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Book review: The Great Gatsby: The Authorized Text

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The Great Gatsby: The Authorized Text by F. Scott Fitzgerald, with notes and a preface by Matthew J. Bruccoli. Highly recommended.

The west was conquered and the midwest cultivated, so in The Great Gatsby set in the 1920s we turn our attention back east, where to midwestern narrator Nick Carraway and his neighbor Jay Gatsby the green light at the end of the Buchanans’ East Egg dock seems to represent the fertile promise of America, and the dreams and the money that are supposed to make them reality. Some dreams, like the dream of recapturing a romantic past that never really was, become nightmares.

Although he witnesses and participates in deception, including both sides of the Buchanans’ infidelity, Nick wants to appear to be a reliable narrator, which he emphasizes when he says up front, “I’m inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me.” Later, Nick identifies himself with “the casual watcher in the darkening streets, and I was him, too, looking up and wondering. I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.” Nick’s authorial viewpoint sets the tone for his story and his observations of the brutish Tom Buchanan; his shallow and unsatisfied wife, Daisy; his class-climbing mistress, Myrtle Wilson; and the mysterious Jay Gatsby, the hero of the different unbelievable fictions he tells (when Nick asks him what part of the middle-west he is from, Gatsby responds enigmatically, “San Francisco.”) A confused Nick hears solemnity in Gatsby’s voice and sees sincerity in his look, despite the obvious prevarication.

The most influential literal voice is that of Daisy Buchanan. Lacking the romantic substance for which Gatsby has idealized her as the symbol of his youth — his real youth — Daisy becomes a siren with a siren call. Nick writes, “The instant her voice broke off, ceasing to compel my attention, my belief, I felt the basic insincerity of what she had said.” Her friend, Jordan Baker, tells Nick, “. . . and yet there’s something in that voice of hers. . . .” Later, Nick mentions that the “exhilarating ripple of her voice was a wild tonic in the rain,” and “I think that voice held him [Gatsby] most with its fluctuating, feverish warmth because it couldn’t be over-dreamed — that voice was a death song.” Nick says of Daisy, “Unlike Gatsby and Tom, I had no girl whose disembodied face floated along the dark cornices and blinding signs . . .” By contrast, Myrtle is earthy, with “an immediately perceptible vitality about her as if the nerves of her body were continuously smoldering.” Tom, whose affairs we are told have included a hotel chambermaid, seems mostly unsusceptible to Daisy’s voice, while even Nick notes its influence and Gatsby is destroyed by it and by his desire for the real past that every story he tells effectually effaces.

A compact novel concentrated on only a few months in the lives of a few characters, The Great Gatsby is rich with symbolism. During his reunion with Daisy, Gatsby almost stops time literally by knocking Nick’s clock down, but instinctively he catches it before it falls. “We all believed for a moment that it had smashed in pieces on the floor,” Nick writes. Gatsby even apologizes as though he had broken the clock and as though it were a significant loss that his countless money can’t replace. As the reunion continues, Nick says of Gatsby, “. . . in the reaction, he was running down like an overwound clock.”

Throughout, time is a consistent theme; it is part of what Gatsby futilely endeavors to recapture. He can reinvent a past in which he was “educated at Oxford because all my ancestors have been educated there for many years,” but he and his means cannot recreate the real past. As Nick observes, “Now it was again a green light on a dock. His count of enchanted objects had diminished by one.” He adds later, “Almost five years! There must have been moments even that afternoon when Daisy tumbled short of his dreams — not through her own fault but because of the colossal vitality of his illusion.”

The Great Gatsby reminds me of The Count of Monte Cristo. Both Gatsby and the count start life as ordinary men and, through circumstances and the determination to achieve a much-desired goal, transform themselves into extraordinary men, ciphers to all but the most observant of their fellows. One seeks to revenge a past wrong; the other ignores the present and tries to reinvent the past as though there had never been a Tom Buchanan and as though Daisy had never loved him. Both efforts take time and unlimited patience and money, but only one is successful. The count revenges his past so he can live better in the future, but Gatsby fails because he does not understand, or want to understand, that the past is written and that the future begins with the present.

Somewhat lacking in heart — the only character who displays genuine emotion is Tom Wilson, Myrtle’s despised husband — The Great Gatsby captures the jaded excesses of the post-World War I era and the American faith in time, money, and effort as the sources and creators of success. The novel also shows the greater power of circumstance and fate. I’ve read The Great Gatsby only once, but to appreciate its structure, symbolism, and richness would take several re-readings. Read once for pleasure, then read again to explore Fitzgerald’s craft.

21 December 2007
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf

Book review: The Fox

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The Fox by D. H. Lawrence. Recommended.

One of D. H. Lawrence’s fable-like tales addressing gender roles and relationships, The Fox is developed based on the symbol of a female-centric farm beset by a “demon,” a marauding male fox. Owned and run by two women, the “small, thin, delicate thing,” Banford, and “the man about the place,” March, the farm is remarkably unproductive. One independent-minded heifer refuses to stay put, and the women, afraid of birth and responsibility, sell the pregnant cow before she can produce a calf. Because “Banford and March disbelieved in living for work alone,” it is clear that their farming venture, the nature of which requires commitment and hard work, is fated to fail.

Into this setting, where “fowls did not flourish,” comes a fox, a symbolic male, that carries off not only the hens, but March’s consciousness. As a male intruder in this female world, “he knew her.” The imagery is deliberately sexual; “her soul failed her,” and, too mesmerized to fire her gun, “she saw his white buttocks twinkle.” Having encountered the male, she determines to hunt him down. “She was possessed by him.”

