James Hogg's 'The Brownie of Bodsbeck' 1818

 

William Blackwood first edition - 1818

At last, I have read a work by James Hogg (1770-1835). 'The Ettrick Shepherd' repeatedly cropped up in my researches into early 19th century Scottish literature. A great pal of Sir Walter Scott - in 1801 he was recruited to collect ballads for Scott's Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border - he was also friends with the poet Allan Cunningham (I have three of his works still to read) and dined with John Galt. He was born on a farm near Ettrick in Selkirkshire, his father being a tenant farmer there. His mother, Margaret (née Laidlaw) was well-known for collecting native Scottish ballads. James did general farm work and acted as a shepherd's assistant during his early years. In 1788 he was given his first job as a shepherd, learning to read while tending his flock. In 1790, he began ten years of service to James Laidlaw of Blackhouse in the Yarrow Valley. Laidlow lent James books from his own library as well as from a local lending library. James actually founded a debating society of shepherds. By the early 1800s, he had published a booklet on Scottish pastorals, made three tours of the Highlands, began working for the Edinburgh Magazine, and had letters to Scott published in the Scots Magazine.

James Hogg

By the early 20th century, Hogg's work had fallen out of fashion; but the situation changed in 1924 when the French writer André Gide was loaned a copy of the Scottish author's The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner: written by himself  (1824) and wrote that It is long since I can remember being so taken hold of, so voluptuously tormented by any book. I have a dust-wrappered copy of the republication of the book in 1947 with a laudatory introduction by Gide  - this edition not only helped to bring about the modern critical appreciation of the novel, but also brought Hogg's work to the fore again.

Although The Brownie of Bodsbeck was published in 1818, Hogg maintained that he had composed some years earlier, possibly (at least contemplated) in 1813. This matters, in that it has been seen as a counterblast to Sir Walter Scott's very different Old Mortality, which came out in December 1816. Scott's version of the Covenanters is less sympathetic to them and his portrayal of Claverhouse less harsh (see my Blog of 8th February 2021, where the latter has the higher attributes of undaunted and enterprising valour as part of an unbiassed picture of that unhappy period - Scott's own words). Hogg's short novel depicts a very different Claverhouse: the violence of all tender ties of nature was his delight...the way in which he threatened and maltreated children, and mocked and insulted women, not to mention more brutal usage of them, proved him at once to be destitute of the behaviour and feelings becoming a man...he seemed to regard all the commonalty in the south and west of Scotland as things to be mocked and insulted at pleasure, as beings created only for the sport of him and his soldiers, while their mental and bodily agonies were his delight. There was more than a grain of truth in one Covenanter's shaft: Gude-sooth, lad, but ye'll mak mae whigs wherever ye show your face, than a' the hill preachers o' Scotland put thegither.

Walter Laidlaw of Chapelhope, a man of minimal religious views, aids a group of Covenanters hiding near his farm. His daughter, Katharine, is also secretly helping them; in addition she is encouraging the idea, based on local superstition, that their leader is a Brownie. Claverhouse is prowling the area with his troops and takes Walter into custody. Walter witnesses the viciousness and lack of humanity shown by Claverhouse. On being taken to Edinburgh for trial, Walter makes mockery of his accusers and is released. When he returns to his farm, his daughter finally admits she has been helping the fugitives and takes Walter to see them in their hideaway cave.

Laidlow's daughter Katharine/Kate/Keatie is the real heroine of the tale. She is the one who gives regular succour to the Brownie and his companions - in fact, John Brown and his fellow Covenanters; she is the one who sees off the lascivious curate Clerk (ignorant, superstitious and fanatical); and she is the one who takes her father to the Covenanters' hideaway by the precipitous linn on the South Grain. The author clearly had a very soft spot for her: Katharine's mien had a tint of majesty in it, but it was naturally serious. She scarcely ever laughed, and but seldom smiled; but when she did so, the whole soul of delight beamed in it. Her face was like a dark summer day, when the clouds are high and majestic, and the lights on the valley mellowed into beauty. Her smile was like a fairy blink of the sun shed through these clouds

And the Brownie? In Scottish folklore, Brownies are small, shaggy, brown-clad spirits that haunt farms, barns and homes, working at night to perform tasks such as churning butter or threshing corn. Thanks to John Brown's disfigurement, his small stature further despoiled by mistreatment which included a twisted back, his sightings around the Laidlow steading was easily mistaken for one of the spirits. This worked in the Covenanters' and Katharine's favour, scaring away the rural folk. Here is Hogg's description of 'the Brownie': small of stature, and its whole form utterly mis-shaped. Its beard was long and grey, while its look, and every lineament of its face, were indicative of agony - its locks were thin, dishevelled, and white, and its back hunched up behind its head.

