and tapping him condescendingly on the shoulder with her fan with heartless innuendo) True, Sir Peter. I believe they are so near akin that they can never be united.

Sir Benjamin: Or rather, madam, suppose them to be man and wife, because one seldom sees them together.

Sir Peter, even in his indignation preserves his dignity and his wit. He eventually expresses his opinion that those who repeat gossip are as guilty as those who start the rumor. In doing so, he makes a delightful legal reference. (Okay, at least my lawyer colleagues will find this one funny.)

Mrs. Candour: But, surely, you would not be quite so severe on those who only report on what they hear?

Sir Peter: Yes, madam, I would have the law merchant [analogous to the UCC in the United States] for them too; and in all cases of slander currency, whenever the drawer of the lie was not to be found, the injured parties should have the right to come on any of the indorsers.

The plot of the play turns on the contrast of Joseph and Charles, neither of whom is exactly who they seem. It is true that Charles is a spendthrift. He is deeply in debt, and has sold most of the family furniture and valuables. However, as Mrs. Candour (another of the gossips) points out, “everybody almost is the same way…; so if Charles is undone, he’ll find half his acquaintance ruined too, and that, you know, is a consolation."

Sir Oliver, the Surface brothers’ rich uncle, returns from India, and decides to test his nephews by appearing to them in disguise.

He pretends to be a moneylender when he visits the bankrupt Charles, who suggests selling the family portraits to him to raise cash. This mortifies Sir Oliver, until Charles oddly refuses to sell the portrait of Sir Oliver. I thought this scene was rather amusing. It contains this gem:

Charles: And there are two brothers of his, William and Walter Blunt, Esquires, both members of Parliament, and noted speakers, and what’s very extraordinary, I believe, this is the first time they were ever bought or sold.

Later, Sir Oliver visits Joseph, impersonating a friend who needs to borrow some money. Joseph, who is already having a bad day (see below), claims that he has none to lend, and that Sir Oliver has never sent him money. This is a lie, as Sir Oliver has sent £12,000 to each of the brothers over the years.

Joseph may have some excuse for being a bit out of sorts, however, as he has just gotten himself in a pickle. Now follow along carefully: Joseph wants to marry Maria for her money, but in order to get into Sir Peter’s good graces, he has been flattering Lady Teazle. He tries to seduce her, using the argument that a good scandal will make her appear more human and sympathetic. He is interrupted by Sir Peter, so he hides Lady Teazle behind a screen. He is then interrupted again by Charles, so he hides Sir Peter in a closet. All is discovered, and Charles gets a good laugh at Joseph’s expense, Sir Peter is outraged, and Lady Teazle is mortified. And Joseph, of course, is exposed as a hypocrite.

After yet another witty scene in which the rumor that Joseph and Sir Peter have dueled (patently false), and that Sir Peter is near death (even more false), takes flight until dashed by the appearance of an irritated Sir Peter; the expected conclusion is reached. Maria and Charles are free to marry, Sir Peter and Lady Teazle are reconciled, and Joseph and Lady Sneerwell get their just deserts.  

This play, and Sheridan’s work in general resembles that of Oscar Wilde a century later. The wit is the thing, and the well turned phrases come one after the other. If anything, Sheridan’s wit is a slight bit meaner than Wilde’s – the term razor sharp is apropos. One almost feels guilty for laughing; but one cannot help it.

The section in which the Ladies Sneerwell, Candour, and Teazle, along with Sir Benjamin and Crabtree eviscerate their acquaintances is shocking in its meanness while it is devastatingly funny.

Lady Sneerwell: Well, well, if Mrs. Evergreen does take some pains to repair the ravages of time, you must allow she effects it with great ingenuity, and surely that’s better than the careless manner in which the widow Ochre chalks her wrinkles.

Sir Benjamin: Nay, now, Lady Sneerwell, you are severe upon the widow. Come, come, ‘tis not that she paints so ill, but when she has finished her face, she joins it so badly to her neck, that she looks like a mended statue, in which the connoisseur sees at once that the head’s modern though the trunk’s antique.

The play shows some signs of its age. For example, there is the casual anti-Semitism and Jewish stereotyping that plagues literature from the Middle Ages right up through the last century. These are a cringe-worthy as blackface to our modern senses. I also noted the use of descriptive names. This antiquated device seems less jarring, and can be a bit of an aid in keeping the characters straight.

As a final thought, it is interesting that Sheridan ended up living out some of his art. Like Charles Surface, he squandered his fortune, and ended up in debt. Unlike Charles, there was no rich uncle to bail him out. After the early death of his first wife, Sheridan took the route of Sir Peter, and married a much younger woman. One tends to think of authors of writing from their experience. In this case, it went in reverse. Sheridan ceased writing before age thirty, and had his misadventures late in life.

On the other hand, given his reputation as a wit and a carouser, perhaps he felt he had to keep up appearances. The scoundrel Snake has one of the last words in The School for Scandal.

Sir Peter: Well, well, you have made atonement by a good deed at last.

Snake: But I must request of the company that it shall never be known.