Months later, March again threatens to shoot the real fox, a young man who comes to the farm from the outside world of men and war. As with the fox, the other male, “March stared at him spellbound.” Again, the symbolism is not meant to be subtle; Lawrence writes, ” . . . the boy was to her the fox, and she could not see him otherwise” and “she need not go after him any more.”

The fox and the man change March, who in the man’s presence becomes “pale and wan,” anxious not to be seen, “a shadow in the shadow” — almost like a fox herself. Throughout the novel, the man, Henry, has the same effacing effect on her. She is no longer the “man” of the farm, but a shrinking, passive, mesmerized female, speaking in a “plangent, laconic voice” when the real man is around. In her dreams, the fox and the man are powerful sexual images that take away her ability to articulate; the fox “whisked his brush across her face, and it seemed this brush was on fire, for it seared and burned her mouth with a great pain . . . [She] lay trembling as if she were really seared.”

As the story continues and Henry and Banford vie for March’s attention and loyalty, it is easy to see Banford and March as a lesbian couple, incomplete in the way the French writer Colette viewed such relationships. Henry, the man, carries the gun, hunts, and watches; he is “most free when he was quite alone.” With Henry’s arrival, Banford becomes more stereotypically female, strong-willed but physically weak, querulous, and manipulative. March is in the middle, the man to one, the woman to the other. Banford says of Henry, “He’s a boy like you are.” March is always indistinct to the soft-spoken, courteous Henry, who wishes to dominate her and to bring her into focus. When Henry kills the fox, March dreams of burying Banford wrapped in the fox skin — a thought that leaves her with “tears streaming down her face.” She does not want to let go of either woman or man, or the feminine or masculine in herself.

Events and choices leave March with “nothingness at last”; having hunted for the fox and reached for happiness, she is left with a “realisation of emptiness” that can be resolved only by being “alone with him at her side.” To be female is to sleep, a form of death, while to be male is to keep awake, know, consider, judge, and decide. In The Fox, as in other Lawrence novels, the man-woman relationship is one of strain between masculine values of dominance and possession and feminine desire to “stay awake” and for autonomy and self-determination.

Unpolished, repetitive, obvious in its imagery, and blunt about its messages, The Fox is flawed and pales beside Sons and Lovers and Women in Love. As a short study of the ideas surrounding gender, roles, and relationships that predominate in Lawrence’s fiction, The Fox is worth the attention of both Lawrence student and aficionado.

8 December 2007
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf

Book review: Wives and Daughters: An Every-Day Story

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Wives and Daughters: An Every-Day Story by Elizabeth Gaskell. Introduction and notes by Pam Morris. Highly recommended.

With its fairy-tale beginning (“In a country there was a shire, and in that shire there was a town, and in that town there was a house . . .”), the subtitle of Wives and Daughters is gently ironic. While the basic plot is standard — boy and girl meet and overcome many obstacles, including themselves — Gaskell’s tale is as much about the rapidly changing Victorian world as about Molly Gibson and her provincial village of Hollingford.

Set before the 1832 Reform Bill, Wives and Daughters consciously brings together England’s aristocratic past, represented by Squire Hamley and the upstart earl and countess of Cumnor Towers, and the future, represented by Molly Gibson and Squire Hamley’s sons, especially Roger. The elder son, Osborne, puts his own interests and more modern sensibilities above those of his father, while Roger envisions a future of science, exploration, and expansionism. To Mrs. Gibson, who marries to avoid having to work and dependence on the aristocracy, Osborne offers her daughter an entrée into at least the landed gentry, whereas Roger is merely a second son demeaning himself by dabbling in the sciences. Although renowned in London for his travels and discoveries, Roger becomes worthy of her notice only when he is taken into the inner circle of Lord Hollingford and the Towers as a result of his personal achievements.

While the visible action takes place within the small circle of Hollingford, Cumnor Towers, and Hamley Hall, Gaskell encompasses the widening world of rural England. Cynthia attends school in France while the Hamleys are off to Cambridge. The Hamley home is filled with relics from India, while Lady Harriet advises the Miss Brownings on how to obtain the best-priced Indian tea. Cynthia returns from her jaunts to London fashionably dressed and with hints of admirers, while Roger comes back from Africa browned, bearded, and mature in aspect and mien. Even villagers like Miss Hornblower feel the pull of the larger world and the new technology. As Mr. Gibson tells Molly, ” . . . if these newfangled railways spread, as they say they will, we shall all be spinning about the world; ‘sitting on tea-kettles,’ as Phoebe Browning calls it.”

The spheres of the sexes are vastly different. Clare Kirkpatrick thinks “how pleasant it would be to have a husband once more; some one who would work while she sat at her elegant ease in a prettily-furnished drawing-room.” Even as Mr. Gibson thwarts the advances of Molly’s first suitor, he tries to keep his “little goosey” unprepared for anything but life under the protection of a man, either father or husband. He advises her governess, “Don’t teach Molly too much: she must sew, and read, and write, and do her sums; but I want to keep her a child, and if I find more learning desirable for her, I’ll see about giving it to her myself.” As men of science, he and Roger believe themselves to be dispassionate and rational, yet Molly senses their obvious mistakes before they do and that they are more deeply affected than they appear to be. Gaskell’s characters, however, do not follow stereotypes. Lord Cumnor, a garrulous gossip, and Squire Hamley, an openly emotional man, are “womanly” in their ways, while Lady Cumnor and her daughter, Lady Harriet, are models of independence and detachment. Rather than assert her own independence and risk upsetting her excitable, patriarchal husband, Mrs. Hamley wastes away, ironically depriving her husband of her management of his emotions and their expression.

