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Tag Archives: literature

German Winter Nights by Johann Beer

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Quotation from one of the strangest books I’ve read, German Winter Nights (1681) by Johann Beer. When the characters aren’t pulling off frat-level and sometimes sadistic, cruel pranks, they’re moralizing. Ludwig is one of the cruelest of the “brothers.” Here he moralizes.

What does it help us humans that we invade countries in war, lay waste to them, even bring them under our dominion? Many a person fights and defeats his outer enemy and nonetheless permits himself to be so cravenly conquered by his inner and invisible foe, who often can be driven back and away by a single pious thought. What did the miserable Veronia gain through her wantonness? Her desire was brief, her pleasure imperfect, her delight sinful, her marriage stained, her life shortened, and, what I don’t want to believe, her soul perhaps lost forever! Carnal depravity bears such fruits, and she did enjoy it because she never acknowledged the sin in which she was so frightfully lost.

Ludwig in German Winter Nights by Johann Beer

Book review: The Return of the Native

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The Return of the Native by Thomas Hardy. Recommended.

In Egdon Heath, Thomas Hardy creates an otherworld consisting of the elements earth, wind, fire, and water, populated by a witch condemned by a pious woman’s spell, a Christian ruled by pagan beliefs, an assortment of other odd characters, and the native of the title whose return precipitates a series of tragic events.

The Return of the Native is centered around Eustacia Vye, a beautiful outsider wrenched from the society she craves by orphanhood and exiled to live on Egdon Heath with her maternal grandfather. Spoiled, vain, fickle, and selfish, Eustacia is not a sympathetic heroine. Although she claims to belong to Damon Wildeve (“body and soul” in one uncensored version), she really belongs to whomever can grant her what she desires and, in her mind, deserves. While Wildeve is a step above the local rabble, Eustacia can never fully commit herself to him. Each time she considers it, she is held back by the thought that even he lacks something and that surely she can do better. “He’s not great enough for me to give myself to — he does not suffice for my desire! . . . If he had been a Saul or a Bonaparte — ah! But to break my marriage vow for him — it is too poor a luxury!”

In another place, like the Paris Eustacia longs for, she would have become a mistress or a courtesan — the consort of a powerful man or men. On Egdon Heath, however, there are neither powerful men nor courtesans. There is only Damon, an equally fickle young man who hotly desires that which he cannot have — sometimes Eustacia, sometimes the naïve Thomasin Yeobright. To complicate matters, Thomasin’s cousin Clym returns from Paris, where he has a financially rewarding and spiritually stifling career. In Eustacia’s eyes (blinded to what she doesn’t want to see, just as Clym’s sight becomes literally blurred to that which he does want to see), Clym appears to be the ideal replacement for Wildeve.

In his introduction to the “standard edition,” John Paterson, talks about the censorship of The Return of the Native and its anti-Christianity elements. The novel, at least in this form, appears to be more anti-Christian than anti-Christianity. Eustacia, with her beauty; aloof and lonely snobbishness; hold over men such as Wildeve and Clym and boys such as “the little slave” Johnny Nunsuch and the adolescent Charley; and habit of haunting Rainbarrow at all hours of the night, can easily appear to fit the role of the Egdon Heath witch. Yet it is the churchgoing Susan Nunsuch who falls prey to superstition, believing that Eustacia has afflicted her son with illness. She stabs Eustacia with a needle during one of the young lady’s rare church appearances. Ironically, in the end Susan is the witch, fashioning a likeness of Eustacia and practicing a homegrown form of obeah upon it.

Susan’s male counterpart, the ironically named Christian, is no better. Simple-minded, naïve, and condemned to perpetual bachelorhood, Christian is pious not for love of God but for fear of life. He is ruled by superstition, and it requires little effort for Wildeve to convince him he is lucky and that he should gamble (as it turns out, with money that isn’t his, adding theft to his sins).

Like Egdon Heath itself (“oozing lumps of fleshy fungi . . . like the rotten liver and lungs of some colossal animal”), the remainder of its inhabitants — the ones from whom Eustacia wishes to escape — are unflinchingly, unchangingly pagan, with Christian’s own reprobate father, Granfer Cantle, setting the example. They avoid inconveniences like church; they gleefully celebrate Guy Fawkes Day with fire and dance; they gossip without undue concern for good or bad. These are the folks from whom Mrs. Yeobright and the stoic pagan Diggory Venn (the reddleman) wish to save Thomasin’s reputation — as though it matters to them.