Sir Peter: Hey! What the plague! Are you ashamed of having done a right thing once in your life?

Snake: (sighing deeply) Ah, sir! Consider; I live by the badness of my character. I have nothing but my infamy to depend on! And if it were once known that I had been betrayed into an honest action, I should lose every friend I have in the world.

Note on Barber’s Overture:

Barber was one of the premier twentieth century American composers. Unfortunately, most know him only for his poignant Adagio for Strings (featured in the movie Platoon, for those who know classical music only through the movies. Barber wrote great music in a variety of forms, from opera to solo concertos.

The School for Scandal was written in 1931, when Barber was a 21 year old college student. While it has a few youthful foibles in the orchestration, it is a remarkably mature and well constructed work, in my opinion. Barber typically shows discipline in his forms, combined with melody and emotion that move the listener.

This overture captures the acerbic nature of Sheridan’s wit. The harmonies and timbres often have the sense of the edge of a razor, and the musical humor tends to bite rather than sparkle. Even the tender sections come with a slightly raised eyebrow and a wry smile. In other words, Barber captured the essence of Sheridan rather well. 

Poems for Good Friday

For Good Friday, to contrasting poems by two very different masters of the devotional poem. I find it interesting that both, to an extent, express the same sentiments, and even present parallel elements. I was unable to confirm if Rossetti consciously based her poem on the earlier Donne, but she was known to take inspiration from earlier works, and then put her own personal twist on them. Both poets bemoan their lack of response to the ultimate sacrifice. Each notes the deep response of a woman: Donne acknowledges Mary, the mother of Christ; Rossetti, the women that mourned at the cross, and later first witnessed the resurrection. The two ask for a softening of their hard hearts at the close of the poems.

Donne writes his longer poem in Heroic Couplets; that is, in Iambic Pentameter with two consecutive rhyming lines. Chaucer is believed to have first popularized this form, with Alexander Pope and John Dryden the names most associated with this form. This formal style is typical of Donne and his era, and requires a careful reading and re-reading to tease out the gems of thought.

GOOD-FRIDAY, 1613, RIDING WESTWARD.
by John Donne

LET man's soul be a sphere, and then, in this,
Th' intelligence that moves, devotion is ;
And as the other spheres, by being grown
Subject to foreign motion, lose their own,
And being by others hurried every day,
Scarce in a year their natural form obey ;
Pleasure or business, so, our souls admit
For their first mover, and are whirl'd by it.
Hence is't, that I am carried towards the west,
This day, when my soul's form bends to the East.
There I should see a Sun by rising set,
And by that setting endless day beget.
But that Christ on His cross did rise and fall,
Sin had eternally benighted all.
Yet dare I almost be glad, I do not see
That spectacle of too much weight for me.
Who sees Gods face, that is self-life, must die ;
What a death were it then to see God die ?
It made His own lieutenant, Nature, shrink,
It made His footstool crack, and the sun wink.
Could I behold those hands, which span the poles
And tune all spheres at once, pierced with those holes ?
Could I behold that endless height, which is
Zenith to us and our antipodes,
Humbled below us ? or that blood, which is
The seat of all our soul's, if not of His,
Made dirt of dust, or that flesh which was worn
By God for His apparel, ragg'd and torn ?
If on these things I durst not look, durst I
On His distressed Mother cast mine eye,
Who was God's partner here, and furnish'd thus
Half of that sacrifice which ransom'd us ?
Though these things as I ride be from mine eye,
They're present yet unto my memory,
For that looks towards them ; and Thou look'st towards me,
O Saviour, as Thou hang'st upon the tree.

I turn my back to thee but to receive
Corrections till Thy mercies bid Thee leave.
O think me worth Thine anger, punish me,
Burn off my rust, and my deformity ;
Restore Thine image, so much, by Thy grace,
That Thou mayst know me, and I'll turn my face. 

Rossetti uses her mastery of rhythm to lend the stanzas of her poem a certain focus. The first line in each, to my reading, contains four accented syllables. The unaccented syllables are dropped in some cases. This also occurs in the last line of stanza, where there are three accents. The middle two lines are pentameter, and are linked by rhyme, as are the first and last. Thus, the emphasis is on the beginning and end of the stanza, with the strongest impact left to the end. Rossetti, despite using far fewer words, makes the point with an impact equal to Donne.

Good Friday

By Christina Rossetti

Am I a stone, and not a sheep,

     That I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy cross,
To number drop by drop Thy blood's slow loss,
And yet not weep?

Not so those women loved
     Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee;
Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly;
     Not so the thief was moved;

Not so the Sun and Moon   
     Which hid their faces in a starless sky,
A horror of great darkness at broad noon--
     I, only I.

Yet give not o'er,
     But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock;
Greater than Moses, turn and look once more
     And smite a rock.