Molly is raised to suppress her feelings. As Mrs. Gibson’s values clash with those of Mr. Gibson and Molly, he is able to ride off and immerse himself in his work, while Molly can only swallow her emotions or, as a last resort, hide them in solitude. There is hope, however, that Molly can avoid the life for which Mr. Gibson is preparing her, that of an obedient wife. Her life as companion to Mrs. Hamley shows her impressionable mind the folly of pride and the lasting harm it causes as it separates Mr. Hamley and his elder son. Her natural curiosity and intelligence, consciously discouraged by Mr. Gibson, are encouraged by Roger Hamley, who bridges the ancient Hamley past and the future of science and discovery. This future will be built on achievements, not family name, which makes young Osborne’s parentage significant only to traditionalists like the squire and Mrs. Gibson. Their vision of the possibilities never extends beyond their own desires and concerns.

In Wives and Daughters, Gaskell addresses myriad issues important to her and her contemporaries — medicine, science, marriage, the family, gender roles, monetary wealth and land wealth, rural mores, the perception of English heritage and strength and French decadence, exploration, and change. Her characters are so richly drawn that the reader begins to anticipate Mrs. Gibson’s “infinite nothings” and Mr. Gibson’s searing irony. Gaskell imbues some of them with an enticing air of unsolved mystery. What are Mr. Gibson’s origins? Who was Jeanie, his first love, and why did he not marry her? How does that and his other early relationships influence his behavior toward Molly? Why, at age 28, does Lady Harriet refuse a good match and seemingly scorn romance? Gaskell does not judge her characters — even Mrs. Gibson has redeeming qualities — nor does she reveal all their secrets. Wives and Daughters is an enlightening, captivating, and, despite its unfinished state, satisfying look at Victorian life and society, the influence of which is still felt.

30 September 2007
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf

Book review: Lois the Witch

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Lois the Witch by Elizabeth Gaskell. Foreword by Jenny Uglow. Highly recommended.

The well-educated wife of a Unitarian minister in Victorian Manchester, Elizabeth Gaskell must have understood the dangers of misused Christianity and religious intolerance in a closed community. In Lois the Witch, uncertainty surrounds Salem — deep forests, wild animals, and Indians who are thought to be savage pawns of Satan. In the midst of that untamed wilderness is a town full of people trying to be what they believe to be godly, each of whom lives in fear that he or she may not be among the chosen, the predestined of God.

Into this repressed, volatile setting arrives Lois Barclay, a young, attractive, pious English Anglican whose parents have died and who has come to live with her Puritan uncle and his family. Lois is different from her new family in every way. While she is warm, affectionate, empathetic, and genuinely and effortlessly godly, she soon discovers that her aunt is cold and proud (“Godly Mr Cotton Mather hath said that even he might learn of me; and I would advise thee rather to humble thyself”). Her older daughter, misnamed Faith, for she is agnostic, is both obsessive and unexpressive, and her younger daughter, misnamed Prudence, is sadistic and vicious. More disturbingly, her son, in his early twenties and unmarried, sees visions and hears voices, and not surprisingly, focuses his long-repressed sexuality on the gentle, attractive newcomer.

Haplessly, Lois becomes the focal point for this family’s frustrations, fears, desires, jealousies, and, finally, hatred. She, like many of the “witches,” is a victim of being different in a conformist society that is both filled with unfulfilled desires and afraid of the unknown.

In Gaskell’s Salem, selfishness is rife. Lois’s uncle “cried like a child, rather at his own loss of a sister whom he had not seen for more than twenty years, than at that of the orphan’s [sic] standing before him, trying hard not to cry . . .” The son, Manasseh, is interested only in his own visions and “his own sick soul,” while Prudence “only seemed excited to greater mischief” by the attention generated by her cruelties. This selfishness seems to be the natural result of a belief system in which the fate of one’s soul is painfully uncertain and in which one is surrounded by evil. Selfishness and a desperate sense of self-preservation help to explain the moral blindness and the inability to look objectively within as the accusations start to flow and are willingly, almost eagerly, accepted as fact.

Sexual repression leads to fascination with the very subject. When Lois goes to the common pasture (on the edge of the forest where evil dwells), her thought is of a story in which a double-headed snake, “in the service of the Indian wizards,” lures white maidens “to seek out some Indian man, and must beg to be taken into his wigwam, abjuring faith and race forever.” To the white maidens of Gaskell’s Salem, such tales hold terror and promise.

In the 86 pages of Lois the Witch, Gaskell succinctly sets the stage, defines the characters and the critical relationships, and shows how every innocent act and word are used against the bewildered Lois, whose fear is that she will have to share her cell with a real witch — because she too succumbs to the general paranoia. Selfish to the end, her aunt “summoned her to meet her at the judgement-seat, and answer for this deadly injury done to both souls and bodies of those who had taken her in, and received her when she came to them an orphan and a stranger.” Ironically, it is the selfless Lois, who left England so she would not be the cause of a quarrel between her lover and his wealthy father, who, like Christ, pays the price for the sins of others.

Gaskell has taken a complex sociological matter, the Salem witch trials, and humanized it. This is a tiny gem of a story that leaves a deep impression.

29 July 2007
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf

Book review: The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

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The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Brontë. Edited by Herbert Rosengarten with an introduction by Margaret Smith. Highly recommended.

The elaborate Victorian prose style of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall does not obscure a story that is recognizably modern—that of an idealistic young woman who wants to save her brutish, alcoholic husband from himself.

Reviled for its “morbid love for the coarse, not to say the brutal,” The Tenant of Wildfell Hall continues the theme Brontë began in Agnes Grey—that nurture’s role in shaping in a person’s character and future is more important than parents and other authority figures realize or take responsibility for. As Helen says of Arthur, she wants “to do my utmost to . . . make him what he would have been if he had not, from the beginning, had a bad, selfish, miserly father . . . and a foolish mother who indulged him to the top of his bent . . . doing her utmost to encourage those germs of folly and vice it was her duty to suppress.”