A major problem for me was the frequent and sustained use of the Scots vernacular. Some of the dialogue/speeches I could scarcely understand. No matter; I managed to get the gist of them! Only two words I looked up:

dass = ledge (on a hill etc.); leglen  = milk pail.

The volumes also includes two much shorter stories, one of which I enjoyed, the other I endured! The Wool-gatherer, which involved a young Laird, Lindsey, being harangued for his idleness by his stirring, talkative, industrious mother. He rather grudgingly takes up fishing, but gradually gets to enjoy it. Out one day, he ventures further upstream and comes to a clear pool where the farmers had lately been washing their flocks and by the side of it a most interesting female, apparently not exceeding seventeen years of age, gathering the small flakes of wool in her apron that had fallen from the sheep in washing; while, at the same time, a beautiful well-dressed child, about two years old, was playing on the grass. Well - he chats to her, finds out she is an orphan, the little boy calls her 'Mamma' but she is not married. Notwithstanding this, Lindsey meets her in her little cottage regularly. His mother hears of this and by some gerrymandering gets the girl to leave the area, luckily being helped by a young shepherd lad, Barnaby, who escorts her to his elderly, doting parents. Of course, he falls for her, as had Lindsey. The latter, after raging at his mother, offers a reward for her finding  and she is brought back by Barnaby, who pockets a sizeable reward but not Jane/Jeany. The latter has to tell her backstory - the child is her deceased sister's who, it is found out, had married Lindsey's brother (killed in the Peninsular War). So the little lad is actually Lindsey's nephew! The tale ends: It was not many months until this amiable pair were united in the bonds of matrimony, and they are still living, esteemed of all their acquaintances. Barnaby is the laird's own shepherd, and overseer of all his rural affairs...

I wasn't keen on the second novella - The Hunt of Eildon - which was a tale of the supernatural, based around Melrose and district. Walter Scott was no fan, either. He called it a ridiculous story and wondered whether Hogg had any 'tradition' or source for it. He then thought he may have heard a similar tale when I was on the nurse's knee or lying in the cradle. Whatever; Scott still thought it a very ridiculous story...the most ridiculous of any modern story I have ever read. What a pity it is that you are not master of your own capabilities for that tale might have been made a good one. Does one detect an element of authorial jealousy here?! The combination of supernatural and religious elements from Borders traditions just did not appeal to me. The heroine and her lover are transformed into moorfowl, where they live in harmony - 'till last year, that Wauchope shot the hen and a group of Edinburgh folk ate it. This gave rise to a Scottish proverb: when anyone is in a peevish humour, it is said has got a wing of Wauchop'es moor-hen. The cock survived.

Jane Porter's 'The Pastor's Fire-Side' 1817

Longman first edition - 1817

This is the second of Miss Jane Porter's 'blockbuster' novels I have read. At least this time it is a mere four-decker, as opposed to her five-decker, and more famous, The Scottish Chiefs, published in 1810 (see my Blog of 30th September 2023). As with her previous book, I found parts of the narrative slightly hard-going, occasionally bewildered by yet more (foreign-sounding) characters, but almost in awe of Miss Porter's depth of research and knowledge of the European rivalries and histories of the early 18th century. Given its title, I really thought the story would be based in Britain again, in this case the coast of Northumberland, with a touch of Jacobite scheming ahead.  For much of Volume I, this is what occurred.  We are introduced, in quick succession to the venerable pastor of Lindisfarne, Mr. Richard Atherstone, his dear niece, Mrs Coningsby and her two daughters Cornelia and Alice. It is 1726,  and two travellers have arrived from the continent. They are the Marquis Santa Cruz (a Roman Catholic in the severist sense of the term) and his son, Ferdinand. They had arrived from Holland at Berwick that morning, delivering a package entrusted to them by the Grand Pensionary Hensius.