These are also the people among whom Eustacia is a queen. When she says, “How I have tried and tried to be a splendid woman and how destiny has been against me!” the reader is hard pressed to find Eustacia’s efforts to better herself, other than trying to determine which man will best launch her into society. With his Paris connections, Clym is the obvious choice, yet it is Wildeve who turns out to have better prospects — and the will to take advantage of them.

Queen among the heathens of the heath, Eustacia is blissfully unaware of the probability that, in the Parisian society she aspires to, she would be one among many and might find herself unable to compete with the elite courtesans, mistresses, and wives of Paris. “I was capable of much,” she claims. Hardy, however, never makes clear what this “much” might be exactly, as Eustacia’s intelligence, learning, and wit are incompletely and imperfectly portrayed, and one does not make a splash in society based on looks and pride alone. Eustacia hasn’t “tried and tried”; and her youthful, ambitious impatience has led her to miss the clues that Clym is not going to “try and try,” either. Perhaps she, like Sue in Jude the Obscure, represents the dilemma of the intelligent woman in the 1800s, who can shape her own destiny only through attachment to the right man in a socially acceptable way. When that fails (Eustacia), or if an alternative means is attempted (Sue), tragedy is inevitable.

While not Hardy’s best, The Return of the Native is a must read for his readers, incorporating a grim yet objective setting, memorable characters, and a tragic plot driven by human failings more so than the destiny at which Eustacia rails. Ignore the awkward, unconvincing happy ending, as Hardy’s censors forced him to tack it on.

31 October 2004
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf

Book review: The Count of Monte Cristo

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The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas père. Translated and with an introduction by Robin Buss. Highly recommended.

As translator Robin Buss points out in his introduction, many of those who haven’t read The Count of Monte Cristo assume it is a children’s adventure story, complete with daring prison escape culminating in a simple tale of revenge. There is very little for children in this very adult tale, however. Instead, the rich plot combines intrigue, betrayal, theft, drugs, adultery, presumed infanticide, torture, suicide, poisoning, murder, lesbianism, and unconventional revenge.

Although the plot is roughly linear beginning with Edmond Dantès’ return to Marseille, prenuptial celebration, and false imprisonment and ending with his somewhat qualified triumphant departure from Marseille and France, Dumas uses the technique of interspersing lengthy anecdotes throughout. The story of Cardinal Spada’s treasure, the origins of the Roman bandit Luigi Vampa (the least germane to the novel), Bertuccio’s tale of his vendetta, and the account of the betrayal and death of Ali Pasha are few of the more significant stories-within-the-novel. While Dumas devotes an entire chapter to bandit Luigi Vampa’s background, he cleverly makes only a few references to what will remain the plot’s chief mystery — how the youthful, intelligent, and naive sailor Edmond Dantès transforms himself into the worldly, jaded, mysterious Renaissance man and Eastern philosopher, the count of Monte Cristo, presumably sustained by his own advice of “wait” and “hope.”

This novel is not a simple tale of simple revenge. The count does not kill his enemies; he brilliantly uses their vices and weaknesses against them. Caderousse’s basic greed is turned against him, while Danglars loses the only thing that has any meaning for him. Fernand is deprived of the one thing that he had that he had never earned — his honour. In the process, he loses the source of his initial transgression, making his fate that much more poignant. The plot against Villefort is so complicated that even Monte Cristo loses control of it, resulting in doubt foreign to his nature and remorse that he will not outlive.

This long but generally fast-paced tale is set primarily in Marseille, Rome, and Paris. It begins with Dantès’ arrival in Marseille aboard the commercial vessel Pharaon and ends with his departure from Marseille aboard his private yacht, accompanied by the young, beautiful Greek princess Haydée. What gives The Count of Monte Cristo its life, however, are the times in which it is set — the Revolution, the Napoleonic era, the First and Second Restoration, and the Revolution of 1830. Life-and-death politics motivates many of the characters and keeps the plot moving. Dumas also uses real people in minor roles, such as Countess G — (Byron’s mistress) and the Roman hotelier Signor Pastrini, which adds to the novel’s sense of historical veracity.

The most troubling aspect of The Count of Monte Cristo is Edmond Dantès himself. His claim to represent a higher justice seems to justify actions and inactions that are as morally reprehensible as those that sent him to prison, for example, his account of how he acquired Ali and his loyalty. Had he not discovered young Morrel’s love for Valentine Villefort, she too might have become an innocent victim. As it is, there are at least two other innocents who die, although one clearly would not have been an innocent for long based on his behaviour in the novel. One wonders if Dantès’ two father figures, his own flower-loving father and fellow prisoner Abbé Faria, would have approved of the count.