P. G. Wodehouse - book club selection for April

For those new to my blog, I am participating in an online book club, hosted by my friend Carrie, who has a popular book blog, Reading to Know. I am the token male member, so I will have to work even harder to prove that I was selected on my merits alone. This month is my turn to select the book. I have chosen P. G. Wodehouse. If you want to join in or see what we are reading, the link to that post is here:

The first half of the 20^th Century was not kind to the British aristocracy. The Empire was on the decline, and was eventually lost. Land, once the source of wealth and power, was becoming secondary to capital and manufacturing. What was once the source of an independent income for the young, feckless nobleman had now become a drain on the finances.

Various authors documented and commented on this earthshaking change in society. E. M. Forster and John Galsworthy wrote serious novels. H. G. Wells and George Bernard Shaw explored the new atheism and pessimism. Yeats and Joyce replaced Tennyson and Dickens.

And then there was Pelham Grenville Wodehouse (pronounced WOOD-house), who saw in the decline of the aristocracy a golden opportunity for humor. Remarkable for both his long life and his prodigious output, Wodehouse was one of the greatest and most memorable humorists of all time.

This month, as my contribution to the Reading to Know Book Club, I have selected Wodehouse as the author for the month of April. Because access to particular books varies, and Wodehouse wrote 96 books during his lifetime, I have chosen to leave the choice of books open to the reader.

Wodehouse loved to write about memorable characters, and decided to have various characters populate multiple books, either in a sequential story, or as persons who fit in the stories of others. These personalities are an important part of the charm of P. G.’s writing, and really drive the plots. The major characters are as follows:

Bertie Wooster, the young aristocrat; and his loyal and resourceful butler, Jeeves. These stories are an excellent introduction to Wodehouse. Fans of Hugh Laurie from House should seek out the BBC series Jeeves and Wooster, which are deliciously true to the spirit, if not always the letter, of the books.

Psmith. (The “P” is silent.) Carrie and I are particular fans of this character, who is lazy and outrageous, but manages to come through in the clutch anyway. He is an advocate of “practical socialism”, wherein he appropriates the goods of the wealthy for his own purposes. I have failed to do justice to Psmith, so I’ll just recommend reading one of these books.

Lord Emsworth, whose stories are often associated with “The Empress of Blandings”, a magnificent pig.

Golf. As in the game of golf. Wodehouse said near the end of his life that if he hadn’t wasted his time with frivolous nonsense like writing stories, he might have gotten his handicap below eighteen. Even for a non-golfer like myself, I find the golf stories to be hilarious and outrageously witty.  As Wodehouse himself put it, “After all, a woman is only a woman, but a hefty drive is a slosh!”

What am I reading this month? I have selected Uncle Fred in the Springtime, one of the Lord Emsworth books.

I also reviewed The Adventures of Sally last year. 

The California Condor

I remember the first time I heard of the California Condor. I would have been age 10 when the last wild bird, AC-9, was captured in 1987. At that time, there were a mere 22 surviving individuals, and it appeared that the Condor would probably become extinct.

For those unfamiliar with these birds, they are a large relative of the vulture. They too are scavangers, eating dead mammals and birds. Contrary to popular belief, there is no evidence that they prey on living animals. This misconception was a contributing factor in their near extinction as ranchers killed them believing them to be predators. DDT was probably the biggest cause of their decline, and once the numbers went below a critical amount, their slow rate of reproduction and vulnerability to lead caused their numbers to dip even further.

The Condor’s range once encompassed most of the American Southwest, but had been reduced to a small area north of Los Angeles. It saddened me at the time that an animal could go extinct during my lifetime. Particularly one that lived relatively nearby.

Fortunately, the breeding program was a success. Beginning in 1991, captive bred condors were released into the wild. The population has continued to grow in captivity, where most breeding still occurs. However, in 2002, the first wild-born chick in over a decade was born. Others have been born since – a good sign for the future.

The year 2002 also saw another milestone. AC-9, who had fathered many chicks while in captivity, was re-released to the wild. He is alive today, and has been spotted by observers in locations from Big Sur to the Grand Canyon. 

 Condor AC-9 takes flight as he is re-released into the wild. Photo from the Los Angeles Times, 2002.

Today, there are more than 400 condors, with about 200 of those living in the wild. California and Arizona are the main habitats, with a small population in Baja California as well.

Yesterday, the kids and I and my relatives Kevin and Judy visited Pinnacles National Monument, one of the California nesting sites. I would also list it as one of the best kept secrets of California – a truly beautiful place, filled with interesting hiking trails. While hiking the Condor Gulch trail in the mid-morning, we happened upon a couple of volunteers with the condor recovery program. They had a radio receive and large antenna, and also a spotting scope. There were two condors in the area, one off flying somewhere out of sight to the southeast. The other was sitting on one of the rocks of the “high peaks” across the gulch. Since he was about a mile away, all we could see with the naked eye was a black dot on top of the rock. However, with the spotting scope, we were able to see him well enough to see the markings on his tracking tag. 

 The High Peaks at Pinnacles. The condor is near the left edge of the rocks on the right. Picture by me.

This bird is #411, and is a notorious homebody, preferring to stay at Pinnacles rather than roam around California like the more adventuresome birds. 

 Condor #411 at Pinnacles National Monument, March 30, 2012. Picture by Judy Whitworth.