Mr Atherstone fills them in on his links to Holland and informs them of Mrs Coningsby's nephew, Louis de Montemar - son of her late elder sister  and Don Juan de Montemar, Duke de Ripperda. Although the Coningsbys and the Pastor are to play a part in the ensuing tale, and Santa Cruz and his son are to reappear in the final volume (not before Ferdinand and Alice have fallen madly in love with each other!), the two mainsprings of the novel are Ripperda and Louis. The latter is presently at Bamborough [sic] Castle, the homestead of the Atherstones and now under the ownership of Sir Anthony Athelstone the Pastor's nephew. Sir Anthony is a bit of a rake and the Lindisfarne group are worried he will infect young Louis. Particularly, as they learn an absolute bounder is also staying there. This man, who contemporaries say was modelled on the mad, bad and dangerous to know Lord Byron, is the Duke of Wharton. He is the third man who is to play a major, and usually malignant, role in the development of the story. He is well-known for being a Jacobite. He also captures the intense admiration of Louis.  So, all was set - I thought - for this Northumbrian tale.

However, the hero, Louis de Montelmar, leaves England on page 276 of Volume I - after one of the various 'purple passages' the authoress was prone to (shades of G.P.R. James!): "Majestic England!" said he, as he turned towards them [the embattled cliffs of Northumberland];"How do thy lofty rocks declare thy noble nature! There liberty has stationed her throne; there, virtue builds her altar; and there peace has planted her groves!" He does not return until Chapter XVI and page 295 of Volume IV - he drew nearer to the coast where he had imbibed the first aliments of all that was greatly emulous in his mind; where his heart had first known the glows of dear domestic tenderness; where, in short, he first knew a home. Although we hear of the Northumbrian clique, usually through letters, they are firmly in the background for the majority of the novel.

Instead, the action takes place in Austria, Spain and, even, Morocco/Gibraltar. And convoluted it is, too. Louis travels, by his long-absent father's command, to Vienna. He is given a letter, telling him to obey 'a stranger', whom he must revere and obey that person in word and deed'. The stranger, when met, is almost too prepossessing: a future tyrant rather than a guardian?  Louis is subjected to almost tyrannical labour, writing and transcribing for this Sieur Ignatius, seemingly an unbending Jesuit. After Ignatius is stabbed, Louis is ordered to take over the former's involvement with the Empress Elizabeth of Austria. Their plot is to draw Austria and Spain together by the marriage of Maria Theresa, the Empress' daughter, to the King of Spain's son, Don Carlos. Louis also meets the woman who nearly caused his total downfall: who had bloom of youth, and splendour of beauty. It transpires she is the young widowed Countess Altheim. Jane Porter brilliantly captures the scheming side of this woman who, hearing that Louis is far more important (and probably wealthier) than the mere secretary he seems, tries to ensnare him in a marriage. The politics of the Austrian court, and subsequently that of Madrid, is painstakingly  and skilfully described by the author. Ignatius turns out to be Ripperda himself who, after being eminently successful for a while in tying the Austro-Spanish knot. falls like Icarus and is imprisoned, but escapes to the Barbary coast to wage war against his erstwhile Spanish employers. All this takes up well over two volumes and, every so often, is quite hard to follow. Suffice it to say, Ripperda finally dies of wounds after attacking the Spanish north African outpost of Ceuta; Louis meets up with his father on his death-bed; Wharton, after being mainly responsible for Ripperda's downfall, has a last-minute conversion after falling to rogues whilst engaging in Jacobite treason back in England, and wins the hand of Cornelia; Ferdinand marries Alice, but so does Louis wed Marcella, the Duke of Santa Cruz's daughter and Ferdinand's sister! All's well that ends well at the Pastor's Fire-side. 

The purple passages do jar rather, particularly when compared with the author's excellent rendering of battle scenes, court intrigue and life-like dialogue. here are two examples:

The high and abrupt outline cut the horizon between sea and sky, like a superb citadel of mountains, guarding its rich Hesperian vales. When he saw the golden clouds rolling from the sides of those stupendous natural bulwarks, as the descending car of day plunged into the refulgent main, he thought of his father's setting sun; of the last beams gilding the country he love; of the fair country, opening before himself, as he had anticipated, luminous in glory, like the unfolding gates of  paradise!

and:

his carriage turned into a cleft of the hills, overhung with every species of umbrageous trees; and out of whose verdant sides innumerable rills poured themselves over the refreshened earth, from the urns of sculptured nymphs and river-gods reposing in the shade.

