Source of book: I own
this.
This post is dedicated to
a man who I never met, but who was a significant positive influence in my life:
Mr. William Collins. Many years ago, he suggested that I read The Rise of
Silas Lapham, and now I finally did.
A bit of background is
necessary to explain. I was homeschooled from grade 2 onward, at a time when
homeschooling was little known and much misunderstood. I guess one could say I
was one of the earlier homeschoolers back in the day.
Unlike many parents a few
years later, I was not homeschooled because of religious ideals, and certainly
not with the theofascist goals of false teachers like Rushdoony. Rather, I was a really sickly
child, and attending the church-affiliated private school for my first two
years resulted in a never-ending series of illnesses, mostly bronchitis. The
principal, noticing that I was missing nearly half my days, and taking home all
the work anyway, suggested that my parents just pull me out and homeschool me.
For a number of years thereafter, we were just another normal middle-class
Christian suburban family - except we homeschooled.
It wasn’t until years
later, after swimming in the increasingly fundamentalist waters of the homeschool
movement that my parents started to drift toward authoritarian fundamentalism.
Gothard and his cult didn’t arrive until high school for me, and by then, I was
already on a different academic track.
From the beginning, my
parents believed in a solid academic education, and I got one. I learned the
typing and writing skills I use everyday at my job - and for this blog - from
my mother, who drilled proper grammar into me. I learned math pretty well for
the era (expectations have definitely risen for my kids - their advanced
algebra is a lot harder than mine or my parents’.)
When we started
homeschooling, curriculum was really difficult to obtain. Publishers
refused to sell direct to consumers - you had to go through a school. For many
of us starting out, then, there were extremely limited options, mostly from
fundamentalist religious publishers affiliated with private colleges.
Believe it or not, the A
Beka textbooks we used (mostly) were the least crazy and fundamentalist
of the ones readily available at that time. And, they at least had some
academic rigor, even though we ended up recycling a lot of our childhood books
after taking another look as adults.
No real complaints about
the grammar and math texts. But OH MY FREAKING LORD the history and science
were awful. For history, it was an incredibly white-people-centric
viewpoint, dismissing brown skinned people before European contact as a bunch
of godless, half-naked savages. And, of course, since Conservative Protestant
Christianity is the only possible true religion, every contact of foreign
cultures by European Conservative Protestants was a net benefit to those
savages.
So, for example, never
mind the extermination of the Native Americans or the theft of their land - they
heard about Jesus! Never mind the transatlantic slave trade and centuries
of enslavement (although at least A Beka conceded slavery was wrong - I’m not
sure Bob Jones University Press ever did) - the enslaved became Christians
so slavery was kind of good in the long run for them! And on and on and
on.
Science too was an
absolute freaking mess. Once you take an old earth and evolution off the table, most
of the last 200 years of science can’t really be taught.
To their credit, my
parents supplemented a lot, and encouraged us to read. Not that they believed
in evolution, but they did (back then at least) push back on the Eurocentric
white supremacist assumptions. (They both grew up as missionary kids, and, when
I was young - pre-Gothard and pre-Trump - raised us to think in an anti-racist
way. Which is why their devolution over the last 30 years has been so traumatic
to me: they used to be better, and chose to become worse.)
So, back to the
curriculum thing. In 9th grade, the wheels started to come off when it came to
parent instruction and written curriculum only. The final straw was a newly
revised Saxon algebra textbook that was riddled with errors in the answer key.
My mom barely passed algebra in high school (due in significant part to sexist
attitudes about women and math by her teacher), and my dad wasn’t proficient
anymore and didn’t have time to daily teach due to being the sole breadwinner.
It was a bit of a rough year, and we all knew that changes had to be made.
Conveniently, A Beka had
just started offering a set of video courses. If you watched them, did the
homework, and took the tests, you got actual high school credit. True, it was
through their private school in Florida (which caused some weird issues with
California later - not serious ones but a bit of a pain to navigate) - but
still, a real high school diploma.
Those three years I spent
doing the video classes were a lifesaver. I truly needed the instruction from
professional teachers, and, unlike my siblings, I thrived in that environment.
(Their struggles are another issue, and a whole other story - I ended up having
to pick up the slack and literally teach them high school math and science.
They learned a lot, but I should never have been put in that position, and my
sister never forgave me.)
While I could say good
things about most of the video teachers (even if 30 years later I cannot
remember most of their names), I have to give a particular shout out to William
Collins, who taught English 10 and English 12.
He was simply a fantastic
teacher.
He was nearing
retirement, and had a bit of the crusty old guy style, but he knew his
literature, and still cared deeply about it near the end of his career.