California Condors are still a critically endangered species. Although the recovery program has been a success, there are still ongoing issues. The worst is the tendency of Condors to get lead poisoning. Apparently, they have unusually strong digestive juices which dissolve lead pellets or bullets found in the carcasses they eat. Every year, several birds are sickened, and have to be recaptured and treated, only some successfully. Still, there is good reason to hope that the Condor will continue to survive and increase in numbers.

I, for one, am thrilled that I was able to see one of these magnificent birds in the wild. I am even more glad that my children were able to have this opportunity. 

For more information on the condors at Pinnacles: http://www.nps.gov/pinn/naturescience/profiles.htm  I highly recommend visiting Pinnacles. Bring a flashlight so you can go through one of the talus caves. It is best to visit during the cool season, as the rocks seem to magnify the heat, and there is little shade. 

Mozart’s Last Aria by Matt Rees

Source of book: Recommended by and borrowed from my long-time stand partner, Donna Fraser

As Donna accurately promised, this book was a light, quick read; and took a few historical liberties while spinning a mostly plausible yarn about a Masonic conspiracy. It is also Chick-Lit, so potential male readers should be forewarned.

The subject of Mozart’s death has fascinated historians, musicians, and music lovers alike in the more than two hundred years since his death. Conspiracy theories have abounded, as his symptoms were ambiguous, and the state of medicine at the time primitive at best. The general modern consensus is that he died of Scarlet Fever, but it is possible that mercury poisoning from misguided medical treatment was a factor.

It has always been a popular conspiracy theory, however, that Mozart was poisoned. This book explores the most popular version of that theory, taking a few historical liberties along the way, but also drawing some reasonable conclusions from historical fact.

The heart of this theory is the historical fact that Mozart was a Mason, during an era in which the Masons were involved in often revolutionary – and dangerous – politics. The basic theory (plot spoiler warning) runs as follows: Mozart took a trip to Berlin soon before his death, ostensibly to apply for a job, but apparently involving a meeting with high ranking Masons in Prussia. This meeting had a connection with international politics between Prussia and Austria which made the Austrian monarch nervous, and led to Mozart being poisoned.

Some of the facts are solidly historical. Mozart was an active and rather passionate Mason. Several of his last works contained blatant Masonic symbolism, and seemed to stand for revolutionary ideas, at least for the time. The Magic Flute, in particular, is laced with Masonic symbols, both hidden (such as the numbers 3, 7, 9, 11, 13, 33, and 39); and barely disguised, such as the references to brotherhood and the Masonic ordeals of initiation found in the story itself. Mozart’s trip to Berlin was an historical fact, as was the bizarre suicide of another mason, whose story features prominently in the book. 

 Stage design for Mozart's opera The Magic Flute by German architect Karl Friedrich Schinkel, c. 1815, 

with Masonic symbols.

A few things occurred to me while reading this book. First, the choice of narrator was good. Rees has Mozart’s older sister, Nannerl travel to Vienna in the wake of Mozart’s death to investigate the circumstances. While this visit is pure fiction, Nannerl is an intriguing character. She was also considered a child prodigy, and toured with her younger brother, performing as a sort of a circus show put on by their father, Leopold. Wolfgang himself ended up stealing Nannerl’s thunder, as he was clearly a rare genius, rather than a merely extraordinary young musician like Nannerl. She eventually married a wealthy minor nobleman – no small feat for the lower class Mozarts – but faded from public view. From the modern point of view, Rees exploration of her possible disappointment seems plausible. Other women of the era did continue to perform as adults. Later on, such luminaries as Clara Schumann were world famous, despite their eventual marriages.

Second, notwithstanding the poisoning rumors, Mozart’s young death, at age 33, was hardly unusual for the era. Fevers of various sorts claimed many at what we consider to be young ages.

I also noted that we take for granted in the modern United States that we can speak out against authority without ending up dying under suspicious circumstances. This was not the case in eighteenth century Europe. Indeed, it was not the case throughout most of human history, and even today is largely confined to Western democracies. When our founding fathers pledged their “lives, their fortunes, and [their] sacred honor”, they were not using flowery language for the fun of it. They really were at risk, as were many in Europe at the time who stood for the ideals of self government and equality.

Again, this book was a nice diversion. It was a light and quick read, with a basically well written, albeit thin, plot. It would be best enjoyed, as the cover states, with a mug of something warm, in front of a crackling fire.  

Note on Chick-Lit: Here is my chauvinist version of the Chick-Lit checklist.

1. Female Narrator, who
2. Has married an oppressive or insensitive, or boring man, who
3. Goes on some sort of quest, wherein she
4. Has catty interactions with other females, and
5. Meets a man who is everything her husband is not, but
6. Comes to realize in the end that she should not betray her family.
7. If the book is historical fiction, it will also contain a proto-feminist point of view which is a bit out of place for the setting, but sells better than period sexism.
8. The book will also contain excessive emoting and emotional self-analysis. Feelings will play a huge role in the narrative.

This book had to check the boxes, but managed to be an interesting story anyway.