The translation appears to be good, with a few slips into contemporary English idioms that sound out of place. In his introduction, Buss states that the later Danglars and Fernand have become unrecognizable and that Fernand in particular has been transformed “from the brave and honest Spaniard with a sharp sense of honour . . . to the Parisian aristocrat whose life seems to have been dedicated to a series of betrayals.” There is never anything honest or honourable about Fernand; his very betrayal of Edmond is merely the first we know of in his lifelong pattern.

What seems extreme and somewhat unrealistic about Fernand is his transformation from an uneducated Catalan fisherman into a “Parisian aristocrat,” hobnobbing with statesmen, the wealthy, and the noteworthy of society. This, however, is the result of the milieu that the novel inhabits. During these post-Revolution, post-Napoleonic years, Fernand could rise socially through his military and political accomplishments just as Danglars does through his financial acumen. Danglars is careful to note that the difference between them is that Fernand insists upon his title, while Danglars is openly indifferent to and dismissive of his; his viewpoint is the more aristocratic.

Countess G — is quick to point out that there is no old family name of Monte Cristo and that the count, like many other contemporaries, has purchased his title. It serves mainly to obscure his identity, nationality, and background and to add to the aura of mystery his persona and Eastern knowledge create. What is most telling is that his entrée into Parisian society is based primarily on his great wealth, not his name. Dumas reinforces this point with Andrea Cavalcanti, another mystery man of unknown name and reputed fortune.

I have read The Man in the Iron Mask and The Three Musketeers series, both of which surprised me with their dark aspects (the character and fate of Lady de Winter, for example) and which little resembled the adventure stories distilled from them for children and for film. When I overheard a college student who was reading The Count of Monte Cristo on the bus tell a friend that she couldn’t put it down, I was inspired to read it. I couldn’t put it down, either, with its nearly seamless plot, dark protagonist, human villains, turbulent historical setting, and larger-than-life sense of mystery. At 1,078 pages, it’s imposing, but don’t cheat yourself by settling for an abridged version. You’ll want to pick up every nuance.

12 September 2004
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf

Book review: The Ghost Stories of Edith Wharton

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The Ghost Stories of Edith Wharton. Highly recommended.

I was unaware that Edith Wharton, known for such insightful novels as The Age of Innocence, The House of Mirth, and Ethan Frome (as well as the popular movies these novels inspired), had indulged in writing ghost stories other than “Afterward” until I found this collection. In Ghost Stories, Wharton reveals her mastery of the psychology of horror — where ghosts terrify through their oblique influence on the human mind and emotion — and where these human foibles create their own horrors.

Wharton’s ghosts take many forms — from the loyal retainer in “The Lady’s Maid’s Bell” to the loyal retainers of a different sort in “Kerfol”; from the guilt behind “The Eyes” to the guilt recognised “Afterward”; from the mysterious “Mr. Jones” to the ghostly and ghastly “Miss Mary Pask.” Some of these visitations are not seen, or, in the case of “Kerfol,” even heard. They fulfill various functions: To protect the secrets of the past, to bring the secrets of the past to light, to warn the present about the future, and to remind the living of the dead.

Like the best ghost story writers, Wharton begins each tale with a scenario that seems ordinary enough. Early on, she drops subtle clues that build from a feeling that something is somewhat amiss up to a sense of fractured reality that shatters one’s assumptions. Wharton masterfully creates ironic twists (“Miss Mary Pask”), innocent victims (the wife in “Afterward”), and nontraditional ghosts (“The Eyes,” “Kerfol”). In many cases, the reader is one step ahead of the narrator or protagonist (Hitchcock’s definition of suspense), creating a delicious sense of inevitable, unavoidable doom.

If you are looking for the gore and thrills of today’s tale of horror, you will not find them in Wharton’s work. If, on the other hand, you appreciate the subtle, growing sense of terror that M. R. James insinuates into The Ghost Stories of an Antiquary, you’ll discover the same feeling of the fine line between this world and another that can manifest itself at any time and in any way when the need arises. These are stories to be read, savored, and read again — alone, of course.

28 December 2003
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf

Book review: The Reef

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The Reef by Edith Wharton, with an introduction by Louis Auchincloss. Recommended.

In his introduction to The Reef, Louis Auchincloss notes modern readers may not appreciate a moral climate in which a woman opposes her stepson’s engagement to a girl who had an affair with the man the woman is about to marry. The Reef, however, is as concerned with morality as with class.

On his way to France to see his beloved, the widowed Anna Leath, George Darrow receives a telegram telling him not to come “till thirtieth” due to “unexpected obstacle.” When he doesn’t receive an explanation for the delay, he experiences growing feelings of disappointment and humiliation. He imagines the umbrellas and elbows of his fellow travelers saying, “She doesn’t want you, doesn’t want you, doesn’t want you.”

As he waits undecided whether to return to London or to press forward, he encounters Sophy Viner, the recently unemployed servant of a woman whose dinners he once attended. She is on her way to Paris to look up old friends and to pursue a theatrical career. Darrow, who feels sorry for himself and the loss he thinks he is about to suffer, manipulates Sophy into staying with him to attend the theatre, then into a short liaison. He is unaware she has fallen in love with him and his kindness in her hour of uncertainty.

A year later, Anna Leath eagerly anticipates Darrow’s arrival. They are to be married and begin an overseas stint as part of his diplomatic career. Her stepson, Owen Leath, wants to do something both know will upset his aristocratic, old-fashioned grandmother. He wants to marry Anna’s daughter’s governess, who is none other than Sophy Viner.

Darrow and Sophy’s secret is safe with one another. Darrow, however, is uncomfortably aware Anna wants him to support Owen’s choice of a woman he knows to be unsuitable but whom he pities. He tries to convince Sophy that Owen is not right for her. “You’d rather I didn’t marry any friend of yours,” she says “not as a question, but as a mere dispassionate statement of fact.” Darrow’s lack of feeling and poor conduct make Sophy an undesirable wife for Owen. She is a painful reminder that both of them have broken social conventions.

Auchincloss calls Sophy a “fallen woman” in the context of the times, but this is too simplistic. Sophy’s problem, before and after Anna finds out about her relationship with Darrow, is her class and lack of social background. After all, in The House of Mirth, extramarital liaisons are commonplace, understood, and accepted if they are discreet and do not upset the social balance. Within the correct parameters, such affairs become a comfortable topic of gossip and speculation.

Once Anna divines there had been something between Darrow and Sophy beyond a casual acquaintance, he says simply, “She has given me up.” He refers to Sophy’s expectations, not her feelings. In the world she inhabits, she has learned the Darrows seek temporary solace from the Sophys and permanence and stability from the Annas.

Anna keeps returning to the idea that Sophy has been there before, whether it is to the theatre with Darrow or in Darrow’s arms. She is bothered that the liaison happened while he was on his way to her, but is more disturbed that the kiss he places on her neck has also landed on Sophy’s — and that Sophy has been more intimate with him.

Anna asks Darrow, “Do such things happen to men often?” (phrased passively, as though Darrow had been the pursued rather than the pursuer). “I don’t know what happens to other men. Such a thing never happened to me . . .” The “thing” here is not the physical aspect of the relationship. Even the “fine” Anna knows that he has indulged because one of his relationships, with a mutual acquaintance named Kitty, drove her away from him in their youth. This relationship outside their social sphere reflects a lack of discretion that may make him an unsuitable husband and stepparent.

With her finely tuned perceptions, delicacy, generosity, and genuine feelings, Sophy does not deserve her fate. Darrow assures Anna that she is no adventuress, which Anna wants her to be. She returns to the service of Mrs. Murrett in India. In one of the weaknesses of The Reef, Anna’s encounter with Sophy’s fat, frowsy, common sister and her equally common lover, Jimmy Brance, puts the noble Sophy in her proper place for both Anna and the reader.

The Reef is in shallower waters than The House of Mirth or The Age of Innocence, its structure weakened by a forced reliance on dialogue. In the final third, various characters talk to Anna in her room, coming and going through what may as well be a revolving door.

Sophy’s fate further weakens the drama. Yet who but Wharton could write, “Her frugal silence mocked his prodigality of hopes and fears”? Such elegant prose and insights alone distinguish The Reef.

7 July 2003
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf

As an aside, it would be interesting if, in the same fashion Jean Rhys gave Bertha Mason from Jane Eyre “a life,” a writer were to do the same for Sophy, whose viewpoint is not shown.

Book review: Ethan Frome

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Ethan Frome by Edith Wharton; afterword by Alfred Kazin. Highly recommended.