And now a large FOOTNOTE!

I realised that the author had done her research on the entangled political and dynastic relationship between Spain and Austria (and France) and that the Pastor and his immediate brood were likely to be fictional. However, I had not twigged, until well into the volumes, that Ripperda and Wharton were real people.

Baron de Ripperda

Juan Guillermo, Baron de Ripperda, 1st Duke of Ripperda (1684-1737) was a political adventurer who served as de facto prime minister of Spain from December 1725 to April 1726 as a favourite of Philip V. There are elements of fact in Jane Porter's story of her Ripperda. However, he only escaped from Spain in 1728 and made his way to Holland. It is said that he reverted to Protestantism, and then went to Morocco, where he became a Muslim and commanded the Moors on an unsuccessful attack on Ceuta. This story, however, is found in his wholly unreliable Memoirs! He did go to Morocca and died at Tetuan in 1737. So Jane Porter is only a decade out in her 'facts'! Moreover, he certainly didn't have a son called Louis who married a Spanish girl.

1st Duke of Wharton

Philip Wharton, 1st Duke of Wharton (1698-1731) was an English peer and Jacobite politician who played a major role in the politics of early Georgian England, so much so that he has a considerable piece to himself in Wikipedia! He got hugely into debt and when his wife died in 1726, he married again. By this time his behaviour was getting increasingly offensive and neither the Georgian government nor Jacobite leaders trusted him. At the reception for his wedding to Henrietta O'Neill, he drunkenly exposed himself to the wedding party (and bride) to show her "what she was to have that night in her Gutts". I wonder if Miss Jane Porter knew that, or even the fictional Cornelia?!

It is somewhat strange that Jane Porter's tale is packed with thoroughly researched material about the European political scene, yet falsifies so much of two of the main characters' lives.

Alfred Hitchcock - again

 

Alfred Hitchcock (1899-1980)

Today's (4th April) Daily Telegraph has a major piece on Alfred Hitchcock's films - all 52 of them. Their Film Critic, Tim Robey, 'ranks' (why is everything 'ranked' these days? The newspaper has regular features on such 'rankings' - best small towns in Britain, best marmalade, best county churches etc.) Hitchcock's oeuvre, as it is the 50th anniversary since the release of his final film, The Family Plot. The paper introduces the selection - London-born Alfred Hitchcock is recognised as perhaps the finest film-maker this country has ever produced. Among the features he left behind are an extra-ordinary run of cast-iron classics, but also a clutch of little-remembered curios and - inevitably in a career that spanned 52 films in as many years - the odd flimsy fiasco that's best forgotten. Pleasingly, all his Silent Movies are included.

Back, on 29th February 2020, I wrote a Blog on my and a (alas, late) friend's Hitchcock Top Ten. I found it interesting to compare Robey's list with mine.

Robey's Top Ten:

1. Psycho (1960)    2. Vertigo (1958)   3. Notorious (1946)   4. Rear Window (1954)   5. Strangers on a Train (1951)   6. Sabotage (1936)   7. North by Northwest (1959)   8. The 39 Steps (1935)   9. The Lady Vanishes (1938)   10. The Lodger (1927) 

I found it interesting that there are four pre-war films, from his 'English' period; three between 1935 and 1938; and one silent movie, back in 1927.

My Top Ten: with Robey's numbering at the end.

1. Notorious (1946) - 3   2. North by Northwest (1959) - 7   3. Strangers on a Train (1951) - 5   4. Shadow of a Doubt (1943) - -    5. Vertigo (1958) - 2   6. Rebecca (1940) - -   7 . Rear Window (1954) - 4   8. Dial 'M' for Murder (1954) - -   9. The 39 Steps (1935) - 8   10. Frenzy (1972) - -

I notice, for the first time, apart from the outliers  at No. 9 (1935) and No.10 (1972) my favourites are packed into the period 1940 to 1959.  As for a comparison between the two lists, Robey and I agree on six films being in the top ten. However, his No.1, Psycho, I had merely placed in the 'okay' bracket. 

