Victorian literature

Wives and Daughters, by Elizabeth Gaskell

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In this leisurely Victorian novel, we get a wonderful portrait of domestic life in a rural English town. Gaskell follows Jane Austen’s dictum that “Three or four families in a country village is the very thing to work on.” There is much humor here as well, but unlike Austen’s wit and satire, Gaskell’s compassion gives us well-rounded characters we recognise immediately from our own lives.

We first meet Molly Gibson, motherless daughter of a respected doctor, as a girl of twelve. Quiet, sensitive and loving, Molly’s sheltered upbringing has made her an interesting combination of innocence and perspicacity. As her father’s companion, she has had more leeway in terms of reading material and worldly conversation than most young women of the time.

The story follows her into young adulthood, as she gains a stepmother and stepsister, as well as a deeper connection with several local families. Here is the true charm of the story for me: the careful way the various characters are brushed in, and the depiction of the subtle—and not so subtle—class distinctions in the town.

As a professional, Molly’s father is a step above the genteel families of Hollingford, themselves superior to the servants and working class. A step above him is Squire Hamley, who family has been established on their property since before the Norman Conquest, though the family is in decline at this point. Above them—though Squire Hamley frequently contests this point—are Lord and Lady Cumnor at the Hall who have been there a mere hundred years or so.

As you would expect, there are romantic entanglements for both Molly and her stepsister Cynthia. The two are close from the start despite their different personalities, Cynthia being shallow and selfish compared to Molly. Romance finds other characters, too, especially Squire Hamley’s two sons.

I’m impressed by how much Gaskell works into this novel, while keeping up the narrative pace: not just daily life, class distinctions and the limitations of women’s roles, but also the political tensions between Whigs and Tories, the complications arising from family secrets, and the burgeoning (if often amateur) scientific developments. Charles Darwin was Gaskell’s cousin and perhaps the model for young Roger Hamley. There is also a fascinating thread about the limitations and unintended consequences of innocence and purity.

The last novel by Gaskell, was originally published in serial form in Cornhill Magazine between 1864 and 1866. Gaskell died in 1865 without completing the final bit, so the last section was written by Frederick Greenwood explaining how Gaskell intended the novel to end. Gaskell was also the author of North and South, Cranford, and a biography—the first—of Charlotte Brontë.

Wives and Daughters is a long and leisurely read. The first two-thirds seemed slow to this 21st century reader, but I relaxed into the pace, and was rewarded by a more lively last third. Another benefit of the length is the rich tapestry of rural life in England around 1830.

Do you have a favorite Victorian novel, or one set in that time period?

The French Lieutenant’s Woman, by John Fowles

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Since I was due to visit Lyme Regis, I decided to reread this 1969 novel which is mostly set in that seaside town. Of course, my first memory from reading it almost 50 years ago was the gloriously romantic opening image of a woman, dressed all in black, staring out to sea from the end of the Cobb.

The Cobb in Lyme Regis is a mole, a grey stone wall that curves out into the sea like an arm protecting the harbor. It features in Jane Austen’s Persuasion where it is the scene of Louisa’s downfall as she attempts to jump into Captain Wentworth’s arms.

Fowles’s mysterious woman is Sarah Woodruff, a disgraced woman who according to gossips had run off with and been abandoned by the eponymous officer. She’d met him while he was recovering from a shipwreck in the house where she then worked as a governess.

She is observed by Charles Smithson, a privileged young man who considers himself a Darwinist, and his fiancé Ernestina Freeman, whose conventional views belie her surname. As part of his scientific pursuits, Charles hunts for fossils, reminding me of my recent reading about Mary Anning. He leaves Ernestina at home when he goes on these expeditions, so is alone when he encounters Sarah later and resolves to try to help her.

While written in the style of and using the conventions of Victorian literature, the story is narrated from the point of view of a modern-day man. With epigraphs and footnotes and commentary in the text, this narrator provides social and historical context for the struggles of his Victorian characters, sometimes criticising them, sometimes commiserating with them. He also openly discusses the problems and choices the writer faces in putting the story together.

This self-consciousness places the book in the wave of postmodern metafiction in the 1960s. Another metafictional aspect is that the narrator provides three possible endings.

While the “I” of the narrator calls himself a “novelist”, it seems to me he is instead yet another character rather than Fowles himself. He even shows up as a character near the end.

Thus, Fowles has quite a few plates to keep spinning. He risks losing the story’s momentum with his digressions about Victorian mores and morality or the clash of religion and science.

Yet these challenges for the reader play into the theme of free will, the monster released from its chains by Darwin and his colleagues. What are the risks when the strict conventions of religion and social convention are shown to be shams? How do we comprehend the world—or the world of the novel—when the framework we’d always used begins to dissolve? When are we most free, when we are “working well within a harness” as Frost says or when we take responsibility for living an authentic life per Kierkegaard?

The other main thing I remembered from when I first read this novel was which of the three endings I preferred and what that said about me. Reading the book now, I find it much more complex than I remembered. It is the sort of book that repays multiple rereadings.

I plan to read it yet again to see how Fowles manages the omniscient point of view—the sort most rarely used these days. It’s an interesting choice, setting up an omniscient narrator—albeit one whose power and knowledge he undercuts now and then—for a story of the time when people were coming to terms with the idea that there may not be an omniscient and omnipotent god.

What novel have you read and reread, finding more in it with each rereading?