Ethan Frome is a powerful story about powerless people. The title character is held in thrall by his parents, his land, his poverty, and his lifeless and loveless marriage. His wife, Zenobia (Zeena), cannot escape the confines of her narrow mind; her imaginary illnesses and the status they give her in a small village like the aptly named Starkfield, Massachusetts; and the meanness of her own life (symbolised by her attachment to her pickle dish and her refusal to use it, even for visits by the minister). Finally, there is Mattie Silver, the relative who has come to help care for Zeena and the house and who has nowhere to go. Interestingly, the three prisoners are related; Zeena is referred to as a cousin of Ethan’s, while Mattie is Zeena’s cousin. Zeena is, literally and figuratively, the central figure who connects them all and who keeps Ethan and Mattie apart.

From his youth, Ethan’s impulsive, reactive nature leads him into trouble. When Zeena helps him out with the care of his mother, who dies and leaves him alone and lonely, “before he knew what he was doing, he had asked her [Zeena] to stay there with him.” It is soon thereafter that he discovers that his loneliness gave him selective vision and that Zeena is more than a good nurse; she’s an excellent hypochondriac. When someone asks him if he lacks money, “‘Not a bit,’ Ethan’s pride retorted before his reason had time to intervene.”

Ethan is hindered from all he desires, whether it’s his technical education, his potential career as an engineer, or the arms of Mattie Silver, by his prevailing sense of duty and honor. Although he feels trapped on his land and in a farming life with which he is not happy because he has had a succession of people for whom to care — first, his father, then his mother, then Zeena — Ethan tells Mattie, “I want to be there when you’re sick and when you’re lonesome.” Later, his last thought before unconsciousness will be about his responsibility to his horse: “I ought to be getting him his feed . . .” He struggles constantly with his need to be free of Zeena and his obligation to take care of her.

Zeena and Mattie are contrasted throughout; Zeena’s lashless lids are nothing like Mattie’s fully lashed lids, which Ethan observes “sinking slowly when anything charmed or moved her.” Her laughter is seen “sparkling through her lashes.” While Zeena is thin and hard, Ethan sees Mattie (in Zeena’s overnight absence) as “taller, fuller, more womanly in shape and motion” than when she is under Zeena’s watchful eye. Light, which brings out the sharp hollows of Zeena’s face as in a horror film, “threw a lustrous fleck on [Mattie’s] lips, edged her eyes with velvet shade, and laid a milky whiteness above the black curve of her brows.” Is this Mattie as she really is, or is this Mattie as Ethan’s loneliness and imagination need her to be?

Around Mattie, Ethan is often overcome by the strength of his emotions. When she serves him dinner, with the cat lying drowsily by the stove in a carefully drawn domestic scene, “Ethan was suffocated with the sense of well-being.” This sense of being overcome recurs throughout their encounters. He doubts that he inspires such a glow. “Could it be his coming that gave her such a kindled face?” He is jealous of every man Mattie encounters, particularly the wealthy Irish grocer’s son, Denis Eady.

Whether Wharton is writing of society New York or rural New England, such an illicit romance cannot succeed, and Ethan’s fails spectacularly — leaving behind people who are emotional and physical wrecks. Zeena is transformed into reluctant caregiver, while Mattie is transformed into yet another part of the trap that keeps Ethan on the farm, impoverished financially, intellectually, and emotionally. His emotions about his fate and that of his would-be lover are never revealed other than through an indescribable look that haunts those who witness it. In life, all are more dead than the Fromes in the graveyard. Ethan Frome is the literary embodiment of Wharton’s quote, “Life is the saddest thing, next to death.”

Ethan Frome‘s framework is awkward; a narrator from outside Starkfield manages to get into Ethan’s home and learn the whole story, which then is improbably told in great detail in third-person omniscient. This detracts only slightly from the novel’s wintry, claustrophobic atmosphere and evocative powers. In her introduction, Wharton calls the reader “sophisticated” and the people of whom she writes “simple” — as stark as the New England backdrop. Yet Ethan Frome, for all his “simplicity,” is a rich, fully realised person as memorable as Newland Archer (The Age of Innocence) — and as tragic as Lily Bart (The House of Mirth).

14 June 2003
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf

Book review: Madame Bovary: Patterns of Provincial Life

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Madame Bovary: Patterns of Provincial Life by Gustave Flaubert; translated by Francis Steegmuller. Recommended.

Surprisingly, Madame Bovary begins with a look at the painful childhood of the seemingly dull and plodding man who will become the title character’s longsuffering husband, Charles Bovary. The novel commences with a mysterious “we” — the identity of the narrator who tells the story of Bovary’s ignominious entry into school is not known — but then changes to third-person omniscient. Charles is a conscientious, yet average, student, whose school, career, lodgings, and even first wife are selected by his mother. His marriage to Emma Rouault, the daughter of an apparently prosperous farmer, is the first major decision he makes for himself about his life and borders on an act of rebellion. That this act of independence should have such tragic consequences only adds to their effect.

Like many of her class, Emma is a romantic dreamer — but one who expects others to make those dreams into reality. Within a short time of her wedding, perhaps even on the day after, “the bride made not the slightest sign that could be taken to betray anything at all.” For Charles Bovary, however, marriage to Emma — following as it does on the heels of his first marriage to a thin, complaining huissier’s widow whose financial assets prove to be negligible — seems to be the culmination of happiness. “He was happy now, without a care in the world.” Every moment spent with her, each of her gestures, “and many other things in which it had never occurred to him to look for pleasure — such now formed the steady current of his happiness.”

When her marriage proves to be a plunge into a provincial life devoid of the romance promised by books, arts, and a naïve imagination, Madame Bovary blames her average, unambitious husband, Flaubert writes, “. . . following formulas she believed efficacious, she kept trying to experience love . . . Having thus failed to produce the slightest spark of love in herself, and since she was incapable of understanding what she didn’t experience, or of recognizing anything that wasn’t expressed in conventional terms, she reached the conclusion that Charles’s desire for her was nothing very extraordinary.” With that inescapable conclusion in mind, Emma is free to find “love” elsewhere — for example, in a recurring fantasy about a count who dances with her at an aristocrat’s party; with the worldly Rodolphe Boulanger for whom she is little more than another in a string of mistresses; and for the young student-clerk Léon Dupuis for whom she is a brilliant, sympathetic flower among the colorless bourgeoisie.

Although in the “Translator’s Introduction” Steegmuller mentions, “Flaubert’s supposed conception of his heroine as a character too sublime for this world,” Emma is neither sublime nor sympathetic. Rather than seek happiness within or to improve herself, or to appreciate the value of even her uninspiring husband, she blames others for the monotony of her life and its lack of excitement and passion. She cannot find consolation in her daughter (“she wanted a son”), and neglects and even mistreats her. She tries to bolster herself through Charles’s position, at the cost of a young man’s leg. The village abbé, Bournisien, is oblivious to her emotional turmoil and pain and advises her to “drink a cup of tea” as a remedy. His nemesis Homais, a pseudoscientific pharmacist who is the archetype for the petit bourgeoisie, drowns out all around him with his droning theories and ideas, including Madame Bovary and his hapless assistant Justin. There are no kindred spirits for Emma in either Tostes or Yonville l’Abbaye.

As her actions lead her into a downward emotional and financial spiral, Emma finds nothing around her to which to turn and no one to help, except if she is willing to prostitute herself. Her life, built on her dreams and her sacrifice of others, is doomed. By the end of the novel, she has been reduced to little more than a scheming adulteress and petty debtor. Ironically, her husband’s passion and grief for her bring out the personal nobility to which she was purposely blind. He has always had that to which she aspired.

Although Emma Bovary is certainly impossible to forget, equally memorable are all the novel’s supporting characters, from Tuvache and his lathe and the lovesick Justin to Homais, whose banality throughout may be summed up by his award of the cross of the Legion of Honor. This last is a suitable ending for this study of the patterns of provincial life.

13 June 2003
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf

Book review: The Age of Innocence

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The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton. Highly recommended.

A classic novel made famous by a recent movie, The Age of Innocence is the story of a society man, Newland Archer, caught between two very different women. On the one hand is May Welland, the virginal Diana of New York society, whose seeming frankness and innocence discourage and oppress him: “Untrained human nature was not frank and innocent; it was full of the twists and defences of an instinctive guile.” All this is “supposed to be what he wanted, what he had a right to, in order that he might exercise his lordly pleasure in smashing it like an image made of snow.”

Her counterpart is her cousin Countess Ellen Olenska, vaguely exotic, vaguely dangerous, forbidden — primarily because she is not the “artificial product” of society, but a genuine, sensual woman whose independent way of thinking is enough to tacitly and then overtly banish her from the very company that Newland’s life is built around. She is “different,” as Archer will later discuss with one of his children. No one else would say, “Why not make one’s own fashions?” thus giving a voice to what Archer himself deep down believes but can’t put into practice.

Ironically, it is May who first forces him and Ellen together, against his will, in her efforts to be kind to her cousin, who has just returned from Europe. As he sees more of “poor Ellen,” estranged from her emotionally abusive husband and seemingly vulnerable to the wiles of the wealthy outsider scoundrel Julius Beaufort, he finds himself returning again and again to her until he realises he is in love with her — long after the reader has reached that conclusion. He resolves the dilemma by rushing his marriage to May, which makes it that much worse. Thus ensues a delicate balance between the life he has chosen with May, with whom he now realises he has no emotional bond, and the life he would choose if he were more sure of himself, more sure that being true to oneself is more important than being true to one’s system.

Nearly every character is memorable — from the massive Mrs. Manson Mingott, May and Ellen’s grandmother who is old enough and skilled enough to intuit all and manipulate all; to the womanizing Lawrence Lefferts, whose behavior is acceptable because he knows how to play the game, how things are “done”; to the frigid bastions of society, the van der Luydens; to May’s mother, who cannot be exposed in any way to “unpleasantness”; to Archer’s virginal sister Janey, who lives life vicariously through gossip and guesswork.

Many scenes and locations are equally vivid: Beaufort’s lavish house and party; the contrast of the van der Luydens’ dinner party; Archer and May’s conventional and stifling honeymoon, more sporty than romantic or passionate; Archer’s pursuit of May in Florida and his following Ellen to the Blenkers’ and then to Boston; a revealing ride with Ellen in May’s brougham; Mrs. Mingott’s house in the middle of “nowhere,” where she rules like a queen and where the politics are only slightly less complicated than those of Elizabeth I’s court — all unforgettable places and scenes.

In less intelligent or skilled hands, the plot could have become mere melodrama, but Wharton knows how her society worked, who inhabited it, what it forgave, and what it could not pardon. Affairs are pardonable; treachery, real or perceived, to the framework of what holds these people together is not. In the end, May saves Archer from himself — and dooms him to her kind of life by doing so. When he gives up all his dreams, he looks into May’s “blue eyes, wet with tears.” She knows what he does not and remains cold as the moon that the goddess Diana rules.

It could be said that May and Ellen represent two sides of Newland Archer — both are people he is afraid to become. If he is like May, he experiences death of the mind, death of the soul, death of the emotions, becoming what he is expected to be to keep the foundations that society is built upon steady, strong, and standing. (It is no coincidence that a theme in Wharton’s The House of Mirth is the vulnerability of that house to the influx of modern ways.) If he becomes like Ellen, he will lose everything that he has built his own foundations on. In the end, he is neither, nor is he himself. His tragedy is not that much less than that of The House of Mirth‘s Lily Bart, both victims of a society they need but cannot survive.

28 April 2001
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf

Book review: Women in Love

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Women in Love by D. H. Lawrence. Highly recommended.

Women in Love by D. H. Lawrence is a sequel, but knowledge of The Rainbow is not necessary to appreciate the second novel. The title is somewhat misleading, as it is really about women and men, men and women, and men and men — and it’s not always clear with what they are in love. It is the tale of two teachers, sisters Gudrun and Ursula Brangwen, the son of the local mine owner, Gerald Crich, and school inspector Rupert Birkin.

Their complex relationships start to take shape the day of Gerald’s sister’s wedding, as Gudrun and Gerald and Ursula and Rupert are drawn together, often despite themselves. The Gudrun/Gerald relationship becomes a series of conflicts that are won only temporarily and that lead to more conflicts and then temporary reprieves of tenderness and sex. His emotional conflicts with Gudrun are mirrored in Gerald’s dealings with animals; he brutally forces his mare to stay at a railroad crossing despite her terror until blood is drawn and until the cars have passed. Later, when his sister’s rabbit resists being picked up so he can be sketched, Gerald punches him in the head so he will submit instantly. His blind will must triumph in all. The only time that he and Gudrun seem to find an equilibrium is when they balance each other by accepting but not gravitating toward each other. It becomes a tenuous relatonship at best and a dangerous one at worst. Gerald is incapable of love, as is his brooding mother.

Meanwhile, Ursula finds herself in a different kind of battle, with Rupert and his self-contemptous philosophies about relationships, death, and the will. His vision of love, if he even believes it exists, is of two planets circling one another in perfect equilibrium. He did not find that with his former lover Hermione, who does not satisfy his physical desires and who does not calibrate with his spiritual needs. At the end of the novel, he reinforces what he has said all along — his love will always have a missing component and be incomplete without it. As a side note, Rupert seems to be Lawrence’s own mouthpiece, reflecting many of his own views.

As with Lady Chatterley’s Lover, the setting for Women in Love becomes a character — the grimy village, the sordid town, and the sullen miners and their wives provide a backdrop of inevitable modernization and dehumanization that counterbalances the individual stories. As mining is mechanized to death, so is the human soul. The will either accepts the inevitable crush of the modern world or fights it to the death. The weakest part of Women in Love may be when the setting changes, that is, when the couples decide to leave all that England has become and to take their relationships and their futures to the Alps, where they find art truly does imitate life with its mechanism. The novel seems to lose a little of its footing at this point, giving in to its tendency to become an intellectual exercise in the arts rather than a human story in a regimented world.

Women in Love starts out slowly, as a lengthy series of vignettes and conversations that seem unlikely or unrealistic, but develops a crescendo as the battles begin. In the end, despite dramatic events and drastic changes, the conundrums remain, and even Ursula’s persistence and will cannot eliminate them now, let alone forever. Women in Love is about destruction and regeneration in an endless cycle and the human under the surface that we are not entirely aware of and cannot express.

29 March 2001
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf

Book review: Sons and Lovers

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Sons and Lovers by D. H. Lawrence. Recommended.

Sons and Lovers is said to be the most autobiographical of D. H. Lawrence’s novels; according to the introduction by Benjamin DeMott, some critics have found it too flatly so. Like the protagonist Paul Morel, Lawrence was born to a coal miner and a woman who has married beneath her class. His older brother died young, DeMott notes. Many other details coincide as well.

Unlike some of Lawrence’s other works, such as Women in Love, in which Lawrence explores lofty themes in a philosophical and grim tone, Sons and Lovers is as down to earth as Paul’s rough, violent, yet congenial father Walter.

Despite his many apparent and iterated flaws, Walter Morel is shown as a whole person with a gentle, content, industrious side — when he’s sober. His “smallness” is a function of where he is and who he is expected to be rather than who he could be. He’s so tied to his mining lot in life it doesn’t occur to him his gifted sons could aspire to more. That they achieve more is a source of both pride and derision for Walter Morel. Although Walter is a background character, he, “an outsider,” forges the bond between Gertrude Morel and her sons William and Paul.

Gertrude Morel is not the first woman to live her life through her children. Her hold over her sons, however, dooms their relationships with other women to failure, leaving them deeply unsatisfied and unhappy. Her motivations may be questionable, but she is sometimes right. William’s fiancée Lily would have cost him dearly, emotionally and financially, had he lived to marry her, and Mrs. Morel sees her own mistake of a marriage in his future. Although she makes her beliefs known, she seems willing to let William make his decision and suffer the consequences.

Having learned from the experience with William, Mrs. Morel takes a different approach with Paul, who seems to be her last, best hope for justifying her own life. Her relationship with Paul becomes overtly sexual. When they go out together, they behave like lovers on a date. “He stroked his mother’s hair, and his mouth was on her throat.” When Paul tells his mother that he doesn’t love Miriam, she “kissed him in a long, fervent kiss. ‘My boy!’ she said, in a voice trembling with passionate love. Without knowing, he gently stroked her face.”

It would be too easy to attribute all this to an Oedipal complex, but it is more complicated, as life is. Paul serves as Mrs. Morel’s alter ego, pseudo-lover, and breadwinner. Everything she did not or cannot have must be Paul’s. She is savvy enough to know who is a threat to her hold and who is not. She recognises in Miriam a woman much like herself — intelligent, thwarted, let down by men, hungry for a kindred spirit or soul mate. Paul, too, is aware of this and hates Miriam for it — and for the fact he does, indeed, love her, making him unfaithful to the woman to whom he owes his fidelity. There are spiritual overtones as well, as the religious Miriam tries to sacrifice herself for Paul, whom she sees as a “Walter Scott hero.” This sacrifice repels Paul ever further.

Mrs. Morel rightly perceives that Clara Dawes is not a threat to her — she is fascinating, attractive, enigmatic, and sensual, but she lacks the ability to be more to Paul than a diversion from Miriam, Mom, and himself. Knowing that nothing of importance will come of this affair, Mrs. Morel even encourages it. It cannot divert Paul from her, and it fails as a result.

In the end, the only intimacy Paul is capable of is with his mother. She has come between him and his own consciousness — and he has allowed her. Everything is filtered through her. How she has achieved this is not always clear, as she uses more than rhetoric and conscious effort to mold Paul. When he wishes her dead, there is hope that then he would begin to live. “Mother!” he whimpered. “Mother!” Then: “He would not take that direction, to the darkness, to follow her.” With the past buried, there may be a future for him. Only Lawrence knew as he wrote this most human of his novels.

25 May 2003
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf

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