Review of Rhoda Broughton’s ‘The Game and the Candle’: A Romantic Novel With An Unhappy For Now Ending

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These days, it is a firm convention of romantic novels that there must be a happy ending – otherwise, it confounds reader expectations.

While some writers and readers hold out that a ‘happy for now’ is sufficient – ie, it is left up to the reader to decide whether the new found happiness between hero and heroine can last for long  – that is generally about as much of a challenge to the requisite ‘HEA’ as you will come by in a romantic novel: anyway, one that is written for the market.

Interesting, is that back in the nineteenth century this was not so. Many of the stories which in all other respects were clearly the precursors of the modern romantic novel, did not have happy endings at all.

Sometimes, this was possibly a moral requirement: there had been adultery, say, and in order to satisfy the moral requirements of the genre in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the guilty pair must be punished.

This lack of a conventional happy ending was what particularly intrigued me about a novel I read a few weeks ago by the late Victorian novelist Rhoda Broughton. It made me want to sample some more by this writer, now virtually forgotten.

This author, who wrote light fiction generally for escapist purposes, could be said often to have written romances. But this one that I read, while in style and theme so like a romantic novel, has an end which borders on the grim.

True, nobody dies in the story, except two older people in bad health, whose deaths are necessary for the plot, and neither are characters the reader has come to know. Still, the story ends with bitter disillusionment for the heroine, who has sacrificed a fortune and the close friendship of a true lover for the superficial attractions of the male lead. As for the male lead, he clearly considers himself heartbroken  – though equally clearly, there will be a rush of women eager to console him.

This was called, ‘The Game and the Candle’.  Here it is described by Wickipedia:

The Game and the Candle (1899) is like Jane Austen‘s Persuasion (1818) rewritten. Only this time the heroine has married for rational reasons and is freed in the beginning for her true love, which reason forbade her to marry years before. Her dying husband’s last will forces her to decide between love and fortune. However, a renewed encounter with her former lover forces her to see it was actually a good thing she had not married him. His love turns to be too shallow for her happiness. The novel is one of a mature and wise woman who has seen the world.

The story begins with the protagonist’s Jane’s husband, Henry Etheridge, who, in his late fifties, is thirty years older than she is, on his deathbed. He tries to exact a promise from her that she will not after his death marry the man with whom he overheard her exchanging love vows five years ago.

After that, Jane told this man, the fair, althletic,handsome,  lively young Jack Miles, that they must part. Her husband says:

‘It is because I wish you well that I am going to make a request to you… When you replace me—my stipulation is that it is not by the—person of whom you took leave five years ago beside the fountain in the circular garden.’

If she does not make this promise, he will disinherit her.

She refuses to make it, though asking for her husband’s forgiveness for being unable to.

Jane’s friend through all these years has been her husband’s intellectual secretary, Willy Clarendon,who is also a distant cousin of her own.  She hardly regards him as a man at all, but there are sufficient hints that he is in love with her.

He is given five hundred pounds through a legacy. He also suggests that Jane, now badly off by the standards in which she has been living since her marriage, must spend the period of her deep mourning – then a year – living near his sisters in Richmond, Surrey ( now virtually part of London; then a leafy village).

The house is described as very small, and she sees herself as relatively poor. Still, as she has two drawing rooms, has no  need to work, and can afford a couple of servants – it won’t strike many modern readers that she suffers from a dismal standard of living. However, as she has been used to living in a stately home, it is something of a come down. Anyway, she is happy to have sacrificed wealth for true love.

They are both well aware that after that time, Jane will be in contact once again with the young man who exiled himself in California after their  mutual love declaration.

Meanwhile, Jane cannot pretend to be overcome with grief at her loss:

Clarendon says: –  “ Would it be possible—just for the present —just while you are out of doors, and liable to ill-natured comments, to—to—look a little less – ‘

‘Radiant’ suggests she, with great distinctness of utterance, though face and neck are in a blaze. ‘ Thank you for the hint. I will try.”’

Another person who lives nearby is – fortuitously for Jane – Lady Barnes, who guessed that she and Jack Miles were in love during that fatal visit to her marital home years back. She – another co-incidence convenient for Jane – has recently met him in California, and was very impressed by both his looks and his melancholy air:

‘He is filled out and bronzed. Oh, but bronzed! so much so that his hair is lighter than his face. I do not know how you feel, but that to me always gives such a superbly manly look…I do not know what his plans were—he did not know himself, poor fellow ! He said he was at a loose end. He repeated the expression several times—at a loose end.” 

The phrase is not a romantic one, but such a pregnancy of sentiment is thrown into it as dyes in painful blushes the younger woman…She had no more doubted her love’s faithfulness than her own—faithful, though parted far as the pine from the palm…’

Jane has a romantic disposition, which has been starved in her loveless marriage. Now she must wait for this seemingly interminable year to be over, so that she can be reunited with Miles.

She leads a lonely life in Richmond. She seems to have no family, and has no real confidante in her difficult situation. Lady Barnes is sympathetic, but self centred, her life revolving about her badly beloved, spoilt dogs. Typical is the behaviour of

‘… a very nice, but not very well-conducted English terrier, who, having stood before her looking significantly up in her face for some moments, now, annoyed at her inability to take a hint, stands up on his hind-legs and begins to scratch at her sombre lap with as much vigour as if he had mistaken it for a rabbit-hole.  ‘ I am afraid that Jock means you have taken his chair,’ says his mistress regretfully. ‘ Would you mind changing to this one? It is quite as comfortable, only he does not fancy it…’

Lady Barnes, however, is in correspondence with Miles, and makes it clear to Jane that she will let him know of her surroundings. Interfering and given to thinking of herself as a romantic, too, she is all for forwarding the cause of love.

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Descriptions of the self indulgent demands of Lady Barnes are typical of  the delightful vein of comedy which runs through this story. At its best it is worthy of Jane Austen.

So is the depiction of Willy Clarendon’s sisters, who have, through years of trying to ‘keep up appearances’, turned into almost professional spongers. They are forever obtaining theatre tickets, presents of cast off clothing, house plants, anything that they can wheedle out of people.

The younger and prettier one, Mabella, is particularly shameless about this. She looks on every male acquaintance as a potential source of funds.

Clarendon himself is tormented by Jane’s dismissive attitude towards the very idea of him as her admirer. For some time, refuses to let her work alone with him on his academic projects, on the grounds that it would cause gossip. Jane remarks that this is ridiculous.  He writhes in humiliation, but she cannot see it.  Finally, he agreed to let her help him with his research.