Note on the Masons: Most of the Founding Fathers of the United States were also Masons, and left hidden Masonic symbols behind them. Our currency, for example, has several obvious uses of the numbers, and of the imagery of Freemasonry. This has given conspiracy theorists ample fodder over the years. I could write several posts on the nuances of Illuminati conspiracy theories, if such a thing really interested me. What is more interesting from an historical perspective is the connection of the Masons to Enlightenment thought. The primary reason that the monarchists feared the Masons was that they espoused a rather radical view of the equality and brotherhood of man, and even went so far in some cases as to hint at the equality of women. For the 1700s, these were dangerous and subversive ideas, to be sure.

Note on the music: Regular readers of this blog will already know that I love Mozart’s Requiem. Several of Mozart’s other last works are dear to my heart. Symphony #40 has always been one of my favorites.

The Magic Flute speaks for itself. It remains one of Mozart’s most popular operas, both for the music, and for it’s fantastical and anachronistically modern story. Rees does not stretch when he posits that Mozart was advocating for the equality of men and women – and for women’s admission to the Masonic brotherhood. The heroine is forced to take on a challenge of her own in order to save her beloved – a rather modern notion in many ways. Beethoven, of course, took the idea farther in Fidelio, but the influential idea is present in Mozart’s earlier work.

When I was a teen, I attended a concert by the Los Angeles Baroque Orchestra at the Getty Villa. My then music teacher was a violinist in that august ensemble, and snuck me in for free. I remember that one of the pieces performed was the Masonic Cantata. 

While that work has its charms, the highlight of the evening was the performance of the B flat Piano Concerto. This is my favorite Mozart piano work, for reasons that will be obvious to those who know me well. On its surface, it is a light and happy tune; but it has a melancholy that belies the bubbly surface. Like the 40^th Symphony, the music is achingly bittersweet. It is this quality which has resonated with me since my early childhood, and inspired my love of music more than any other quality.

Ghosts by Henrik Ibsen

Source of Book: I own this – have Ibsen’s major plays in a book club hardback given to me by Dale Brooks.

Preliminary notes: I am pretty sure this is the classic William Archer translation, but I am not sure. For some reason, the book does not bother to attribute the translation. I believe the book was printed in the 1950s or 60s, when Archer's translation would have been the common one. Archer was largely responsible for bringing Ibsen's work to the attention of the English speaking public.

This review contains serious plot spoilers. If you care, read the play first before the review.

Henrik Ibsen was a Norwegian writer who spent most of his writing life living abroad, first in Italy, and later in Germany. He eventually returned to Norway nearly 30 years after he left, and died there at the age of 78. His final words were appropriately curmudgeonly. A visitor asked how he was doing, and his nurse responded that he was doing better. Ibsen sputtered, “On the contrary!”

In his scathing dismantling of Victorian hypocrisy and societal double standards, Ibsen was the literary ancestor of such later playwrights as Shaw, Wilde, and O’Neill.

Ibsen did not like the title, Ghosts, which he felt was an incorrect translation. A more literal rendering would be, “again walkers”, or perhaps, “those who return”. In an idiomatic sense, the term is used, somewhat pointedly, for those who frequent the same places, such as pubs or fashionable parties. I think, in the context of the play, “ghosts” is reasonable, since there really isn’t a great parallel in English.

A quick summary of the plot: Mrs. Alving, a widow, has paid for the construction of an orphanage using the funds of her late husband, a sea captain. She decides to confide in Manders, the clergyman, that she has concealed a dark secret from the world. Her husband was a notorious philanderer, who was supposed to have reformed. However, he did not, although Mrs. Alving was able to keep up the appearance of respectability. At one point, she fled her husband and took refuge with Manders, who encouraged her to return to her husband. After that, Captain Alving seduced a servant and impregnated her. The servant convinced Engstrad, a carpenter, to marry him and blackmail Captain Alving. The child of this liaison, Regina, later becomes a servant of Mrs. Alving, who has pity on her. Oswald, the Alving’s son, has returned from abroad in broken health. He is discovered to have fallen in love with Regina, who he does not know is his half-sister. After all is revealed, Oswald reveals that he has congenital syphilis which has begun to affect his brain. As he loses his grip on reality, he asks his mother to euthanize him.

Certainly a dark tale, and rather typical of Ibsen. The play is compact and economical – also a characteristic of Ibsen’s work. The entire play takes place within a 24 hour period, in the same location (the Alving residence), and deals with a single theme. It thus adheres to Aristotle’s unities. Only five characters inhabit this play, with the deceased Captain Alving and Joanna as characters which exist only in the memory of the others. Ibsen wastes no time on subplot or comic relief. This makes the play relentlessly pessimistic, but also fairly short. It would seem to naturally pair with a lighter work to make a balanced evening of drama.

A few other things stood out to me while reading this. Engstrad seems to be a foreshadowing of Shaw’s Alfred Doolittle (from Pygmalion and therefore My Fair Lady), except that Engstrad has no likeable or humorous side. His insistence on “what a child owes her father” is quite familiar, however.

