His daughter Mary was a decline. Her uninteresting hair, dragged severely back, displayed a forehead lined too early. Her complexion was a dullish hue, not much lighter than her hair. She had her father’s beautiful eyes, and hid them with glasses. She was dowdily dressed, but she had many companions in the neighbourhood, from labourers’ wives to the ladies of the big houses, to share her dowdiness. It was not observed; she was as much a part of her village as its homely hawthorns.Mary has one great chance at love, with Mr. Herbert - and I do not think it gives too much away (for it is no surprise) to relate that her chance comes to nothing, and she must live with the consequences of this unlucky, ineluctable failure. Love is one of the major themes of the novel. That's true of a lot of novels, but in The Rector's Daughter the theme is love-out-of-reach; the journey from innocence to experience, bypassing happiness. What horrifies Mary - and what seems to horrify F.M. Mayor too - is any sort of irreverence towards love.
One winter day when Dora Redland had come to stay with Ella, she and Mary met for a walk. Mary suddenly started the subject. "I wish you would tell me something about love. I should think no one ever reached my age and knew so little, except of love in books. Father has never mentioned love, and Aunt Lottie treated it as if it ought not to exist. There were you and Will, but I was so young for me age I never took it in."Dora is also a spinster, but less angsty. I think I would have rather enjoyed a novel from Dora's perspective...
"What a funny thing to ask!" said Dora. "I don't think I know much about it either. There was one of the curates at Southsea - I never imagined he cared at all for me; I had hardly ever spoken to him. I think some one else had refused him. That makes them susceptible, I believe, and also the time of year and wanting to marry." There was a mild severity, perhaps cynicism, in this speech, which astonished Mary.
"But, Dora, don't you think there is a Love 'Which alters not with Time's brief hours and days, / But bears it out even to the edge of Doom'?"
"Take care, Mary dear, you stepped right into that puddle. Wait a minute. Let me wipe your coat. I am not quite sure that I understand what you were saying."
"Who can that be coming down the road? Why, it's the pretty little girl with the dark curls we saw yesterday when the Canon took me out a little walk - your dear father. Oh no, it's not; now she comes nearer I see it's not the little girl with the dark curls. My sight isn't quite as good as it was. No, she has red hair and spectacles. Dear me, what a plain little thing. Did you say she would be calling for the milk, dear? Or is this the little one you say helps Cook? Oh no, not that one, only ten; no, she would be rather young. Yes, what the girls are coming to. You say you don't find a difficulty. Mrs. Barkham - my new lodgings; I told you about her, poor thing, she suffers so from neuralgia - she says the girls now - fancy her last girl wearing a pendant when she was waiting. Just a very plain brooch, no one would say a word against, costing half-a-crown or two shillings. I've given one myself to a servant many a time. Oh, that dear little robin - Mary, you must look - or is it a thrush? There, it's gone. You've missed it. Perhaps we could see it out of the other window. Thank you, dear; if I could have your arm. Oh, I didn't see the footstool. No, thank you, I didn't hurt myself in the least; only that was my rheumatic elbow."Had I simply missed this sort of thing at the beginning, or did Mayor alter the tone? I'm not suggesting that all novels ought to be comic novels, but without a slightly ironic eye, or dark humour, or even a slight reflective smile, I am rather lost. This came too late in The Rector's Daughter - or at least I missed it. Hilary wrote in her review at Vulpes Libris that "There is no distancing irony or humour – its serious tone is relentless." I didn't find it quite relentless, but otherwise I agree with this sentence (although Hilary, as you'll see at the bottom, was overall more positive about the novel.) I admire good comic writers so much more than I admire good poignant writers - it is so much more difficult to be comic - but maybe that is simply horses for courses.
