It has been a long time since I’ve been as happy with a book as I was with Dear Octopus by Dodie Smith. Simon did a good job of identifying some of its weaknesses – an overly large cast, a too-neat romance plot – in his charming review so I feel completely free to simply heap praise on it.
Produced and published in 1938, Dear Octopus is a comedy in three acts about the Randolph family, who have gathered to celebrate the 50th wedding anniversary of the parents, Charles and Dora. The family is large so it takes a while to get a feel for all the different relationships; while my head spun a bit during the first act, I had it all figured out by the second. This is one of those few situations where I could understand why seeing the play might be preferable – it is far easier to keep track of a large cast visually than on paper. Like any family, the Randolphs have their problems: one of the granddaughters is struggling to move on after her mother’s death; a daughter hasn’t returned home in seven years; a sister-in-law harbours a life-long love of Charles; and the siblings and grandchildren all have their private squabbles and disagreements. But this is a Dodie Smith comedy, not a Dorothy Whipple melodrama, so none of these issues are allowed to overwhelm the story. They add depth, certainly, but Smith also treats these issues sensibly: as difficulties to be overcome, not tragedies to be allowed to derail anyone. The strength and support of the family,“that dear octopus from whose tentacles we never quite escape, nor, in our inmost hearts, ever quite wish to”, is there to help them all.
I, sentimental reader that I am, enjoyed the romance between Nicholas, Charles and Dora’s youngest child, and Fenny, Dora’s companion. There is nothing startlingly original about it but I genuinely liked Fenny, was horribly embarrassed for her when an interfering Randolph relative explains that Nicholas has no interest in marrying her, was even more embarrassed when she threw herself at other men during the party to avoid Nicholas, and was, of course, delighted when everything worked out neatly. Nicholas was played in the original stage production by John Gielgud (who I have been thinking about since reading Harriet’s review of Gielgoodies) and appears very striking in the photos that illustrate the book.
Really though, the heart of the play – and of the family – belongs to Dora and Charles. In their seventies now, they are not only affectionate and charming, they are genuinely happy with each other and with themselves. When Belle, Charles’ sister-in-law, confronts him about not achieving his boyhood dreams of writing or entering politics, he is far from regretful about the path he has taken:
Charles: I think I might have had a shot at politics – but there were so many far more important things to do.
Belle: What things?
Charles: Surely you have realised that any house that contains Dora also contains a number of Little Jobs? You would be surprised, for instance, what a very large number of shelves I have put up and an almost equally large number I have taken down. Then there have been children to play with, dogs to take walks, gardens to plan, neighbours to visit –
Belle: And you call these things important?
Charles: I do indeed. I call the sum total of any man’s happiness important.
Belle: Have you been happy, Charles?
Charles: So happy that I am sometimes tempted to erect a statue to myself. I should like people to be reminded that happiness isn’t quite obsolete.
I think that is beautifully expressed. And while Belle, also in her seventies, does her best to fight age, Dora embraces it. For Dora, it is not about how old you are but about how much you can do. Different ages bring different experiences and she – like her husband – has enjoyed them all:
Cynthia: You’ve never minded growing old.
Dora: No, I can honestly say I’ve enjoyed all my ages and I know your father has. I think, perhaps, it’s a question of being interested in life. There are so many things – people, theatres, books, wireless. We’ve a new puppy arriving next week – really one life isn’t long enough. Your father always says he’d like to be a Wandering Jew – provided, of course, that I was a Wandering Jewess. I don’t think we shall ever be bored even when we’re quite old.
Cynthia: What would you call quite old, darling?
Dora: Oh, eighty-five or ninety. Of course, when I read a book about a woman of seventy, she seems quite old, but it’s different when it’s yourself.
Cynthia: You always do seem to be just middle-age to me.
Dora: Your father says middle-age is stretching out, just as youth is. One’s young until one’s forty and middle-aged till one’s eighty. I dare say by the time you’re old we shall have got rid of old age altogether. Anyway, there are nice things about every age if people realise it in time instead of in retrospect. You should try to be your age and enjoy being it, my dear.
How could you not love Dora and Charles?
I also love their children and grandchildren, though they are less obviously wonderful. Their squabbles and dialogue felt so natural, so much like how adult children talk when reunited; a mix of unshakable affection and undying rivalry. Their disagreements, however silly and petty, are too sharp and too blunt to be the kind exchanged between friends: this is the way you can only talk to family. But sibling arguments can also be resolved and forgotten with a speed that no other kind of friendship can match. And they know their common enemy and can band together to show impressive force.
Everything ends nicely, with everyone who began at loose ends now taken care of and everyone who attempted to upset things put back in his/her place. The writing is funny, the characters (once you figure out how to keep track of them) mostly endearing, and the story moves along at the perfect pace. It is a delightfully fun book to spend an evening with and I know it is one of those books I will look forward to rereading.
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It turns out that I was a bit rash on Friday when (in my review of Autumn Crocus by Dodie Smith) I comforted myself by saying that though the play was not fantastic, it was only her first and her “powers as a playwright developed far beyond this.” Well, to be fair, they did: Dear Octopus is proof of that. Call It A Day, on the other hand, is not.
The Captive Reader 