Furthermore, despite the fundamentalist institution he was part of, he subtly
subverted the narrow approach to literature. Where the text often dismissed 20th
Century writers as “atheists,” Mr. Collins took the time to engage with them as
writers, and took the ideas as worthwhile whether they fit the party line or
not. He encouraged us to think beyond the textbook analysis. He took my love
for poetry and filled in the mechanics of how it works - how the feet, meter,
rhyme, and feel of the words will become part of the meaning of the poem. More
than anything, he instilled a true love of literature that too many
teachers seem to lack.
It wasn’t only him, of
course. My mom in particular used to love good literature, and read it to us at
young ages. (It has been many years since I remember seeing her read anything
for herself that wasn’t religious or alternative “medicine” though - another
way she sadly changed.)
In any case, somewhere in
one of the lectures by Mr. Collins, Silas Lapham came up. It wouldn’t
have been in American Lit, because another teacher (less memorable) taught that
one, and strictly by the book. So I am guessing that it was either in the 10th
Grade general literature (2nd semester) in a discussion of Gilded Age “rags-to-riches” books (see below),
or perhaps as a side note to the realist movement in English Lit in 12th grade.
Probably the former.
Mr. Collins mentioned the
book as essentially the opposite plot arc: the “riches-to-rags” version. But
with a twist. The title references Lapham’s moral rise - as his wealth
melts away, he rediscovers his conscience, and becomes a better man. That’s not
all the book is about, though, but it is certainly a key part of the
plot arc.
***
Before I get into the
book itself, I want to say a bit about William Dean Howells.
You cannot even begin to
read about the American literary scene of the latter half of the 19th Century
and the beginning of the 20th without running across Howells. Ask a casual
reader about him, and you probably get a blank stare. Ask a literature nut
about him, and watch the eyes light up.
The first true flowering
of literary culture in America took place in this period, and so many of the
giants - those household names - were all interconnected.
Nathaniel Hawthorne, Henry David Thoreau, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry James, William James, James Russell Lowell - all of these were
friends with Howells.
But it wasn’t just the
friendships that made Howells the center of these groups. In 1866, he became
editor of The Atlantic Monthly and Harper’s, and used his
influence to promote authors that he found worthy of assistance. As it turned
out, Howells had fantastic taste, and was one of the greatest editors of
all time at identifying world-class - indeed pantheon-level - talent.
This carried over a
generation later, as he helped give a start to a more diverse group of writers,
including Sarah Orne Jewett and Paul Laurence Dunbar among others. He
advocated for other authors from around the world - Ibsen, Tolstoy, Zola - and at risk of neglect
here in the US - Emily Dickinson for one.
This is only a partial
list, and reading the names he was connected to is like reading a list of the
best and most influential writers of a 60 year span.
It is no wonder he earned
the title of “The Dean of American Writing.”
He was also a thoughtful man,
opposing imperialism, advocating for social justice. He was a Christian
Socialist (no, those are not incompatible, despite what the religious right
would have you believe), although not a Marxist. His writing gives evidence of
a deep sense of empathy and of the brotherhood of humankind.
Oh, and he wrote a bit
himself as well.
That part turned out to
be less enduring than his role in the rise of other, better writers. I can’t
find who said it, unfortunately, but I once heard a quote that the lesser stars
in the sky are also important, not just the brightest.
I think this applies to
authors like Howells. He was by no means a bad writer. He was good. He was
fine. He just wasn’t Mark Twain. And that is okay. He is still worth
reading.
***
The Rise of Silas Lapham
is a story of a particular era, and a particular strain of American mythology,
namely, the “Self-made man” who goes from “rags to riches.” But in Howell’s
hands, this is no boilermaker, and it certainly isn’t the Horatio Alger story -
the boy with good morals who finds a rich benefactor to raise him from poverty
- either.
Rather, Silas Lapham is a
complex, nuanced man. He starts out essentially as a farm kid, serves as an
officer in the Civil War, and comes to wealth based on his unshakeable belief
in the paint pigments found in the earth of his
family farm. He marries his childhood love, Persis, and they have two daughters,
the beautiful if a bit dull Irene, and the plainer and snarky Penelope.
His belief in his paint,
combined with his army pension, allow him to found a company, and become
wealthy through his sales of that magical paint.
Along the way, though, he
has lost something.
