'Jackdaw' Library paperback edition - 1937
This is the story of Jim Rickard - a boy who was fascinated by the power of money from the first. It charts his rise from rags to riches on an amoral path. I have written briefly about Ethel Mannin before (Blog on 6th July 2023). so there is no need to repeat the same material again. What is very clear from this novel is her dislike for both capitalist values and the bohemian/'flapper' times of the 1920s. Sounding Brass (1925) appears to have been her third book, after Martha (1923) and Hunger of the Sea (1924). By her death in December 1984, she had written some hundred fiction and non-fiction books.
Jim starts his career by stealing ten sovereigns from his dying grandma, Mrs Wythers, Instead of the waste on a funeral, he would use the money wisely; he would buy with it the beginnings of power; it would be the seed sown in the land of opportunity, from which, in the fullness of time, he would reap a golden harvest. So, off he goes, aged 15, to London, away from the family he despised. Getting jobs in the newspaper business, he realises that the advertising world means riches. For him there was only one industry worthy of being spelled in capitals, and that was Advertising. Organised Publicity. Utilising the Power of the Press for Popularizing British Goods. He was interested in Progress and Publicity. The Great War had taken a slice out of his life; now he was raring to go. He sets up Premier Publicity, Ltd with a partner, Michael Murray - whom he also despises. By the mid twenties, he appears to have 'arrived'. Still rather loud and common, he has added weight to his lack of inches. I don't know why, but Arnold Bennett and H.G. Wells hove to in my mind's eye. Surely not a spoof on those two?
Ironically, for a man with no fellow-feelings for anyone, the Jazz girl, Lola, herself out for mercenary reasons, becomes his mistress. They are caught, by her husband's private detective and Jim's whole world collapses. His wife sues him for divorce. Yet Jim is not prepared to be snuffed out. He would Show Them. They could say what they liked, but they would see that he wasn't a flame that could be extinguished by the first gust of the wind of adversity; he was more than a flame; he was a storehouse of power; an everlasting electric battery. At the very end of the novel - was he ruined? "Ruined be damned! Publicity's publicity!" The car purred on softly down Fleet Street.
There are some cutting character sketches. Miss Pringle was a flaccid creature, so completely colourless that she looked as though milk ran in her veins instead of blood. With vague hair, pale eyes, and a sallow complexion, she was addicted to fawns and greys in the matter of clothes, which were always very good and hopelessly devoid of style. She was that sort of woman. Then there is the girl Jim sees during his honeymoon with Florence Pringle: she was bright as diamonds, and as hard. Her life swung to the rhythm of the saxophone; her soul was Jazz. The pride of the eye and the desire of the flesh, she could afford to be hard...she knew what she wanted...she dragged you, indeed, no further than the nearest jazz shop, where you could spend money on her. Ensnared, back in London she proves to be Jim's downfall. The irony is that the mousy wife, Florence, comes out of it in a better shape than her husband Jim.
Michael Murray has this to say about Britain in the early 1920s:
We are stuffed full of ready-made ideas - and our ideals are for the most part sentimentality - witness our two minutes' silence on Armistice Day, when we pause to think of the heroic dead, whilst the heroic living sell chocolates or matches in the gutter or play dismal bands on street corners. We are probably the smuggest and most self-satisfied nation in the world. We have no international sense - or sensibility...we are cursed by the unintelligence of unimaginativeness. We are dull, stupid, a race without poetry, or sense of beauty, or of truth... Is that the author speaking?
'Jackdaw' Library paperback edition - 1937
I have already read Susan Glapsell's 'Fidelity' in the 'Jackdaw' series (see Blog July 6th 2023) and quite enjoyed it; so I was looking forward to reading this novel. It concentrates again on love and devotion. Whereas I felt the main female character in the former book did not quite deserve the steadfast fidelity of her doctor friend, this time - whilst I could understand the laser-like love of a young widow - I found some pages/scenes rather cloying. The Glory of the Conquered (1909) was Glaspell's first published novel; Fidelity (1915) was her third. Those six years, I think, improved her style.
Dr. Karl Hubers, a 39 year-old medical scientist doing great things in the study of cancer, falls madly in love with the much younger Ernestine Stanley, who has studied Art in New York. After a long honeymoon abroad (where Ernestine loses a child), they settle again at the university in Chicago. All is going swimmingly - Karl resumes his groundbreaking work, Ernestine continues with her paintings.
The gruff old eminent surgeon Dr. Murray Parkman is really the hero of the novel. Himself having had troubles way back with a woman not loving him, he is able to give regular wise counsel to the rather highly strung Ernestine. Parkman was a large man, and all of him seemed to count for force. Something about him made people prefer not to get in his way. It was his hands spoke for his work - superbly the surgeon's hands, that magical union of power and skill, hands for the strongest grip and the lightest touch, lithe, sure, relentless, fairly intuitive. His hands made one believe in him. With Karl it was the eyes told most.
And it was the eyes which destroyed him.
The relationship between Karl and Ernestine is almost too intense. One of their favourite occupations, as the days went on, was as to whether anyone had ever been so happy before. No. Because, no one ever had so many reasons for being happy. Tragedy lay ahead. Karl had a queer little trick with his eyes...he had a way of resting his finger in the corner of his eye when thinking. A mannerism was a queer little way of rubbing his finger in his eye. A very foolish thing to do if one is working with cancer spoors etc. The novel charts his descent into blindness and the attempt by his distraught wife to learn the skills to enable her to be his eyes in his laboratory. To no avail; his constitution weakened, he dies even though his friend Dr. Parkman tries desperately to save his life. Ernestine retreats from Chicago to her home area, into total depression. Parkman manages to wean her back and the novel ends with the exhibition of the best painting she has ever done - of the blind Karl. The last paragraph in the book is this:
"Karl," she murmured at the last - eyes dim with loving tears, "dear Karl" - dwelling with a long tenderness upon the name - "did I indeed bring you the light?"
I just hope she is not so utterly myopic for the rest of her life. Karl comes across as simply too saint like to be true, and this occasionally grates with the reader.
I wondered whether Huber's cousin, red-headed, freckled, foolish Georgia McCormick was modelled on the author.
No comments:
Post a Comment