Dear Serial Readers,
Welcome to the world of Poor Miss Finch! The first ten chapters
(and the first three installments) introduce many of our key players, but first
we have to get through Madame Pratolungo. Who on earth is this woman and why is
she our narrator?
I was drawn to the specific,
antagonistic rhetorical relationship that she sets up with her readers. We know
from chapter one that she does not think of herself as holding the same values
as her implied audience. Where she is “ultra liberal,” we are “monarchy-people,
sitting fat and contented under tyrants.” Moreover, she sets up a similarly
divergent relationship with the provincial, English characters that fill the
rest of the novel. Why, I wonder, is this person our guide to the world of the
novel? Why do we need a woman who is both completely certain in her views and
frequently wrong to be our guide? She explains why she’s such a proper
companion for Lucilla, but what is it about her that makes her our fit
companion? Why does she get to
translate this world for us, much like she attempts to translate the world for
Miss Finch?
We might want to consider how
Madame Pratolungo’s role as the narrator relates to Oscar’s narrative of
near-incarceration. In “The Perjury of the Clock” we learn that he was almost
convicted of a murder because of mistaken evidence, or more precisely, because
of a mistaken reading of evidence. The case against Oscar seemed
incontrovertible, based on the given interviews and material evidence, until
the housecleaner’s story came to light. If we add in fact that two of the ten
chapter titles are “Candlelight View of the Man” and “Daylight View of the
Man,” the novel seems to set up a discussion around accuracy and individual
perception. If the same set of evidence can be understood in two different
ways, is one of the two options necessarily correct? When and where is there a
right way of seeing, both metaphorically and literally?
Next time, look forward to
Susan’s post on chapters 11-18, which include “Discoveries at Browndown” and
another appearance of my beloved Jicks.
Serially yours,
4 comments:
Thanks Rachel for these thoughts! I agree that Madame Pratolungo is an unsettling narrator--beware those strong, emphatic opinions! Her confidence in what she knows and sees is offset by Lucilla Finch's uncanny perception of touch--her eyes at the ends of her fingers, as Oscar puts it. Rather than believing what Madame P sees, maybe we're prompted to follow what Lucilla feels.
I couldn't help notice all the language around the sense of sight--staring especially--along with the role of curiosity so far in this story.
I'm curious not only about the outstanding little Jicks but about Oscar's twin Nugent--a visual double, serial characters!
I also found the serial breaks were full of suspense--such as the end of chapter seven when Madame P identifies Oscar as the murder suspect.
Finally, I'm curious to hear from other Serial Readers!
Serially starting, Susan
Dear all,
I'm also enjoying this novel's focus on vision and perception--especially that of Madame Pratolungo! As in some of Collins's other novels, this facility of sensation and perception is emphatically gendered: Madame Pratolungo commits an "offense" in chapter 4 when she exercises the male gaze--or at least something like it. She "look[s] at a gentleman" with the aim of rational analysis, and is then immediately called upon it ! The result is also striking here: "the most exceptional of all losses (where a woman is concerned)--the loss of my tongue."
I'm struck, like others of you, by the juxtaposition of this language of vision with that of Lucilla's feeling. Does Madame P succeed as Lucilla's prosthetic "eye"/ proxy? (Earlier Zillah tells her Lucilla "is going to try your eyes, now.") I look forward to reading--and seeing/ feeling--more...
Tamara
I enjoyed reading this post and the comments—thank you! In addition to the things already noted, I was struck by space, time, and violence (not all at once) in these chapters. I think I noticed the space first both in terms of Madame P’s former life and travels and in terms of her “voyage” to Lucilla’s and the contrast, once there, between the surrounding countryside and the interior. At one point the narrator notes, “On we went; now up, now down; now bending to the right, and now turning to the left. I looked about me. No house; no road; no paths, fences, hedges, walls; no land-marks of any sort” (chap 2). The complete absence of boundaries in this description intrigued me. Collins goes out of his way to take Madame P off the path and I wonder if this will have any relevance as the novel advances. Where are we going? There are no guideposts. When a guidepost does seem to appear with the description of the rectory as resembling “this narrative that I am now writing. It was in Two Parts” (chap 3), it seems to be a red herring since the Part the First of the novel does not in any way (I don’t think?) map on to Part the First of the house. The close attention to interior description was interesting here and especially the contrast between the messy, rambling, dirty first part (occupied by many people) and the clean, beautiful, bright, and well-maintained second part (occupied only by Lucilla and Zillah and now Madame P—or are there others?). The two sides of the house are part of the same building (just as the two parts of the novel compose one novel) and I wonder at this point how—if—they will relate to the plot. I’m also struck by the transitions between the interior and the roads outside on which the characters often walk and the countryside beyond which always brings up that early unbounded description. When we are told the story of the trial, it is also interesting that the case pivots on an interior and a housecleaner (re. the messy Part the First of the rectory) and a clock.
The clock brings me to time. Collins gives a lot of attention to space in these early chapters and yet time is always pressing at the edges—and especially the instability and inexactness of time (this story, we’re told in the first sentence, occurred “some years since”). What follows from paying attention to time? Lots more to say on this topic but I’m curious to see how time continues to unfold. (Actually, one more thing: the time of suspense seems to be radically foreshortened. We’re no sooner told that there’s a mystery about Oscar than it’s resolved. True, remaining mysterious factors persist but the main point is resolved when Oscar relates his tale to Madame P.)
Finally, I was surprised by Madame P’s violent imagination as well as the small and large acts of violence that occur in these early chapters. Consider, for example, the anecdote about the Mexican maid beating her husband “to a jelly from head to foot” (chap 5)—an act that Madame P would like to imitate! Other incidents include: the way Madame P hits Mr Dubourg sharply with her parasol (chap 7), her general desire to bully (chap 7), Jick’s “furious passion” which is described with a kind of violent intensity (chap 10), and of course the description of the murder itself. With respect to Madame P I wondered about the relationship between her proclivity for violence and her socialism and I wonder what Collins will do with such an explicitly political character. Will this aspect of her character continue to be stressed or will it recede? It is interesting that it dominates so much of these early chapters.
Just checked the notes in my edition for the meaning of Pratolungo and see that her name means “long meadow” which makes me think again of that first long scene of unbounded space when Madame P and Finch’s boy walk across the countryside.
And speaking of length, I’m not sure if there are any rules for how long these comments should be. Apologies if this is too long! Thanks so much for starting this serial reading blog.
All the best, Barbara Leckie
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