The months drag on. Spring comes, and  one day, the housemaid announces an unknown visitor:

He who once, in the white light of the Circular Garden, crowded all the agony of his desire and farewell into one mad storm of forbidden kisses, is now raining kisses as mad, but with the glad contrary of farewell in them, upon eyes, and lips, and hair. For an instant or two she is as mad as he, lost in reckless rapture…’

Jane, who is about to receive a visit from her late husband’s sister, who has been estranged from her since his death and her refusal to explain why she was cut from the will, has a delicious short meeting with him, learning that he is staying with Lady Barnes. She then sends him away, though with difficulty, just before her sister-in-law arrives.

Miss Etheridge wants Jane to go back  to living at the hall. Jane cannot accept, and she leaves, bitterly offended.

Meanwhile, the Clarendon sisters agree that Jack Miles as Lady Barnes’ guest will be useful:

‘He gives one the idea of being just the sort of man who would be good for any number of opera-boxes and theatre-tickets,’ for they have heard that he has come into a lot of money lately.

This news disappoints Jane, who feels that if her lover is in a position to give her a life of luxury, her great sacrifice of a fortune for his sake has been rendered ineffectual.

Clarendon, when he hears that Jack Miles has called on her without invitation, bursts out that was ‘the action of a bounder’. Jane is outraged.

He looks at her with despair in his heart; looks right into the irreconcilable wrath of her blue eyes, staring enormous out of a linen-white face. But his ships are in flames behind him, and there is nothing for it but a desperate onward marchThe next thing of which he is conscious is that he is in the roadway, though whether ejected through the window, kicked downstairs, or by the simple process of putting one  foot before another till he gets there, he could never tell.’

Some months later, just as her year of mourning is up, Jane sees Clarendon walking on the common, and is shocked by how thin and haggard he looks.

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However, she soon overcomes her guilty feelings about that. She is to be Lady Barnes’ guest  in the Western Isles of Scotland, and reunited with Jack Miles:

The moment that they reach the shelter of the wood he takes her in his arms, and for the rest of that wonderful morning scarcely lets her go out of them again. Up the firneedle-strewn path, with a hundred blissful stops for new and ever new caresses, they slowly climb, till from the colonnade of larch-stems they step out upon the rocky brow of the hill, and look down upon the sea.’

Jane idealises him and wants to hear all about how he has spent his time over the last six years. He is rather vague about this: he has wandered about, earned the gratitude of an older woman for a small favour, and unexpectedly inherited a fortune from her.

When she asks him if during that time he has ever thought, or said, a word of love to any other woman, he says that he refuses to answer such senseless questions, and kisses her into silence.

Jack Miles is dashingly amorous in his courtship of the glamorous widow. At dinners, he shamelessly neglects the other guests:

He has put his elbow on the table, ruthlessly turning his shoulder upon his other neighbour, and is shading his eyes with his hand, so as partly to hide the fury of admiration in them, while he tells her how distractingly beautiful she is, that he should like never to see her dressed in another gown than the one she is now wearing, etc.

‘Shall I come down in it to breakfast to-morrow ?’ she asks, with what she means to be a sobering little laugh of derision, but which shares too much of the quiver in his own voice to serve its purpose. He goes off into fresh extravagances…

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Jane’s disillusionment Miles comes gradually. She finds out that he tells coarse (and one may assume, sexist) jokes with his fellow male guests after the ladies have withdrawn. One of her guests says:-

‘Do you hear them laughing?  How I wish they would let us share the joke! Of course, it is another of Mr. Miles’s stories. Whenever I ask Jim what they have been laughing at, he always says, ‘’Oh, one of Miles’s,’and invariably adds that it is quite impossible to repeat it.’

You are always rather frightened when I begin to question you,’ says Jane, examining the cleared countenance before her with less passion and more keenness in her eyes than her lover quite relishes. ‘ I believe you have some dark spot in your past that you are afraid of my putting my finger upon. No—do not be angry ; it is only a stupid joke.’

Jack Miles sulks, saying it is no joke to imply that he is a blackguard. They soon make up this tiff, but Jane begins to discover that they are far from soul mates.

Another guest teases him about coming back late with Jane, as he had done in London with Mabella Clarendon. Jane would regard it as absurd to allow herself to be jealous over this, but she also learns that:

‘There are limitations to the endowment of that personality which her unknowing idolatry had vaguely gifted with every mental as well as physical grace. If theirs is to be that ideal union which she had pictured, it must be by the suppression of one half of her own nature. Mr. Miles never voluntarily opens a book, and the artless dismay written on his countenance when her full heart leads her to illustrate their own bliss by some quoted line from the poets teaches her not to repeat the attempt.’

Then total disillusionment comes. She surprises the man she is to marry in six  weeks with Mabella Clarendon in his arms. He is comforting her with kisses over her latest financial troubles.

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Jane leaves for Richmond, telling Lady Barnes that she has had bad news and forbidding her to tell Jack Miles or anyone.  On her journey Jane broods on all that she has sacrificed for Jack Miles.

‘She that forty-eight hours ago was rich beyond the dreams of avarice, possesses nothing in this or any other world. She had never had but one thing, having sold or tossed away all else to buy it; and now it is gone…

Her husband, old and crabbed indeed, but who had loved her in his way, and treated her with forbearance and even generosity, and into whose deathbed she had put a sting far sharper than death itself; the desolate old sister-in-law, upon whose broken heart she had flung back her magnanimous offers of help and difficult kindness; the self-less, devoted friend whom she had insulted and alienated; the good name in whose tarnish she had insanely rejoiced, as bringing one more offering to her god’s piled altar ; the position which would have given her weight and authority among her fellows; the riches that would have been a potent engine for the good of others.’

Now Jane despises herself for having worshipped a false god:

For the first time she sees her deity as he is ; the commonplace good fellow, with his cheap jests, his limited intelligence, his promiscuous tendernesses…Has her love, then, when stripped of its fine clothes, been nothing but sensuality? that love which she had clad in such imperial purple, and titled with such high names, the love that had dethroned heaven’s King and overshadowed earth’s brotherhood.’

