A Century of Books | The Captive Reader

Archive for the ‘A Century of Books’ Category

Crocodile on the Sandbank – Elizabeth Peters

Posted in A Century of Books, Elizabeth Peters, Mystery on July 24, 2020| 7 Comments »

It is 1884 and thirty-two-year-old spinster Amelia Peabody, having inherited a modest fortune from her scholarly father, has set out to finally see some of the world. Full (some might say overfull) of confidence in her vast knowledge, quick-wittedness, and moral superiority, she has bludgeoned her away across Europe – maid and companion unhappily in tow – and arrived in Rome.

And it is in Rome that her story, Crocodile on the Sandbank by Elizabeth Peters, begins:

When I first set eyes on Evelyn Barton-Forbes she was walking the streets of Rome – (I am informed, by the self-appointed Critic who reads over my shoulder as I write, that I have already committed an error. If those seemingly simple English words do indeed imply that which I am told they imply to the vulgar, I must in justice to Evelyn find other phrasing.)

In justice to myself, however, I must insist that Evelyn was doing precisely what I have said she was doing, but with no ulterior purpose in mind. Indeed, the poor girl had no purpose and no means of carrying it out if she had. Our meeting was fortuitous, but fortunate. I had, as I have always had, purpose enough for two.

What follows is a perfect homage to Victorian adventure novels, with exotic settings, dastardly villains, sweet young lovers, a deadly threat…and Amelia.

Amelia is the masterstroke. She is bold and forceful and often right but frequently entertainingly blind to that which is directly in front of her. Peters has great fun in making this clear to the reader even as Amelia, our narrator, remains ignorant.

After learning of Evelyn’s tragic circumstances (but also her impeccable lineage), Amelia becomes determined to take care of her. Evelyn, far, far, far more rational than Amelia, points out that this seems inadvisable:

‘I might be a criminal! I might be vicious – unprincipled!’

‘No, no,’ I said calmly. ‘I have been accused of being somewhat abrupt in my actions and decisions, but I never act without thought; it is simply that I think more quickly and more intelligently than most people. I am an excellent judge of character. I could not be deceived about yours.’

Evelyn, starving and destitute, has her rescuer and Amelia finally has some colour in a life that has been far too quiet for far too many years.

Together the ladies continue on to Egypt where Peters, an Egyptologist, quickly and entertainingly guides us through the major tourist sights, presents to us the noted archaeologists of the day, and, most importantly, introduces us to two young men, the brothers Radcliffe and Walter Emerson. Walter and Evelyn are immediately dazzled by one another’s good looks, sweet personalities, and overall aura of kindness. Like Amelia, you can only look on in approval. Elder brother Radcliffe, generally called by his surname, and Amelia have a different and far more combative initial impact on one another.

Amelia and Evelyn set out in a dahabeya to cruise the Nile and coincidentally (nothing is coincidental when Amelia is involved) find themselves visiting the site the Emerson brothers are excavating. Soon they are an integral part of the excavation team, which is thrilling enough, but then mysterious things begin to happen. Can the ghostly shape that seems to be disturbing them in the night truly be a mummy? No. Even they know that. Most of the time. But the truth is as sinister as any true Victorian pulp novelist could have wished.

I read this book first in my early teens and didn’t appreciate it. I was still at a stage in my reading when I wanted protagonists to be relatable. Amelia was so old (how things change!) and rigid and didn’t she know how ridiculous she was? I put it down without thinking of reading on.

I came back to it in my late teens as though it was an entirely different book. It wasn’t but I was an entirely different person, one who was finally capable of appreciating Peters’ comic brilliance. I adored it and read on through the entire series (or at least the seventeen books that were then available).

The series is fantastic and I’m thinking of rereading it in full this year. Amelia mellows with time, which is necessary to sustain our sympathy for several decades, and other enticing characters are introduced, but the freshness of Crocodile on the Sandbank does fade away a little. Other pleasures replace it (young Ramses! Older Ramses!) but Peters was free to have such fun with this first book and it shows. It is never anything but a delight to reread it.

Read Full Post »

How to Run Your Home Without Help – Kay Smallshaw

Posted in A Century of Books, Kay Smallshaw, Non-fiction, Persephone on January 26, 2020| 12 Comments »

Searching about for something quick to read for this weekend’s mini Persephone readathon, I settled on How to Keep Your Home Without Help by Kay Smallshaw. It’s been sitting unread on my shelves since late 2011 so this was the perfect excuse to delve into it.

Published in 1949, this detailed housekeeping guide is targeted at the young housewife so I couldn’t help but think of my grandmothers as I was reading it. Born in 1920 and 1921, they were both married at the time this book was released, running their own homes, and carrying for small daughters (and presumably a little bit for large husbands). And I can confidently say that if they had read this book they would have a) laughed heartily at it and then b) throw it against a wall.

In terms of actual cleaning tips, the book has plenty of helpful suggestions that still stand. It assumes complete idiocy so if you grew up in a hovel and never saw someone vacuum a room you would be well served by it. However, idiots from hovels are not actually the target audience. Smallshaw has a very clear idea of her readers’ upbringing, as she makes clear with assumptions throughout the book as to how her readers grew up:

Mother was not so far wrong when she insisted that all the rooms must be “turned out” every week. Mother, however, had regular help. She did the cooking herself and she had a washer-woman in weekly so that she could concentrate on housework alone.

