Dear Serial Readers,
This installment has more than a glimpse of Lucilla's interiority. I was especially taken with the momentous scene where Cavendish comes up to her in the street (chap 34) and the sense of anger and regret on each respective side that this match cannot come off. Here we learn that Lucilla's heart "fluttered" more than once, as Cavendish is on the brink of some kind of proposal or love confession. But propriety makes her follow on the course she's established, and she tells her favorite imposter (and brother of the mimic) that she hopes he marries Barbara. All this happens with her throat contracting, her heart fluttering, and with many explicit and pregnant "pauses" in her performance of this scene. And then afterward, the sense of a lost opportunity--Lucilla "a little sad in the solitude of her genius" with her unappreciated sacrifice. That she might have married Cavendish after all and rally to the great challenge of being a political wife--a "position which pleased her imagination, and suited her energies, and did not go against her heart," but instead she acts according to social laws that dictate she must marry within or above her class. Cavendish reminds me of some of Trollope's struggling heroes, Johnny Eames (whom some of us have met in these screen-pages) or even Phineas Finn--created *after* this novel. If only Lucilla could've been Cavendish's Madam Max!
Instead we have Lucilla's self-renunciation of a marriage (and not only is Cavendish the most popular man in Carlingford, he is with this reader too), much like Rose, the little Preraphaelite, forced to give up her "Career" for domestic duties. I can't help but feel "a little sad" and also marvel that Oliphant links the relative sacrifices of these young women, including Barbara, with her gorgeous voice and fiery passions, whose disappointment in love motivates her to turn to governessing.
Otherwise, I have been thinking about the staginess of these scenes, especially those that take place in the Marjoribanks drawing room, like the Archdeacon's encounter with Mrs. Mortimer, under the watchful eye of Lucilla as director, who has set up this reunion, and then goes on to provide all the necessary props for the wedding. But the walking scene with Cavendish gives the hint that perhaps her social artwork, genius that she has for it, does leave something to be desired.
I was intrigued by the final chapter, a reflexive commentary on the progress of the story and the shift to the second phase of Lucilla's career--"amid mists of discouragement, and in an entire absence of all that was calculated to stimulate and exhilarate..." Oliphant's realism indeed, especially on the subject of women's careers--whether the artist class of Grove Street or the elites of Grange Lane.
The strong chord of this segment seems about women's wasted talents and surrendered desires. Not just a "little" sad.
For next time, chaps. 37-39 for installment 11--only four more after this (15 in all).
Recommendations for the next serial? I had suggested Eliot's first fiction, "Scenes of Clerical Life," but am eager for other suggestions!
Serially sad,
Susan
3 comments:
I will be very sad when this novel is over (and I do wonder if that feeling is heightened because of reading it serially -- time for it to grow on me?). I had to go to the DMV this morning and felt much better to have Lucilla as company ("she was not a person, when she knew a thing was right, to hesitate about doing it").
I agree that Oliphant's critique of women's choices seems more pronounced with each installment, and works to enable a different reading of the mock heroic tone of the first installments. In the beginning it could seem like the narrator was making fun of Lucilla, the most recent installments make it clear that she is playing the hand she's dealt. The characterization of the Archdeacon's and Mrs Mortimer's relationship is grim (the "woman whom he loved better than anything else in the world, but whose opinion on any earthly (or heavenly) subject had not the weight of a straw upon him"). Maybe it is this undercurrent of fair-to-middling options for women that makes me not fully convinced by Lucilla's implied devotion to Tom. While the end of Chapter 34 is very sweet/makes for a nice ending, I'm not sure if Lucilla's "fluttering" during the Cavendish scene isn't more convincing.
More evidence that Oliphant is asking the reader to think about the differences between outside/inside: when she contrasts "knack of external discrimination" with "real knowledge of character" (again, Mrs Woodburn v. Lucilla).
I'd be happy to read "Scenes," which I've never read before.
Yes, the options seem so limited for women here--When the references at the end of chapter 34seem to be to Tom, possessor of "a humble name," his benefit is that he has faith in her, "the faith of a very humble individual may save a great soul from discouragement." I did think that Tom seemed to be the referent, but there are more folks who believe in Lucilla at this point.
I was rather irritated with Mrs. Mortimer/Beverley who is so certain that Lucilla ought to get married, as should all women.
Cavendish's furious rejection of the idea of marrying Barbara took me a bit by surprise--was it his almost fall that made him realize his height, above Barbara?
And so we end Part 2, with "universal demolition." It makes me wonder what will be in Part 3: new characters? New art? Parties and not merely evenings? I'm ready for a dance, but I think they need men who can flirt first.
I don't know quite how to put this into words, but Chapter 36 seems to summarize Lucilla's "career," if not this story's heroine herself to date. She had devoted herself to a higher good, failed, at least in part, and was blamed for the shortfall. So she is no longer as much a "joyful and triumphant" figure. But she still looks good to those with an eye for moral grandeur, "though it would be difficult to tell how many of such worthy spectators existed in Grange Lane." An ironic aside, I think, since there are no such spectators there. Lucilla, like all of the young girls, has limited options and suffers not only the limits but also the fallout of her choices. Unlike an ordinary human being, perhaps, she regroups, detaches, "puts on her harness and resumes her course." Her superhuman response places in bold relief the reality more ordinary women, her contemporaries, face.
Now what?
Post a Comment