Dear Serial Readers,
A circular plot by way of this conclusion where Tom repeats his proposal from installment #3, after he returns again to Lucilla, as he did first in #2. But presumably now he is now more like--as he had wished to Lucilla in that early proposal scene--"someone you had never seen before." It's all in the beard--and all those "heaps of Indian things."
How does "after all it was Tom" make sense? If marriage, despite Lucilla's protestations in #3 that she "had not the least intention of marrying anybody," is required "after all" for Lucilla, then marrying her cousin allows her the most continuity with the character of her very self--not only does her name stay the same, but she ascends to "Marchbanks" (yes, same pronunciation as "Marjoribanks"!) which offers her a bigger social sphere (county rather than town) and physical domestic space for her social reforming genius. Even the hint that she can pitch her political hostessing skills through Tom surfaces in her idea that "there are Members for counties as well." By keeping the marriage all in the family, with a cousin who adores her from the start and yet seems a pliable quantity worthy of her efforts (unlike poor Cavendish--I wish we'd seen that he was indeed married to Barbara Lake--), Lucilla can stay her course, and yet expand her social consciousness (as Tamara K suggested in her recent comment--)
The most curious line to me is where Lucilla compares her past efforts to reform Grange Lane and Carlingford to a woman who has "slaved...in a mill." Her interest in social reform here seems ludicrously compared with the focus of reform work by E. Gaskell's heroines, for instance. But is this a comical note, Lucilla's comparison, that ironic undertone that creeps in from time to time in this novel?
The suggestion that Lucilla will now embark on housing reform projects in Marchbank anticipates Dorothea's interests in Middlemarch--so I can appreciate Q.D. Leavis's comparison a bit better with Eliot's heroine devised only five years later. Tamara K mentions Eliot's "dead hand" in Middlemarch with the startling ringing of Papa's bell, and yes, it seems to me totally clear that Eliot read this novel--after all they had the same publisher! But I don't know if they met or corresponded. Do any of you Serial Readers know, by chance? I imagine we'll see evidence too that Oliphant read Eliot's stories published in Blackwood's--
I will say that this ending is palatable too because Tom is so familiar, but also so relatively unformed as a character compared to Cavendish, Ashburton, and any other suspects who have had far more page time in the serial. Maybe this familiar unfamiliarity is a good quality too for our "genius" Lucilla to continue to have full sway for her reform works.
Your thoughts on this concluding installment? Thanks to all of you various and many Serial Readers for this novel--I counted something like eight or nine different readers posting, a record for this slow reading adventure! I've relished all your contributions!
We will take a short break from these screen-pages before starting the serialized stories, "Scenes from Clerical Life," George Eliot's first fiction, first published in the same magazine in which MISS M appeared in serial form! I estimate that the first installment of "The Sad Fortunes of Amos Barton" (in two installments) will be for the last week of April. But I'll announce that in the next few weeks. Get ready for this next serial adventure designed for short-term readers too (since the first story is only two installments)!
Serial salutations,
Susan
POOR MISS FINCH by Wilkie Collins
15 March 2011
Miss Marjoribanks 14 (Mar. 1866--chaps 47-49)
Dear Serial Readers,
The election of all elections in this installment--but, as some of you have pointed out, an election devoid of political views. What emerges in these chapters, though, is who gets to vote, and who does not. Reform Bill debates were whirling in spring 1866 when this installment appeared. Would extending the franchise to some of working class men help Conservatives or Liberals at the polls? The Reform Bill, introduced in 1866, debated and altered and finally passed in 1867, was meant to enfranchise only "respectable" urban working men and exclude unskilled poor men by a householder stipulation. This issue of voting reform was so charged due to speculations about how new voters would aid or hurt political parties--there were demonstrations in several cities as the Reform League called for universal suffrage. And while "universal suffrgage" typically meant only men, the question of women voting was also in the air. Oliphant published an article, "The Great Unrepresented" in Sept. 1866 in Blackwood's where she notes that despite being taxpayers and householders, and even contributors to the pages of "Maga" (ie Blackwood's), "we are supposed unable to decide whether Mr Smith or Mr Jones is the best man for the borough." Yet Oliphant declines John Stuart Mill's call for women's suffrage. I was surprised to learn that it wasn't until 1918 that British legislation enfranchised all male resident householders over 21 and women over 30 who met property qualifications, and not until 1928 was there equality for women and men voters.
