fiction

Mrs. Dalloway, by Virginia Woolf

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Reading this classic novel now, more than fifty years since I first encountered it as an undergrad, is quite a different experience. Back then I was confused and thrilled by Woolf’s modernist, experimental style that expanded forever my idea of what a novel could be.

Now I see it as a story of midlife, in several senses of the word. The story unfolds as a day in the lives of a handful of people in London going about their ordinary business, and we get thrown right into the middle of things. Clarissa Dalloway is preparing to give a party. Newly returned from India, Peter Walsh sets out to recapture the past by exploring London and visiting Clarissa, his first love. Richard Dalloway is off to lunch with old friend Hugh Whitbread at Lady Bruton’s. Septimus Smith, a damaged veteran of the Great War, and his wife Rezia are walking through the park, on their way to an appointment with a doctor.

Since Clarissa, Peter and others are in their early fifties, we have another sense of midlife. It’s a time of life when we look back nostalgically, but also when we measure ourselves—and others—assessing how we have changed with age, and calculating what we have made of our years. Have we measured up to our early promise?

Time comes up frequently, not just in the characters’ reflections on how they and each other have aged, their memories of the past, and the bustling busy lives of their present; but also in the more linear sense of the clocks sounding the hours of the day. Time in this novel is both infinite and finite.

Another sense of midlife underpins the story: the Bible’s “Media vita in morte sumus”—“In the midst of life we are in death.” Death comes up frequently, whether it’s Septimus thinking of suicide or Clarissa hearing old Mrs Hilbery at the party say “how it is certain we must die.” Clarissa herself has recently been ill which has turned her hair white and left a concern still about her heart.

In my youth the book’s theme that struck me most strongly centered on solitude versus society. Plunging into this novel, we have opportunities to see most of the characters alone—really see them; right into their jumbled, chaotic thoughts, sublime ideas, and snarky digs. We see Peter like his namesake in Kensington Gardens never having fully grown up, and Clarissa awash in memories of a golden childhood and gloriously loving her present life—until she’s brought low by self-doubt or sensing criticism from others.

We also see them with others, whether through intimate conversations or Clarissa’s crowded party. In some instances simply exchanging a look with someone else—a young woman in the park or an elderly woman in a window across the street—becomes a vital communication.

Clarissa believes that her strength is that she knows what other people are feeling. In fact, all the characters think they do, but they are mistaken. Richard is certain that Clarissa will know he loves her without his saying so. Peter thinks he and Clarissa read each other’s minds. The worst offenders are the two doctors to whom Septimus goes for treatment; they burst with confidence that they know what is wrong with him, but their pompous, one-size-fits-all solutions are worse than useless.

There’s a reason why so many books and essays and dissertations have been written about this novel. It is so rich—so full of life. You can look at it through the lens of class or gender; you can hold it up to Woolf’s own life; or consider the fragility of a world that is on the cusp of change—the book came out in 1925, so this year is its centennial.

For me in this reading it is the sense of time that demands my attention. Like these characters I strain to reckon the long years behind me: the golden times that I weave into stories for my grandchildren and the bitter griefs and regrets that I keep to myself. I consider what I will do with the few years that remain, knowing how much I value being alone and how much I enjoy being with others.

We are all born and we all die. That is what we have in common. What comes in between is our own unique story. By slicing one day out of the lives of this small group of people, Woolf gives us a glimpse of the extraordinary richness of the lives humming all around us.

If you’ve read Mrs. Dalloway, what did you think about it? If you’ve reread it, did your opinion change?

Note: My thanks to Tash for her discussion of the novel on her Woolfish! Substack and to all the commenters there as well for expanding my understanding of the novel.

Thornhill, by Pam Smy

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This unusual Young Adult (YA) novel is perfect end-of-October reading: stark, a little sad and a lot spooky. Part graphic novel and part journal, it’s a stunning portrayal of what many people experience, especially those on the tender, unpredictable cusp of adolescence.

Lonely Ella has just moved to town, her modern-day story told in striking black-and-white graphics, the only words being those occasionally written on items in the scene. We see an upstairs room, packing boxes, a window—and through that window a strange gothic ruin of a house buried in an overgrown garden.