Engstrad is backed up by Manders, who also has strong ideas of duty – at least as they apply to women or children. Everything is about keeping up appearances, as becomes apparent when Manders disapproves a certain book (which he hasn’t read) that Mrs. Alving has on her table.

Mrs. Alving: In fact, you don’t know anything about what you are denouncing?

Manders: I have read quite enough about these books to disapprove of them.

Mrs. Alving: Yes, but your own opinion –

Manders: My dear Mrs. Alving, there are many occasions in life when one has to rely on the opinion of others. That is the way in this world, and it is quite right that it should be so. What would become of society, otherwise?

At the apex of the play, the turning point, Mrs. Alving reveals the history of Captain Alving and Engstrad’s wife. She was paid a modest sum to keep quiet.

Manders: Just think of it – for a paltry seventy pounds to let yourself be bound in marriage to a fallen woman!

Mrs. Alving: What about myself, then? – I let myself be bound in marriage to a fallen man.

Manders: Heaven forgive you! What are you saying? A fallen man?

Mrs. Alving: Do you suppose my husband was any purer, when I went with him to the altar, than Joanna was when Engstrad agreed to marry her?

Manders: The two cases are as different as day from night –

Mrs. Alving: Not so very different after all. It is true that there was a great difference in the price paid, between a paltry seventy pounds and a whole fortune.

This is where Ibsen’s point is the clearest. There is a double standard which does persist to this day, although tolerance for promiscuous women has increased a bit. Still, I have a hard time imagining a prominent man staying with a philandering woman.

Ibsen then allows Mrs. Alving to state the theme of the play.

I am half inclined to think that we are all ghosts, Mr. Manders. It is not only what we have inherited from our mothers and fathers that exists again in us, but all sorts of old dead ideas and all kinds of old dead beliefs and things of that kind. They are not actually alive in us; but they are dormant, all the same, and we can never be rid of them.

Ibsen uses the idea of the “ghosts” lurking dormant in the characters as a parallel with the syphilis that is dormant in Oswald, but has eaten his body from the inside out. The actual word used by Ibsen for the disease means “eaten by wormwood”, a euphemism necessary as the use of the actual term would have been even more scandalous. (The most scandalous thing about the play at the time was that it suggested that respectable upper class people could get venereal disease.)

Another interesting parallel in the play is between fiction and Ibsen’s real life. Prior to his marriage, Ibsen fathered a child with a household servant girl. Although Ibsen never saw the boy, he paid for his upbringing. Perhaps Ibsen wished to imagine what would have happened had the facts been concealed from society.

One more literary device intrigued me. During most of the play, the stage directions indicate that it is pouring rain outside. This continues through both the day and the night of the first two acts, but clears at the end of the final act. The coming of day brings with it the revealing light of the sun. The lighting of the darkness is not a positive thing, ultimately; just as the revealing of the terrible truth has no positive effect. The damage has been done by the concealment, and all that comes to light are the sad consequences.

In this respect, Ibsen follows in the tradition of the great tragedians. Oedipus learns he has murdered his father and married his mother. Lear realizes Cordelia is the one child who truly loves him, but she is already dead. Mephistopheles drags Faust to hell. It is for us, who still have hope, to learn from the mistakes of others and attempt to avoid the same fate. At what cost do we keep up appearances?

One final note: It occurs to me that Ibsen and Matthew Arnold would have been finalists in the great 1800s facial hair showdown. 

Goblin Market and Other Poems by Christina Rossetti

Source of Book: I own Rossetti’s complete poems

Those who have followed my blog from its beginning may recall that my love for poetry began with two women: Emily Dickenson, and Christina Rossetti. As part of my ongoing poetry project, I decided to revisit Rossetti’s poetry. 

Christina Rossetti. Portrait by her brother, Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Rossetti grew up as the youngest in a family of writers and artists. Her father was an exiled Italian poet. Her brother, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, is the best known of her siblings, both as a poet and as an artist. The others, a brother and a sister, were also writers. Christina fit the profile of the sensitive artist, suffering with bouts of depression, and having poor fortune at love. She was engaged in her teens, but broke engagement when her fiancé converted to Catholicism. She later refused two additional suitors for reasons of religion and temperament. 

Dante Gabriel Rossetti's original illustration for Goblin Market

Goblin Market and Other Poems was Rossetti’s first big hit, published in 1862, when she was thirty-one. Since Elizabeth Barrett Browning had died the year before, Rossetti seemed to naturally assume the role as the foremost female English poet.

Rossetti’s work is known for its technical mastery and for its devotional character. Goblin market is in many ways typical of her work. About half of the poems are devotional in character, and references to Scripture are throughout the poems. In fact, a thorough knowledge of the Bible is helpful to the understanding and enjoyment of many of the poems.

In some ways, this interlacing of Biblical allusions reminds me of the “Where’s Waldo” books of my youth. Every page was packed full of incident – one could spend hours on one picture looking for all of the jokes and other hidden treasures. Likewise, a Rossetti devotional poem contains a plethora of one or two word allusions that can be discovered by the careful and knowledgeable reader.

The other poems in the collection are often achingly bittersweet. Rossetti felt deeply and expressed the darker side of her nature in her poetry. Death and disappointment are themes which are revisited often, and with a subtle depth of thought. Her words can often mean more than one thing; a seemingly simple line can conceal a world of emotion.

The title poem, Goblin Market, is a long narrative (nearly 600 lines long) that is, on its surface, a tale of two sisters and their misadventures with goblins. At a deeper level, it is a story of innocence lost, and redemption through love and sacrifice. Others have interpreted it as an allegory of erotic desire, or a veiled commentary or gender roles. I can see each of these as a possibility – Rossetti did bury all of the above in her poems.

Oddly, Goblin Market was cited by Lewis Carroll as an inspiration for Alice in Wonderland. I have tried to figure out what the connection could be, but it remains a mystery to me. The process by which Carroll transformed this poem into the surrealist atmosphere of Alice is hardly obvious.

Regardless, Goblin Market is a good read – an interesting story, with plenty to ponder, and beautifully written language.

Regular readers already know of my fascination with sonnets. I love the form, and the discipline necessary to write a good one.

Two stood out in this collection, both in the Italian sonnet form:

            A Triad

Three sang of love together: one with lips
Crimson, with cheeks and bosom in a glow,
Flushed to the yellow hair and finger tips;
And one there sang who soft and smooth as snow
Bloomed like a tinted hyacinth at a show;
And one was blue with famine after love,
Who like a harpstring snapped rang harsh and low
The burden of what those were singing of.
One shamed herself in love; one temperately
Grew gross in soulless love, a sluggish wife;
One famished died for love. Thus two of three
Took death for love and won him after strife;
One droned in sweetness like a fattened bee:
All on the threshold, yet all short of life.

Rossetti herself fell, perhaps in the third category, yet she spurned the chance at the second, and was too virtuous for the first. The theme of out-of-wedlock pregnancy runs through a number of the poems. Rossetti spent time volunteering at a home for “fallen women”, so perhaps the connection was inevitable. I will note here “Maude Clair”, another narrative poem that tells of a love triangle. One woman gets the aristocrat in the end, but the narrator bears his child while the haughty wife remains childless.

The second sonnet is even darker than the first.

Dead Before Death

Ah! changed and cold, how changed and very cold,
With stiffened smiling lips and cold calm eyes:
Changed, yet the same; much knowing, little wise;
This was the promise of the days of old!
Grown hard and stubborn in the ancient mould,
Grown rigid in the sham of lifelong lies:
We hoped for better things as years would rise,
But it is over as a tale once told.
All fallen the blossom that no fruitage bore,
All lost the present and the future time,
All lost, all lost, the lapse that went before:
So lost till death shut-to the opened door,
So lost from chime to everlasting chime,
So cold and lost for ever evermore.

Such a bitter, bitter sonnet. And yet, it fascinates me. That line, “much knowing, little wise” is haunting. I know those who have become calcified rather than softened with age, a fate I hope to avoid.

Likewise, Rossetti’s thoughts on death affected me as a child, and still touch an inner string. A pair of poems examine the memory of a departed friend from two different perspectives. The first, another sonnet, was a favorite of mine as a youth.

Remember

Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you plann'd:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.

In contrast, the speaker in “At Home” is truly disturbed that the living are so quick to forget.

When I was dead, my spirit turned

To seek the much-frequented house:

I passed the door, and saw my friends

Feasting beneath green orange boughs;

From hand to hand they pushed the wine,

They sucked the pulp of plum and peach;

They sang, they jested, and they laughed,

For each was loved of each.

I listened to their honest chat:

Said one: "To-morrow we shall be

Plod plod along the featureless sands,

And coasting miles and miles of sea."

Said one: "Before the turn of tide

We will achieve the eyrie-seat."

Said one: "To-morrow shall be like

To-day, but much more sweet."

"To-morrow," said they, strong with hope,

And dwelt upon the pleasant way:

"To-morrow," cried they, one and all,

While no one spoke of yesterday.

Their life stood full at blessed noon;

I, only I, had passed away:

"To-morrow and to-day," they cried;

I was of yesterday.

I shivered comfortless, but cast

No chill across the table-cloth;

I, all-forgotten, shivered, sad

To stay, and yet to part how loth:

I passed from the familiar room,

I who from love had passed away,

Like the remembrance of a guest

That tarrieth but a day.

Lest it appear that all of Rossetti’s works are this melancholy, I should add that there are numerous poems with humor and hope. One of these, “No Thank You, John”, tells of the rejection of a rather undesired suitor. It begins thus:

I never said I loved you, John:

Why will you tease me day by day,

And wax a weariness to think upon

With always "do" and "pray"?

You Know I never loved you, John;

No fault of mine made me your toast:

Why will you haunt me with a face as wan

As shows an hour-old ghost?

One wonders if “John” lacked Christina’s intelligence and wit. I found the form of this poem interesting in that the first two lines are iambic tetrameter, the third is pentameter, and the final line is trimeter. The third line’s length is used to accentuate the tedium of the suit, and the short final line feels like a door shut in the face. This continues through the remaining lines to the end of the poem, when Rossetti states the old “let’s just be friends” line in the most poetic, yet final way. The impact would not be the same had the last two words of the penultimate line been placed in the last line instead.

Here's friendship for you if you like; but love,-

No, thank you, John.

The humor in “Winter: My Secret” is less biting, but more ebullient and childlike. The poem is too long to quote, but the beginning is representative.

Perhaps some day, who knows?

But not today; it froze, and blows and snows,

And you're too curious: fie!

You want to hear it? well:

Only, my secret's mine, and I won't tell.

Rossetti wrote a large number of children’s poems, and this one is somewhat in the vein. Older children, such as myself, can still enjoy them, provided we have not become dead before death.

Another positive poem is “A Birthday”

My heart is like a singing bird

Whose nest is in a water'd shoot;

My heart is like an apple-tree

Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit;

My heart is like a rainbow shell

That paddles in a halcyon sea;

My heart is gladder than all these,

Because my love is come to me.

Raise me a daïs of silk and down;

Hang it with vair and purple dyes;

Carve it in doves and pomegranates,

And peacocks with a hundred eyes;

Work it in gold and silver grapes,

In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;

Because the birthday of my life

Is come, my love is come to me.

The devotional poems have their own interest as a record of a relationship with Christ made personal. To a degree, I would compare Rossetti’s poems to those of George Herbert, another master of the form. The intensely personal nature of Rossetti’s poems make them seem almost like listening in on a private prayer. One of the best short ones is “A Better Resurrection.”

I have no wit, no words, no tears;

My heart within me like a stone

Is numb'd too much for hopes or fears;

Look right, look left, I dwell alone;

I lift mine eyes, but dimm'd with grief

No everlasting hills I see;

My life is in the falling leaf:

O Jesus, quicken me.

My life is like a faded leaf,

My harvest dwindled to a husk:

Truly my life is void and brief

And tedious in the barren dusk;

My life is like a frozen thing,

No bud nor greenness can I see:

Yet rise it shall--the sap of Spring;

O Jesus, rise in me.

My life is like a broken bowl,

A broken bowl that cannot hold

One drop of water for my soul

Or cordial in the searching cold;

Cast in the fire the perish'd thing;

Melt and remould it, till it be

A royal cup for Him, my King:

O Jesus, drink of me.

I also enjoyed “Advent”, which connects Rossetti’s experience of Christmas with a longing for the second coming. Her depressive tendencies are turned to hope and expectation.

…

'The days are evil looking back,

The coming days are dim;

Yet count we not His promise slack,

But watch and wait for Him.'

…

I’ll end this with one that I discovered for the first time in this collection. It made a lasting impression on me, and I am still meditating on its meaning and truth.

            A Pause of Thought

I looked for that which is not, nor can be,

  And hope deferred made my heart sick in truth:

  But years must pass before a hope of youth

    Is resigned utterly.

I watched and waited with a steadfast will:

  And though the object seemed to flee away

  That I so longed for, ever day by day

    I watched and waited still.

Sometimes I said: This thing shall be no more;

  My expectation wearies and shall cease;

  I will resign it now and be at peace:

    Yet never gave it o'er.

Sometimes I said: It is an empty name

  I long for; to a name why should I give

  The peace of all the days I have to live?—

    Yet gave it all the same.

Alas, thou foolish one! alike unfit

  For healthy joy and salutary pain:

  Thou knowest the chase useless, and again

    Turnest to follow it.

 Note on edition:

I own the paperback Penguin edition of Rossetti’s complete poems. The disadvantage is obvious: I prefer hardback whenever possible. However, there is much to recommend this edition. First, it has the complete poems, something hard to find. Second, it has copious endnotes. Of the 1200 pages of this volume, about 300 are notes. Included are citations for all of the allusions, both literary and Biblical; and historical notes such as the original publication date and format, quotes from the author and her close associates regarding the poem; and references to similar poems and themes by other contemporary poets. If I could find a hardback with all of the above, it would be the perfect book.

One more for good measure:

Although it is not in Goblin Market, Rossetti’s best known work is probably the text for In the Bleak Midwinter, set to music by Gustav Holst.

In the bleak mid-winter

Frosty wind made moan,

Earth stood hard as iron,

Water like a stone;

Snow had fallen, snow on snow,

Snow on snow,

In the bleak mid-winter

Long ago.

Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him

Nor earth sustain;

Heaven and earth shall flee away

When He comes to reign:

In the bleak mid-winter

A stable-place sufficed

The Lord God Almighty,

Jesus Christ.

Enough for Him, whom cherubim

Worship night and day,

A breastful of milk

And a mangerful of hay;

Enough for Him, whom angels

Fall down before,

The ox and ass and camel

Which adore.

Angels and archangels

May have gathered there,

Cherubim and seraphim

Thronged the air,

But only His mother

In her maiden bliss,

Worshipped the Beloved

With a kiss.

What can I give Him,

Poor as I am?

If I were a shepherd

I would bring a lamb,

If I were a wise man

I would do my part,

Yet what I can I give Him,

Give my heart.