This is where the novel parts company with the romance genre, where the obligatory happy or happy-for-now ending inevitably rules out such grim ethical and metaphysical quagmires. Romantic love in the romance genre is generally shown to be worthwhile. In ‘The Game and The Candle’ for Jane, it frankly is not. This book, then, both for seriousness of purpose and anti romantic theme, is very reminiscent of Elizabeth Gaskell’s ‘Sylvia’s Lovers.’

Jane in this story and both Philip Hepburn Sylvia herself in ‘Syvlia’s Lovers’ make the mistake of worshipping a fallible human being, Philip with Sylvia, and Sylvia herself with the dashing shameless opportunist Charley Kinraid.

On reaching home, poor Jane spends an hour lying on the floor in pure self abnegation. She rises from it changed. Jack Miles follows her, of course. He duly turns up:

‘ It is clear that he has come straight from the train—travel-stained, with his bright short curls ruffled, pale under his tan, yet in the dishevelled sincerity of his agitation handsomer than ever. Yes, her eyes at least had not deceived her —the shell is what she had thought it.’

He assures her he only felt sorry for Mabella over her bills:  ‘I have never loved, never : shall love, any woman in the world but you. You believe that I love you?’

She responds: ‘I never loved you. I loved someone that was masquerading in your shape.’

The author tells us that he goes quite quickly, though his tears fall on her hand as he takes it to kiss it. She watches him walk off down the street, saying to herself:

I bought you very dear—very dear ; and now I have thrown you away.’ He is out of sight, and she turns from the window, murmuring to herself: ‘ As a dream when one awaketh.’

Oh dear! That is a stark ending. We are not even told if she makes it up with, and even comes to encourage the attentions of,  that formerly despised true lover Willy Clarendon.

Maybe I am cycnical, but it seems to me, that as Jane will almost certainly never fall in love in such a way again, she might as well marry Jack Miles, and enjoy him as an attractive, entertaining and charming but flawed life companion. True, she no longer worships him so absurdly and poetically, but that is hardly a bad thing. As she cannot undo the damage that she has done to others (assuming that she still cannot return Wllly Clarendon”s feelings), she might as well enjoy the prize for which she has sacrificed so much.  After all, he there is no evidence that he has done more than kiss and flirt with Mabella Clarendon. To break things off over some kissing and flirting seems an extreme reaction.

Of course, the author  might, in a roundabout way acceptable to a respectable female Victorian readership, be implying that Jack Miles actually lived as a gigilo with the older woman who left him a fortune.

Still, I suppose that as an orthodox nineteenth century Christina, Rhoda Broughton was thinking, just as Elizabeth Gaskell did, that in making a false idol out of a human being, Jane, like Philip and Sylvia, has broken the first commandment, and must suffer penance accordingly.

As I said, I must read some more of this author and see what I make of her other books.

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Review of ‘Eve and the Law’ by Alice and Colin Askew (1905)

 

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I have often written of how many writers combine both strong and sentimental writing in one novel, and that this is particularly true of many classic Victorian novelists such as Elizabeth Gaskell and George Eliot. While it is a notorious fault with Charles Dickens, even Thackeray often descended into the maudlin. While for these greater writers, the sentimentality is less predominate, with other writers of popular fiction the weaker form of writing is often the main style.

I have just finished reading the melodramatic tale, ‘Eve and the Law’ by Alice and Claude Askew, published in 1905 – which makes it Edwardian. I mentioned it in my last post. This was part of the many job lots of books my mother bought at auctions to fill she shelves in the rambling, isolated old houses which she and my father used to renovate. It is probably long out of print,though it might be obtainable on Project Gutunberg and Internet Archieve and such sites.

The edition is ‘Collins 7d (that is, the old seven pennies) Modern Fiction.’ Books were too expensive for ordinary working people to buy then, but there were circulating libraries, and also, works of fiction were regularly serialised in the magazines, which were sometimes brought out annually in hard backed form.  Interestingly, this tradition of serialising books in women’s magazines continued until comparatively modern times, and I haven’t noticed if it has been discontinued or not.  I first read ‘Cheri’ in serial form in ‘Cosmopolitan’.

This story is unusual, of course, in being written by a man and a woman, and it seems to me that the strong writing style of the one and the sentimental style of the other alternate in an extraordinary way. (of course, it is possible that they both wrote sometimes weakly and sometimes forcefully).  This is combined with the strong religious theme typical of the period.

It made me think how much styles change over the years, particularly in popular novels, where the writers are aiming for mass appeal rather than originality.  The accepted style and content of one decade can bear little resemblance to that of the later one.

The plot of this tale of female sin and redemption is ludicrously improbable.

A French aristocratic rake named Felix Deschamps (later the Count d’Anvers) persuades a ‘well born’ English girl named Eve Hastings, who is already engaged to the hearty Sir John Almyer,  to have a runaway marriage with him. He has her tell her family that she has gone to France to study music, while keeping the true state of affairs quiet.

We know he is a villain from the description of his weedy physique and prominent teeth. But his dark curling hair and flashing black eyes and red sensual lips give him a charm that draw women to him. He is ‘tireless in pursuit of pleasure; he had an unquenchable thirst for enjoyment’.

…That will never do for a hero of this period.

Eve, who has the requisite golden hair and white skin of a Victorian heroine, spends an idyllic month with him in a forest near Fontainbleau. During this time, an old clerical friend of John Almyer, Jereome Meredith,  just happens to run into the couple; this novel, like many of its sort, is full of co-incidences.He takes one look at the villain’s face and decides that he and the young woman are in an irregular liaison. Psychic powers, or what?

Of course, he is proved correct. Suddenly, Flexi callously reveals that their marriage is not valid in France. Having heard that his uncle is dying and that he is to inherit he title, and having abruptly tired of living in a cottage in the forest with Eve, he decides to get rid of her.

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It is very disappointing that I can’t ind a way to magnify these covers, the details of which are fascinating.

 

Eve goes back to England, and decides that she is free to marry her discarded fiancé and to make a new start.

Meanwhile, Felix d’Anvers is dismayed to find out that his dying uncle will only make Felix his heir if he agrees to carry on his uncle’s fight against the unjust laws which make an English marriage invalid in France.  The opportunistic Felix agrees, and goes hot footed back to the forest to make it up with Eve, only to find that she has gone.

He pursues her to England, and turns up on the day of her wedding. Here he meets Eve’s new sister-in-law, the lively Dorothy. He decides to forget about Eve and sends her back her discarded wedding ring. He and Dorothy are at once attracted to each other, take up a flirtatious correspondence, and later fall genuinely in love.