The Thornhill Institute for Children, a boarding school for abandoned and orphaned children, closed in 1982. Mary is one of the last to leave, and it is her journal that runs parallel to the silent pictures depicting Ella’s life. Mary writes of terrible goings-on at Thornhill, especially the bullying directed at her. She takes refuge in her attic room, locking the door against the nightly bangings of her chief persecutor. There she makes puppets and dolls—creating her own friends—and reading.

Ella’s mother has apparently died, and her busy father seems to have little time for her. Sometimes we see through a crow’s eyes; is it the crow or Ella who first sees a shadow in an attic window of the dilapidated Thornhill? Ella finds a way into the property and begins exploring.

The book made me consider what we see and what we don’t see. The adults at Thornhill don’t see Mary’s suffering, nor does Ella’s father see her loneliness and her grief for the loss of her mother. Mary’s diary reveals her uncertainty about whether to trust what she sees, such as overtures of friendship from her persecutor. It also shows her hiding from view in her room, more and more as the story continues.

We readers see only Mary’s words and the pictures of Ella’s life. I found this distancing  effective because it made me create their stories myself. That happens with the best traditional novels, of course, but I felt newly challenged here. I was reminded of what writer/teacher/agent Donald Maass has said about creating emotion in our stories. Just describing the emotion doesn’t make the reader feel it. Instead, we have to set up a situation that invites the reader to remember feeling that emotion themselves; their own memories then supply the emotional heft.

I certainly found that to be true here. I was flooded with memories of that awkward, in-between time. Mostly I remember glorious days, enchanted moments, etc. but I was reminded that there were some bullying and loneliness; there was the need for a friend.

Another part of my thinking about what we see and how we see it was remembering a show of Andrew Wyeth’s paintings at the National Gallery entitled “Looking Out, Looking In.” His paintings of windows and doors made up the exhibition and sent me down a path considering point of view in a way that had nothing to do with first or third person but everything to do with where we are standing, whether we are inside or outside.

In Thornhill, we have windows and doors, walls and secret gardens, mysteries and ghosts. It’s a quick read, but the story may stay with you a long time.

What are some of your favorite spooky reads for October?

The Women, by Kristin Hannah

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Frankie McGrath, a naïve 23-year-old “California girl” and nursing student, enlists in the Army Nurse Corps because it is the branch of the military that will send her to Vietnam as quickly as possible. It’s 1965, and she has an idealistic vision of meeting up with her brother who is deployed there.

Unsurprisingly, once there she’s overwhelmed by the difference between her dreams and reality. The author recreates the day-to-day chaos and destruction of a medical station during the Vietnam war through Frankie’s eyes and emotions. Frankie manages to adjust and become a superb surgical nurse, very much thanks to Barb and Ethel, two fellow nurses who befriend and support her. Friendship, loyalty and betrayal are themes that run through the book.

At the end of her second tour in 1969, Frankie returns to California, and the second half of the book is about the antipathy she encounters. Confronted by antagonism that ranges from pretending she (as a woman) could not have been in Vietnam to outright hatred and abuse, she struggles to find her feet. As her mental health deteriorates she calls constantly on Barb and Ethel who repeatedly drop their East Coast lives to fly to California to help her.

All the conflict in this part of the book comes from the supposed hatred of Vietnam vets. True, there are romantic and work problems, but it is her emotional and mental fragility in the face of this hatred that makes her unable to deal with these normal problems.

I do not question the PTSD suffered by returning Vietnam veterans of all genders and, indeed, all of our veterans deployed in war. However, I was active in the antiwar movement at the time, and I NEVER saw protestors spitting on returning veterans and calling them baby killers, not in person, not on tv. Just the opposite. We were on the side of the soldiers, working to help them come home safe from a senseless war—something most of the soldiers in country wanted as well.

So I have long believed that all that supposed fury of protestors against veterans is a story—a lie—created by the warmongers to discredit the antiwar movement. It’s an urban legend. Here’s what Snopes has to say.