Up at her window, and in some discomfort (for her shoulder, her chest ached), Mrs. Bracey sat in judgment. Guilt she saw, treachery and deceit and self-indulgence. She did not see, as God might be expected to, their sensations of shame and horror, their compulsion towards one another, for which they dearly paid, nor in what danger they so helplessly stood, now, in middle-age, not in any safe harbour, but thrust out to sea with none of the brave equipment of youth to buoy them up, no romance, no delight.That final few words brings to mind one of the more curious threads throughout A View of the Harbour. The narrative, as well as characters, consistently attributes traits to all of youth. Here's another example:
The young imagine insults, magnify them, with great effort overcome them, or retaliate. A waste of emotion, Bertram thought, forgetting how much emotion there is to spare.This came so often, and so absurdly (of course young people cannot be summed up in these ways, any more than middle-aged or old people can) that I wondered whether it was a flaw in Taylor's writing, and there to serve some point that I missed? For an author so interested in the peculiarities of individual personalities, it was inexplicable - not to mention the fact that Taylor was herself young (mid-thirties) when this novel was written.
"You talk as if you were Auntie Beth in one of the women's paper," said Tory scornfully. "You've no idea of what is real, and how real people think." She put her hand to her breast, as if she were saying: "I am real." She was suddenly swept away on a tide of words such as came from Beth only through her pen. "Writers are ruined people. As a person, you're done for. Everywhere you go, all you see and do, you are working up into something unreal, something to go on to paper... you've done it since you were a little girl... I've watched you for years and I've seen you gradually becoming inhuman, outside life, a machine. When anything important happens you're stunned and thrown out for a while, and then you recover... God, how novelists recover!... and you begin to wonder how you can make use of it, with a little shifting here, and a little adding there, something can be made of it, surely? Everything comes in handy. [...] One day something will happen to you, as it has to me, that you can't twist into anything at all, it will go on staying straight, and being itself, and you will have to be yourself and put up with it, and I promise you you'll be a bloody old woman before you can make a novel out of that."One of the novel's ironies is that Beth, as a writer, should be an expert at reading people - but though she has a complex understanding of the characters she creates, Beth does not look beyond the surface of those around her. Or, rather, she trusts them implicitly.
"This isn't writing," she thought miserably. "It is just fiddling about with words. I'm not a great writer. Whatever I do someone else has always done it before, and better. In ten years' time no one will remember this book, the libraries will have sold off all their grubby copies of it second-hand and the rest will have fallen to pieces, gone to dust. And, even if I were one of the great ones, who, in the long run, cares? People walk about the streets and it is all the same to them if the novels of Henry James were never written. They could not easily care less. No one asks us to write. If we stop, who will implore us to go on? The only goodness that will ever come out of it is surely this moment now, wondering if 'vague' will do better than 'faint', or 'faint' than 'vague', and what is to follow; putting one word alongside another, like matching silks, a sort of game."That's very striking - and perhaps illuminating. Beth's absorption in her writing is certainly one of the most interesting threads in the novel. But in case you think the whole book is anxious and fraught, here is one of the funnier sections (and there are plenty of moments of humour - mostly connected with the clash of perspectives, especially where children are involved. Taylor is very good at the nonsensical commonsense of children.):
"It is for you," Stevie said, coming to lean against Robert's knees as he read. "It is a shaver." She laid the bunch of soiled gulls' feathers upon Robert's waistcoat. They were loosely bound with coloured wools.You'll notice that most of my quotations come from this family - and there is a reason for that. I found them, and their story, easily the most absorbing and original. Although all the characters overlapped to some extent, there are really three separate threads through A View of the Harbour, and I think perhaps it was too many. I know this is a celebratory year, but I have to admit a few problems I have with Taylor's novels... well, one major problem. I always find that it takes me a sizeable chunk of her books to get into their flow, as it were (except for Angel - I loved that one from page one.) She introduces so many characters, quite sketchily, and leaves us to hurry after them, trying to catch up. That's one thing. But what I do not understand - what I cannot rationalise, but which happens time and again for me - is why I do not appreciate her writing for the first third of each novel. After that, I find her an extraordinary stylist, and could read away for weeks - and I definitely come away thinking Taylor incredibly good - but I always struggle to engage with her writing initially. Does anybody else feel this way?
"Is it indeed?" Robert said, scarcely lowering his paper.
"It is for putting the soap on your face with instead of a shaving-brush."