Meanwhile, Jerome Meredith comes back to take up the post of rector. He recognizes Eve from their previous meeting, but has scruples about revealing her secret, and marries them anyway.

Eve’s new husband dotes on her and she feels some guilt at keeping the truth from him. She falls in love with him, which is lucky for him, as he is one of the dullest, shadowy male leads I have encountered since the cardboard Charles Darney in ‘A Tale of Two Cities’ and Angel Clare in ‘Tess of D’ubervilles’.

Jerome goes to Italy and runs into Dorothy, with whom he has been in love for years. She is staying with her sister, who married another cad who considerately left her a young widow by blowing his brains out. Just why this detail is added to the story is never explained, as it does nothing to further the plot, but it adds to the Gothic atmosphere. Perhaps there is a hint that Dorothy does not learn by example? Certainly, John Almyer’s sisters seem to make a point of marrying undependable villains, as if rebelling against his example.

The austere Jerome’s faith is tried by his jealousy of Dorothy and Felix. Finally, on being rejected by Dorothy and on hearing of her engagement to the wicked Count, he goes to Fountainbleau to find out what he can of Felix’s former liaison with Eve. Here he falls off his horse and is looked after by an artist who just happens to have the same housekeeper as the one who kept house for Felix and Eve (co-incidences abound in this novel). She tells him all about Felix’s ways and Eve. He and the artist have many discussions. I assume the point of this is that Jerome’s narrow mind is opened.

It is certainly a good thing that the authors saw that many clerics were exceptionally narrow in their interpretation of Christianity, anyway; this also adds an incongruous level of seriousness to the plot which is at odds with the frequently weak style of writing.

When he has recovered, Jerome returns to England and when Eve refuses to admit to the truth, tells John Almyer ‘All about Eve’.  He is disgusted, and leaves to shoot big game on the Congo rather than himself.

Eve – astonishingly – comes to like and to place her faith in Jerome Meredith, which, given that he betrayed her after not speaking out at her wedding, is a remarkable piece of magnaminity.  Jerome, presumably through the influence of the artist and by suffering over his loss of Dorothy, has become kinder and less aesthetic.

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Just in case anyone might miss the significance of the erring heroine being called ‘Eve’…

Then Dorothy and Felix come to visit, a ridiculous situation treated without a jot of humour by the authors. Then Jerome is killed in saving Felix when his horse bolts.

Eve resolves to tell Dorothy the truth, but learning that she is having a baby, she keeps silent. Then she hears that John Almyer has been killed by ‘a savage tribe’ (perhaps they might have resented the European invaders?). She mourns excessively and lives in miserable penitence with her Aunt Letitia (a comic character, the trivial details of whose day are wittily recounted).

Meanwhile, Felix has become a successful politician with his campaigning against the marriage laws and is happy with Dorothy at the Château d’Anvers. He comes under the influence of the local priest Pere Joseph. Soon the superficial Felix, who looks forward to having an heir and becoming a respected politician, willingly makes an apparent repentance for his past life as a rake.

But then, Dorothy, on hearing of her brother’s death, falls in a faint down the front steps, killing both herself and her unborn child. She also dies disillusioned at the last moment with Felix, who shows his lack of spirituality by pleading with her to stay alive because he needs her (an entirely human response to the death of a young bride, I would have thought, but one which the authors believe shows a low spirit). Presumably this turning of the knife was regarded by them as necessary for her spiritual redemption.

I was sad about this wildly improbable end, which is clearly intended to be The Hand of Fate striking her down for marrying a bad man. The lively Dorothy is one of the most appealing characters in the book, far more endearing than Eve, who, apart from her outrageous act in eloping with Felix and going ahead with her wedding plans to John Almyer, is not particularly interesting. Even in her descent into bitterness and a dark night of the soul she somehow seems unreal.

Somehow, like Charles Dickens’ Charles Darnay and Lucie Manette,she never comes to life in the readers imagination, so she is an ideal mate for the dull sportsman and Strong Englishman John Almyer, who goes about quoting platitudes.

Felix is overcome with grief at Dorothy’s death, and Pere Joseph tries to use this to make him truly religious. Pere Joseph suspects that he is insincere in his dramatic repentance for his former rakish ways, even when he confesses his betrayal of Eve.

Then, Felix makes the improbable decision to go to England and persuade Eve of her sin (presumably, her sin in having bigamously married John Almyer in England rather than in living accidentally outside wedlock with him). This is so clumsy a plot device to get him in England that I was startled. However, writers of this type of romantic melodrama did this sort of thing all the time, and seemingly got away with it with their readers, at least in that their books continued to sell.

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Perhaps the story was serialised in this.

Eve has, however, received news from John Almyer’s  companion on the expedition that John Almyer is not dead. John Almyer apparently wishes to surprise Eve, but the friend thinks the shock would be bad for her and writes to warn her of his return.

He has survived weeks of torture at the hands of the ‘Natives’. Presumably this was done just for the fun of it, for it is never explained why they didn’t just kill him off, and it is never hinted that he had some knowledge which they wanted. Now he returns to England – seemingly unscathed in body and mind, being an English hero.

Naturally, Felix d’Anvers arrives on the same night as his rival. Overcome once more by Eve’s attractions (though he had been so bored with them in Fontainbleau) he forgets his spiritual mission. John Almyer walks in on them and misunderstands the situation.

Eve assures him he is wrong.

The two men have a dramatic fight in the firelight (Eve was waiting for her husband with the lights off to flatter her complexion, as one does).

Then, having sent Eve up to her room, John Almyer leaves the room himself, providing the unconscious Felix with a gun with which to shoot himself or to shoot his rival when he returns. John Almyer tells Eve he foresees no happiness for them and doesn’t care if he lives or dies (it is not explained why in that case, he bothered surprising her by his return – a lover like gesture). Felix, however, he says, will be too cowardly to do either.

Eve runs down to prevent murder, and Felix runs off into the night, proving himself  ‘the cur’ which Jerome and John Almyer have always called him.  Eventually, pursued by spirits either real or imaginary, he runs into the quarry from which Jerome Meredith saved him before.

This end put me in mind of the end of another Villain of the Piece, Stannard Marshbank in Charles Garvice’s ‘The Outcast of the Family’. It really doesn’t do to go running about by quarries in the dark of the moon, but Villains of the Piece will do it.

Eve reminds John Almyer that ‘Adam forgave Eve’. (I think that Eve had to do some forgiving too, as he had told tales with his excuse, ‘The woman did tempt me and I did eat’ but that’s irrelevant here).  John  Almyer decides that they can be happy after all, as like Adam and Eve they can ‘go out into the world according to God’s holy ordinance’,  and the story ends with her realising that like the first woman: ‘She would become mother to life and that Christus had redeemed Adam’.

A fittingly devout end to a story about sin and temptation. I wholly dislike the notion of a Creator of wrath rather than of mercy. It is not only in the quality of the writing that I find this work wholly inferior in tone to say, Anne Bronte’s ‘The Tenant of Wildfell Hall’ also about an unrepentant rake, but in the breadth of spiritual understanding.

However, as I say, there are oddly contrasting passages where strong writing takes over from the normal superficially melodramatic tone. Here is one:

‘Who is coming down the road, I wonder…Don’t you see the ‘rider on the white horse’ Felix? Now, where have I come across the line before…’ The girl spoke in bright, careless tones, wholly forgetful that the line she referred to so cheerfully came from the Book of Revelation: but Felix remembered, and he muttered uneasily, “‘I looked, and behold a pale horse; and his name that sat on him was Death.’”… “Who is morbid now?” she asked. “I don’t think the postboy would be pleased to hear us, for it is Francis riding up with the letter bag, Felix.”

Despite the humour of this wholly prosaic revelation (there is an odd combination of humour and deadly seriousness in this melodrama) the letter is the one about the death of her brother which will cause her to faint and fall to her death. There is an excellent piece of dramatic build up:

‘The warm, hazy afternoon was changing into a sinister evening; heavy rainclouds were drifting up, swarms of dark, noisome gnats and insects were whirring through the air, and steaks of yellow light, presaging storm, appeared in the sky. The runner came in sight. He was one of the footmen from the château, the same fair, florid young man who had been in Count Raoul’s death chamber, summoned there to witness the dying cousin’s will. Directly Felix caught sight of the young man, a terrible fear and dread came over him; his face turned livid, and he clutched at Pere Joseph for support.’

That is just the way to write Gothic! Over-the-top it will necessarily be: weak and sentimental it never should be, as in the scene on Eve’s wedding morning: ‘”I have brought your breakfast tray up,” laughed Dorothy, opening the door with one hand and supporting the dainty little tray with the other. “All the servants clamoured for the honour, Eve, but I said it was the privilege of the bridesmaid to serve the bride.”’

I would like to think that the strong writing came from both the male and female partners, but I do wonder. Many woman writers of romance have an unlucky tendency towards sentimentality to this day: whether this is done to appeal to the wider readership, or an innate fault in their style, is unclear.  Still, I have commented on Charles Dickens and Thackeray’s maudlin tendencies, so perhaps it was the man as well.

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Inspired Endings – That State of Transendence

I have written before about the inspired ending to Patrick Hamilton’s ‘The Slaves of Solitude’, which is, along with ‘Hangover Square’ considered to be his masterpiece.

I won’t do it justice here,  unless I explain something of the story, which is essentially a dark comedy. It concerns the grim – and often ludicrous – experiences of the lonely, early middle aged Miss Roach in a Henley boarding house called – with a typical Hamilton facetious touch – ‘The Rosamund Tea Rooms’ – in England during 1942; in other words, in the middle of World War II.

She incurs the wholly unjustified vindictiveness of two of her fellow lodgers. One of these is a German woman, Vicki Kugelmann, whom she has previously tried to befriend, the other a type which I gather was common in the ‘genteel’ boarding houses of the era – the impossibly overbearing and reactionary Mr Thwaites. They encourage each other in taunting Miss Roach, and gibing at her support for democracy.

Miss Roach has developed a mild flirtation with an American GI, the generous but unreliable Lieutenant Pike,who wishes, if he survives the war, to enter the laundry business. He has even proposed to Miss Roach: ‘Though she had laughed at the laundry, she had never entirely discounted it’.

The predatory Vikki, taken along to a meal with Lieutenant Pike and some of his GI friends through Miss Roach’s charity, throws herself at the unreliable, drunken Lieutenant Pike, and contrives to come between him and Miss Roach and to steal him as ‘her American’, though she smugly informs Miss Roach that:  ‘I am not the Snatcher. I do not snatch the men’.

Then Miss Roach, already feeling undermined through the constant sniping comments from Mr Thwaites and Vikki, hears that Lieutenant Pike in fact is notorious for going about proposing to every woman with whom he becomes entangled, so his previous proposal was empty. She feels; ‘deprived of all dignity’.

Vikki gradually reveals herself as hating the British, and Mr Thwaites has always been a closet fascist. After a prolonged psychological battle with these two, Miss Roach finally emerges triumphant.

Lieutenant Pike shifts his allegiance back to Miss Roach, but has to leave when his unit is transferred. Having inherited a sum of money from her aunt, she leaves the boarding house in triumph. Mr Thwaites has now died of a sudden agonising illness  –  and Vicki has been asked to leave to boarding house for inviting Mr Thwaites and Lieutenant Pyke into her room in a drunken spree.

Miss Roach is invited  to see the retired actor Mr Prest – always despised as ‘common’ in the Rosamund Tea Rooms – brought out of retirement to star as the wicked uncle in a pantomime. This, and the delight of the childish audience, gives Miss Roach a feeling of transcendence: ‘There was an extraordinary look of purification about Mr Prest..and…Miss Roach felt purified.’

She has taken a room for a couple of nights in Claridges (able to pay through her small inheritance from her aunt): Here her strange feeling of purification continues:

‘An orchestra was now playing in the lounge, and sitting and having that last drink…something else was added to Miss Roache’s state of mind…there came a sort of clarification of mind, in which she could see in their correct proportions all the things which had occurred to her in the last few months…

She saw Mr Thwaites in his right proportions…The trouble with that man was that he had never stepped beyond the mental age of eleven or twelve, nature having arrested him at a certain ugly phase…

She saw the Lieutenant in his right proportions. Not strong of mind, easily affected by drink, in a foreign land, in a mood of sexual excitation, in fear of the future and over anxious to live life to the full, the poor man had gone about in drink making love to the girls and asking them to marry him…

She saw Vikki in her right proportions. A wretched woman that, more wretched than evil…savagely egoistic. And in her sex obsession, vain. And in her vanity cruel…She probably wasn’t really the concentration camp, stadium yelling, rich, fruity, German Nazi which Miss Roach had at times thought her (and yet she very probably was!) and now Miss Roach found it easy to forgive her.’

Settling down to sleep, Miss Roach, ‘That slave of her task master, solitude …hopefully composed her mind for sleep – God help us, God help all of us, every one, all of us.’

Patrick Hamilton was in fact an atheist, but if ever a line was written in a state of inspiration, that last line of supplication to the Deity is it.

To me, the feeling that it inspires sums up the state of mind in which the author must be himself or herself, in order to inspire that same leap of transcendence in the reader.

This is the culmination of that satisfactory ending. We’ve had the fireworks, and we’ve done the prosaic stuff with tying up the loose ends.Now you must impart to the reader a feeling  of peace and completion.

This is the culmination; this is where you leave the reader who has paid you the compliment of joining you in a sojourn through your imaginary world. You must leave that reader contented.

In a fictional work that has any aspirations to merit, that moment of parting is all important. .

You can’t afford to leave that reader dissatisfied. Unless you are writing a series, in those last pages,  you must tie up those loopholes in the plot, that goes without saying. You must resolve your main characters’ dilemma, end that quest, bring down those barriers .
You have to bring about completion as surely as any conveyancing solicitor handing the client those coveted house keys.

And evocation of mood is a great part of it.

In light novels, say a romance pure and simple, you only aim to solve the main characters’ dilemma and bring them together. It is that which gives the reader her (less often his) emotional high. It’s ended nicely, for those protagonists, anyway.

But if you are writing something deeper, that is hardly enough. You want to evoke a more expanded mindset that that. You want that reader to feel almost stunned and emotionally both drained and fulfilled, by first the drama of those concluding chapters, and then to come to a sense of peace.

I’m not, of course, implying that we can hope to come even close, were we to write and rewrite our ending lines several thousand times,  but below are the ending lines to ‘King Lear’.

Cordelia is dead, Edmund’s repentance when he found himself dying after his fight with Edgar wasn’t in time to save her; the once foolish, vain and authoritarian King Lear, who has run mad and been restored to sanity again by that rejected daughter, has himself died of a cracked heart; Goneril has poisoned Regan, and then stabbed herself to death, and ‘My poor Fool is hanged’.

The slaughter is awful. It is given to Edgar (the probable future ruler) to say:

‘The weight of this sad time we must obey;
Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.
The oldest hath borne most; we that are young
Shall never see so much, nor live so long.’

It wouldn’t even be a good idea if we could replicate that tragic grandeur. It is probably better for the mental stability of the population that we don’t read several such great works of literature each week. We would become overwrought.

For all that, we must, of course, always try to write the best version of whatever it is that we are writing or we won’t be aiming high enough: we’ll be churning out pot boilers.

There are some writers who have managed to do that and produce something of lasting value – I would argue that Conan Doyle in his Sherlock Holmes stories achieved that, however light a value he placed on them – but they have not been many.

But if we want to write something of value, then at the conclusion of a story, that feeling of transcendence, that mindset of rising above petty differences, of compassionate awareness of the tragedies in life – of the terrible waste in human misunderstanding, must come through.

When I first finished reading ‘Wuthering Heights’ – a good long time ago, and read the concluding passage:

‘I lingered round them, under that benign sky; watched the moths fl uttering among the heath, and hare-bells; listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass; and wondered how any one could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth.’

Those evocative words gave me that feeling.

That was as myself in a transcendent mood.

Later, when I came to think about it, having reverted once more my everyday self – I decided that I personally found the ending of the story unsatisfactory because Healthcliff never repents of his evildoing – he explicitly tells Nelly Dean that he has done nothing wrong.

I have learnt since, that Emily Bronte had given much thought to the final destination of the ‘unrepentant man of iron’. Now I would hazard that the ending is not meant to give any definitive indication of what that final account will be, other than at the last, we are all perhaps incorporated into that all encompassing peace.

And, of course, with regard to all the above,  if you are writing a series, then that job is in some ways even harder, as in each stage, you must have an interim ending which gives a partial sense of completion and then finish with the fireworks and the roll of drums and then – that final piece of imaginative empathy.

Well, that is what we must aim for. We can only try.

I’m on to the last 30,000 words in my latest now, building up to the fireworks, which I can only hope don’t prove to be damp squibs, and then I’ve got to pull off those final moments .

Wish me luck.

Borrowing from the Great Bad Writer of Victorian Romances

$_35I hope to bring out my next novel, ‘The Villainous Viscount Or The Curse of the Venns’ within weeks. There’s been a long delay – over two years – between this and my last ‘Ravensdale’. That was only partly because I’ve written half of the sequel to ‘That Scoundrel Émile Dubois as well.

This is the third version of this book I’ve worked on. I began to write this novel as comedy, and I wasn’t satisfied with that after 28,000 words. Cue, writers block…

Then I began to write it as tragedy, and I wasn’t satisfied with that after 56,000 words. Cue,  worse writers block…Yuk, Yuk, Yuk. I became horribly familiar with that. It went on for weeks. I did a blog post on it.

So then I wrote it as Gothic dark comedy with a tragic back story not written as comedy, and – no serious writer’s block to speak of, though  (I always get it for a few days near the end; that’ s nothing).

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I wrote that first comic version  partly as a spoof of the style of novel by the Victorian and Edwardian writer of romantic melodrama, Charles Garvice. This splendidly lurid work is called ‘The Outcast of the Family Or a Battle Between Love and Pride’ (1894).

In this, there is a wild viscount called Heriot Fayne who goes in drunkenness and pugilism and goes about dressed as a costermonger. He is also a talented musician. When he falls for an innocent girl, he vows to reform, and escapes the corrupting air of the city to be  a sort of country busker.

This sounds like the stuff of comedy, but sadly the story is written with deadly seriousness. Charles Garvice’s sense of the absurd in his novels can only be detected with a microscope.

However, I thought the idea of a pugilistic, drunken, musical social outcast of a viscount who sometimes went about dressed as a member of ‘the lower orders’ a purely brilliant idea. I was disappointed at how little Garvice explores the possibilities of this, and how flat a character he made Heriot Fayne, given  his outrageous habits.

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Intrigued by these contradictory features, I have borrowed them for my own version of this individual in Harley Venn, also a viscount and a social outcast by dint of his habits of keeping low company, brawling in the street, and other such disreputable habits. Harley Venn, however, has more problems than Heriot Fayne. He is plagued by a family curse and threatening visits by a cloaked and hooded and skeletal being,

In a previous post, I wrote about how I first came by the novels of Charles Garvice, this Victorian writer of bestselling romantic melodrama, so my apologies for anyone who remembers that, if I go into it again.

My parents used to renovate isolated country mansions before it became fashionable. To furnish these ludicrously outsized dwellings they used to go to auctions, and the job lots often contained crates of old books, ideal for filling up empty shelves.

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As I have said before, I first read this book , hooting with derisive laughter as teenagers do, when snowed up in the Clwyd Valley at the age of fourteen – raiding my mother’s Bristol Cream at the same time.

I came across all sorts of books through these job lots, many of them, in those pre-internet days, long out of print.  There were b ooks by Mrs Humphrey Ward and Helen Mathers, memoirs of nineteenth century rural vicars and collections of sermons  packed in with some of Shakespeare’s plays and copies of 1950’s science fiction and fantasy magazines.  Informative books on pig keeping, gardening, and engineering mingled with stories by Enid Blyton with appallingly racist titles, works by Arhtur Conan Doyle, a strange encyclopaedia like tome called ‘Everything Within’, paperback versions of Georgette Heyer and Mary Stuart and hardbacks of PG Wodehouse, and this one book by Charles Garvice.

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I re-read ‘ a couple of years ago. An online friend named Thomas Coterrall tracked it down for me. Thanks, Thomas!

Given that I took inspiration from a theme of Charles Garvice, it sounds highly ungracious if I say that when I re-read it, if anything, it struck me as being even more outrageously bad then when I read it the first time.

Still, I would be dishonest if I said anything else. There are a couple of good paragraphs, where Garvice lapses into good writing. Generally, however, with regard to Garvice’s love of wildly improbable co-incidences, lurid melodrama and purple prose, I have to agree with Laura Sewell Mater, on her article ‘Pursuing the Great Bad Novelist:

‘…I recognised, almost from the moment that I started reading, that I had found something amazingly, almost unbelievably, bad.’

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Yet, I have remained fascinated by the fascinating badness of Garvice’s novels. ‘The Outcast of the Family’ has remained my favourite, perhaps because it is the one I enjoyed first. I still maintain that it is probably his worst. I have read several others, including  ‘A Life’s Mistake Or Love’s Forgiveness’  ‘The Marquis’ , ‘Wild Margaret, Or His Guardian Angel’, ‘The Woman’s Way’ ‘Just A Girl’ ‘Wicked Sir Dare’ and ‘The Story of a Passion’. Yes, I’ve read all those, but they were rather a disappointment after the first. They didn’t provide the same amount of unintentional comedy.

I feel the same fascinated affection for the first Charles Garvice novel I read (despite the scene where the hero shows rebarbative anti-Semitism)  as Laura Sewell Matter felt about ‘The Verdict of the Heart’ . This was a Charles Garvice book which she tracked down after becoming fascinated by the lurid text in the pages she found washed up on a beach in Iceland.

Ms Matter says of Charles Garvice in her article ‘Pursuing the Great Bad Novelist’: –

‘The critics were merciless. His work was routinely dismissed by such highbrow publications such as The Athenaeum, which snidely acknowledged Garvice’s success: ‘The very thickness with which the colours are laid on will make the novels popular in circles which know nothing of artistry.

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‘The question which concerned the critics was not whether Garvice’s work was high art – it patently was not – but whether he was a calculating businessman who condescended to write for the newly literate female masses, or a simpleton who believed in the sort of twaddle he peddled. A fool or a cormorant. Either way, he was damned.’

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However, in my first post on Charles Garvice, I quoted a very telling point that Ms Matter makes towards the end of her article: –

‘ What Moult and the other critics failed to acknowledge, but what Garvice knew and honoured, are the ways in which so many of us live in emotionally attenuated states, during times of peace as well as war (during the First World War, Garvice’s novels had been favourite reading material for soldiers in the trenches). Stories like the ones that Garvice wrote may be low art, or they may not be art at all. They may offer consolation and distraction rather than provocation and insight. But many people find provocation enough in real life, and so they read for something else. One cannot have contempt for Garvice without also having some level of contempt for common humanity, for those readers – not all of whom can be dismissed as simpletons –who may not consciously believe in what they are reading, but who read anyway because they know: a story can be a salve’.

Samuel Richardson’s Pamela, Calico Purity and Underclothes Excitement, Purelity and Mr B’s Supposed Reform

clarissaSamuel Richardson’s reputation, for so long as bad as it could be among critics, has in recent decades had something of a revival. This is generally among literary scholars, as the length of his works is enough to put off all but the most geekish or courageous of readers (count me among the said geeks). These days, the subtlety of his characterisation, and the complex significance of his use of incident, are now discussed as avidly as once were the scorn and disgust aroused in readers by his self serving Puritanical morality.

Typically awkward, I think this is a loss, because I fully agree with Coleridge’s conclusion about Richardson’s work:

‘I confess it has cost, and still costs, my philosophy some exertion not to be vexed that I must admire, aye, greatly admire, Richardson. His mind is so very vile, a mind so oozy, so hypocritical, praise mad, canting, envious, concupiscent.’

5pamelaRichardson writing has a compulsion which one feels has got little to do with literary value, or the creation of sympathetic characters, believable situations, or strong writing.

In fact, after ploughing through ‘Pamela’ ‘Clarissa’ and part of ‘The History of Sir Charles Grandison’ I can safely state that Richardson is devoted to purple prose.

Unfortunately, this may be why – with his favourite theme being that of female virtue besieged – in an age discovering ‘sensibility’, so many of his inner circle of toadying admirers and literary advisers were women. They wished to explore the ‘female sphere’ of the emotive that this male writer was prepared to take seriously in his writing and in their enthusiasm for this they seem to have blinded themselves both to the inadequacies of his verbose, florid style and the dismal limitations of the sort of respect for women offered by his attitude towards them.

thIt is intriguing that in their discussions, they often employed much the same arguments that are used today in defences on the literary value of the romance novel. In fact, current writers on the value of the romance novel such as Pamela (!) Regis take a stand against the ‘anti-Pamela-ists’ precisely because they define ‘Pamela’ as the first romantic novel.