The claim that anti-war protesters spit on Vietnam veterans returning from the war is a persistent one, but there is no clear evidence that this was a widespread occurrence . . .

The persistence of this claim, despite lack of clear contemporary evidence, suggests it may be more of an urban legend that gained traction over time rather than a documented widespread occurrence. However, the available Snopes archives do not contain a comprehensive fact-check specifically addressing the broader claim about anti-war protesters spitting on Vietnam veterans.

Without more specific archival information addressing this claim directly, it’s difficult to make a definitive statement about its veracity. The persistence of the story, even among those who did not serve in Vietnam, indicates how deeply ingrained this narrative has become in discussions about the reception of Vietnam veterans upon their return home.

Other resources are a scholarly book by Jerry Lembke: The Spitting Image: Myth, Memory, and the Legacy of Vietnam and a Wikipedia page, neither of which find any credible proof to support the myth.

These days, we know a lot more about deliberate misinformation—lies—told for political purposes. I’m disappointed that Hannah, a brilliant writer whose other books I’ve enjoyed, has chosen to repeat and amplify this distortion of what actually happened back then.

The first part of the book which takes place in Vietnam, although a bit melodramatic, provides a vivid picture of what life must have been like on the ground for nurses. I applaud her choice to concentrate the second half of the book on how hard life is for returning war veterans. I’m just sorry she stuck to this simplistic—and false—narrative of abuse of Vietnam vets instead of digging into the more nuanced reasons why we see so many vets struggling with depression and suicidal thoughts.

Have you read anything about women in the Vietnam War?

Middlemarch, by George Eliot

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I’ve been rereading Eliot’s classic novel this month with Haley Larsen’s Closely Reading group on Substack. It’s been a few decades since I last read it, and different features of the book leaped out at me this time.

The story is about the inhabitants of the fictional town of Middlemarch in the English Midlands around 1830. Eliot does a masterful job of zooming in to a dozen or so characters while giving other townspeople plenty to space to make themselves known.

We first meet Dorothea Brooke, a wealthy and intelligent young (19) woman, who wants to do great things in service to others, starting with better housing for the tenants of her uncle and guardian Arthur Brooke, a hilariously foolish man who can talk himself out of any opinion. Dorothea is extremely religious and denies herself pleasures, such as her mother’s jewelry, in order to sacrifice herself to a greater cause.

That turns out to be marrying Rev. Edward Casaubon, prematurely elderly at 45. A dry stick of a man, who has devoted his life to creating The Key to All Mythologies, he marries her but quickly withdraws into his shell. He rejects her romantic ideas of assisting him in his work, like Milton’s daughters taking down the blind poet’s dictation (as Dorothea dreams), mostly because he fears she will mock him when she sees how little he’s accomplished.  

We also meet Dr. Tertius Lydgate who hopes to modernise medicine In Middlemarch and the lovely, self-centered Rosamond Vincy who sets out to capture him. Her brother Fred loves Mary Garth, nurse to his uncle Mr. Featherstone, and she him. But she won’t marry Fred because he is feckless and a spendthrift, believing himself to be Featherstone’s heir and borrowing on the strength of that.

Mary’s parents Caleb and Susan Garth are kind and generous folks, Caleb being land agent for Featherstone. Then there’s Mr. Bulstrode, a wealthy banker. He’s a pious if hypocritical Methodist who runs much of the town and would like to do more to impose his beliefs on other residents.

A lot of characters—and there are more! However, Eliot wrangles their stories into a coherent story where we touch each person often enough that it’s not hard to keep them straight.

What stood out to me on this reading is the theme of what it means to live a good life. By that I mean a life of integrity, one we can be satisfied with when we lie on our deathbeds. In Middlemarch we have all these lives, all of these people intending to do the right thing yet derailed by temptations and compromises and the pressures of daily life. As we follow each storyline, we get to see various permutations of what a good life might look like—or not.

One aspect of a good life is being a contributing member of society, one which among other things means getting involved in politics. We hear a good bit about the Reform Bill (later the Reform Act of 1832) expanding the franchise to a larger segment of the male population, and about the coming of the railroads that threatens local farmers. There’s an interesting parallel here between the politics of the period and Eliot’s method of concentrating on a few privileged characters while including others to a lesser extent but with equal respect.