Then he picked up the feathers and examined them. When he had thanked her he glanced across at Beth, and they smiled gently at the thought of him dipping these grubby feathers into lather and painting his cheeks with them. Amusement and affection linked them together for a moment.
"You see how soft it is!" Stevie said, entranced by her own generosity and the loveliness of the gift.
"It is very soft indeed," Robert agreed, flinching away. ("What the devil do I do in the morning when I shave?" he wondered.) "Next you should make a hat for your mother," he said, his eyes challenging Beth's. "A nice feather hat for her to wear when she goes to London."
"Of course not," Stevie said. "I am too young to make hats."
Beth nodded with triumph and malice at her husband.
Prudence knew by her father's saying "whatsoever" that he had lost his temper. When he had gone out Stevie's crying dropped into the minor key.
I'm reading around my next DPhil chapter, on Sylvia Townsend Warner's Lolly Willowes, and thus there might well be a little spate of Warner related posts coming up here over the next few weeks. I have an inkling that this might be one of those reviews which is very specialist, and might not attract much interest (1930s narrative poem, anyone?) but I shall plough ahead and see what happens!Some skill she had, and, more than skill, a touch
that prospered all she set, as though there were
a chemical affinity ‘twixt her
stuff and the stuff of plants.
And down what leagues of darkness must I yetI rarely read poetry, as you know, so perhaps I am not the best judge of quality. I recently wrote a little bit about Warner's collection Time Importuned, which I didn't really like or dislike. I felt I got a lot more out of Opus 7 - perhaps because it had a sustained narrative, and everything which comes along with that, particularly the foregrounding of character. Once I had that all set in my mind, I could sit back and enjoy Warner's writing. It was occasionally a little forced, and I didn't approve of all her attempts to create end-rhymes. This was rather inexcusable:
trudge, stumble, reel, in the wrought mind's retreat ;
then wake, remember, doubt, and with the day
that work which in the darkness shone survey,
and find it neither better nor much worse
than any other twentieth-century verse.
Oh, must I needs be disillusioned, there's
no need to wait for spring! Each day declares
yesterday's currency a few dead leaves ;
and through all the sly nets poor technique weaves
the wind blows on, whilst I - new nets design,
a sister-soul to my slut heroine,
she to her dram enslaved, and I to mine.
But now Rebecca, wont to chatter ding-
dong with the merriest, and when drunk to sing
I knew a time when Europe feasted well :I can't imagine any publisher willing to publish Opus 7 now, simply because of its form and length. It's not long enough to be considered a novel in verse, but it is obviously too long to be merely a poem. However I am glad that Chatto and Windus decided it was worth issuing back in 1931, in their lovely Dolphin Books series (which I collect when I stumble across them) - it's not my favourite book by Warner, but it is rather powerful and striking. And, for a poetry ignoramus, rather an accessible way to enjoy the form, without forfeiting the qualities which make me primarily a lover of prose.
bodies were munched in thousands, vintage blood
so blithely flowed that even the dull mud
grew greedy, and ate men ; and lest the gust
should flag, quick flesh no daintier taste than dust,
spirit was ransacked for whatever might
sharpen a sauce to drive on appetite.
It's very fun. It isn't as good as Delafield or Jackson, in my opinion - perhaps because there is less attempt at an overall structure. Although all three authors were initially serialised, it's most obvious with Kerr - and her book is really one-note: the exasperated wife and mother. This sort of thing: 'You take Christopher - and you may; he's a slightly used eight-year-old.' That is more or less what I was looking for, of course, and she is rather brilliant on that one-note - it's just not going to enter my pantheon of greats. It was turned into a 1960 film with Doris Day, and later a TV series with Pat Crowley, although I can't imagine how.
As a matter of fact, the night before the double-header which was to open the Little League, I distinctly recall that I told Laurie it was only a game. "It's only a game, fella," I said. "Don't try to go to sleep; read or something if you're nervous. Would you like some aspirin?"
"I forgot to tell you," Laurie said, yawning. "He's pitching Georgie tomorrow. Not me."
"What?" I thought, and then said heartily, "I mean, he's the manager, after all. I know you'll play your best in any position."
"I could go to sleep now if you'd just turn out the light," Laurie said patiently. "I'm really quite tired."
I called Dot later, about twelve o'clock, because I was pretty sure she'd still be awake, and of course she was, although Billy had gone right off about nine o'clock. She said she wasn't the least bit nervous, because of course it didn't really matter except for the kids' sake, and she hoped the best team would win. I said that that was just what I had been telling my husband, and she said her husband had suggested that perhaps she had better not go to the game at all because if the Braves lost she ought to be home with a hot bath ready for Billy and perhaps a steak dinner or something. I said that even if Laurie wasn't pitching I was sure the Braves would win, and of course I wasn't one of those people who always wanted their own children right out in the centre of things all the time but if the Braves lost it would be my opinion that their lineup ought to be revised and Georgie put back into right field where he belonged. She said she thought Laurie was a better pitcher, and I suggested that she and her husband and Billy come over for lunch and we could all go to the game together.
By the Saturday before Labor Day a decided atmosphere of cool restraint had taken over our house, because on Thursday my husband had received a letter from an old school friend of his named Sylvia, saying that she and another girl were driving through New England on a vacation and would just adore stopping by for the weekend to renew old friendships. My husband gave me the letter to read, and I held it very carefully by the edges and said that it was positively touching, the way he kept up with his old friends, and did Sylvia always use pale lavender paper with this kind of rosy ink and what was that I smelled - perfume? My husband said Sylvia was a grand girl. I said I was sure of it. My husband said Sylvia had always been one of the nicest people he knew. I said I hadn't a doubt. My husband said that he was positive that I was going to love Sylvia on sight. I opened my mouth to speak but stopped myself in time.Lovely! I really can't recommend this book, and Life Among the Savages, enough. It's such a shame they're so difficult to find - but I promise they are worth the hunt to anybody who likes Provincial Lady-esque books. (Hopefully you'll find a nicer copy than mine - I quite like the other image featured, yours for $500.) Like the PL et al, I know I'll be returning to this family time and again. I'm rather bereft that only two were written... and on the hunt for other, potentially similar, books. And more on that before too long...
My husband laughed self-consciously. "I remember," he said, and then his voice trailed off and he laughed again.
"Yes?" I asked politely.
"Nothing," he said.
Despite being an only child, Dodie Smith seems very able at portraying sibling relationships within large families. (Indeed, one character claims to be 'crazy about large families', and their husband caustically remarks 'That's because you're an only child.') Rose and Cassandra always seemed very believable in I Capture the Castle (albeit Thomas rather less so) and Dear Octopus is no different. The size of the cast, and the various familial and marital relationships, was rather dizzying - but, of course, it would have been rather easier to identify everyone when seeing it on the stage, rather than reading the play. We discussed reading plays a couple of years ago, and it seems that I am in a minority - although it has to be said that I do prefer reading plays with small casts, rather than the mammoth ensemble of Dear Octopus."To the family - that dear octopus from whose tentacles we never quite escape, nor, in our inmost hearts, ever quite wish to."
Young love and young marriages are treated quite flippantly at times, although elsewhere the oncoming war (they must have known it was oncoming?) does crash through this flippancy:MARGERY: Ken'll carry on with anyone who crooks their little finger at him.HILDA: Don't you mind?MARGERY: Not in the least. It's a safety valve.
But the focal point is not budding romance - it is the security and trust of a fifty-year long marriage. There is a lovely sense through that the anniversary couple in question (Charles and Dora) can cope with the antics of their family because of the depth of their bond. For a young(ish) unmarried woman, Smith conveys this very well, and very calmly.LAUREL: Your father's picture. He was exactly your age when he was killed. (Suddenly.) Oh, darling, darling--HUGH: What?LAUREL: Sometimes I wish we were quite middle-aged.HUGH: Good lord, why?LAUREL: So that you wouldn't have to go if there's another war.HUGH: It'll take a damn good cause to get me to war.LAUREL: Oh, you all say that.