Helen’s background is also revealing. Raised by her uncle and aunt, she exemplifies the modern concept of the adult child of an alcoholic—self-righteous and controlling. Knowing that Arthur is flawed, she marries him with the objective of changing him and saving him for God. It can be speculated that Arthur, intrigued by Helen’s youth, beauty, passion, and apparent demureness, envisions making her a more worldly woman. Neither knows the other beyond the surface, and each seems to want to transform the other into his or her own image. This is not the basis for a happy or durable union, as Helen learns.

Failing to control the father, Helen turns her attentions to her son. Quite rightly, she is horrified when Arthur makes his son a pawn in their marital battle, teaching him the manly Victorian arts of sport and predation, love of drinking and carousing, camaraderie without friendship, and disrespect for and the subjugation of women. Even Brontë seemed to be aware that Helen’s approach is also disturbing in its own way, for the child-rearing debate between Helen and her new neighbors is the basis for an entire chapter before we learn her history. While many of Brontë’s contemporaries would have agreed with the vicar’s argument that experience builds character, Helen slowly reveals how experience of the wrong kind without a moderating influence can destroy character.

The structure of the novel is undoubtedly awkward; it is unlikely that anyone would share such intimate details and thoughts as well as another person’s entire personal journal with even the dearest friend without a compelling reason. Gilbert, who is introduced, perhaps symbolically, as a hunter of predators (hawks), disappears from the story as he reads Helen’s tale. This diminishes him, relegating him to Helen’s redemption and reward. On occasion, for example, in “Domestic Scenes,” Brontë’s tense changes and irregularities make Helen’s journal lose its currency and distract the reader with lapses into a novel-like tone.

The structure does, however, allow the reader (and Gilbert) to meet the reclusive, protective, guarded, almost-grim Helen before we find out about the life that has shaped her and her inflexible opinions. The revelation of her character, and the strength she has to flout convention when her conscience and sense of duty require it, helps to complete Gilbert’s growth from sarcastic village wit to the kind of mature man more worthy of her.

Brontë’s stated purpose was “to tell the truth, for the truth always conveys its own moral to those who are able to receive it . . . Let it not be imagined, however, that I consider myself competent to reform the errors and abuses of society, but only that I would fain contribute my humble quota towards so good an aim . . . .” Helen’s story, like that of Agnes, reveals the uglier aspects of Victorian family life, usually idealized, that resulted when women had few rights, men abused theirs, parents did not take responsibility for instilling healthy values (such as respect for life) in their children, and divorce was out of the reach of most. Beyond the impressive gates and parks, within the stately estates, behind the closed doors, lurked family and social problems that could not be hidden or denied away. Helen’s story was disturbing not because of her depiction of Arthur’s demeaning, childish, and amoral behavior, but because she exposes the falseness of the idyllic family life her society held dear and because she is willing to abandon what society considers her duty to her marriage to perform her real duty to herself and her son.

Anne Brontë’s work has been compared unfavorably to that of her sisters, Charlotte and Emily. Yet its psychological insights, including the very coarseness and brutality of which contemporary critics complained, make up for Brontë’s lack of literary finesse. Her portrayal of Arthur, the fun-loving, amoral, pettish, selfish hedonist, and his boorish social circle resonates today. Despite his country gentleman status and his debt-supported wealth, Arthur is recognizable in all times and classes. Helen, too, is familiar as the long-suffering wife who finally takes action when her child is threatened.

Although much has changed since Brontë’s time, her characterizations and insights on family life hold true today, making The Tenant of Wildfell Hall a classic in its own right.

Sunday, 15 July 2007.
© 2007 by Diane L. Schirf.

Book review: The Custom of the Country

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The Custom of the Country by Edith Wharton with an introduction by Diane Johnson and notes by Benjamin Dreyer. Highly recommended.

In The Custom of the Country, Edith Wharton creates one of the most unlikable, even despicable, characters I know of in American fiction. Undine Spragg is not a murderer, sociopath, or monster, but an ambitious young woman determined to climb New York’s social ladder to the very top. The ambitions in themselves are not inherently bad, and other characters clearly share them. It is Undine’s utter lack of regard for anyone else, from her aging parents to her neglected son, that makes her contemptible. What makes her chilling is the odd combination of ingenuousness and its opposite; with rare exceptions she is oblivious to the rights, aspirations, and feelings of others if they do not pertain to her own objectives.

In Wharton’s world, choosing the right man was as important to a society woman’s future as selecting the right college, graduate school, or first job is today for a professional woman. For Undine and her friends, divorce carries no more significance than as a means to get out of the wrong job. As she tells her fiancé’s shocked traditional New York family, “I guess Mabel’ll get a divorce pretty soon . . . They like each other well enough. But he’s been a disappointment to her . . . Mabel realizes she’ll never really get anywhere till she gets rid of him.” This dinner conversation foreshadows the rest of the novel.

Wharton reveals Undine’s competitive nature through her childhood rivalry with Indiana Frusk, and her unsatisfied, reaching one through her travels with her parents. Undine will never be happy because there will always be someone with something she doesn’t have, whether it is greater wealth, fame, or a title or position.

By marrying Undine, Ralph hopes to save her from “Van Degenism,” which helps to set up the irony after irony found throughout The Custom of the Country. Ralph doesn’t know that Undine not only desires “Van Degenism,” but she wants to define it. A would-be poet, Ralph cannot seem to separate surface beauty from inner ugliness. “When she shone on him like that what did it matter what nonsense she talked?” Raymond de Chelles, who reminds Undine of Ralph, first sees her on an evening when, as even the cynical Charles Bowen thinks, ” . . . she seemed to have been brushed by the wing of poetry, and its shadow lingered in her eyes.”