As for the four of mine not in Robey's Top Ten - Shadow of a Doubt, which I had as high as No.4, came in at No.13; Rebecca, my No.6 was his No.15; whilst my No.8 Dial 'M' for Murder only reached No.21; and Frenzy, my No.10, a lowly No.28. On the other hand, I did write in my Blog that I 'favoured' The Lodger (his No.10)

What of the 'duds'?

Robey listed the following in his bottom ten (from the last upwards):

52. Topaz (1969)   51. Number Seventeen (1932)   50. Champagne (1928)   49. Torn Curtain (1966)  48. To Catch a Thief (1955)   47. Jamaica Inn (1939)   46. Under Capricorn (1949)   45. Waltzes from Vienna   44. Stage Fright (1950)   43. Mr and Mrs Smith (1941).

I can't comment on Waltzes from Vienna, having never watched it, and I can't really recall much about Number Seventeen or Champagne. I do agree with his thumbs down for the following four turkeys: Torn Curtain (boring and poor, wooden acting by Julie Andrews and Paul Newman - when wasn't the latter 'wooden'?); Jamaica Inn (the two ripe hams, Charles Laughton and Robert Newton, ruining Daphne du Maurier's story. No wonder she was reluctant to let Hitchcock loose on any more of her novels); Stage Fright - more bad casting of another 'wooden' actor, Richard Todd; and Mr and Mrs Smith - a failed attempt at a screwball comedy. I would like to add the film which would have been at the bottom of my list, but which climbed up to No. 39 with Robey - The Trouble with Harry (1955) - which he labels an acquired taste. Well, I certainly didn't acquire it - boring with a capital B.  I was slightly surprised to see To Catch a Thief, in such a lowly spot, as I found it quite a pleasant romantic caper.

A parting comment. If I could just take North by Northwest, Notorious and The 39 Steps and my DVD recorder and monitor to the desert island, I would be quite content. If The Trouble with Harry washed ashore, I would kick it into the ocean again.

G.P.R.James' 'Prince Life. A Story for my Boy' 1856

T. Cautley Newby first edition - 1856

G.P.R. James moved with his family to America in July 1850, partly to build up his finances again (he had been successfully sued by the engraver who had been engaged to furnish plates for a uniform edition of his works and was out of pocket to the tune of several thousand pounds). They stayed first at the old New York Hotel and then at the alarmingly named Hell Gate, opposite Astoria. Longfellow met James and subsequently wrote that he was very frank, off-hand, and agreeable. In politics he is a Tory, and very conservative. James lectured at Boston as well as in New York, for instance speaking at a Dinner in the Metropolitan Hall called for the purpose of raising a memorial statue to J. Fenimore Cooper, who had died the previous year. James and his family moved to Massachusetts, where he rented a furnished house at Stockbridge. Here he met Nathaniel Hawthorne, who wrote of their meetings in his Journal during the summer of 1851: James is certainly an excellent man; and his wife is a plain, good, friendly, kind-hearted woman, and his daughter a nice girl. Another Journal entry recalled the son, who seemed to be about twenty, and the daughter, of seventeen or eighteen...and Little Charley, who was five.

Charles Leigh James - aged 12

When S.M. Ellis wrote his biography of G.P.R. James - The Solitary Horseman in 1927 - he acknowledged the help of Miss Blanche James, granddaughter of the author, who had allowed him access to the manuscript autobiography of her father, the late Charles Leigh James, whose early recollections provide the principal records of the family's time in America. It was while the James family were living at Stockbridge that James wrote Prince Life for Charles. The latter wrote in his autobiography: I wanted something written for me like The Wonder Book for Hawthorne's children. 