I do more re-reading now than I used to, but I tend towards books I already know I'll love. So there are some novels I'll read every two years or so, and some that I don't remember much about, but knew I loved ten years ago, say. What I seldom do (understandably, perhaps) is re-read books that I didn't love - those that I disliked, or thought only quite good.The bus was full of women, sighing, sweating gently under the arms of their cotton dresses as they held on to their baskets and their slippery, fretful children. A tiny boy screamed like an angry jay, drumming his fists on the glass. He wa-anted it, he wa-anted it! Bless the child, wanted what? It, it, ow-w-w! he wept with fury at adult stupidity already frustrating his simple world. A spaniel on the floor at somebody's feet shifted cautiously, lifting a red-cornered eye towards his owner, hoping and trusting that no one would tread on his paw. Human uneasiness and irritability seemed to fill the bus with hot cottonwool, choking, getting up the nostrils. If it did not start in a moment, it might burst with pressure from its prickling cargo. Only a young man, a hiker, seemed to sit aloof and happy in the heat. He wore a blue shirt and drill shorts; on his knees was a knapsack. His neck was a dull red, so was the brow of his cheerful, ordinary face. Perhaps he had only just come out of the Army or the Air Force, thought Laura, watching him study his map with such happy concentration. Ow, ow, ow-w-w, wept the tiny boy, unable to escape and go striding off amongst the bracken, still handcuffed to childhood. I'll smack you proper if you don't stop, threatened his mother. The young man studied his map, reading England with rapture. The driver, who had descended to cool his legs and have a word with a crony outside the Bull, swung himself up into his seat. An angry throbbing seized the bus, the hot bodies of the passengers quivered like jelly, the jaws of an old woman by the door seemed to click and chatter. With a lurch, they started. The tiny boy's tears stopped as though within his tow-coloured head someone had turned a tap. His brimming eyes stared out at the streets as he sat quietly on his mother's lap, clutching a little wooden horse.I think that's brilliant, just beautiful. Mollie Panter-Downes also has a great way with metaphors and similes, offering unexpected images which somehow don't jar, and convey much more than a simple statement could. I'm not going to be able to resist quoting MPD (if you will) quite a bit, by the way, so here's an example: 'Now that he was home, he could not abide the thought of other people's bath water running out, meeting on the stairs with forced joviality, someone else's life pressed up against one in a too small space like a stranger's overcoat against one's mouth in a crowd.'
a bit thinner over the cheekbones, perhaps, the hair completely grey in front, though the back was still fair and crisply curling, like rear-line soldiers who do not know that defeat has bleakly overtaken their forward comrades.There is an undercurrent throughout One Fine Day of changed times - not just the working-class villagers who no longer want jobs in domestic service, or need to pay strict adherence to codes of class civility. Laura has been separated from her husband Stephen for years; he has not watched their daughter Victoria grow up. The family is not destroyed by this, nor is it even unhappy - but it is strained, and it is tired, but resilient. Mollie P-D conveys so perfectly the triumph and relief of this weary, determined little family unit, who do not fully understand one another, but who stand together, grateful for all they have managed to keep.
Who wrote that? Laura wondered absently. She could not remember. Her mind was a ragbag, in which scraps of forgotten brightness, odd bits of purple and gold, were hopelessly mixed up with laundry lists and recipes for doing something quick and unconvincingly delicious with dried egg.
Laura is a perfect heroine for the wave of feminism which re-evaluated the worth of domestic life. Perhaps especially because she does not entirely idealise it herself; she describes her class and people as 'all slaves of the turned-back fresh linen, the polished wood reflecting the civilised candlelight, the hot water running into the shining bath.' But she is a willing slave - all grumbles and laments are covered in the sheer gratitude Laura feels for life and freedom. I can't convey quite what a wonderful character Laura is, nor quite how perfectly Panter-Downes understands and shapes her. To create a character who is both realistic and lovable must be one of the most difficult authorial tasks. She is as psychologically well-developed as Mrs. Dalloway or Laura Ramsay, but as delightful as Mrs. Miniver or the Provincial Lady. It is an astonishing combination.