Richardson wrote two hundred years before Freud’s discoveries of sexuality and the unconscious laid bare the source of his appeal, already hinted at by Henry Fielding and Eliza Heywood. In D H Lawrence’s words, he offered voyeuristic ‘Calico purity and underclothes excitement…Boccacio at his hottest seems to me less pornographic than ‘Pamela’ or ‘Clarissa’.

If this seems wonderfully biting, then the critic V S Pritchard in ‘The Living Novel’ goes further:

th‘Prurient, and obsessed by sex, the prim Richardson creeps on tiptoe nearer and nearer, inch by inch…he beckons us on, pausing to make every sort of pious protestation, and then nearer and nearer he creeps again…’

This is hilarious, and very apt.

Another critic, Frank Bradbrook in his essay on Richardson ‘The Pelican Guide to English Literature’ remarks trenchantly, ‘Pamela is sentimental and obscene; its obscenity is a direct result of its sentimentality.’

I have to agree with these criticisms, which makes me into an ‘anti Pamela-ist’. But I am even more of an ‘Anti Mr B-ist’ I don’t think Richardson’s heroine is alone in a hypocrite. Mr B is even more of one than Pamela.

Regarding Pamela’s hypocrisy, as soon as her master offers to marry her, he ceases to be a villain in her eyes, and she never asks for an explanation or apology for his abusive treatment of her. In elevating her to his own status, Squire B has put his late mother’s lady’s maid under such a sense of obligation that he can only be her ‘beloved Master’ even if he did attempt to rape her at least once, and sexually assaulted her on numerous occasions.

pamelaAs for M B’s hypocrisy, apart from his absurd earlier outrage that she has dared to defy him and write accounts of his attempts on her, there is his later astounding self complacency. He is supposed to have undergone a moral metamorphesis triggered by reading her journal. One might think that this would have made him a little confused and diffident about himself, and the value of his opinions. Far from it. As soon as he gives up his attempts on her and decides to marry her, he suddenly shows an incongruous tendency to express pompous views about marriage and a wife’s duty.

Here he is clearly Richardson’s mouthpiece. Still, the contrast between this new persona, and his former behaviour as a self confessed rake, are frankly ludicrous.

Clearly, he enjoys traipsing about with her giving the neighbours tedious moral lectures more than in jumping out at her from closets and thrusting his hand down her bosom.

The revival of Richardson’s reputation seems to have been partly promoted by the writings of the US academic Mark Kinkead Weekes, and in particular his 1973 book ‘Samuel Richardson: Dramatic Novelist’.

I recently read this, having ploughed through ‘Pamela’ (read and detested in 1991; re-read and detested even more recently); ‘Pamela in Her Exalted Condition’ (hooted over in 1993; skim read again recently) and
‘Clarissa’ (ploughed through, and to some extent, grudgingly admired, two years ago).

pamela-faintinI found Kinkead Weekes’ book intriguing, though I disagree with his conclusions, while I found the parts which defend both heroine and the anti hero Mr B in ‘Pamela’, not only unconvincing but downright offensive to women readers.

It has to be said in Kinkead Weekes’ defence, that this book was written in 1973, when the views about the depiction of sexual violence against women in novels was very different.

It is an intriguing thing that Kinkead Weekes considers the scheming unrepentant Lovelace – the rapist anti-hero of ‘Clarissa’ – to be a very evil man. But Mr B, by dint of his facile reform is another case altogether.

200px-Pamela-1742In ‘Pamela in her Exalted Condition’ Richardson was later to have Mr B deny that his first seeming attempt on Pamela, where he leaps out of a closet, climbs into bed with her and the housekeeper,and thrusts a hand down her bosom was an atempted rape, and indeed, it is hard to see how he would have contemplated carrying one out in front of Mrs Jervis. However, that piece of punishment through sexual assault is ugly enough, and later in the novel, he does carry out a genuine rape attempt.

Kinkead Weekes goes on to say of Mr B’s second attempt (also made in the presence of another woman, this time the wicked housekeeper Mrs Jewkers: she holds Pamela down, as do the prostitutes in ‘Clarissa’; Richardson did seem to have a rather odd thing about exhibitionist rapes): –

‘The final attempt does begin with the intention of rape, though for revenge and subjugation, not desire- but it continues in stubborn pride, unwilling to give in to fear of wrongdoing, and trying hopelessly to salvage something. …It is the last kick of B’s pride, brought remorselessly to face its consequences in the ‘death’ (Pamela has a fit)
of the girl he loves. The result is tenderness, and there is no need for B’s subsequent change to seem surprising.’

IX: Pamela is Married 1743-4 Joseph Highmore 1692-1780 Purchased 1921 http://www.tate.org.uk/art/work/N03575
IX: Pamela is Married 1743-4 Joseph Highmore 1692-1780 Purchased 1921 http://www.tate.org.uk/art/work/N03575

I see; readers have been told that they are not ‘reading carefully’ if they find his subsequent reformation abrupt and unconvincing. We are also told repeatedly that Pamela is not a hypocrite for accepting such a man when he changes to making ‘respectable’ offers of marriage.

‘It is open to the critic to say that it is immoral to love a man who has behaved like B, even if he seems to have made a break with his past, and that it is immoral to be able to blot out that past in a forgiveness excessive enough to rank repentant sinners ‘in the rank of the most virtuous’. Only, if that is what we want to say, let us say it clearly, in awareness of what saying it implies. Let us not, on the other hand, talk too much about the jewel market.’

I see.  Kinkaed Weekes may dislike talking about ‘the jewel market’ ie, Pamela’s determination to keep her value as an untouched piece of goods on the market, as degrading, but that gives him no right to insist that others don’t, just because it weakens his arguments in favour of Pamela’s supposed integrity. What I would say in response to his implication that critics of her acceptance of Mr B are being uncharitable, is that of course, Pamela should have forgiven such a man as Mr B. But that she should not have married him.

Strangely enough, Kinkaed Weekes thoroughly endorses Clarissa’s combining forgiveness of Lovelace with an absolute refusal to marry him. While it might be argued that this is because Lovelace never really repents, he says he does. He is willing to marry Clarissa, believing that will put matters right.pamela

I see very little moral difference between the two rapist anti heroes, save that the first is less of a compulsive schemer, and more of a hypocrite, who decides he will obtain more pleasure in joining Pamela in ‘innocent pleasures’ with her as his servile worshipper, and in go about the country giving tedious moral lectures to the neighbours  than in jumping out of closets to thrust his hand down her bosom.

Tastes change, I suppose…