This, clearly, is where she would have lost my grandmothers (actually, the upholstery whisk mentioned as a key piece of equipment might have done that. But if they’d made it past that, this would have done it). My Canadian grandmother grew up on a dairy farm. Her mother decidedly did not have regular help and the cleanliness of the house was secondary to the cleanliness of the dairy. My Czech grandmother, on the other hand, grew up in middle class comfort, with a governess, a chauffeur, a cook, and a cleaner. She was never taught to cook, never mind clean, on the assumption that she would always have staff to do it for her. You needed to know how to set a menu, not cook it. More importantly, she grew up with the assumption that she’d be going to university and then getting a job – something that clearly never troubled the mind of Smallshaw’s ideal reader.

Both my grandmothers ended up having very different lives than their mothers but both were united in one attitude: to be houseproud is a sin when there are so many more important things in life. Whereas for Smallshaw, it seems that being houseproud is a woman’s entire raison d’etre. (See Perfect Wives in Ideal Homes by Virgina Nicholson for a full portrait of this claustrophobic mindset.)

When Smallshaw sticks to cleaning basics, it’s not too contentious (except for her bold statement that it doesn’t matter if you dust or do the floors first. This is madness – always dust first. No arguments). Her standards are insane and clearly meant to occupy a bored housewife by finding as many unnecessary things as possible for her to fill her day with. Your home would in fact be sparkling but your mind would be screaming out for stimulation if you allowed yourself to be held captive by your possessions in this way. She has helpful and deeply condescending tips to save yourself from the heavy work, such as “A clever wife induces the husband to regard the boiler as his special province!” The exclamation point is a dagger to the heart.

While I trust her cleaning tips (but not the deranged schedule she recommends), I am less confident that following her cooking tips would yield good results. Her idea to make efficient use of the steamers seems particularly unappetizing:

Use the bottom of the steamer for a light sponge pudding or batter. The next compartment will take potatoes, and on the top, fillets of fish between two plates.

If my grandmothers had made it through the upholstery whisk, and miraculously through the assumptions about what their mothers had done, I know their contempt for Smallshaw would finally have peaked in the chapter on budgeting. In “helpfully” guiding her simpleminded readers, Smallshaw advises: You’ll be remarkably lucky if your estimated expenditure comes within your income! At this stage, you and your husband will probably agree on the housekeeping allowance you can have…The idea that they would have let their husbands be involved in managing the money is the laughable one. My Canadian grandmother broke free of the farm after high school and worked in a bank, where she eventually became assistant manager during the war. Even without such formal training, it was the norm in many farming families for the wife to manage the money. They usually had more education than their husbands (who often left school at the start of their teen years) and were more confident with numbers. My other grandmother ended up in a dual-income house where, aside from doing the shopping and sometimes cooking Sunday lunch, households duties were pretty evenly shared. The idea of him “letting” her have a portion of their shared income would not have gone over well – and I presume it would never even occurred to him.

Smallshaw concludes the book with a bit of an about face. After extolling the virtues of obsessive cleaning, she then concedes that her readers may eventually have children, at which point standards collapse entirely. If the reader had made it through to the end, perhaps this would have given them some hope. It is a welcome acknowledgement of reality after many pages of fantasy.

Read Full Post »

The Very Beautiful and the Very Bad

Posted in A Century of Books, Cola Franzen, Dorothy Evelyn Smith, Fiction, Poetry on January 5, 2020| 8 Comments »

Well Walk from New End Square by George Charlton

It’s been an absolutely beautiful Sunday here and, despite having been determined to do lots of reading this weekend, I have been weak. Instead I’ve been enjoying the pale winter sunlight and the spring-like temperatures. Sunshine in winter – especially in a Vancouver winter – always feels like a gift. The more typical torrential rains will return soon enough (tomorrow, to be precise) so to waste such weather would have been unforgiveable.

Despite neglecting my books this weekend, I have managed to get some reading done already this year. I’ve somehow managed four books, though none of them were very long or challenging. Two were pleasant and forgettable but I’d thought I’d share a little about the two extremes: one which was very beautiful and one which turned out to be very bad.

My least favourite, and by far the most scarring, was Brief Flower by Dorothy Evelyn Smith. Originally published in 1966 (and, as far as I can tell, never republished thank goodness), it is the story of Bunny’s adolescence, those last years of childhood as she matures into adulthood, told many years later by the adult Bunny. Raised in squalor and hunger by Laurie, an unsuccessful author with a drinking problem, and the equally useless Madge on the Yorkshire coast, Bunny has no idea who her parents were and, when we meet her at the age of ten or eleven, doesn’t seem particularly to care. She hates being cold and hungry and not having any clothes that fit her but loves her wild life at the farm and adores Laurie (despite him literally belting her when he’s had too much to drink). But then her wealthy grandfather appears and Bunny goes away to live with him for a year, after which she must decide which home – and which set of loved ones – to stay with. The story follows her for the next few years, though the “brief flower” of her youth, and I HATED it. It’s so disappointing because Smith’s writing is good and her supporting characters are truly excellent, but the entire story is overwhelmed by bizarrely sexual overtones right from the beginning (when, let’s remember, Bunny is about 11). And the ending was so off-putting that I feel sullied for having read it. I’m not a particularly sensitive reader but this was such a jarring combination of factors that the end result was very disappointing. If you see this one, pass right on by.

Far more successful was Poems of Arab Andalusia translated by Cola Franzen. I first became interested in the Arab poets of Andalusia when I read The Lions of Al-Rassan by Guy Gavriel Kay. Kay’s books are infused with poetry and I loved the style of the verses. It pushed me to read some of the works that had inspired Kay and ever since I’ve been happy to pick up any volumes that come my way. This year, as I’m planning a trip to Andalusia for the autumn, I plan to be reading even more.