The fairy tale is only 46 pages long and in larger font than usual and, one assumes, it was written to be read at bed-time to the little boy. There are elements of Pilgrim's Progress about it, with very much a didactic frame work. The Prince's misfortune was that he had everything on earth he could want or desire, and a little more. had a fine palace and a fine country, obedient subjects and servants, and true friends...a fairy, called Prosperity, gave him everything he desired as soon as he desired it. Of course, he was bored. Worse, a little, drowsy gray dwarf, called Satiety, followed the Prince about wherever he went. Finally, having had enough, the Prince breaks out of his palace on his horse Expedition. He passes through a fine estate which belongs to a gentleman and lady, Activity and Ease. Between them, the estate is well-run. However, beyond lie the land of Labour and the forest of Adversity. The Prince hacks his way through the latter to a cave, where he encounters one of the most tremendous monsters ever man's eyes lighted upon. The monster's name is Necessity and the Prince must wrestle with him to prove his bravery. He is shown out the following day, only to meet up with a little old woman - Industry, who runs a tight ship for both human and beast. Two very nice, pretty girls work for her, one called Economy and the other Order. The Prince was assigned some work - Industry showed him the way, Order helped him a good deal and Economy provided him with the materials.

Again, his way is pointed out - this time on a road called 'the Right Path'. He was warned not to turn off the thoroughfare and, luckily as he was tempted to do so looking for sustenance, he catches up with a man trudging on before him. His name is Perseverance and, true to his name, he ensures the Prince remains on the straight and narrow. The two finally approach a fine castle; but, with one problem still ahead - two terrible monsters lie close by the narrow drawbridge. Their names? Difficulty and Danger!  Luckily, a man comes running down from the castle gate, a good, serviceable fellow by the name of Courage. The Prince crosses into the castle and is taken into the presence of a beautiful lady to receive a crown. It is called the crown of Contentment. I reserve it for those who, led on by Perseverance. come to me by the Right Path, in spite of Difficulty and Danger...(and what about any danger from the dwarf?) there is a rich jewel called Moderation, in the crown of Contentment, which is too bright and pure to be looked upon by Satiety.

Now, it is unlikely any child of the twenty-first century would be enthralled or convinced by such a moralistic story; but the early Victorian-age child would probably lap it up. I did, because it is another, very rare, G.P.R. James first edition!

Gordon Bowker's 'George Orwell' 2003

 

Little, Brown first edition - 2003

At just over 430 pages of text, this biography of George Orwell (Eric Blair), was another 'blockbuster' which has rested unread on my bookshelves for far too long. I knew very little about Orwell - having merely read Down and Out in Paris and London (1933), A Clergyman's Daughter (1935), and Animal Farm (1945). (No - I have never read 1984!) I found the story of his life fascinating, but I don't think I would have liked him. Interestingly, at one stage in his life he described himself as a Tory-anarchist; which is what I subscribe to! The book is far too detailed to be analysed is such a short Blog as this, so I have just put below some of the salient points I gained from its reading.

• from childhood he suffered from ill-health. Cursed by a weak chest, he did not help matters by being a heavy, life-long smoker and taking little care over his well-being
• his relationship with women was problematic. He never stopped desiring them - frequenting prostitutes in Burma and London, living with one in Paris and on several occasions almost forcing himself on colleagues or friends - even though he regarded himself as 'unattractive'. The many shrewd women who knew him almost invariably referred to his sadism and that he saw women as inferior
• he was prejudiced against Scots, disliked homosexuals and public schools. However, he was a staunch atheist but retained an affection for Christian beliefs and wished to be buried in a churchyard; he was a rationalist who took poltergeists and ghosts seriously
• Bowker sums Orwell up: Orwell was no saint; he was a flawed human being, full of contradictions and strange tensions - a faithful and gentle friend, yet a man with a poor attitude towards women, an enemy of state torturers with his own streak of sadistic violence, a champion of human decency yet a secret philanderer, a man with an ambiguous attitude towards Jews
• during and after his time in Spain - his hatred of Stalinism and the Soviet Union, which led to his suspicion of others such as Victor Gollancz, was almost visceral
• his sojourns on the island of Jura, where he rented Barnhill ( a kind of Cold Comfort Farm to one young student!) are made totally understandable by Bowker.    
• I found this comment of Bowker's a shrewd one: as a novelist Orwell had his shortcomings. He was insufficiently interested in individuals to be able to explore character, except his inevitably autobiographical central character. He could experience an intense imaginative vision of an inner life, but he could do it by looking in the mirror but not by looking outwards.
• I think he was a successful journalist cum sociological essay writer but not a great novelist; primarily a literary man with a sociological eye.

It is a fascinating story. his schooldays at St Cyprian's and Eton; his role as a Probationary Assistant Superintendent in the Burmese Police Force; his essentially 'fake' down-and-out days in Paris (his first manuscript was called A Scullion's Diary) and London; his short time as a (quite popular) teacher; his relative failure as a novelist - with A Clergyman's Daughter and Keep the Aspidistra Flying; his increasing well-thought-of articles in various journals, magazines and newspapers (e.g. his later involvement with Tribune); his time at the BBC during the  Second World War; and his two masterpieces - Animal Farm and 1984 - the latter written when he was increasingly ill. I am glad I read Gordon Bowker's book; whether it persuades me to read more of Orwell's work is another matter. We are certainly nearer the horror of the world depicted in 1984, than Orwell was in 1948 or even in the real-life 1984. Dystopia feels more real than Utopia these days.

Poor Eric was hit firmly in the solar plexus with the publication just over two years ago of Anna Dunder's Wifedom: Mrs Orwell's Invisible Life. Her aim was to rescue this droll, warm-hearted woman from oblivion and in the process wrench herself back into hard-won artistry. Funder suggests that any literary ambitions Eileen had were relinquished in order to cater for Eric's needs, including having perfunctory sex she did not enjoy. As one Reviewer of the book put it, she earned the lion's share of their income, kept house, nursed him through fits of tuberculosis, typed up his notes, edited his typescripts and 'encouraged' his work.  Funder cited several contemporaries who saw Eileen's 'fingerprints' all over Animal Farm - a book that displays a psychological acuity and humanity that Orwell lacked. Certainly Orwell does not come out of this telling well: he denied Eileen visits to her family and friends, let her clean out the cesspit and deal with mice while he got on with his books upstairs. Funder focuses on the couple's time in Spain, when Eileen kept her husband out of danger and often risked her own life for her ant-fascist comrades. Dying of cancer during an operation, at just 39, Eileen's life appears a tragic one. What might she have achieved - in spite of her famous husband?  

To the Lighthouse? No - To the Museum

 

I took Mrs. Dalloway to Ashby de la Zouch Museum this morning - not the woman, but our Penguin copy of Virginia Woolf's novel. I am having to clear space for my steady purchase of the Crime-Book Society's "Pocket" Library paperbacks. One paperback 'in', therefore one paperback 'out'. That's now our 'house rule'. I'd never read Woolf's novel, yet it had been on the shelves since the 1980s. Tucked inside the back cover was an article by Philip Hensher from The Daily Telegraph of Friday, 24th January 2003. It had a hyperbolic strapline: Few authors make one want to vomit: Virginia Woolf does.

Virginia Woolf (1882-1941)

Now, one shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but Hensher makes a pretty good stab at it. I am going to quote his article in some detail, mainly because I know exactly what he is on about!

It is hard to escape the conclusion that Woolf's novels are responsible for putting more people off modern literature than anything else. In many ways, they are truly terrible novels: inept, ugly, fatuous, badly written and revoltingly self-indulgent...the idiotic The Waves, for instance, in which six incredibly uninteresting people engage in interminable and ludicrously over-written monologues, interrupted from time to time by fey prose-poems about the sun rising over the sea, or something. Orlando, an unstoppably arch fantasy about someone living for ever...is one of very few works of literature than can actually make the reader want to vomit. Well, there you go! Actually, where Hensher goes next is really the point of this Blog.

To the Lighthouse is about an enormous house-party in the Hebrides, and crucially about the question of whether a trip will be undertaken to the lighthouse the next day. Halfway through the novel, a long stretch of time passes in a few pages, during which the hostess of the party, Mrs Ramsay, is killed off in half a sentence. In the last section of the novel, some of the characters return to the house and actually go to the lighthouse...the great problem with To the Lighthouse is that Woolf is completely incapable of imbuing any of her characters with any kind of memorable life...About the world, and about human motivation [Woolf] obviously knows almost nothing...famously, poisonously snobbish - "How I hated marrying a Jew", she wrote once - she is led by this to say the most preposterous things. "Possibly the greatest good requires the existence of a slave class".

But the single worst thing about her books is how badly written they are. They were published by Woolf herself, without any editorial intervention, and it shows.