Always a bit uncouth and
rough, he aspires to become higher class, but has no real idea how. He starts
building a large house in the trendier section of Boston, and purchases
expensive books that he never gets around to reading. (Shades of the Squire in The
Vicar of Bulhampton by Anthony Trollope, who had become very fond of the
outsides of his books…)
Everything is going
great, but several clouds appear on the horizon. First, the young scion of an
old money family, Tom Corey, decides he should do better than live on the
family wealth, and go find a purpose in life. He asks to work for Silas, who
takes him on. The Laphams believe that Tom is getting sweet on Irene, but it
turns out that he actually love Penelope, which breaks Irene’s heart
(temporarily), and leads Penelope to reject his love rather than, as she
believes, betray her sister.
Persis begins to suspect
that Silas has another woman on the side, because of money he is paying to
someone with initials. She is wrong, because he is actually paying what he
feels is a debt of honor to the widow and daughter of a fallen comrade.
He does this behind her
back, because she disapproves. Instead, she thinks that Silas did wrong by his
former partner, Rogers, who has done poorly after Silas forcibly cashed him out
of the business (for good reasons, but she doesn’t understand that.) She convinces
Silas to try to help Rogers, which ends VERY badly for everyone.
Oh, and a new competitor
has started to undercut the Lapham business because of a lucky strike of
natural gas.
Yeah, so things go south,
and Lapham loses most of his wealth, not least of which because he refuses to
go along with Rogers in dumping his distressed assets to a naive buyer. He
gains his soul, but loses the world, so to speak.
The plot itself feels a
bit dated, although I would say that is the case for a lot of classics. Times
change, obviously. The idea of Boston (or New York) social climbing is as foreign as the
parlours of Jane Austen. But perhaps all the more interesting for all
that.
What feels timeless in
this book are the family relationships. The Laphams are a “new money” family
trying to fit in with the “old money” society they find themselves in. It is
uncomfortable for everyone, except possibly Irene, but she is too timid to
really rise on her own.
Silas is hilariously
rough and out of his element. I mean, he really isn’t a bad guy - he isn’t
rising from depravity to virtue, but more from unfortunate bumbling to moral
clarity. He tries so hard. He does right by his employees, until he runs out of
money and everyone suffers. He loves and cherishes the wife of his youth. And
she loves him. Their brief periods of distrust and frustration are all the more
poignant because they are clearly both better working together as
partners.
Howells writes the female
characters rather well, in my opinion. Irene could be insipid, but she has more
depth than she appears by the end of the story. Persis is every bit Silas’
equal - neither is perfect, and their combined mistakes are to blame for the
financial catastrophe - but they both are the kind of decent people that I
would be happy to know. And they respect each other! (Victorian literature
often reduces women to “ministering angels” on a pedestal, but Howells makes
Persis fully human.)
Penelope is a
particularly fascinating character. She is highly intelligent and thoughtful.
And, while snarky, a good person who does not desire to hurt others.
And then there are the
dynamics of the Corey family. The mother is horrified at the thought of joining
their family with the lower class Laphams. The father, on the other hand, has
the totally stoic - or perhaps lighthearted - approach of “we have no control
anyway, so let’s just enjoy the show” attitude.
Tom is, as young men are,
way too overearnest. But in a totally believable way. Which is why even
though Howells tries to create some mystery, any perceptive reader will know
immediately that Tom will be sweet on Penelope, not Irene. It is the Laphams,
who are still a bit enthralled with the idea that money pays for beauty, who
miss the signs. This too is fully in character for them.
I should mention as well
some great scenes. The one where the Laphams are invited to a dinner party at
the Corey’s is straight up hilarious….in a winceworthy way. From the very
beginning, it goes wrong. Penelope refuses to go - probably because she is the
only one in the family who realizes that Tom loves her, not Irene - and because
she realizes she has the hots for Tom as well.
Silas, who doesn’t
usually drink, ends up doing so to be polite, but has no idea how strong the
liquor is. To his credit, he is merely laughable and tasteless rather than
actually bad when drunk, but still, it is a huge embarrassment to
everyone.
There is also the one
where Lapham accidentally burns his incomplete house to the ground - and then
is relieved that the insurance had expired so at least he won’t risk
prosecution.
As I mentioned, Howells
is not a pantheon writer, but he is quite good. He was meticulous about his
craft, and, while it may lack the soaring flights of the greatest writers, it
is also never terrible, or even bad. Or even clunky - the worst parts are…fine
actually. And the best parts are quite good, and well worth quoting.
The book opens, for
example, with a reporter interviewing Silas, recently reduced to the role of
employee at a business he used to own. I love this exchange:
“That’s what I’m after,” said Bartley. “Your money or
your life.”
“I guess you wouldn’t want my life without the money,”
said Lapham.
Later in the interview,
Silas expresses his deep admiration for Persis, who has been with him since the
beginning.
“No hang back about her. I tell you she was a woman!”