This is a slim book originally published in 1989 but its roots go back to the 1920s, when the versions the translations are based on were originally published by Emilo Garcia Gomez. The poems themselves of course date back much further, to the 10th through 13th centuries when much of modern-day Spain was ruled by the Islamic Moors.

The poems are sensual and beautiful and my favourite was “Remembering Silves” by King Al-Mu’tamid of Seville, the 11th century “Poet King”, who was dethroned and lived his final years far from the home he loved:

Well, Abū Bakr,
greet my home place in Silves
and ask the people there
if, as I think, they still remember me.

Greet the Palace of the Balconies
on behalf of a young man
still nostalgic for that place.

Warriors like lions lived there
and white gazelles
in what beautiful forests
and in what beautiful lairs!

How many pleasurable nights I spent
in the shadow of the palace
with women of opulent hips
and delicate waists:

blonds and brunettes.
My soul remembers them
as shining swords and dark lances.

With one girl I spent
many delicious nights
beside the bend of the river.
Her bracelet resembled
the curve of the current

and as the hours went by
she offered me the wine
of her glance or that of her glass
and sometimes that of her lips.

The strings of her lute
wounded by the plectrum
caused me to shiver
as if I had heard a melody
played by swords on the
neck tendons of the enemy.

When she took off her cloak
and revealed her waist,
a flowering willow branch,
it was like a bud
opening to reveal a flower.

I’m not usually a poetry lover but how could anyone fail to love that?

Read Full Post »

Home from the Vinyl Café – Stuart McLean

Posted in A Century of Books, Canadiana, Fiction, Humour, Short Stories, Stuart McLean on December 23, 2018| 4 Comments »

For me and many other Canadians (and enlightened Americans living near the border), one of the much-anticipated pleasures of the holiday season for many years was listening to Stuart McLean debut a new Christmas story on his CBC radio show. You knew you could tune in and spend half an hour that would lead you from collapsing with hysterical laughter to blinking back surprisingly emotional tears. It was a wonderful tradition.

Stuart passed away from cancer in February 2017 so intellectually I know there are no more stories coming. But emotionally, I know nothing of the sort. I long for his characteristically humorous and touching stories this time of the year and, even if Stuart is no longer around to read them, we still have his books to keep us company. And so, earlier this week, I found myself reaching for Home from the Vinyl Café.

Published in 1998, this was Stuart’s second volume of Vinyl Café stories. The Vinyl Café was the name of his radio program but it was also the name of the record shop run by Dave, the hapless hero of his stories. Dave, his wife Morley, and their children, Stephanie and Sam, were the focus of twenty-odd years of radio stories as Stuart chronicled their lives in a normal Toronto neighbourhood with stories of neighbourhood rivalries and friendships, social faux pas (something Dave was particularly subject too), Stephanie and Sam’s growing pains and Dave and Morley’s nostalgia for their own childhoods. They were wonderful stories and this book is a particularly wonderful collection of them.

It begins with the first – and one of the very best – of the Vinyl Café Christmas stories: “Dave Cooks the Turkey”. This appears to be available on the CBC website (here – this story starts around 24:30) so if you’re able to listen, go now and do so. It will be time well spent. Just make sure you’re somewhere you can laugh uproariously without alarming too many people. Dave’s wife Morley, after years of carrying the burden of all the holiday preparations as well as the day-to-day administering of their busy family, accepts Dave’s offer to help with Christmas this year: Dave can cook the turkey. He commits, happy to make a small offering towards marital harmony, but realises only on Christmas Eve that he has forgotten to buy the turkey. Determined to have the perfect Christmas dinner ready for his family (who are conveniently out of the house volunteering for most of Christmas day), he uses all of his ingenuity to acquire and cook a bird. But the path he takes is far from conventional and the results are hysterically funny.

The next story in the collection is one of my all-time favourites and could not be more different from “Dave Cooks the Turkey”. “Holland” tells the story of how Dave and Morley met in the 1970s and their early married life. It’s a story about the struggles to combine lives and traditions, and the work – and love, and patience – that is required to make that happen. It’s a beautiful story and one that has stayed fresh in my mind ever since I first heard all those years ago. Someone has helpfully uploaded it to YouTube so you can listen here (it’s been split into two parts).

There are some other equally classic stories in this book – “Burd”, about what happens when a rare bird decides to winter in Dave and Morley’s backyard, and “Polly Anderson’s Christmas Party”, which involves an awkward neighbourhood gathering and a mix up with the eggnog bowls – but others I’d forgotten. So many of the stories look at the anxiety Dave and Morley feel as parents, worrying about Sam and music lessons, or Stephanie and teenage romances, and they show what Stuart could do so well: make fun of the little things while always staying true to the heart of the matter.

I love these stories. I have read them countless times and I will read them countless more, alongside all the other volumes of Stuart’s books. They bring me great pleasure at this and any other time of year and I hope, if they’re not already a part of your life, you will give them a try. I can’t imagine them not bringing you joy.

Read Full Post »

The Truth About Blayds – A.A. Milne

Posted in A Century of Books, A.A. Milne, Play on November 14, 2018| Leave a Comment »

Reading The Truth About Blayds by A.A. Milne, I had no difficultly understanding why it was one of Milne’s favourites of his many plays. Written in 1920, during his most productive period, it is devoted to the thing he loved to write about most: middle class struggles with morality. And, for once, that struggle doesn’t take the form of bigamy, something we can only be thankful for (see Mr Pim Passes By, Michael and Mary, and, to some extent, Belinda for Milne’s delight in that subject).