Back to To the Lighthouse and my interest in the above piece. I suffered the dreadful book studying for my 'A' Level English Literature course. I thoroughly enjoyed the two years spent in the Sixth Form, reading, reading, reading (well, and other things). I could never decide which subject I enjoyed most - English or History. I eventually chose to study History at university as I thought I lacked the imagination for English. Paper IV was  The Novel. I adored Barchester Towers, thoroughly enjoyed Hard Times, Wuthering Heights, Tess of the D'Urbervilles (though I preferred reading The Woodlanders) and Room with a View; was pleased we decided not to study stuffy Henry James's The Portrait of a Lady' and absolutely hated reading To the Lighthouse. I remember saying to the boy next to me - "I wish they would get to the bloody lighthouse". Luckily, one didn't have to write about it in the ensuing exam. The result was I have never read another Woolf novel to this day. How Mrs Dalloway got into my Library I really have no idea - perhaps she was a companion of my wife. Anyway, it has gone to the local museum's secondhand book sales. I have retained the only other Woolf novel on the shelves - out of a perverse sort of nostalgia. It is, of course, To the Lighthouse. I must make sure I dust it occasionally.

My Top 10 Ricardian (Richard III) Fiction and Non-Fiction Books

The Richard III Society's quarterly publication - The Ricardian Bulletin - latest Spring Issue landed on my doorstep this morning. Highlighted on the cover was the article on The greatest Ricardian reads of all Time' - 50 Fiction and 50 Non-Fiction. These were judged by a panel of twenty 'eminent' Historians, including me! Inevitably subjective, it was fascinating to read the lists and compare them with my own offerings. I counted 28 novels written this century on the list of 50 Fiction; just over half - four in the top ten. Some of those 28 I had never heard of! My most recent novel chosen is as long ago as 1982. Where we did agree was putting the same three in the top four, albeit in a slightly different order.

MY Fiction top ten (with their position in the Society's overall List in brackets)

1.  Rosemary Hawley Jarman - We Speak No Treason 1971 (No. 3)

2. Sharon Kay Penman - The Sunne in Splendour 1982 (No.2)

3. Patrick Carleton - Under the Hog 1938 (No. 8)

4. Josephine Tey - The Daughter of Time 1951 (No. 1)

5. G.P. R. James - The Woodman 1849 (No. 27=)

6. Rhoda Edwards - Some Touch of Pity 1977 (No. 4)

7=. Marian Palmer - The White Boar 1968 (No. 13)

7=. Carola Oman - Crouchback 1929 (No. 49=)

7=. Marjorie Bowen - Dickon 1929 (No. 33)

7=. Mary Sturge Gretton - Crumplin' 1932 (No. 49=)

Clearly, no one else had probably heard of, let alone read, Crouchback or Crumplin', as they both scored a grand total of 2.5, compared with Josephine Tey's The Daughter of Time, which racked up 111 votes. I was actually surprised that James' The Woodman garnered 6 votes. Good old William Shakespeare managed to come in at No. 12, with a score of 19 votes. Interestingly, Scott Mariani's The Tudor Deception (2023) made the top 10 and received 24 votes.

As for the Non-Fiction - again, there were major differences between my list and the Ricardian panel's. I eschewed the most recent, rather controversial ones. Seeing who was on the panel, I realised these books were bound to figure, two in the top five.

1. Charles Ross - Richard III 1981/1999 (No. 6)

2. David Horspool - Richard III: A Ruler and his Reputation 2015 (No. 31=)

3. Rosemary Horrox - Richard III: A Study in Service 1989 (No. 4)

4. Caroline Halstead - Richard III 1844 (No. 14)

5. Michael Hicks - Richard III: The Self-Made King 2019 (No. 9=)

6. Paul Murray Kendall - Richard III 1955 (No. 1)

7. ed. James Petrie - Richard III. Crown and People 1985 (No. 36=)

8. Jeremy Potter - Good King Richard? 1984 (No.2)

9. Anne Sutton and Peter Hammond - The Coronation of Richard III 1983 (No. 9=)

10. Anne Curry and Glen Foard - Bosworth 1485 (Not on the list!)

I had thought of putting James Gairdner's Richard III on my list, but I am not surprised that it failed to make the top 50.  I was surprised that Clements Markham was second to last, at No.49, but not to see three of John Ashdown-Hills's books there - (at least Rosemary Horrox equalled this). After all, the list was compiled by Ricardians.  Also, it was The Greatest Reads, not the most sound History books; hence Kendall was bound to come out top.