More than greed, selfishness, or hedonism, Undine’s defining characteristic, lack of empathy, shapes her actions. “It never occurred to her that other people’s lives went on when they were our of her range of vision.” What dooms her relationships with Ralph and Raymond is not money, attention, socializing, or any of Undine’s numerous desires and complaints, nor is it simply the gulf between their values and her own. The failure lies in her inability to grasp that anything of importance exists outside her own system and their inability to see this in her until far too late. Because her parents cannot deny her anything, “. . . her sense of the rightfulness of her own cause had been measured by making people do as she pleased.”

Undine wants everything, but especially that which she does not have. Her counterpart, Elmer Moffatt, exhibits this “new money” behavior through collecting objects. “To have things had always seemed to her the first essential of existence,” while Moffatt says, “I mean to have the best, you know; not just to get ahead of the other fellows, but because I know it when I see it.” Raymond’s tapestries have no more deeper emotional value to Moffatt than last year’s dresses do to Undine; all are markers of money and success.

Ironically, Undine is little more than an attractive object to the people around her. As Madame de Trézac tells her, ” . . . they’re delighted to bring you out at their big dinners, with the Sèvres and the plate.”  Later, when she visits dealers with Moffatt, she saw that “the actual touching of rare textures — bronze or marble, or velvets flushed with the bloom of age — gave him a sensations like her own beauty had once roused in him.” To Moffatt, who knows and understands her insatiable hungers, she may be at least in part an object for his collection. He tells her, “You’re not the beauty you were . . . but you’re a lot more fetching.” The “oddly qualified phrase” could be used of Raymond’s tapestries and many of the other old valuables that Moffatt has acquired.

For Wharton, Undine and Moffatt represent those aspects of contemporary American society that she most disliked. As Charles Bowen says, ” . . . in this country, the passion for making money has preceded the knowing how to spend it . . .” Undine, like the Wall Street of Peter Van Degen and Elmer Moffatt, is voracious, self-centered, reaching, and without conscience or moral center (choosing to sell an ill-gotten string of pearls for the money rather than to return it). Unlike Mrs. Marvell, with her hospital committee activities, Undine does not contribute to society; she was born to take. Symbolic and symptomatic of the new America that Wharton left, Undine remains ignorant and without taste.

Wharton’s last paragraph is brilliant, for it cleverly shows how even an Undine who has achieved wealth, position, fame, and power can still find something to desire — something that she has put out of her own reach through her actions. ” . . . . she said to herself that it was the one part she was really made for.” Undine is a young woman; Wharton hints at the potential she still has to leave yet more misery in her wake as she yearns for yet more of what she believes she deserves. She is like a living Tantalus, but one whose every attempt to grasp destroys.

6 May 2007
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf

Book review: Under the Greenwood Tree

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Under the Greenwood Tree by Thomas Hardy and edited and with an introduction and notes by Simon Gatrell. Highly recommended.

In Under the Greenwood Tree, Thomas Hardy combines many of the elements that would define his career as a novelist — colorful common folk and their equally colorful language, an ironic narrator, an unflinching perspective on changing times, and the marvelous “Wessex” countryside. All that is missing is a plot, the lack of which contributes to the uncharacteristic happy ending.

Under the Greenwood Tree addresses two related matters: the fate of the Mellstock choir and of the charming new schoolmistress. Although the members of the choir acknowledge that their way is becoming an anachronism, they see that it is not only the inevitability of change that is pushing them aside. Both Farmer Shiner and the vicar show a strong interest in schoolmistress Fancy Day, who happens to have musical ability. By eliminating the choir and installing Miss Day at Farmer Shiner’s behest, the vicar believes he will achieve two objectives: modernizing a parish that has no desire to be modernized and impressing a woman who does wish to be wooed.

At the same time, the sight of Fancy at the window with her hair undone in the wee hours of Christmas morning is enough to win the heart of young choir member Dick Dewy, who devotes his energy to attracting Fanny’s notice and attention. While he is more educated than his father and the other members of the choir, he seems to represent honest labor, sincerity, and singlemindedness, while his rivals the vicar and the farmer, represent culture and money, respectively. Fancy is educated and cultured, while her father is revealed to have some money. The question is not about her choice but about whether it is the right one — a question that cannot be answered by the end of the novel.

Fancy’s response to the vicar shows some ambivalence about her commitment. At times, the parish’s long-standing couples reveal their own sense of fate about their spouses and marriages. Mrs. Penny tells the tranter’s Christmas gathering, ” . . . and lo and behold the coming man came: Penny asked me if I’d go snacks with him and afore I knew what I was about a’most, the thing was done.” Later she tells Fancy to reassure herself with the thought, “’tis to be, and here goes!” She adds that “‘Twill carry a body through it all from wedding to churching if you only let it out with spirit enough.” When Dick’s father says to his wife, “You be a well-enough woman, Ann,” then, “Mrs. Dewy put her mouth in the form of a smile and put it back again without smiling.” An impressive subtext underlies these couples’ anecdotes, exchanges, and expressions, with the narrator’s — and reader’s — knowledge that they were once in the same position as Dick and Fancy.

In his introduction, Simon Gatrell writes that “the heart of the novel is the right way to do things.” Eliminating the tradition of the choir to impress a woman may not be the right way, but the members concede the vicar’s right to do so. Their attempt, not altogether unsuccessful, to negotiate the timing of the change both affirms his right and preserves their dignity. It also allows the vicar to “win” without forcing the choir to “lose.” As Reuben Dewy says, “Everybody must be managed” — including both vicar and choir, and both Dick and Fancy.