Bartley laughed. “That;s the sort most of us marry.”
“No, we don’t,” said Lapham. “Most of us marry silly
little girls grown up to look like women.”
Obviously, flip the
genders and this is also true. But yeah, I really preferred a real adult woman,
and I married her.
I also loved this exchange
between Bromfield Corey and his son Tom, about the question of whether the
Laphams were, well, acceptable. This is the first real flash of spirit
which tells us that Tom is more thoughtful than his parents realize.
“No one can help feeling that they are all people of
good sense, and - right ideas.”
“Oh, that won’t do. If society took in all the people
of right ideas and good sense, it would expand beyond the calling capacity of
its most active members. Even your mother’s social conscientiousness could not
compass it. Society is a very different sort of thing from good sense and right
ideas…”
After Corey expresses his
love to Penelope, and she cuts him off pretty harshly, Silas and Persis try to
figure out how to fix the problem. After all, if Penelope continues to refuse, everyone
is unhappy. Whereas if she accepts Tom, then at least they will be
happy, and only Irene will be left unhappy. I mean, a bit of utilitarianism
here, right? But this line is hilarious.
“And I’m set she shall,” said Lapham, with the loud
obstinacy of a man whose women always have their way.
Come on, we ALL know men
like this.
There is another exchange
between Penelope and Tom, over the sort of romance novels that the girls read.
Penelope may read them, but she thinks them impossibly silly.
“It’s silly - it’s wicked for any one to do what that
girl did. Why can’t they let people have a chance to behave reasonably in
stories?”
“Perhaps they couldn’t make it so attractive,” suggested
Corey, with a smile.
As things start to go
wrong, Persis realizes her advice regarding Rogers has been poor. Silas,
though, refuses to blame her. I mean, she has always meant well, and he won’t
condemn her for making a mistake. And they both want what is best for their
daughters. She notes that some people have lost their children altogether. His
response reveals who he is.
“Yes, but that don’t comfort me any. I never was one
to feel good because another man felt bad.”
As Lapham’s situation
crumbles, Rogers appears with a scheme - or a scam, perhaps. Check out this
line:
“And do you think that I am going to steal these men’s
money to help you plunder somebody in a new scheme?” answered Lapham. The sneer
was on behalf of virtue, but it was still a sneer.
Oh man. Yeah, sneering on
behalf of virtue is far too satisfying - I would know, unfortunately.
Another perceptive line
is when Howells is describing Persis’ attempts to find out why Silas is paying
money out. Her own discomfort with the situation has its own twist.
That was another curse of their prosperity. Well, she
was glad the prosperity was going; it had never been happiness.
Once Persis finds out the
truth, though, there is a relief.
Mrs. Lapham knew that her husband was to blame for
nothing but his willful, wrong-headed kind-heartedness, which her own exactions
had turned into deceit.
At the risk of spoilers,
Tom and Penelope do marry in the end - which the reader knows they should - and
end up moving to South America, where Tom believes he can sell the paint to new
markets. Penelope has no illusions.
“Your mother will never like me, and
perhaps - perhaps I shall not like her.”
“Well,” said Corey, a little daunted, “you
won’t have to marry my family.”
Yeah, this resonates a
bit. I think my wife understood earlier than I did that my mom would never
accept her, let alone like her. I may have been naive like Corey, but I think I
too eventually came around to the idea that if family refuses to accept the situation,
they have to be cut loose.
I’ll end with a bit from
Irene, who, when she finds out that Penelope is holding out on Tom for her
sake, is horrified.
“Penelope Lapham, have you been such a ninny as to
send that man away on my account? Because if you did, I’ll thank you to bring
him back again. I’m not going to have him thinking that I’m dying for a man
that never cared for me. It’s insulting, and I’m not going to stand it.”
And that’s when you
realize that Irene has enough of the family spunk to do just fine. She’ll find
love soon enough, rather than do the Victorian “dying of love for a man that
never cared for me” thing.
In conclusion, while I
was reading the book, I enjoyed it, but didn’t have quite the “wow, this is
fantastic” feeling like I have with some books. But, when I got to the end of
it, I felt that it was a truly satisfying story. It was artisan craftsmanship,
a plot arc that showed careful planning, characters that were fully realized,
delicious sentences, and thoughtful ideas. And really, there is a sort of
greatness in solid writing. (This is, by the way, one of the reasons that I
love Anthony Trollope - careful craftsmanship and
thoughtful writing combined with psychological perception are worthwhile for
their own sake.)
So, give William Dean
Howells a shot. His realistic style influenced a generation, and his advocacy
on behalf of authors and ideas changed American letters forever.