We open on the household of Blayds, the great Victorian poet, the (as some call him) “Supreme Songster of an Earlier Epoch”. His family is gathering to celebrate his birthday, which is delightful because it gives Milne a chance to introduce them all one at a time. Milne excels at character descriptions in his stage directions and he surpasses his usual genius here. Those gathering include Blayds’ two adult daughters, his grandson and granddaughter, and his overly attentive son-in-law. It is for this son-in-law that Milne truly shines:

William Blayds-Conway was obviously meant for the Civil Service. His prim neatness, his gold pince-nez, his fussiness would be invaluable in almost any Department. However, running Blayds is the next best thing to running the Empire.

Can’t you just picture him? A man who not only added his wife’s name to his own upon marriage but who has made it his life’s work to serve as secretary to his great father-in-law, curating every slip of paper that has passed through Blayds’ blessed hands, recording every word he utters in order to capture the brilliance for posterity. Blayds, old but no fool, can see exactly what his son-in-law is doing and what the future will bring, as he explains to a birthday visitor, Mr Royce:

Blayds: My son-in-law, Mr Royce, meditates after my death a little book called “Blaydsiana.” He hasn’t said so, but I see it written all over him. In addition, you understand, to the official life in two volumes. There may be another one called “On the Track of Blayds in the Cotswolds” but I am not certain of this yet.

While Mr Blayds-Conway is happy to have his life’s direction set by his relationship to Blayds, his children are not. Both daughter and son feel that they are held slightly captive, particularly twenty-something Oliver who has found himself working in politics despite his love of mechanics:

Oliver: Do you think I want to be a private secretary to a dashed politician? What’s a private secretary at his best but a superior sort of valet? I wanted to be a motor engineer. Not allowed. Why not? Because the Blayds in Blayds-Conway wouldn’t have been any use. But politicians simply live on that sort of thing.

They need to live up to the Blayds name and find that takes quite a lot of work.

But then the critical discovery is made that Blayds’ fame is based on a grand deception. This comes after his death so there are many things for the family consider. Money, legacy, and the value of their own name all weigh heavily as they try to decide what to do. Perhaps the Blayds name wasn’t such a curse, not really, not when it came with respect and a healthy income, and served to open so many doors into the best places. As the Blayds-Conway family members rationalise their selfish instincts into a protective cocoon of moral comfort, Blayds’ younger daughter and the journalist Conway can only look on in amazement and repulsion.

It’s all very neatly done, with excellent dialogue throughout and a tidy ending, but it doesn’t have as much heart as Milne’s best plays. Here it seems the concept was very much the thing, not the characters. He carries it off very well but I still longed for the world of The Great Broxopp or, bigamy and all, Michael and Mary, with real-feeling characters.

Read Full Post »

More Anne: Anne of Avonlea and Anne of the Island by L.M. Montgomery

Posted in A Century of Books, Children/Young Adult, Fiction, Lucy Maud Montgomery on November 12, 2018| 35 Comments »

After reading Anne of Green Gables in July, I was reminded of an eternal truth about books in a series: you can never read just one. Or at least I can’t, particularly when it is this series which so dominated my childhood reading. How could I leave Anne after just one book? So I read on, quickly progressing through first Anne of Avonlea and then Anne of the Island.

Anne of Avonlea is an odd book or perhaps it is just a very typical second book, written in a rush to capitalise on the extraordinary success of Anne of Green Gables. Published in 1909, only a year after Anne’s debut, Montgomery seems to have lost her sense of humour – and her sense of characterization. When the first book ended, Anne was maturing and recognizing (with humour) her tendency towards indulging in overly dramatic flights of fancy. In this book, she embraces those melodramatic tendencies wholeheartedly, becomes dreamier than ever without ever really coming back down to earth, and is insufferably condescending to her more prosaic friends. She has relapsed to a stage which readers of the first book thought she had outgrown and no one benefits from it. (There is a very good discussion of this in The Fragrance of Sweet-Grass by Elizabeth Rollins Epperly.)

The book still has its moments but Montgomery, desperately short of plot ideas, covers by introducing new characters at every turn. We meet Mr Harrison, a grouchy farmer with a foul-mouthed parrot; Davy and Dora, twin relatives who Marilla takes in after they are orphaned; Paul Irving, the most sickeningly sweet child ever written; and Miss Lavendar, who is even more prone to silly fantasies than Anne. None of these count as improvements to Avonlea society, as far as I’m concerned.

As usual, it is Anne’s humblest adventures that are the most entertaining. Montgomery writing about ethereal fantasies and really anything involving Paul Irving is insufferable. Montgomery writing about village gossip is delightful. The disastrous repainting of the church is one of the book’s greatest moments and Anne’s horror at having to strap one of her misbehaving students – and then find he respects her more for it, thereby crushing all her high ideals – is marvellous. And these moments are made better because they offer not just Anne’s perspective but a whole array of them, from besotted but still level-headed Gilbert Blythe, from sharp tongued Rachel Lynde, and from quietly amused Marilla.

If Anne of Avonlea is both frustrating and disappointing, Anne of the Island, happily, is an entirely different experience.