Under the Greenwood Tree is organized by seasons (“Part the First — Winter,” “Part the Second — Spring,” and so on), which reflects the cycle of life that Hardy portrays. Dick is not the first man to fall in love with a pretty face. (“A very good pink face, as far as that do go. Still, only a face, when all is said and done,” according to the choir’s erudite Mr. Spinks.) Fanny is not the first woman to be tempted by appeals to her vanity and her social and cultural refinement. The elder Dewys, the Pennys, and the other mature couples seem to regard Dick and Fancy with a wryness born of their own distant courting experience and their ensuing lives together. Even Fancy, who wants to be stylish and modern, gives in and honors the old cycle when, after some resistance, she agrees to follow the traditions, saying, “Respectable people don’t nowadays. . . . Still, since poor mother did, I will.” No one knows what their future will be, but Mrs. Penny observes, “Well, ‘tis humps and hollers with the best of us, but still and for all that Dick and Fancy stand as fair a chance of having a bit of sunsheen as any married people in the land.” Had Hardy written Under the Greenwood Tree in the same spirit as Tess of the D’Urbervilles or Jude the Obscure, perhaps Mrs. Penny’s prediction would have proven tragically wrong.

Under the Greenwood Tree was written by a Thomas Hardy who had not reached maturity as a writer, but he reveals the insights and the verbal beauty that would mark his place among the great Victorian writers. Phrases such as, “. . . if Fancy’s lips had been real cherries, probably Dick’s would have appeared deeply stained,” “. . . your mother’s charms was more in the manner than the material,” and “I’ve walked the path once in my life and know the country, neighbors; and Dick’s a lost man!” remind the reader that Hardy’s true love as a writer would be poetry, not prose. Like his other novels, Under the Greenwood Tree reveals the poetry, comic, ironic, or tragic, in everyday life.

29 March 2007
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf

Book review: Maggie: A Girl of the Streets and Other Tales of New York

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Maggie: A Girl of the Streets and Other Tales of New York by Stephen Crane. Edited with an introduction by Larzer Ziff with the assistance of Theo Davis. Recommended.

If Edith Wharton captures the snobbery, superficiality, hypocrisy, materialism, and coldness of New York City’s turn-of-the-century elite, Stephen Crane reveals the toughness, callousness, brutality, and violence of New York’s working class. Ironically, Wharton’s Lily Bart and Crane’s Maggie Johnson, both romantics moving in anti-romantic spheres, share a similar fate — abandoned by their respective societies.

Unlike Wharton, Crane wrote from a primarily journalistic, dispassionate point of view. The settings, the situations, the speech, and the similes reveal the underbelly of life among the working poor. Maggie opens with “a very little boy,” her brother Jim, serving as “champion” of Rum Alley, an aptly named area where life is centered on working, drinking, and fighting.

Maggie and Jim’s father can’t keep him from fighting because that’s all the boy knows, and the torn clothes that his drunken mother bemoans cannot compare to the furniture and crockery damage that occur during their violent marital spats. The father, a drunken brute like his wife, does not understand the irony of his demand when he says, “. . . Yer allus pounding ‘im . . . I can’t get no rest ’cause yer allus poundin’ a kid. Let up, d’yeh hear? Don’t be allus poundin’ a kid.” The infuriated mother responds with increased savagery. “At last she tossed him to a corner where he limply lay cursing and weeping.” Jim, Maggie, and even the baby Tommie seem to be as disposable as the rest of the household goods.

Life in the city is lived outwardly, and the strong do not question themselves. While “Jimmie had an idea it wasn’t common courtesy for a friend to come to one’s home and ruin one’s sister,” his contemplations of his own actions toward women are cut off by self-absolution before such introspection can lead to self-incrimination. Later, Pete will share this attitude when Maggie attempts, in his mind, “to give him some responsibility in a matter that did not concern him.”

Maggie and Jimmie’s parents represent an extreme. Everyone knows their family’s business, from the residents who share their tenement with its “gruesome doorway” to the group of urchins who waylay the mother as she is ejected from a saloon for “disturbance.” The Johnsons’ troubles delight the neighbors; the old woman downstairs tells Jim that “deh funnies’ t’ing I ever saw” was Maggie “a-cryin’ as if her heart would break, she was. It was deh funnies’ t’ing I ever saw.”

In the midst of this squalor, Maggie does have an inner life. Combined with her romanticism and naïveté, it convinces her that Pete is the height of urbane sophistication as he bullies waiters, telling them to “git off deh eart’.” Interestingly, as she toils over “eternal collars and cuffs,” Maggie has a daydream that foreshadows Pete’s final chapter in the novel; she imagines him with a half dozen women “and thought he must lean dangerously toward an indefinite one, whom she pictured with great charms of person, but with an altogether contemptible disposition.”

In Maggie’s final appearance, Crane does not use her name, which perhaps answers her question from the preceding chapter: “Who?” She begins her anonymous journey near a theater district, where the affluent emerge from “a place of forgetfulness.” Her wanderings on this one night reflect her life over the previous several months, as she leaves behind the bright light and glamor on a trail of rejection that leads ever downward, until she meets a wreck of a human, who follows “the girl of the crimson legions.” No longer Maggie, she represents those whose naïveté, hopes, and foolish romantic dreams are crushed by the code of toughness that Jimmie fights for at the beginning and the hypocrisy that her lamenting mother exhibits at her fall.

These stories can be hard to read, partly because most of the relationships seem detached or distant at best and bitterly heartless at worst. Maggie’s father talks about pounding “a kid” as though they are not his own and have nothing to do with him. Pete is “stuck” on Maggie’s shape only until she gets in the way of greater desires. George of George’s Mother is happiest when he has made his old mother miserable. At the same time his “friends,” whose habits and exhortations have led to his downfall, abandon him, just as he turned on his mother.