Another aspect is our personal relationships. I am fascinated by Eliot’s idea of a “home epic” which is what she calls this novel. She defines a home epic as a story about what happens after the wedding, particularly during the course of a marriage. I am often frustrated by stories that end with a wedding, as though that’s the be-all and end-all of a woman’s life, so I love that she takes marriage as  the starting point instead. I’d expand the definition of Eliot’s term to include domestic stories, stories within a family, not just the married couple. And by family, I mean families of choice too. A home epic might also cover the course of a life and how we interact with others, how we live within communities.

The greatest barrier to a good relationship, whether with a spouse or a neighbour, is embodied in her subtitle “A Study of Provincial Life.” Yes, the town is geographically provincial, but there is a larger meaning to the word. As Rebecca Mead puts it in My Life in Middlemarch, “It is also concerned with the emotional repercussions of a kind of immature provincialism of the soul—a small-minded, self-centered perspective that resists the implications of a larger view.”

Over and over again, we see characters misunderstanding each other. So many conversations where people misread each other’s intentions or fail to comprehend what the other is thinking! We know this because of Eliot’s psychological insights, and her technique of using a narrator to go into each character’s thoughts. Her narrator also pulls out to give us that larger view, sometimes warning us that a character may not be as bad as they appear. The narrator can occasionally seem intrusive but is vital to Eliot’s ability to weave the story together and bring out her theme.

Therefore, to live a good life we must be able to empathise with others. We have to work to actually see things the way someone else does, to set aside our own view of the world and understand theirs. I think this is why our narrator persists in explaining these characters to us. Eliot keeps coming back to the idea that we have to grow out of our natural self-centeredness and recognise that others see the world differently.

It’s not easy. As Eliot says, “If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel’s heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence. As it is, the quickest of us walk about well wadded with stupidity.”

Yet we can try.

What does it mean to you to live a good life?

The Lost Words, by Robert MacFarlane and Jackie Morris

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When the Oxford Junior Dictionary was updated, it was found that around forty common words had been dropped—all of them words to do with nature—and their place taken by words, many of which have to do with the online world.

In response, MacFarlane and Morris came together to create what they call a spell book to help young readers rediscover the natural world. Unless we experience and learn to love the world of nature around us, we will not work to save it.

In this large-format book, we first see the creature or plant’s environment empty of everything but a scattering of letters. Some of the letters are a different color and spell out what is missing. Then comes the illustrated spell—an acrostic celebrating and summoning the creature or plant—followed by a stunning double-page illustration of it restored to its habitat.

This is the most beautiful book I’ve seen in a long, long while. Jackie Morris’s illustrations are simply stunning. I’ve even propped it open on my grandmother’s rocking chair so I can glance over at it frequently.

Robert MacFarlane’s spells—acrostic poems—summon the lost creature or plant through the music of words, using imagery, alliteration, internal rhyme, personification, and other poetic devices, including Anglo-Saxon kenning. A few excerpts:

“Hold a heartful of heather, never let it wither, / Even as you travel far from crag and river.”

“Kingfisher: the colour-giver, fire-bringer, flame-flicker, river’s quiver. / Ink-black bill, orange throat and a quick blue back-gleaming feather-stream.”

When I read this book to the littles in my life, they were surprised that anyone would think children wouldn’t know—or wouldn’t need to know—these words. The young ones talked eagerly of the bramble berries in their yard and the otters and herons they’ve seen. They wondered how children in even the most urban environments would not be familiar with dandelions. One of the littles is even named Willow, so was indignant that their name would be discarded.

The only one new to them was conker, since in the U.S. that word is not used for the seed of the horse chestnut, something they do know well since they love collecting the seeds from a horse chestnut near us. As far as I know, the children’s game using conkers is not played here in the U.S. My littles were interested in the description, but not eager to try it.

The book has won many awards and moved out into the world in various formats. I applaud its mission of connecting young people to our natural world and in the process helping to save that disappearing habitat. Most importantly it is a feast for the eyes and, when read aloud as it begs to be, for the ears as well. May its spells work.

What children’s picture book have you loved for the illustrations as well as the words?

Jigsaw puzzles available from the book’s website.

The Child from the Sea, by Elizabeth Goudge

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Little is known of Lucy Walter whose son James was the oldest child of King Charles II. From those few facts, Goudge has spun an entrancing story of a vibrant girl whose great love for the prince—whose father ruled England, Scotland and Ireland as King Charles I—lasted a lifetime. We first meet Lucy as a child in Wales, where she lived with her family in Roch Castle and thought herself part buccaneer, roaming the countryside experiencing all of creation with a dazzling joy.

It was then she became aware of the birds. They were coming down from the sky like drifting autumn leaves, martins, chaffinches, goldfinches and linnets, finding their way to the bracken-sheltered hollows and the warm dry hedges and the safe crannies of the rocks. Lucy had watched the bird migrations before but she had never seen one halted like this, halted as the warning sounded along the shore.

She stood still, scarcely breathing, her arms out and her face turned up to the darkening sky, and they had no fear of her. A wing brushed her cheek and just for a moment some tired little being alighted on her hand, putting on one finger for ever the memory of a tiny claw that clung like a wedding ring. It was for her a moment of ecstasy, of marriage with all living creatures, of unity with life itself, and she whispered in Welsh, ‘Dear God, this happiness is too great for me!’

In London she glimpses the young prince from a bridge over the Thames, and they seem to have even in that brief moment a special connection, one that grows naturally over the years as they encounter each other, until they finally discover the wonder of first love. Though lost in their mutual fervor, Lucy insists on marriage first which, in this historical fiction, was performed by her beloved local parson before the marriage was consummated. It had to be kept secret because the political situation had become fraught.

However, this book is so much more than a love story. Charles’s father, Charles I, was under attack for his belief in the divine right of kings. He argued with Parliament by illegally levying taxes without their consent and alienated others during this time of religious disputes by marrying a Catholic and trying to enforce high-church Anglican practices. Charles I was successor to his father James I both of whom I encountered recently in Phillipa Gregory’s Earthly Joys.

The reader stays with Lucy as she tries to navigate these tumultuous times of civil unrest and debates over the power of the king and Parliament while staying true to her own Prince Charles. As we move between revolution and exile and betrayals, Lucy’s story illuminates themes of forgiveness, loyalty and enduring love. Given our own fraught times, her story is a welcome reminder of these virtues. They may not protect us from harm, but we can stay true to ourselves.

This final book from the beloved author of adult and children’s books abounds in such hard-won wisdom. I read it when it first came out in 1970 and at the time was absorbed in the romance of these two young people and of the Stuart kings about whom I’d read so much.

On this reading, though, I was looking for and found insight from Goudge, who was 70 at the time and had lived through both World Wars and the great changes and horrors of the Twentieth Century, as recounted in her memoir The Joy of the Snow. For example, the description of Elenor Gwinne, Lucy’s grandmother, the peace she had attained and how, struck me as a genuine example of wisdom one might come to in the course of a long life.

The other advantage of this late-in-life novel is that Goudge is writing in the fullness of her powers, as shown in the richness of the story, the interweaving of fact and fiction into a story that keeps the reader enchanted from first page to the last. We move from place to place but each one comes to life because we encounter them through Lucy’s eyes.

I was especially taken by the way Goudge uses description to evoke a response, everything from the smallest image to passages that capture your heart. A particularly thoughtful image is spoken by one of Charles’s friends: “ ‘ . . . loyalty is one of the most difficult of virtues, a flower with all its petals pointing in different directions.’ ” And a passage that thrilled me is:

The birds sang for joy of the growing light, and when Lucy opened her window to hear them, the air smelt of violets, though as yet she had found none under the dead leaves in the unicorn wood. But she found minute buttons of coral buds on the brambles and the green of dog’s mercury among the leaves, and when she left the wood and looked back from the far end of the field, she saw how the trees in the silvery sunshine were clothing themselves in pale amethyst and paler coral, in faint crimson and dun gold, one colour fading into the other as the colours do on the iridescent breast of a bird. 

Lucy never loses her thrilling response to the world, whether it’s a sailing vessel or a homely fire. She is no saint but is constantly reminded—and reminds us—that there are good people in the world and that even in the midst of danger we can keep a loving heart.

What historical fiction or nonfiction have you read that gives you courage in our dark times?

A Piece of Justice, by Jill Paton Walsh

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Imogen Quy is a nurse at St. Agatha’s College in Cambridge University. Working part-time gives her the freedom to enjoy other activities like quilting, which is where the story begins. She and two friends must choose a pattern and fabric for a quilt that will eventually be raffled off for the Red Cross funds. This seemingly unimportant activity foreshadows what’s coming in this smart mystery.

The three have different ideas for a quilt pattern: one wants something simple and basic while another wants an elaborate pattern with lots of curves. Imogen likes patterns that are more complex: “one block merged with the next, so that the pattern shifted as you looked, part of one block completing squares or diamonds in the next.” So right in the first paragraph we know what sort of story we’ve landed in.

This sense of unease and shifting ground is reinforced on the next page: Imogen always starts out with fabric with  a “tasteful” pattern and “soft harmonising colors,” yet once she puts them together, she finds them boring. When her friend Patsy combines the most unlikely colors and patterns—orange fabric “printed in scarlet blotches” next to a bright turquoise—Imogen finds it unexpected and perfect.

As an independent woman, Imogen supplements her income by renting out her two spare bedrooms—currently to two undergraduate men—and her upstairs flat—now to Fran, a postgraduate student at St. Agatha’s. Fran has a problem: she needs to earn money for her living expenses, so she’s thrilled when the new chair of her department, Professor Maverack, offers her a job.

It’s a new department: Biography. In what seems an aside but is more foreshadowing, a brief conversation among dons gives us a history of biography going back to Plutarch. Their back-and-forth is enlivened by the theories of what is important in a life and how these theories have changed over time.

When Fran meets with Maverack, he tells her he’s been hired to write the biography of a recently deceased Cambridge don, Gideon Summerfield. Maverack doesn’t have time—he’s too busy with his own research–so he proposes that he pay Fran to be his ghost writer. Since the relationship between biography and autobiography is the subject of her dissertation, the job will also give her some good experience.

And the job should be easy because the person previously hired to write the book has already completed the research. When Imogen asks why Mark Zephyr didn’t finish the job, Fran breezily replies, “ ‘He died.’ ”  

When that research is delivered, the giant carton disintegrates “String snapped, corrugated cardboard tore open, and bundles and sheets of paper thumped and fluttered everywhere.” What a description! In it I can feel Agatha’s horror and dismay, knowing how hard it will be to restore any kind of order to the precious papers. As she and Fran find after much sorting, the disorder was there even before the box fell apart: different kinds of handwriting, seeming cross-references that don’t make sense, postcards with mysterious numbers on them.

When she finally creates a timeline, Fran finds that there is one summer that is not accounted for. Then Summerfield’s wife, the person who commissioned the biography, comes banging on Imogen’s door demanding that the papers be returned to her.

Such dramatic scenes punctuate this quiet mystery which also abounds in what Donald Maass calls microtension, described as “the line-by-line effect of creating uneasiness in the reader, which can only be relieved by reading the next thing on the page.” For example, Imogen pauses under a cherry tree on “a fine, crisp autumn day” when it is “just warm enough to sit for a few moments on a damp bench and relish the day.” All lovely, but there’s that damp bench.

Large and small moments like these create suspense that keeps the pages flying by. The shifting patterns of the plot also had my mind ticking over even when I tried to set the book aside for a while. I’m not into quilting these days, but Imogen is someone I’d love to sit down and work a cryptic crossword with. I like the way her mind works, sort of a modern Miss Marple. I’ll be looking for more books in this series.

What do you look for in a mystery—or in a quilt?

The Incredible Crime, by Lois Austen-Leigh

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This has been my month for virtual travel: from a remote Finnish island to southern Virginia to Tuscany and London. Now this recently republished novel from 1931 takes me to East Anglia, a part of England I love, where we move between Cambridge and a manor in Suffolk.

Prudence Pinsent, a thoroughly modern woman in her thirties, lives with her father, the Master of (fictional) Prince’s College and a retired bishop. In her role as his hostess she’s perfectly proper but “she reserved to herself the right to swear like a trooper when she chose.” She attributes her independent spirit and unconventional behavior to “a far-back buccaneering ancestor.”

We meet her at a bridge party throwing a crime novel across the room in disgust. The conversation with her three friends, Cambridge wives, quickly turns from a discussion of novels and Cambridge gossip to a new and untraceable poison acquired by one of the odder professors. Then the professor husband of one of the wives enters: “About  the last thing in the world that Skipwith looked like was what he was, an eminent scientific professor. He was not only washed, he was even shaved.”

 A few days later she heads out to visit her beloved cousin at his home Wellende Old Hall, a (fictional) isolated manor among the marshes and canals of Suffolk, that has its own ghost. The description of the autumn drive, passing Ely Cathedral, the Devil’s Dyke, and Bury St. Edmunds, invites the reader in.

Already the academic feeling of the University was beginning to fade, and the feeling of the country-side, of long furrows made by the plough, of thickets scratching in a stubble field, of tired cart-horses going home o’ nights, was beginning to supersede it—the beech woods were all turned to a russet brown, mingling with the soft tints of the ploughed fields and the hedgerows.

As she approaches Wellende, the startling white of gulls against the soft brown fields and then the cold, grey North Sea call up the atmosphere of the fens with their secret streams and ghosts and history of smuggling.

The plot spins out around smuggling, spies, and drugs seasoned with academic satire, country house mayhem, and modern romance. Also, hunting, so be warned.

In Kristen R. Saxton’s introduction, she points out that, “Just as The Incredible Crime combines conventions from the traditions of village and college mysteries, it also offers a sparkly union of the Jane Austen novel of manners with the mystery genre.”

Lois Austen-Leigh is said to have written her novels at the very desk used by her great-great aunt, Jane Austen, later donated to the British Library by Lois’s niece. Lois wrote four crime novels during the Golden Age of British mystery, the period between WW1 and WW11. Her uncle, Augustus Austen-Leigh, was Provost of King’s College, Cambridge, hence her understanding of University doings. She did war-work in both wars and was friends with people like Benjamin Britten and M.R. James. All this makes me curious about her life, and I’m looking now for a biography of her.

The intriguing cover design is based on a British Rail poster from the 1920s, reproduced on the back cover. I learned about this novel and many more set in Cambridge from a post by Anne Kennedy Smith on Substack.

Although the plot is a bit thin in this period piece, the atmosphere and setting are delightful. I found the story great fun and a welcome step back into a different time and place.

What is your favorite Golden Age mystery?

Still Life, by Sarah Winman

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Tuscany, August, 1944. Taking a walk after lunch, Evelyn Skinner sees a jeep and waves it down. As an art historian with decades of experience, she’s in Italy to help with the artworks from museums and churches that have been hidden in the hills during the war, identifying them and assessing the damage. She asks the young English soldier driving the jeep, Private Ulysses Temper, to help her contact the Allied Military Government.

Even in this brief scene, these two people capture the imagination, while Tuscany itself seizes the senses. Ulysses is on his way to pick up Captain Darnley, who has opened his eyes to glories of Italy and art and literature, and takes Evelyn along. Then we jump to London where we meet Ulysses’s wife Peg, Col who runs the bar where she sings, Cress who converses with a tree, the parrot Claude who lives in the bar and quotes Shakespeare, and others. From that point on the novel alternates between London and Florence.

I picked up this book wanting to spend some time in Italy in the middle of the twentieth century. The description are luscious, but the true beauty of the book comes from showing how the fragile threads we throw out to each can, over time, become a beloved community and a motley group of eccentrics can become a family.

There’s never any confusion with the wide cast of characters spread between the two cities. Each person vibrates with life, their adventures by turns dangerous, hilarious and poignant. We meet them as they gather in the sort of places we’ve started to call the commons: a pub, a café, a plaza. We follow them over the decades as they, and we, begin to see how these relationships that began so casually have become a web that can support them during the worst times.

Some people in my book club were bothered by the many unlikely coincidences, but most of us enjoyed the fairy tale quality of the story. We also appreciated the subtle use of symbols and the way different kinds of arts were folded into the story: music, paintings, sculpture, poetry, literature. The descriptions of places and people seduced me, and the dialogue is some of the best I’ve read.

However, the decision to present dialogue without quotation marks poses a problem. It’s a cool, modern thing to do, but this fiction is set in the past. Worse, I often couldn’t tell what was dialogue and what was narrative. Some stories manage to make this clear without the punctuation, but not this one. Most of the people in my book club had trouble getting into the book; they started and stopped, tempted to give up, or they had to reread parts near the beginning a few times before taking the plunge. They thought the lack of quotation marks played a part in their confusion.

Writers often struggle with beginnings and endings. In some of my reviews, you’ll find a complaint about an ending that seems too abrupt or that ties things up too neatly. Here, I found the opposite problem: the last section should have been cut. Unfortunately it leaves behind the rich cast of characters we’ve come to love in order to follow a single one, and introduces a slew of new characters here at the end of the book. The section is well-written, but unnecessary to the story. It felt like padding. I was disappointed, too, that it took some wonderfully evocative allusions from earlier in the book and ran them into the ground, just in case we didn’t get them. 

Yet even with these concerns, I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed a novel as much as this one.  Each time I picked it up, I felt as though I were sinking into a rich, delicious dream. What a wonderful, luxurious summer read!

What novel set in Tuscany have you enjoyed?

Gemma Sommerset, by Jill McCroskey Coupe

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The story opens at a summer camp in the Blue Ridge mountains where fourteen-year-old  Gemma undergoes a transformative experience. In 1957 girls’ roles were strictly defined, especially in the South, but away from home and facing a surprising danger, she finds a new sense of herself. The problem then becomes what to do with that when she returns home.

Gemma is part of an in-between age group: too late to be part of the WWII generation and too soon for the Sixties with its peace-and-love. This new novel from Jill Coupe explores how throughout her life she balances her desire for adventure and accomplishment with society’s restraints and expectations.

She dreams of studying French in Paris but ends up in a traditional marriage, home with a baby while her husband continues up his professional path. I’m reminded of Philip Larkin’s poem “Afternoons” where he describes young mothers watching their children at a playground, ending with: “Something is pushing them / To the side of their own lives.” Gemma’s one joy is watching the sun rise each morning, its beauty a reward, its freshness a promise.

The wonderful editor Dave King once wrote about what he called the gentle genre: “straightforward tales of ordinary people in mostly every-day, low-key situations.  No psychotics, no wrenching twists, no gore, no vampires or werewolves or demons.” These stories were popular in the early part of the 20th century, from writers such as Jan Karon, Angela Thirkell, D. E. Stevenson, Elizabeth Cadell, R. F. Delderfield, and Wendell Berry.

The problem with writing such a story is how to create enough tension and suspense to propel the reader through to the end when you can’t throw in a gang war or vampire to liven things up. Dave King defines two ways to keep a gentle story going without letting it become either boring or saccharine. One is for the author to pay close and detailed attention to the characters so the reader will recognise that even small things hold deep meaning for them. The other is to set the story in a small town where you can’t avoid interactions with your neighbors, even if their opinions differ from yours.

In terms of the first method, we do get to know Gemma and the experiences that shape her and her refusal to be pushed to the side of her life. Since the story is told from her point of view, we learn about the other characters as she does. As for the second, her life revolves around her family so they, rather than the small city where she lives, become the community she defines herself within. Conflicts with her parents, husband, and daughters animate Gemma’s story as she strives to carve out a space where she can be herself while still caring for them. As Dave King says, gentle books—of which this is one—are “driven by love.”

Stories driven by love are a much-needed balm these days. Gemma Sommerset reminds me about the importance of family and community. We might disagree, but we can do so with love. So maybe Gemma’s not so far away from the Sixties generation as I thought.

What novel have you read lately that reminded you of what really matters?