I can’t remember exactly when I first read Wives and Daughters by Elizabeth Gaskell, what urged me to select it in the first place. It was a summer while I was still in high school, I know, and I remember finishing it as I rode the bus home from work, missing my stop as I read those last pages, reeling with both delight and a sense of immense loss as the story transitioned from the last rather anti-climactic sentence Mrs. Gaskell penned before her death to the satisfactory outline of an ending contributed in her absence by her editor. Each time I reread it, I come away feeling the same: after hundreds of pages, with the happy conclusion in sight, the abrupt end is always a shock and there is always disappointment that, even though you know how Gaskell intended to end the story, you’ll never have the pleasure of seeing how she would have executed it, what artistry and skill she would have employed in giving our heroine her much-deserved happiness.
Wives and Daughters, for those not already acquainted with Gaskell’s masterpiece, is primarily the story of Molly Gibson, the daughter of a widowed country doctor. I hesitate to call it a coming-of-age story, knowing how some readers recoil in horror from anything so labelled, though it certainly is the chronicle of Molly Gibson’s steady growth and maturation. Instead, I shall call it a novel-ish sort of novel. It has everything you could want: romances of every kind, comedy, tragedy, mystery, and delicious secrets. And yet it is not in the least sensational. There are dramas of every sort going on around Molly but they are of the small, domestic kind. Bad marriages are made and people die of lingering illnesses but these are the worst things that happen in Molly’s world. It is a very human story, very relatable regardless of the decade or century. Writing in the 1860s, Gaskell chose to set the story in the 1830s, the time of her girlhood, making Molly her own contemporary, and while the fashions and lifestyles may have changed somewhat over the years, the characters that Gaskell peoples her book with are instantly recognizable.
As the novel begins, one of Mr. Gibson’s young pupils has fallen in love with the almost seventeen year old Molly, and, worse, tried to declare his love by secret letter to the oblivious Molly. Mr. Gibson quickly packs his daughter off for a long promised visit to a nearby family, Squire and Mrs. Hamley at Hamley Hall, and sets about rethinking his status as a widower. After all, he reasons, a motherless daughter is a sad thing to have on ones hands. Is it not his duty to his beloved daughter to ensure that she has the proper female guidance as she transitions from child to woman? And so, without Molly’s knowledge, he begins to think of marrying again and begins a modest courtship of Mrs. Kirkpatrick, a schoolteacher and former governess already vaguely acquainted with the family.
Molly, meanwhile, has been absorbed into the Hamley household, proving to be the perfect companion for the invalid Mrs. Hamley and a delight to the Squire as well. The Hamleys have no daughters, only two sons: the brilliant Osborne, of whom great things are expected, and the steady, good humoured Roger, both studying at Cambridge as Molly begins her visit. All three parents agree that it is a very good thing their children are not in the same place all at one, young people being so inclined to fall in love when placed in proximity to an eligible party of the opposite sex: Mr. Gibson because he does not think his daughter old enough to become so entangled, the Hamleys because they believe their sons should be looking a little higher than the daughter of a provincial doctor when it comes to choosing a wife. But Osborne and Roger are the focus of Mrs. Hamley’s life, her greatest delights, and much time is spent telling Molly of them. Molly, like any suggestible, sheltered teenage girl, falls half in love with Osborne through both his mother’s praise and his own dreamy poetry, which his mother gives to Molly to read. So when Roger comes home from university alone to break the news of Osborne’s academic failure, she instantly takes against the younger brother who would dare to debase this household idol and “so in mute opposition on Molly’s side, in polite indifference, scarcely verging on kindliness on his, Roger and she steered clear of each other.” That is, until Mr. Gibson visits and springs on Molly the news of his engagement to Mrs. Kirkpatrick, sending a distraught Molly sobbing into the garden after his departure, where the awkward Roger discovers her and handles the situation far more ably than most twenty-one year old men I know and, continuing to encourage and support her afterwards, establishes the basis of a firm friendship:
If Roger was not tender in words, he was in deeds. Unreasonable and possibly exaggerated as Molly’s grief had appeared to him, it was real suffering to her; and he took some pains to lighten it, in his own way, which was characteristic enough. (p. 123-124)
He also begins to take on her education as well. Roger is an avid naturalist, enchanted by the natural world around him, and Molly, to some extent, catches his enthusiasm. But, as Gaskell clearly reminds us, there is nothing untoward about their relationship as they are both very young, with very definite ideas of who their future partners will be:
Every young girl of seventeen or so, who is at all thoughtful, is very apt to make a Pope out of the first person who presents to her a new or larger system of duty that that by which she has been unconsciously guided hitherto. Such a Pope was Roger to Molly; she looked to his opinion, to his authority on almost every subject, yet he had only said one or two things in a terse manner which gave them the force of precepts – stable guides to her conduct, and had shown the natural superiority in wisdom and knowledge which is sure to exist between a highly educated young man of no common intelligence, and an ignorant girl of seventeen, who yet was well capable of appreciation. Still, although they were drawn together in this very pleasant relationship, each was imagining some one very different for the future owner of their whole heart – their highest and completest love. Roger looked to find a grand woman, his equal, and his empress; beautiful in person, serene in wisdom, ready for counsel as was Egeria. Molly’s little wavering maiden fancy dwelt on the unseen Osborne, who was now a troubadour, and now a knight, such as he wrote about in one of his own poems; some one like Osborne, perhaps, rather than Osborne himself, for she shrank from giving a personal form and name to the hero that was to be. (p. 151-152)
Eventually, reluctantly, Molly has to return home to her father and her new mother and this is when the novel really begins to take off as Gaskell begins to incorporate more and more characters, some of them truly magnificent creations. Mrs. Kirkpatrick/Mrs. Gibson is marvelous. A pretentious but poor widow, she eagerly accepts Mr. Gibson’s offer and the improvement in her material circumstances and social standing the marriage offers. She instantly sets about ‘improving’ his house, his diet, and his daughter and, intriguingly, putting off the return of her own daughter Cynthia, who is the same age as Molly, from school in France. But Cynthia does eventually return and she is just as wonderful and flawed as her mother.