Published in 1915, Montgomery has several years to figure out how to next approach Anne’s story (and to write many sentimental stories and novels to expunge her overly dramatic tendencies). The result is the 2^nd best book in the series and one of the most important books of my childhood.

The novel covers Anne’s four years of college, which takes her away from Avonlea and from Prince Edward Island entirely, over to Redmond College in Kingsport, Nova Scotia (a fictionalised version of Dalhousie University in Halifax, where Montgomery studied). She is accompanied by some familiar faces, Charlie Sloane and Gilbert Blythe, and joins up with friends Priscilla Grant and Stella Maynard, who she met at teacher’s school in Anne of Green Gables. And, most importantly, she makes two very important new friends over her four years: Philippa Gordon and Roy Gardner.

Roy Gardner enters Anne’s life during her third year of college, an answer to all of her romantic fantasies. Having by this point survived – and rebuffed – multiple marriage proposals (most very easily, with due horror, but one with great pain) since none of the men matched her vision of a future husband, it is almost too perfect when Roy appears in the midst of a rainstorm, perfection made flesh:

Tall and handsome and distinguished-looking – dark, melancholy, inscrutable eyes – melting, musical, sympathetic voice – yes, the very hero of her dreams stood before her in the flesh. He could not have more closely resembled her ideal if he had been made to order.

But ideal men aren’t very interesting – a fact the reader recognizes long before Anne. Roy is clearly a red herring but it is easy to understand why a wealthy, worldly, handsome man who adores her has so much appeal. He is so far removed from the Avonlea boys she’s grown up with, although the Redmond girls seem to think the Avonlea boys have a certain appeal, especially handsome, intelligent, and determined Gilbert Blythe, now studying to become a doctor. Really, there is no doubt that Anne and Gilbert will end up together but my god does Montgomery put her readers through an emotional rollercoaster before that happy ending comes.

The other character of note is the marvellous Philippa Gordon. I loved everything about this book as a child but it has only been on rereading it as an adult that I’ve recognized how much Philippa enriches the story. Philippa is a contradiction from her very first introduction: a beauty from a wealthy Nova Scotian family, she could have married well (to her choice of suitor – both Alec and Alonzo are waiting for her still) but chose instead to come and study mathematics at university. Despite an active social schedule through all four years, Philippa handles her academics with aplomb and sits at the top of the class. And, perhaps most importantly, she can do what Anne cannot do: acknowledge when she is wrong, recognize a chance at happiness, and go after it with all her considerable energy and determination.

Phil and Anne approach their romances from very different perspectives. Anne has dreamed of her ideal man for years. She knows just what he will look like, has devoted considerable time to composing his perfect speeches, and can envision an idyllic future spent staring into one another’s eyes. For her, the idea that Roy Gardner, her fantasy made flesh, won’t be as satisfying a life partner as Gilbert Blythe, her intellectual equal who would rather work beside her than worship her, is one she fights against. She has a fixed vision and it is one that she sticks to. When she finally consults her heart, it is almost too late.

Phil, on the other hand, never believed in romance. She believed in marriage, certainly, and expected that one day she would marry one of the rich young men from her social circle and settle down to a life like the one she’d always lived. Her time at Redmond is her way of postponing – at least for four years – having to decide which of the interchangeable eligible young men she will accept. She throws herself into university life and has a marvellous time. But then something changes. She meets Jonas Blake, an awkward young minister, and that’s it. Jonas is exactly the sort of man Phil has always joked about not being tempted by – ugly, poor, and far from at ease in company – but she falls in love almost immediately. And when Jonas doesn’t dare to think she could be interested in him, she makes it very clear that she is. Phil, knowing what she wants, is not going to let her chance at happiness slip away.

Nor is she about to let Anne do the same. Marilla and Rachel Lynde may want to tell Anne that she is making a mistake by rejecting Gilbert, but they don’t. Phil, on the other hand, is more than ready to do so. Repeatedly. For years. Phil is not afraid of a little blunt talking and I love her for it. As a child who found Anne too whimsical and Diana too timid, Phil was the first Montgomery character – and one of the first literary characters – I ever truly identified with. And that hasn’t change remotely in the 23 years that have passed since I first encountered her.

Anne of the Island isn’t quite as good as Anne of Green Gables but it is close. I could write about it endlessly but I’ll save that for another day. I’ve read it countless times already and I shall certainly return to it again. And again. And again…

Read Full Post »

The Great Broxopp – A.A. Milne

Posted in A Century of Books, A.A. Milne, Play on November 2, 2018| 6 Comments »

The Great Broxopp by A.A. Milne is often referred to as prophetic. Written in 1921, it features a man who feels his life has been blighted by his father’s commercial success with the baby food he used his infant son to advertise. Milne’s own son was still an infant when this was written – years away from being immortalized as Christopher Robin – but the parallels are very clear. But, sadly for Milne, the fictional son is much more forgiving than his real one would one day be.

The play opens, perfectly, on young Mrs Broxopp conferring with her maid of all work, giving instant insight into the family finances:

Nancy: Yes, Mary?

Mary: It’s about the dinner, ma’am.

Nancy: (With a sigh.) Yes, I was afraid it was. It isn’t a very nice subject to talk about, is it, Mary?

Mary: Well, ma’am, it has its awkwardness like.

Nancy: (After a pause, but not very hopefully.) How is the joint looking?

Mary: Well, it’s past looking like anything very much.

Nancy: Well, there’s the bone.

Mary: Yes, there’s the bone.

Nancy: (Gaily.) Well, there we are, Mary. Soup.

Mary: If you remember, ma’am, we had soup yesterday.

Nancy: (Wistfully.) Couldn’t you – couldn’t you squeeze it again, Mary?

Mary: It’s past squeezing, ma’am – in this world.

Broxopp, you see, is not yet great. But the first act is brief and by the time we meet him again twenty odd years later, greatness has been achieved. A born salesman, he has built a successful business and established a comfortable life. He and his wife live in a large home in the best part of town. They have a butler who used to work for a duke. Their son, Jack, went through Eton and Oxford and is now pursuing his dream of becoming an artist (heavily subsidized by his father). They have the success they dreamed of and are proud of it, with the Great Broxopp still excited each day to look for ways to make the business – and the name of Broxopp – even greater.

Young Jack, on the other hand, wants to abandon the name entirely. He has fallen in love and plans to marry the lovely, eminently sensible Iris. But Iris – and even more importantly Iris’s father, the masterful Sir Roger Tenterden – can’t stomach the name of Broxopp and the commercial activities that it is associated with. Jack, for his part, is more than happy to abandon a name that has plagued him all his life:

Jack: I’m simply fed up with Broxopp’s Beans.

Broxopp: (Surprised.) But – but you haven’t had them since you were a baby.

Jack: (Seeing the opening.) Haven’t had them? Have I ever stopped having them? Weren’t they rammed down my throat at school till I was sick of them? Did they ever stop pulling my leg about them at Oxford? Can I go anywhere without seeing that beastly poster – a poster of me – me, if you please – practically naked – telling everybody that I love my Beans. (Bitterly.) Love them! Don’t I see my name – Broxopp, Broxopp, Broxopp – everywhere in every size of lettering – on every omnibus, on every hoarding; spelt out in three colours at night – B-R-O-X-O-P-P – until I can hardly bear the sight of it. Free bottles given away on my birthday, free holidays for Broxopp mothers to celebrate my coming of age! I’m not a man at all. I’m just a living advertisement of Beans.

Broxopp shows his greatness in what he does next. He accepts his son’s point of view and, to smooth his son’s way into a respectable future with no taint of business, he sells the business and changes the family name to Chillingham, his wife’s maiden name. And then they retire to the country to live sedate, unexceptional lives in beautiful surroundings.

When we meet them again, all seems to be going well enough but the Great Broxopp is not so great anymore. Country life does not suit him and he yearns to be back at work, to have something to strive for every day. Jack is married but still living off his parents, not making much of an effort at his art, and Iris’s father, Sir Roger, has been left in charge of everyone’s money but will tell no one about any of it. And then the inevitable happens: the money disappears. Mismanaged by Sir Roger (with a final, artful push from Mrs Broxopp), the Broxopp fortune is lost. But the loss brings a new beginning for everyone and no one could be happier than the Great Broxopp, now facing a challenge worthy of his ambitions.

Milne’s dialogue is not up to his snappiest best but I loved this play. It had a huge amount of heart and the central relationship between Mr and Mrs Broxopp was wonderful, a true and supportive partnership. They worked together to build Broxopp’s Beans and we have no doubt as the play ends that they will work together again to make the name of Chillingham just as great.

Knowing Milne’s life, it’s not difficult to see the factors from his own life at play here. From all I know of Daphne Milne, I suspect her family would have shared Sir Roger’s prejudices about being too closely associated with business. And I know for certain Milne himself felt that work and success were something to be proud of and celebrated, not looked down upon. But the one thing he couldn’t foresee was that he would put his own son under a spotlight many, many times greater than the one Jack Broxopp grew up in. And his son, unlike Jack Broxopp, would never quite forgive him for it.

Read Full Post »

Talks with T.G. Masaryk – Karel Čapek

Posted in A Century of Books, Karel Čapek, Memoir/Biography, Non-fiction on October 28, 2018| 2 Comments »

Today is the 100th anniversary of the founding of Czechoslovakia. It was the day the Czech and Slovak people gained their independence after hundreds of years of Hapsburg rule, ushering in a new era of democracy, liberalism, and tolerance. It was a brief era (twenty years later the Nazis invaded) but a glorious one. And no one epitomised the spirit of the new nation like its first president, Tomáš Garrigue Masaryk.

Masaryk was 68 years old when he became president. Born to estate workers in Moravia, he’d followed a long path to the presidency and had been tireless in his quest for reform and freedom. And he was loved for it. He served as president for 17 years, until 1935, and in the early years conducted a series of extraordinary interviews with the much-loved author, Karel Čapek. The result of these interviews – although interview is hardly the right word for it, really it is musings that Čapek was around to capture – were several books that in 1995 were condensed into a single translated volume for English-speakers called simply Talks with T.G. Masaryk by Karel Čapek. The book is in Masaryk’s voice, which is a wonderful way of getting a sense of the man himself.

The collection has been laid out to follow the chronology of Masaryk’s life, beginning with his childhood in Moravia. His father was Slovak and his mother a German-speaking Moravian and those were the languages Masaryk grew up speaking. German was spoken all through school (as was typical throughout Austria-Hungary), making it easy to progress to university in Vienna, but when Masaryk moved to Prague years later to take up a teaching post he was uncomfortably conscious of his poor Czech.

He had fond memories of his parents and somewhat rural upbringing but also acknowledged the limitations of such a life:

A boy in an out-of-the-way village has few living examples of anything beyond his circle of farmers and artisans: the teacher, the chaplain and dean, the owners of the estate and their servants, and a merchant perhaps. What a boy becomes is determined not so much by his gifts as by the opportunities closest at hand.

A passion for helping young people runs throughout the interviews. Masaryk had founded a social democracy that firmly believed in helping people make the most of themselves. He thought about education and infrastructure and, constantly, health. He believed deeply that the nation’s systems and institutions had to be crafted in a way that benefited the people. They are ideas that sound very familiar to political discussions going on in certain supposedly developed countries even today:

…take health. I can’t understand why we’ve thought so little about playgrounds, swimming pools, and parks for children. The poorer the district, the more such facilities are needed: poor districts have more children. With the proper watering we can have the same grassy playgrounds as England. Here again it’s a question of money, yet putting money into children is the best investment there is.

But perhaps his most modern-seeming views were on the equality of the sexes. Masaryk was an unapologetic feminist. He was devoted to his American wife, Charlotte, and took her maiden name (Garrigue) as part of his. Guided by logic and reason as always, he could see no reason to treat women differently than men:

How can people ask, I wonder, whether woman is man’s equal? How can the mother who bears a child not be equal to the father? And if a man truly loves, how can he love someone beneath him? I see no difference between the endowments of men and women…

He believed firmly in marriage but was progressive as well, recognizing that divorce had its place in the society he envisioned:

The greatest argument for monogamy is love. True love – love without reservation, the love of one whole being for another – does not pass with the passing years or even death. One man and one woman for life, fidelity till death – that is how I see it. Happy is the man or woman who has lived a rigorously monogamous life. Yes, I am for divorce; I am for divorce because I want marriage to be love and not commerce or convention, not a senseless or thoughtless union.

Always a modest man, Masaryk believed in simple living. His dictates in aid of this occur throughout the book and make clear that he probably wasn’t a huge amount of fun on a Friday night. He gave up even modest drinking at 50, did not smoke, ate simply and sparingly (his details his menu at one point), and was devoted to his daily exercise regime (Sokol exercises and horseback riding). When living in exile in London, he lived cheaply and would travel by bus to meetings with government officials and world leaders and then dine at a Lyons café, where he appreciated that you could “get a decent meal for ten or fifteen pence.”

In the end, his prescription for a long life was simple:

It shouldn’t be a feat to live to a hundred, but no tricks or gimmicks will get us there, that’s for sure. Fresh air and sunshine; moderate food and drink; a moral life and a job involving muscles, heart, and brain; people to care for and a goal to strive for – that’s the macrobiotic recipe of success. Oh, and a keen interest in life, because an interest in life is tantamount to life itself, and without it and without love, life ceases to exist.

Reading these passages felt eerie, in a way. It was like hearing my great-grandfather speak, a man whose edicts for how to live were passed down from his children to their children to their children and now they are being passed again to the newest generation. It is no surprise that he was a huge fan of Masaryk.

But, helpful as such guidance is, health tips are not what made Masaryk so beloved. As staunch as he was in his personal habits, he was stauncher still in his beliefs. His devotion to democracy was absolute and he was that rare man who did not change with power, whose beliefs held strong and fast for decades and guided first him and then an entire nation forward. It was something he was rightly very proud of:

Should I be asked what I consider the high point of my life I would not say it was being elected president…It comes from having relinquished nothing as head of state that I believed in and loved as a penniless student, a teacher of youth, a nagging critic, and a political reformer, from having found no need in my position of power for any moral law or relationship to my fellow man, my nation, and the world but those which guided me before…I have not had to change one item of my faith in humanity and democracy, in my search for truth, or in my reliance on the supreme moral and religious commandment to “love they neighbour.”

My great-grandmother’s proudest story was of how Masaryk, whose estate shared a wall with her garden, used to ride past on his morning constitutional and admire her roses. The roses were already the pride of her life (her four children were modestly appreciated, too) but to have the great man stop and tell her of their beauty made both them and him even more precious to her. He was that sort of man – he appreciated small things and was thoughtful enough to show that appreciation.

Masaryk served as president until 1935 and died two years later at the age of 87. He left behind a robust democracy with a thriving economy. Thank god he did not live to see what came next. Would things have been different if “the Grand Old Man of Europe” had survived a few years more? Would Czechoslovakia’s allies have been so quick to desert them in 1938 if he had been there? Who knows.

Masaryk believed in human progress and that “The future is with us now. If we choose the best of what we have now, we’ll be on the right road; we’ll have extended our lives with a piece of the future.” He was an extraordinary politician and statesman then and, sadly, is no less extraordinary today. He is a reminder of what we all can and should be. And, thankfully, he has not yet been forgotten. In fact, a film has just been released dramatizing these conversations between Masaryk and Čapek. It seems unlikely to make its way into the English-speaking world but one can hope.

This post contains affiliate links from Book Depository, an online book retailer with free international shipping. If you buy via these links it means I receive a small commission (at no extra cost to you).

Read Full Post »

Rosabelle Shaw – D.E. Stevenson

Posted in A Century of Books, D.E. Stevenson, Fiction on October 16, 2018| 8 Comments »

Five years ago in the late and lamented Slightly Foxed bookshop in Gloucester Road, I picked up Rosabelle Shaw by D.E. Stevenson (alongside a handful of other books). I’d discovered D.E.S. a few years before but had never heard of this title. I assumed it was obscure for good reason (already recognizing the varied quality of D.E.S.’s output) but for a meager £4 wanted to find out for myself. So home it came with me only to languish for five years unread until I picked it up this August when I was home sick with a cold.

Unusually for D.E.S., this is a historical piece. Opening in Edinburgh in the 1890s, we meet vivacious young Fanny who has caught the eye of the steady, determined farmer John Shaw. The two are soon wed and Fanny finds herself living on John’s well-managed farm in East Lothian, unsure how to handle both rural life and marriage. So far familiar stuff for fans of D.E.S. Fanny is sweet and charming and finds a friend in the old local doctor and amusing – but useful – guidance in an old book. The marriage is off to happy start and a daughter, Rosabelle, arrives followed a few years later by a son.

But the Shaw’s calm family life is disrupted by the arrival of a young boy, the only survivor of a mysterious shipwreck. Saved by John Shaw, Fanny takes the orphaned child into her home and it is not long before the two are closely bonded. Jay, the boy, grows into a jealous, calculating child and Fanny’s championing of him causes an understandable rift with John. Her own children try to accept Jay as a sibling and playmate but his moody, brooding ways make it difficult.

The book then jumps forward to the eve of WWI. Jay, uncharacteristically affable and forging a strong bond with his adopted father, is as dangerous as ever – especially to Rosabelle, who finds herself deeply attracted to him despite knowing how untrustworthy he is. Meanwhile, her neighbour Tom watches with concern…

D.E.S. is hardly a known for her consistency but this is an unusually uneven novel, with abrupt mood changes and an embarrassingly loose plot with far too many cardboard characters. And yet, that said, it was the perfect undemanding read for my sick day. I loved the end of the book, with Rosabelle forging a friendly and loving partnership with Tom, having married him to provide a barrier from the alluring Jay but truly coming to love him. It is the exact opposite of the highly dramatic scenes with Jay and far more in keeping with D.E.S.’s usual style, which she was still developing in 1937 when this was first published. She’d only written a handful of books then and hadn’t yet settled into the light romances she would do so capably for the next three decades. She still had a bit of melodrama left to get out of her system – Rochester’s Wife was published in 1940 – but it’s clear her lighter side was trying to break through while writing this. The result is messy but a very interesting read for any D.E.S. fan.

Read Full Post »

Weekend at Thrackley – Alan Melville

Posted in A Century of Books, Alan Melville, Fiction, Mystery on October 14, 2018| 12 Comments »

I try to be a broadminded reader. I like to try new authors, read topics I know nothing about, and sample different genres. But the one genre I’ve never been able to take much interest in is crime. This could be because a) I have no idea what distinguishes crime novels from mysteries so am happy to lump them both together under the heading of “Things I Do Not Much Like” and b) I have absolutely no appetite for anything violent. I don’t find it difficult to read, I just don’t see the point. My desire for cliffhangers and uncertainty is nil. So, while I’ve admired the stylish British Library Crime Classics that have been released over the last few years, I’ve never felt tempted to pick one up. Never, that is, until I heard about Weekend at Thrackley by Alan Melville.

So what made this one different? The premise sounded mildly interesting – a young man, our hero Jim Henderson, is invited to a house party hosted by Mr. Carson, a mysterious and decidedly shady jewel expert. But Jim doesn’t know the host and he and the other guests have nothing in common. Why are they there and what is in store for them? When I do dabble in the genre, I enjoy a good country house mystery so the omens seemed good. But what was even more promising was the book’s introduction, which stresses Melville’s admiration of A.A. Milne’s work, particularly The Red House Mystery, and the strong influence of Milne’s style on this work. After that, I had to read it. (And I also had to muse about Melville’s chosen penname. Did he chose Alan in homage to Alan Milne?)

The story was published in 1934, when Melville was in his mid-twenties. His hero, Jim Henderson, feels about that age but is actually a decade older and, after having served in the war, has spent several years struggling to find work. When we meet him, he is unemployed but optimistic despite his lack of marketable skills, as noted in his frank self-assessment:

Pleasant and extremely good-looking young man, aged thirty-four, possessing no talents or accomplishments beyond being able to give an imitation of Gracie Fields giving an imitation of Galli-Curci, with no relations and practically no money, seeks job

Though lacking in resources, Jim possesses that which is most important for the hero of any sort of mystery/thriller: an entertaining side-kick, in this case his old school friend, Freddie Usher. Freddie is a well-heeled chap, in possession of a sporty car, family heirlooms, and a great deal of leisure time. But his main value to us is as someone for Jim to exchange Milne-esque dialogue with, as when Jim asks for the loan of Freddie’s evening clothes:

“Sorry, old man. It’s impossible.”

“But, Freddie…”

“Impossible. Quite imposs.”

“Remember we were at school together.”

“Which merely shows a lack of discretion on the part of my parents, and has nothing whatever to do with the present question.”

Freddie, like all of Carson’s guests except the penniless and decidedly jewel-less Jim, is encouraged to bring his jewels along with him – in this case, the Usher diamonds. Not fishy at all. Alongside the two young men, the party is made up of a varied and mostly forgettable mix of people – the only exceptions being Lady Stone, a redoubtable doyen of charitable causes, and Carson’s lovely daughter Mary. And lurking in the background are Carson’s household staff, bruisers all of them. The weekend promises to be interesting.

And it is, mildly. I had fun reading this – the effortless pacing and snappy dialogue made it a quick read. But the plot itself is rather silly and a bit all over the place and the ending is marred by an overly dramatic reveal that serves no value at all. All in all, a pleasant but unmemorable foray into the unknown. It hasn’t made me one jot more interested in crime or mystery books but that would have been too much to expect from such a slight book.

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »