Dear Serial Readers,
To offset last week's lengthy dialogue, I'll offer a brief comment on this week's installment. Lucilla's decision to remain alone (with only cook Nancy rather than the entire household retinue) in her Grange Lane house is remarked upon sufficiently to suggest the boldness of her move not to move or to "abdicate." I wonder about the importance of Lucilla's remaining in this house which bears the marks of her interior designing. The house has become an exemplar of herself: for Lucilla and this house to part company is unthinkable. Will she retain her domestic rule then by marrying someone who can move into this house and support her life there? The relationship between property and personhood seems crucial.
One tiny leftover from last time: I had meant to mention Maria Brown, the photographer, whose picture-making career reminds me of Rose, the little Preraphaelite. I find it interesting that Oliphant does provide these examples of working women even if Rose is forced to "abdicate" her profession for home work.
There are two installments left of this novel. Our next serial reading adventure will begin in three weeks (the week of March 28): George Eliot's SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. These "Scenes" are three stories, which ran in serial segments from January to November 1857, as Eliot's initial foray into fiction after writing essays and translations. For those of you who haven't kept up with the program of a novel's worth of installments, you might like this next selection since you could pick and choose the stories: the first ("The Sad Fortunes of Amos Barton") with only two installments, the second ("Mr Gilfil's Love Story) with four installments, and the last "Janet's Repentence" with five.
For next time, Lucilla's latest experiment continues with chapters 47-49.
Serially yours,
Susan
3 comments:
I think the way in which Oliphant portrays Lucilla in mourning rounds the character. As we’re told, grief has its privileges and exemptions, and Lucilla indulges. I love her way of coping: she takes up a good book, feels calm, and lets things take their course. What course will this be? It’s interesting what Susan says about the house, the interior of which Lucilla so mindfully decorated and where she decides to stay. When Miss M. parses the idea of her home as a “House of Mercy,” she admits she has no vocation for the temperament required of a mistress of such a house. She’s not the self-abdicating sort. Though she’s capable and willing to serve her fellow creatures, “She shall certainly not be a nonentity.” I’m very attached to Lucilla, and I’ll miss her when this ends.
I'm attached too! Thanks, Serial Susan and readerann, for your great comments this week and last. I still can't get over how unusual Lucilla is and how thought-provoking the novel is. It stays so close to Lucilla's consciousness--giving us very few alternative perspectives (the odd thought about Lucilla by others)--without ever losing force and interest. I'm struggling to think about her ambition: on the one hand, she wants grand projects and influence (a little hint of imperialism here); on the other hand, she dismisses Rose's suggestion of philanthropic work, and she's no artist. Her political career has been fascinating but somewhat repugnant to my own tastes (it's hard to appreciate the value of ignoring political views in favor of personalities in our own heated climate at the moment). I'm still wondering about the question we were asking early on: how can Lucilla be so likable when she lacks so many things I value--sense of humor, social/political commitment, self-consciousness?
Thinking about Dr. Marjoribanks' death makes me think of the very beginning of the novel and the death of Mrs. Marjoribanks. It seems to me that one of the things Oliphant does really, really well is talk about death in a kind but unsentimental way. We're told that nobody was really devastated by the doctor's death, but it's touching to see everyone in the novel remember him fondly. As readerann says, it's especially interesting to see Lucilla here, who shows that all her talk about her "dear Papa" wasn't just a tagline or an excuse for doing what she wanted to do; she really did care for him, after all.
I've enjoyed this novel quite a bit, and I'm having a hard time understanding how Oliphant became one of the many unread Victorian novelists. I've read a few other semi-obscure novels written around this time, and while some of them deserve their obscurity, the two Oliphant novels I've read both deserve a lot more attention than they seem to get. That's a real shame, I think.
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