Love is a rare visitor to Crane’s pages, apparent mostly in the maternal indulgences of George’s Mother and the rediscovered affection of Mr. and Mrs. Binks in “Mr. Binks’ Day Off.” It is only in the countryside of New Jersey that the battling Binkses find a moment in which to express genuine affection: “Mrs. Binks had stolen forth her arm and linked it with his. Her head leaned softly against his shoulder.”

Notably, the other loving relationship, between a child and “A Dark-Brown Dog,” is marked by the brutality of the one and the submissiveness of the other. Their friendship begins when “the child lifted his hand and struck the dog a blow upon the head”; the dog “sank down in despair at the child’s feet.” In the world both know, the more powerful must domineer, and the weaker must submit. Living by this simple rule, however, does not guarantee survival.

Crane self-published Maggie, and it is sometimes clear that his work could have benefited from an editor’s counsel. For example, similes such as, “The little boy ran to the halls, shrieking like a monk in an earthquake,” are ineffective and draw too much attention to themselves. Yet these stories are an amazing accomplishment of observation and writing that make Crane’s premature death at age 28 even more tragic.

30 January 2007
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf

Book review: The French Lieutenant’s Woman

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The French Lieutenant’s Woman by John Fowles. Highly recommended.

I had not seen the movie of The French Lieutenant’s Woman until recently, so I did not know what to expect from the novel. I thought it might be a romantic thriller set during one of the world wars and was surprised to read a book set in one of my favorite English periods, the Victorian, written from the perspective of the late 1960s.

The waning aristocracy is represented by Charles Smithson, dilettante and heir to his aging, unmarried uncle’s wealth and title. His bride-to-be, Ernestina Freeman, heiress to the fortune her father has accumulated at his enormous London emporium, represents the rising, affluent middle class. While Charles and Tina seem to share the idealized Victorian view of marriage and family life, they are also keenly aware that their engagement is a legal contract that will benefit each of them in different ways. After Mr. Freeman’s death, Charles will gain control over the family’s money. For Tina, marriage means an entrée into the aristocracy, elevating her above being a mere “tradesman’s daughter.”

This is only one of many Victorian dualities that Fowles highlights; he is not subtle about his theme. Darwin’s theory, as seen by the science dabbler Charles, is as harsh as practitioners of Christianity like Mrs. Poulteney. The advantage of evolution seems to be its lack of bias and judgment. Charles, unwilling or unable to adapt to a changing society in which money is coming to matter more than manners, is as much a victim of evolution as Sarah appears to be of the hypocritical morality of Mrs. Poulteney’s religion.

Idealized Victorian life centered on the home and family. The poem that Ernestina reads to her contracted lover is about a sterile, lofty form of love devoid of real passion — and it promptly puts Charles to sleep. According to Fowles, it was believed that respectable women merely tolerated men’s carnal desires, but did not share them. Ernestina “must not” think about such things, even though they are natural. Nature is to be controlled. She is shown mostly within the confines of her aunt’s house or social settings. In contrast, Sarah Woodruff, the French lieutenant’s woman, is first seen at the end of the seawall, in the wind, exposed symbolically to the world. Later, Charles discovers her “on that wild cliff meadow”; at some point, he “recalled very vividly how she had lain that day.” Charles sees her in a way in which he will never see Ernestina; she is sleeping openly in a natural position which is, not surprisingly, sexually suggestive.

If the close-minded, tightly clothed Ernestina represents the Victorian marriage-and-family ideal, Sarah seems to represent the unspoken male ideal, at least for men like Charles — a natural woman, a woman of intelligence, of spirit and independence, who is not afraid to shun the ideal in favor of the real, to prefer passion to posturing. Her interactions with Charles make the “love” of Charles and Ernestina seem like the play-acting of children. Even with Sarah, however, Charles cannot escape the duality of his perceptions and desires. “He was at one and the same time Varguennes enjoying her and the man who sprang forward and struck him down; just as Sarah was to him both an innocent victim and a wild, abandoned woman.”

While Ernestina sees herself in the perfect Victorian marriage — one in which love is pure, and carnal demands are submitted to primarily to produce the ideal family — Fowles shows some of the alternatives. There is the prostitute mother, for whom sex is a mechanical means to the end of supporting herself and her child. There is Mrs. Tomkins, intent on producing the rich heir to what would have been Charles’s title and inheritance. There is Mary, and the servants and country girls like her, who see sex as a way to land a man but who also seem to enjoy it for its own sake. There is Mrs. Poulteney, whom one can never imagine experiencing love of any kind, pure or not. There is the sexualized Sarah, the French lieutenant’s whore, whom Charles encounters in the wild, in a natural state unencumbered by social expectations. There is also the Sarah of one proposed ending, the sophisticate artist’s assistant in London, committed to her single status and her freedom.

The narrator often intrudes into the story, deliberately undermining it. Just as the reader may be getting wrapped up in the odd, tension-filled relationship between Charles and Sarah, the narrator interjects a comment from contemporary times; words like “computer” clash with the old-fashioned stays of Mrs. Poulteney’s dress and the limits of her mentality. While drawing us into the Victorian world, the narrator pulls us back with his ironic, detached commentary on what he wants us to understand is fiction if not fantasy. Charles and Sarah are no more real to a man of the 1960s than the mores of Victorian society.

While the Victorians may have feared the power of sex and desire, the narrator points out that we have succeeded where the Victorians did not of stripping sex of that power. He notes that, by his time, any relationship that is more than casual quickly becomes sexual. For Charles and Sarah, the tension is cumulative, building to a proportional climax. By the 1960s, Charles would simply have dumped Ernestina and gone to bed with Sarah as a matter of routine, transforming sex into as casual an activity as changing the sheets. It is instant impulse fulfillment, which is no more satisfying than ongoing denial without release.