What we do hear about in these pages are the various boroughs of voters for the Carlingford member, from Grange Lane to Grove Street to the bargemen of Wharfside, "many of them, freemen, and a very difficult part of the populartion, excited the most vivid interest." All this flurry about voting propels the start of the installment, the only installment launched without Lucilla in view. As a woman, she is cast to the background about voting reform and the election. Even her former servant Thomas, now "an independent householder," has a vote it seems.
Lucilla's participation in politics is through proxy, through her selection of "the best man" for Carlingford. But now it appears this "best man" is not the best man for her. That frantic bell-ringing that interrupts Ashburton's proposal at the end of the installment heralds, no doubt, cousin Tom fresh from India. All Lucilla's pounding heart here suggests she's swayed by the love match for her cousin (the cousin about whom she seemed to hold a pragmatic older sister attitude early on) over the marriage of political and financial and social merit. But this familiar choice perhaps is the closest Lucilla can achieve to her past reign in her father's house; at least by marrying Tom, she remains Lucilla Marjoribanks, or becomes Mrs Marjoribanks.
I much prefer Lucilla's sealskin coat over Barbara's tin dress, that's for sure. Even so, I'm glad Cavendish and Barbara appear to be on the verge of marrying. For a novel to conclude with two women "gone off" in age at least and marrying too seems rather remarkable.
Next time--the final installment!
In some serial suspense,
Serial Susan
The election of all elections in this installment--but, as some of you have pointed out, an election devoid of political views. What emerges in these chapters, though, is who gets to vote, and who does not. Reform Bill debates were whirling in spring 1866 when this installment appeared. Would extending the franchise to some of working class men help Conservatives or Liberals at the polls? The Reform Bill, introduced in 1866, debated and altered and finally passed in 1867, was meant to enfranchise only "respectable" urban working men and exclude unskilled poor men by a householder stipulation. This issue of voting reform was so charged due to speculations about how new voters would aid or hurt political parties--there were demonstrations in several cities as the Reform League called for universal suffrage. And while "universal suffrgage" typically meant only men, the question of women voting was also in the air. Oliphant published an article, "The Great Unrepresented" in Sept. 1866 in Blackwood's where she notes that despite being taxpayers and householders, and even contributors to the pages of "Maga" (ie Blackwood's), "we are supposed unable to decide whether Mr Smith or Mr Jones is the best man for the borough." Yet Oliphant declines John Stuart Mill's call for women's suffrage. I was surprised to learn that it wasn't until 1918 that British legislation enfranchised all male resident householders over 21 and women over 30 who met property qualifications, and not until 1928 was there equality for women and men voters.
What we do hear about in these pages are the various boroughs of voters for the Carlingford member, from Grange Lane to Grove Street to the bargemen of Wharfside, "many of them, freemen, and a very difficult part of the populartion, excited the most vivid interest." All this flurry about voting propels the start of the installment, the only installment launched without Lucilla in view. As a woman, she is cast to the background about voting reform and the election. Even her former servant Thomas, now "an independent householder," has a vote it seems.
Lucilla's participation in politics is through proxy, through her selection of "the best man" for Carlingford. But now it appears this "best man" is not the best man for her. That frantic bell-ringing that interrupts Ashburton's proposal at the end of the installment heralds, no doubt, cousin Tom fresh from India. All Lucilla's pounding heart here suggests she's swayed by the love match for her cousin (the cousin about whom she seemed to hold a pragmatic older sister attitude early on) over the marriage of political and financial and social merit. But this familiar choice perhaps is the closest Lucilla can achieve to her past reign in her father's house; at least by marrying Tom, she remains Lucilla Marjoribanks, or becomes Mrs Marjoribanks.
I much prefer Lucilla's sealskin coat over Barbara's tin dress, that's for sure. Even so, I'm glad Cavendish and Barbara appear to be on the verge of marrying. For a novel to conclude with two women "gone off" in age at least and marrying too seems rather remarkable.
Next time--the final installment!
In some serial suspense,
Serial Susan
06 March 2011
Miss Marjoribanks 13 (Feb. 1866--chaps 44-46)
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
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
27 February 2011
Miss Marjoribanks 12 (Jan. 1866--chaps 40-43)
Dear Serial Readers: A dialogue follows--
Reader Ann: More happened in these four chapters than in all the previous installments combined!
Serial Susan: How so?
Reader Ann: Well, we start with politics and end with death.
Serial Susan: Yes, and Lucilla's moment of reflection about her own condition forms the keystone in the middle holding together politics and death. It's there, early in chap. 42, where the narrator comments that "she had come to an age at which she might have gone into Parliament herself had there been one disqualification of sex, and when it was almost a necessity for her to make some use of her social influence."
Reader Ann: And she recognizes her "instincts go beyond even dinners," that she "was a Power in Carlingford and she knew it. But there is little good in the existence of a Power unless it can be made use of for a worthy end."
Serial Susan: And there's the rub--what "worthy end" can Lucilla pursue given that direct representation in politics is denied to her and that by the end of this installment she loses even her financial power--along with papa?
Reader Ann: Even in her supporting role in the Carlingford election she's aware that after the election she would feel a "blank."
Serial Susan: This "blank"--perhaps that's also an allusion to death, nothingness, no matter any more. Were you surprised about her father's death and how we're prepared for it?
Reader Ann: I would've been surprised if you hadn't said while we were reading aloud that you thought her father would die! But it seems logical given how frequently we are told in early installments that her purpose is to be a comfort to "dear papa." He needed to be taken out of the picture in order for her to realize her next step.
Serial Susan: And her father starts hinting about her marrying eventually, maybe sooner than later, maybe Ashburton, although all he wants is that his daughter not marry "a fool." He advises her to marry because "I don't think you are cut out for a single woman."
Reader Ann: Isn't it a contradiction that he says she's not suited to the single life, but that she should be careful about too much self-sacrifice. If anyone can come up with a new idea of marriage, it will be Lucilla! Maybe that explains Lucilla's great "Experiment" of marrying someone who is poor. Or maybe this "Experiment" is the hint that she's about to design a new notion of marriage.
Serial Susan: Maybe such an "Experiment" would provide an opportunity to use her Power to some good. But what a surprising ending to this installment where it's learned that she has lost monetary Power at the moment of her inheritance after her father's death! What's the point here? Again, like Rose the little Preraphaelite, a young woman is forced to surrender her talents and suffers a diminishment.
Reader Ann: We had been speculating that the "poor man" she might marry could be Tom--
Serial Susan: or possibly Cavendish, although we're told so abundantly that he's truly "gone off" with his corpulence and red face, that that's *highly* unlikely! So where are we at the end of this twelfth installment with only three remaining?
Reader Ann: I am looking for a glimmer of hope in her father saying that a woman's self-sacrifice can be "useless" or "carried too far." In her genius and creativity perhaps she'll find an option that is outside the norm, something we've not considered.
Serial Susan: It's certainly true that Lucilla's options seem very limited. She cannot travel as she'd envisioned, the Grange Lane Marjoribanks home along with its Thursday Evenings (not "parties") must be relinquished, and whom could she marry? The "gone off" Cavendish? Hardly. The boring Ashburton? Possibly. What about cousin Tom? He was on the scene at the start, so I expect him waiting in the wings for the finale.
Reader Ann: Lucilla was feeling guilty that her mind wouldn't stop with her father's sudden death--that still she schemed, hatched plans, relishing her options in spite of her grief which made these new circumstances disclosed by the will even crueler.
Serial Susan: Yes, this double "inconceivable reversal of fortune"--her father's death and her loss of property and station--
Reader Ann: I thought all that was a way of saying so much for guilt, that's a waste of time.
Serial Susan: I still like your idea that Lucilla will rise above this calamity too and surprise us with a resolution to this difficulty.
Next week: #13, chaps 44-46.
Reader Ann: More happened in these four chapters than in all the previous installments combined!
Serial Susan: How so?
Reader Ann: Well, we start with politics and end with death.
Serial Susan: Yes, and Lucilla's moment of reflection about her own condition forms the keystone in the middle holding together politics and death. It's there, early in chap. 42, where the narrator comments that "she had come to an age at which she might have gone into Parliament herself had there been one disqualification of sex, and when it was almost a necessity for her to make some use of her social influence."
Reader Ann: And she recognizes her "instincts go beyond even dinners," that she "was a Power in Carlingford and she knew it. But there is little good in the existence of a Power unless it can be made use of for a worthy end."
Serial Susan: And there's the rub--what "worthy end" can Lucilla pursue given that direct representation in politics is denied to her and that by the end of this installment she loses even her financial power--along with papa?
Reader Ann: Even in her supporting role in the Carlingford election she's aware that after the election she would feel a "blank."
Serial Susan: This "blank"--perhaps that's also an allusion to death, nothingness, no matter any more. Were you surprised about her father's death and how we're prepared for it?
Reader Ann: I would've been surprised if you hadn't said while we were reading aloud that you thought her father would die! But it seems logical given how frequently we are told in early installments that her purpose is to be a comfort to "dear papa." He needed to be taken out of the picture in order for her to realize her next step.
Serial Susan: And her father starts hinting about her marrying eventually, maybe sooner than later, maybe Ashburton, although all he wants is that his daughter not marry "a fool." He advises her to marry because "I don't think you are cut out for a single woman."
Reader Ann: Isn't it a contradiction that he says she's not suited to the single life, but that she should be careful about too much self-sacrifice. If anyone can come up with a new idea of marriage, it will be Lucilla! Maybe that explains Lucilla's great "Experiment" of marrying someone who is poor. Or maybe this "Experiment" is the hint that she's about to design a new notion of marriage.
Serial Susan: Maybe such an "Experiment" would provide an opportunity to use her Power to some good. But what a surprising ending to this installment where it's learned that she has lost monetary Power at the moment of her inheritance after her father's death! What's the point here? Again, like Rose the little Preraphaelite, a young woman is forced to surrender her talents and suffers a diminishment.
Reader Ann: We had been speculating that the "poor man" she might marry could be Tom--
Serial Susan: or possibly Cavendish, although we're told so abundantly that he's truly "gone off" with his corpulence and red face, that that's *highly* unlikely! So where are we at the end of this twelfth installment with only three remaining?
Reader Ann: I am looking for a glimmer of hope in her father saying that a woman's self-sacrifice can be "useless" or "carried too far." In her genius and creativity perhaps she'll find an option that is outside the norm, something we've not considered.
Serial Susan: It's certainly true that Lucilla's options seem very limited. She cannot travel as she'd envisioned, the Grange Lane Marjoribanks home along with its Thursday Evenings (not "parties") must be relinquished, and whom could she marry? The "gone off" Cavendish? Hardly. The boring Ashburton? Possibly. What about cousin Tom? He was on the scene at the start, so I expect him waiting in the wings for the finale.
Reader Ann: Lucilla was feeling guilty that her mind wouldn't stop with her father's sudden death--that still she schemed, hatched plans, relishing her options in spite of her grief which made these new circumstances disclosed by the will even crueler.
Serial Susan: Yes, this double "inconceivable reversal of fortune"--her father's death and her loss of property and station--
Reader Ann: I thought all that was a way of saying so much for guilt, that's a waste of time.
Serial Susan: I still like your idea that Lucilla will rise above this calamity too and surprise us with a resolution to this difficulty.
Next week: #13, chaps 44-46.
21 February 2011
Miss Marjoribanks 11 (Dec. 1865--chaps 37-39)
Dear Serial Readers,
After the doleful conclusion of last time, I was delighted with the turn of events some ten years later. Despite the repetitive concern that Lucilla may have "gone off" in her looks, here she's given a taste of political influence in her bid for Ashburton. Mrs Woodburn even notes that influence is "a great deal better than a vote." Oliphant has this social genius put her talents to use in the political arena, and her strategy of a simple sound-bite "the right man for Carlingford" and the standard bearer colors of green and violet (with the green--Lucilla's own color--the dominant hue) seem to be effective. Although there is mention several times that women cannot vote, Lucilla indirectly votes by influencing her father and Col. Chiley. Of course the whole matter of political choice gets mystified here as tasteful colors and sloganeering, but Oliphant has a point as intertwines public and private spheres into a network with effects. To bring home women's disenfranchisement, Ashburton even tells Lucilla that if he could put her on his election committee, that would be "the first thing to be done... but unfortunately I can't do that." Mild perhaps, but this seem a bid for suffrage and at least some recognition that women do participate, if from the margins, in the political scene. Besides, how can a candidate supported by the pageantry of those lovey green and violet cockades lose?
Oliphantine humor continues, I think, with those wry allusions to Lucilla like Joan of Arc with her ribbons, as if she's martyring herself for a cause instead of marrying. And like Joan of Arc Lucilla is inspired by extraordinary forces, not voices exactly, but those lightning flashes and possible spirit-rapping from the deceased MP. Amusing!
The return of Harry Cavendish seems a momentary threat to Lucilla's campaigning convictions, but she stays the course--with the help of that marvelous sealskin coat. I find so intriguing this female character who seems to deflect obstacles from within or without-- and an unmarried Victorian heroine at this grand age of 29 whose independence seems the envy of at least one of her married women friends. The installment concludes that Lucilla's current "satisfaction and well-being" renders unnecessary any love interest. Such a radically different tone from last time and, as many of you have noted, from most Victorian novels I've read.
Next week: #12 (Jan. 1866), chaps 40-43. I have one more idea for our next serial, again a novel I'd proposed before: Dickens' Martin Chuzzlewit.
Searching for Sealskin,
Serial Susan
After the doleful conclusion of last time, I was delighted with the turn of events some ten years later. Despite the repetitive concern that Lucilla may have "gone off" in her looks, here she's given a taste of political influence in her bid for Ashburton. Mrs Woodburn even notes that influence is "a great deal better than a vote." Oliphant has this social genius put her talents to use in the political arena, and her strategy of a simple sound-bite "the right man for Carlingford" and the standard bearer colors of green and violet (with the green--Lucilla's own color--the dominant hue) seem to be effective. Although there is mention several times that women cannot vote, Lucilla indirectly votes by influencing her father and Col. Chiley. Of course the whole matter of political choice gets mystified here as tasteful colors and sloganeering, but Oliphant has a point as intertwines public and private spheres into a network with effects. To bring home women's disenfranchisement, Ashburton even tells Lucilla that if he could put her on his election committee, that would be "the first thing to be done... but unfortunately I can't do that." Mild perhaps, but this seem a bid for suffrage and at least some recognition that women do participate, if from the margins, in the political scene. Besides, how can a candidate supported by the pageantry of those lovey green and violet cockades lose?
Oliphantine humor continues, I think, with those wry allusions to Lucilla like Joan of Arc with her ribbons, as if she's martyring herself for a cause instead of marrying. And like Joan of Arc Lucilla is inspired by extraordinary forces, not voices exactly, but those lightning flashes and possible spirit-rapping from the deceased MP. Amusing!
The return of Harry Cavendish seems a momentary threat to Lucilla's campaigning convictions, but she stays the course--with the help of that marvelous sealskin coat. I find so intriguing this female character who seems to deflect obstacles from within or without-- and an unmarried Victorian heroine at this grand age of 29 whose independence seems the envy of at least one of her married women friends. The installment concludes that Lucilla's current "satisfaction and well-being" renders unnecessary any love interest. Such a radically different tone from last time and, as many of you have noted, from most Victorian novels I've read.
Next week: #12 (Jan. 1866), chaps 40-43. I have one more idea for our next serial, again a novel I'd proposed before: Dickens' Martin Chuzzlewit.
Searching for Sealskin,
Serial Susan
12 February 2011
Miss Marjoribanks 10 (chaps 33-36, Nov. 1865)
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
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
06 February 2011
Miss Marjoribanks 9 (Oct. 1865--chaps 29-32)
Dear Serial Readers,
I loved the "outsourced" review Josh provided--and I thought the description of Oliphant could also apply to Lucilla herself. And I agree about the slapstick elements--I found so many scenes hilarious--like Cavendish's bad luck of sitting at the dinner table directly under the lamp so that the Archdeacon immediately recognized him. And Lucilla, whose sharp vision sees the calamity about to happen,drops her fan into her pyramid-shaped dinner napkin! And then all the mistaken assumptions about Lucilla and Cavendish, from Mrs Chiley or others watching her. AND, like last time, those allusions to "Them," or, as Mrs Chiley puts it, "everybody knows men are great fools where women are concerned." I don't think I've encountered another Victorian novelist this funny with the exception of Dickens--but, as I've said before, the Oliphantine humor is so different.
What struck me this time is the narrowness of the canvas here--that all the action of the novel is basically across two streets in Carlingford--the class-inflected neighborhoods of Grange Lane and Grove Street, and a few select homes within each. Not much traveling about this novel, but so much action, so much tempest in a drawing-room! And for all the suspense set up for the last installment (as TK said, "I wonder what will happen next!"), the playing out of the Cavendish Unveiled plot is quite drawn out. Now we have to wait for the next segment to see if Lucilla's best-laid plans to hitch Mrs. Mortimer with the Archdeacon (motivated by her desire to foil her father's leaning toward the widow who wants to disappear), will come off. And whether Cavendish will marry Barbara Lake after all, now that Lucilla has confirmed his class fall. The plot moves slowly, and not much happens, and yet the novel is oddly engrossing. As others have commented, this seems a different animal altogether from the familiar fare of Victorian domestic fiction, an alternative realism.
Despite the anxiety about this particular Thursday Evening, as it faintly registers through Lucilla's body (although her pulse remains calm!), her self-possession as hostess extraordinaire is still delightfully reassuring. She is a social artist, and what's also quite remarkable is her zest--her "genius"--for this. And so this installment propels us forward to more drawing-room suspense orchestrated by Lucilla: "her lofty energies went on unwearied to overrule and guide the crisis which was to decide so many people's fate." Is this humor in hyperbole?
Next time, chaps 33-36.
Serially salivating,
Serial Susan
I loved the "outsourced" review Josh provided--and I thought the description of Oliphant could also apply to Lucilla herself. And I agree about the slapstick elements--I found so many scenes hilarious--like Cavendish's bad luck of sitting at the dinner table directly under the lamp so that the Archdeacon immediately recognized him. And Lucilla, whose sharp vision sees the calamity about to happen,drops her fan into her pyramid-shaped dinner napkin! And then all the mistaken assumptions about Lucilla and Cavendish, from Mrs Chiley or others watching her. AND, like last time, those allusions to "Them," or, as Mrs Chiley puts it, "everybody knows men are great fools where women are concerned." I don't think I've encountered another Victorian novelist this funny with the exception of Dickens--but, as I've said before, the Oliphantine humor is so different.
What struck me this time is the narrowness of the canvas here--that all the action of the novel is basically across two streets in Carlingford--the class-inflected neighborhoods of Grange Lane and Grove Street, and a few select homes within each. Not much traveling about this novel, but so much action, so much tempest in a drawing-room! And for all the suspense set up for the last installment (as TK said, "I wonder what will happen next!"), the playing out of the Cavendish Unveiled plot is quite drawn out. Now we have to wait for the next segment to see if Lucilla's best-laid plans to hitch Mrs. Mortimer with the Archdeacon (motivated by her desire to foil her father's leaning toward the widow who wants to disappear), will come off. And whether Cavendish will marry Barbara Lake after all, now that Lucilla has confirmed his class fall. The plot moves slowly, and not much happens, and yet the novel is oddly engrossing. As others have commented, this seems a different animal altogether from the familiar fare of Victorian domestic fiction, an alternative realism.
Despite the anxiety about this particular Thursday Evening, as it faintly registers through Lucilla's body (although her pulse remains calm!), her self-possession as hostess extraordinaire is still delightfully reassuring. She is a social artist, and what's also quite remarkable is her zest--her "genius"--for this. And so this installment propels us forward to more drawing-room suspense orchestrated by Lucilla: "her lofty energies went on unwearied to overrule and guide the crisis which was to decide so many people's fate." Is this humor in hyperbole?
Next time, chaps 33-36.
Serially salivating,
Serial Susan
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)