Gaskell’s straightforwardness has always appealed to me. Artifice and obfuscation are the talents of her minor characters, never her heroes or heroines, admirable for their plain speaking and clarity of purpose. Never is this contrast clearer than between Molly and her stepsister Cynthia. Cynthia bursts into the novel and into Molly’s life in a whirl of colour and energy. She is beautiful and captivating, spirited and somewhat mysterious. She can be all things to all people, knowing how to act best to please each member of her audience. And though the contrast between her and the honest, direct Molly is great, they quickly become close confidents, true sisters. The greatest benefit by far of Mr. Gibson’s marriage is the introduction of Cynthia into Molly’s life and it is the complications caused by the beguiling Cynthia that truly see Molly mature. Molly is thoughtful and considerate, guided by intelligence and good judgment where Cynthia is selfish and thoughtless, eager to jump ahead without considering the consequences, to run away when complications ensue. But Cynthia adores and admires Molly, conscious of her own flaws and Molly’s moral superiority. Cynthia may lament her shortcomings, as in this little speech to Molly, but she would much rather have and be able to laugh at them than to attempt any great effort to reform herself:
‘…I am not good and never shall be now. Perhaps I might be a heroine still, but I shall never be a good woman, I know.’
‘Do you think it easier to be a heroine?’
‘Yes, as far as one knows of heroines from history. I’m capable of a great jerk, an effort, and then a relaxation – but steady every-day goodness is beyond me. I must be a moral kangaroo!’ (p. 229)
Cynthia may never be good but, like Vanity Fair’s Becky Sharp, she will always be interesting. It comes as no surprise when Roger is instantly smitten by her on their first meeting – who would not be? Things become suitably tangled after that and Gaskell makes the rather inspired decision to send her male love interest off to Africa for much of the novel, meaning no romantic conclusions can come about too quickly – a clever tactic when writing a serialized story!
As I said before, yes, this is a coming-of-age story about Molly Gibson but it is so much more. It is a story about families: the Hamleys and the Gibsons and the changing relationships within them: the loyalties between brothers, between sisters, the bonds of fathers and sons, fathers and daughters, and the consequences of both good and bad marriages.
Squire Hamley may be my favourite character. He certainly suffers the most, losing his beloved wife and his son, whom he spent most of the time at odds with. He is very emotional too, far more so than any of the other characters, male or female. He speaks about what he feels – loudly! – while everyone else conceals their emotions. It is not necessarily a positive trait: after all, his vocal admonishments of his eldest son only drive them further apart, Osborne taking his father’s words in his usual sensitive manner, leading him to conceal some rather significant details about his life away from Hamley. So many readers eschew Victorian novels because of their repressed characters, mostly male. Squire Hamley must be the antidote to such stoics yet he manages to be emotional and sympathetic without being emasculated. He has an overwhelming personality and can be selfish in his desires and expectations; while I may not want him as a father, I will always love him as one of the most vivid and lifelike characters I have ever come across.
The love story between Roger and Molly is one of my all-time favourites. Roger feels so real. He is perfect in so many ways but not in all. Like any young man of twenty two, he is easily blinded by love, falling prey to Cynthia’s numerous charms in a quite ridiculous manner. Molly had been half in love with her romanticized ideal of Osborne before meeting him but Roger’s first love is rather more serious. His keen analytical skills and strong morals fall rather to the wayside, unconsciously compromised by his selection of Cynthia as his future wife. She is his ideal and the entire time he is falling in love with her, he never really sees her for what she is and how horribly ill-suited they are. And poor Molly, only starting to realise her feelings for Roger when he begins to shower Cynthia with attention, having to watch him commit himself to a woman who she knows doesn’t care for him half as much as he does for her:
As long as Roger was drawn to Cynthia, and sought her of his own accord, it had been a sore pain and bewilderment to Molly’s heart; but it was a straightforward attraction, and on which Molly acknowledged, in her humility and great power of loving, to be the most natural thing in the world. She would look to Cynthia’s beauty and grace, and feel as if no one could resist it. And when she witnessed all the small signs of devotion which Roger was at no pains to conceal, she thought, with a sigh, that surely no girl could help relinquishing her heart to such tender, strong keeping as Roger’s character ensured. She would have been willing to cut off her right hand, if need were, to forward his attachment to Cynthia; and the self-sacrifice would have added a strange zest to a happy crisis. (p. 362-3)
Molly is good. That is a very unfashionable thing to be, especially these days, but I do prefer my heroes and heroines to be so. She is not angelically good like the heroines of sickeningly sweet children’s story or cheap, mostly forgotten Victorian novels. She struggles, she talks back on occasion, gets frustrated and angry like anyone but, more often than not, she does as she believes she ought, even, most importantly, when it may bring social ruin. And there’s something very noble and wonderful about that, about her desire to be good and helpful to others. Roger is equally good and I love him for that. After all, that is how Roger and Molly first became friends, when he sought to comfort and help her through a difficult time. Finally, I love that they are both the kind of people who worry (to both the amusement and approval of their elders) about being worthy of the one they love – so different from the callous, delightful Cynthia, casting lovers aside with reckless abandon until she finds the one who seems to expect the least from her and worships her all the same.
I have so much more I could say about Wives and Daughters, so many minor characters that could be discussed, so many plot points that could be analysed! It is a novel that I never tire of talking about, full of characters that will be with me always. If you haven’t already read it, please do. Take your time and enjoy it. Or, if you’re not ready to make the commitment to six hundred odd pages of superb entertainment, do at least check out the BBC adaptation penned by Andrew Davies with Justine Waddell as Molly, Keeley Hawes as Cynthia and Michael Gambon as a truly spectacular Squire Hamley.
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I am reading Wives and Daughters again. I am just easing my way into it, still in the midst of the preparations for young Molly’s visit to the Towers. It is such a familiar book that I am always torn between savouring each line and rushing ahead to greet my favourite characters, relive my favourite scenes. As much as I enjoy the Miss Brownings, their flutterings remind me how long I have to wait to see the magnificent Cynthia in action. As much as I revel in that first glimpse of Clare’s self-centeredness, I love her so much more a few years later when she becomes Hyacinth Gibson and her true character is exposed to her new family. I missed my annual rereading of this book last year (having been caught up in the Twentieth Century with A Century of Books) and it is a delight to return to it.
We had a long weekend here and before starting Wives and Daughters I made the most of it in terms of reading. I’ve picked up a bit of a head cold – a most unpleasant thing to have at any time but especially when it is warm and lovely outside – but that does mean that I’ve had more time for reading. I’ve begun my acquaintance with Margery Sharp, reading first Cluny Brown and then The Eye of Love. Sharp lives up to her name in both but I found myself rather underwhelmed by The Eye of Love. The story focuses on a pair of plain, middle-aged lovers whose ten year affair is disrupted when he – Harry – is forced to engage himself to the daughter of a business associate in order to keep his own business afloat. Harry and Dolores are a touching and absurdly romantic pair, desperately in love and ignorant of how ridiculous their adoration appears to the outside world, but still their story failed to touch me. Martha, Dolores’ stolid and self-sufficient nine year old niece is the star of the book but even so it felt a bit of a chore to work through to the finish. I had checked the sequel – Martha in Paris – out from the library already but I am not sure if I shall read it. Sharp is quite funny in Cluny Brown, less so in The Eye of Love, but in both books she simply takes far too long to tell the story and ties in characters and storylines that are of no interest. I can understand why she appeals to others but she wears my patience.
More satisfyingly, I also reread The Best Man by Kristan Higgins this weekend. It came out this past February and I read it for the first time on the day of release; it was in fact the novel that, after almost a year of Kobo ownership, made me break down and buy my first ebook, having until then relied on library ebooks. And now I’ve read it again and I haven’t entirely ruled out the possibility of reading it at least once more before 2013 is done. I love Higgins’ contemporary romances (she has written ten to date) and this one, the story of a young woman who returns to her hometown after having been jilted in the most embarrassing fashion at the altar several years before, is one of my favourites (Just One of the Guys and All I Ever Wanted being my other favs). I love the quirky and outspoken families and communities that are so central to Higgins’ characters’ lives and just the general sense of humour and warmth that sustains all of her books. She has a new book coming out at the end of October (The Perfect Match) and you just know I am going to be reading that the day it’s released.