The French Lieutenant’s Woman is filled with philosophical, historical, religious, scientific, and literary references that alone make it a fascinating novel. They reveal the numerous and often conflicting ideas that made Queen Victoria’s time, a time of evolution, so vibrant and complex. With its twists on the conventional novel and love story and its sweeping perspective, The French Lieutenant’s Woman is a remarkable achievement in 20th-century literature.

17 September 2006
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf

Book review: Rebecca

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Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier. Highly recommended.

Rebecca is a mystery novel in which nearly every character makes false assumptions that lead to false conclusions. From the catty and gauche widow Mrs. Van Hopper to the suave widower Maxim de Winter, nearly everyone in Rebecca is wrong about something. For the nameless narrator, her incorrect assumptions are founded on Mrs. Van Hopper’s gossip and build on each other until they have constructed a person and a past that never existed and a future in which every action and utterance have two meanings — the one that the narrator perceives and the real meaning.

For example, Maxim’s sister Beatrice tells the narrator that she is nothing like his first wife, the late Rebecca de Winter, who died in a tragic boating accident. The narrator accepts this statement and remembers it as she learns more about Rebecca. She feels herself to be plain, uninteresting, shy, and unsophisticated. By contrast, and by all accounts that the narrator hears, Rebecca was beautiful, fascinating, charismatic, and witty. Even Maxim’s carefully diplomatic estate manager, Frank Crawley, tells the narrator, “. . . I suppose she was the most beautiful creature I ever saw in my life.” Not surprisingly, the more she learns, the more the narrator needs to know about Rebecca — a first wife whom she cannot have replaced in the brooding, moody Maxim’s affections.

The narrator falsely interprets other people and what they say and do. The intimidating housekeeper, Mrs. Danvers, gives her several hints that Rebecca was exacting and demanding in her management of the household and staff. The second Mrs. de Winter is also told how much Mrs. Danvers loved and admired Rebecca. The implication is clear; the narrator’s only hope of coming to terms with the formidable housekeeper is to take charge. Instead, she decides that the best way to mollify Mrs. Danvers is to make herself unobtrusive and to let her have full rein over the household’s management. Her naïveté and self-effacing behavior give Mrs. Danvers a reason to despise as well as dislike her.

Many, if not most, readers are probably misled as well. Rebecca’s appearance and charms are described by several people in several places, and her name or initials appear on nearly everything she owned. On the other hand, the narrator is never described or named. Even when Mrs. Danvers calls her “Mrs. de Winter” over the house telephone the first time, the narrator responds with a denial of her new identity but without reference to her former one. “I’m afraid you have made a mistake. Mrs. de Winter has been dead for over a year.” Surrounded by Rebecca’s belongings, Rebecca’s servants, and Rebecca’s friends and husband, the narrator sinks further into anonymity.

There are few clues to the narrator’s looks, other than that she has “lank hair” (compared to Rebecca’s “clouds” of black hair) and that she is “plain,” according to herself. Yet Rebecca’s cousin, Jack Favell, flirts with her and repeatedly hints that she is a fresh, attractive younger wife of the sort that affluent older men like Maxim often choose. The reader should also ask why Maxim does marry someone who apparently is so different from the first wife he adored.

In Rebecca, passion seems as repressed as open communication, but sexuality is not far beneath the surface. The relationship between Rebecca and Mrs. Danvers is full of sexual overtones. While Maxim may be willing to replace Rebecca in his affections and his bed, Mrs. Danvers clearly is not. As a comfort, she clings to Rebecca’s old bedroom suite and to her apparent contempt for men. Mrs. Danvers says of Rebecca, “She had all the courage and spirit of a boy, had my Mrs. de Winter. She ought to have been a boy, I often told her that.” Even Maxim says, “She [Rebecca] looked like a boy in her sailing kit, a boy with a face like a Botticelli angel.”

The narrator also refers to herself as being like a “schoolboy” or “boy.” The incident at the costume ball and Mrs. Danvers’ ensuing description of Rebecca begin the narrator’s transformation into Rebecca, or at least a woman more like Rebecca — confident, assertive, and, later, sexualized. She tells Maxim, “I’ve grown up, Maxim, in twenty-four hours. I’ll never be a child again.” With her new knowledge of Rebecca, she makes an offer to Maxim: “I’ll be your friend and companion, a sort of boy.” It is this offer and admission that finally elicits the truth — a truth that was under all the cascading false assumptions, misinterpretations, and lack of communication.

Rebecca is an outstanding mystery and character study that captures a world on the cusp of irrevocable change. Maxim’s marriage to Rebecca seems to have been made in the old tradition; as his grandmother says, “She’s got the three things that matter in a wife . . . breeding, brains, and beauty.” Their marriage is a contract in which each plays a role. In contrast, Maxim’s second marriage is modern; it is based on impulse and emotion, and thrives away from the constraints of society and tradition. When Maxim and the narrator come to Manderley, they are bound by the past — Rebecca’s past, as well as a past world in which they are surrounded by servants and constrained by a decorum that requires the suppression of communication and feelings.

The world around them is changing, however. When a ship wrecks off the coast and a crowd gathers to watch the rescue and salvage operation, a tourist points out to the narrator how Manderley, and all it represents, has become an anachronism. “Those are nice-looking woods over there, I suppose they’re private . . . My husband says all these big estates will be chopped up in time and bungalows built . . . I wouldn’t mind a nice bungalow up here facing the sea.”

From the memorable opening, “Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again,” to the well-paced unravelling of every false assumption and conclusion, Rebecca is an engaging, evocative, thoughtful novel that acknowledges the past before moving toward the future. The next time the night is deep and you can imagine both the silence of the woods and the roar of the sea, read Rebecca.

22 April 2006
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf