Review: A Ladder of Swords, by Gilbert Parker

Review: A Ladder of Swords, by Gilbert Parker

by Rich Horton

I haven't read as many "Old Bestsellers" (the original focus of this blog) in recent times as I used to. (For my purpose, "Old Bestseller" primarily refers to popular fiction of the first half of the 20th Century.) But one writer I knew I'd get around to trying at some time was Gilbert Parker. And when I did my recent Victorian Fiction quiz, I realized that I really didn't have any Canadian writers featured -- and that that was primarily because I have read very little Victorian-era fiction by Canadians, and those I have read, such as Ralph Connor, are really too obscure for a general interest quiz. But Gilbert Parker? Well, he still might be rather obscure, but I knew of him as a very popular Canadian writer of mostly historical fiction, who was active around the turn of the 20th Century. So when I happened across a book by him at an estate sale the other day, I snapped it up.

Gilbert Parker was born in Camden East, a village in Southeastern Ontario, more or less the length of Lake Ontario away from Toronto, in 1862. He became a teacher, including for a time a teacher of the deaf, and then a lecturer at Trinity College in Toronto, before moving to Australia in 1885 to work as an editor for the Sydney Morning Herald. While in Australia he wrote a few short stories about Canada, but when he moved to London (England, not Ontario!) in 1889 and tried to publish a collection, it was politely rejected and Parker burned the stories -- saying later that he was certain the publisher who had rejected them was right. Soon after he began writing again, and another set of stories set in Canada appeared in 1892, Pierre and His People -- stories set in "the Far North" about fur trappers and the like. He continued to write stories in that mode, but soon turned to novels, most notably The Seats of the Mighty (1896), concerning the British conquest of Quebec in the middle of the 18th Century. Later novels tended to be set elsewhere than Canada -- including England, the Channel Islands, and even Egypt. His novels The Battle of the Strong (1898), The Right of Way (1901), and The Weavers (1907) were listed as among the top ten bestselling novels of their years in the United States. (One of his latest novels is The Power and the Glory (1925), which somehow is not remembered as well as a certain other novel of that title.) He married a wealthy American woman, Amy VanTine, in 1895. He was a Member of Parliament from 1900 to 1918, and was Knighted in 1902 and made a Baronet in 1915. He is considered instrumental in convincing the US to join on the British side in World War I. He died in 1932.

A Ladder of Swords was published in 1904. My copy is a 1914 reprint from A. L. Burt, then the most prominent publisher of inexpensive reprint editions. (This was, of course, long before the time of paperbacks.) The A. L. Burt edition reproduces the illustrations from the original, by the husband and wife team Troy Sylvanus Kinney and Margaret West Kinney, who signed their work "The Kinneys", and also reproduces the rather attractive cover shown above, with the gold leaf (or imitation gold leaf?) panel. I've also included a photo of the title page (with the credit to "Sir Gilbert Parker") and the frontispiece illustration of Queen Elizabeth with Angèle Aubert.

The novel is ostensibly set sometime in the 1570s, though a note at the beginning warns "there will be found a few anachnronisms in this tale, but none so important as to give a wrong impression of the events of Queen Elizabeth's reign." At the open Angèle Aubert and her father, a Councillor of the Parliament of Rouen, are living in exile on Jersey, one of the Channel Islands. Angèle is a Huguenot (a French Reformed (i.e. Calvinist) Protestant) and so her family has been persecuted, as this is the time of the French Religious Wars. (At a guess, this is shortly after the St. Bartholomew's Day Massacre, in 1572 when a Catholic mob, probably incited by Catherine de Medici, the former Queen and mother of the then King, Charles IX, killed a group of Huguenots in Paris.) Angèle has just sent a letter to her betrothed, Michel de la Forêt, who is in hiding in France, as Catherine wishes to kill any remaining influential Huguenots. Michel then tries to reach Jersey, a dangerous trip which he takes in the company of a notorious pirate, Buonespoir, who is under sentence of death in both France and England. Their boat founders, but they are rescued by a nobleman on Jersey, Raoul Lemprière of Rozel. (Raoul had previously asked Angèle to marry him, but his honesty is proven by rescuing his rival.)

It quickly becomes clear that Michel's position is still precarious, as Catherine de Medici wishes Queen Elizabeth to arrest him and send him back to France, in exchange for some political support. Lemprière manages to facilitate the escape of Michel and Buonespoir from immediate arrest, but they must go to Elizabeth's court to negotiate his freedom. Angèle and her father travel to court as well, along with Lemprière and Rozel. There follows a few months of intrigue, also involving Elizabeth's favorite Robert Dudley, the Earl of Leicester, as well as a friendly lady of the court called only the Duke's Daughter. We see a duel, a joust, Queen Elizabeth playing the virginal, and a number of scenes showing Angèle impressing the Queen with her virtue and loyalty. The general shape of the outcome is obvious from the start (though there is a rather depressing final episode, probably about 20 years later, but surely before the Edict of Nantes, in which the Huguenots were finally given freedom of religion* by Henry IV (who was also raised Protestant but had converted to Catholicism in order to keep the throne -- as he reputedly said: "The Crown is worth a Mass."**)) 

The novel is somewhat episodic in structure, and the main characters are a bit too much the paragons to hold the interest. Parker is arguably more interested in the relationship between Elizabeth and Dudley -- the book is very much anti-Leicester, and even implies that he is disgraced by the end of it, and more or less banished by Elizabeth. (In reality, he remained one of her favorites until he died in 1588, though of course his influence, as with everyone at court, had up and down periods.) The two more comic characters -- Lemprière and Buonespoir -- are enjoyable in their scenes. The historical aspects are somewhat reasonably portrayed, with some timeline issues -- with Leicester's career, as I noted, plus there is a mention of the future James I's birth, which actually happened in 1567, at least five years prior to the action of this book. And it's a bit tricky to place Catherine de Medici's involvement in things like her demand to Elizabeth to arrest Michel relative to real history. But that's all quibble.

In the end, this is a pretty minor novel, and probably not the best choice to have read among Parker's ouevre. Perhaps some day I'll get to The Weavers or The Seats of the Mighty, which seem to have better reputations.

(*Alas, the Edict of Nantes was revoked by the Edict of Fontainebleau in 1685, and eventually nearly all the Huguenots were driven out of France.)

(**I have read an historical novel about Henry IV's conversion to Catholicism in 1893, which essentially put a cap on the French Religious Wars -- this is Bertha Runkle's 1901 bestseller The Helmet of Navarre, which I review here.)

Review: The Sleep of Reason, by Michael Swanwick

Review: The Sleep of Reason, by Michael Swanwick

by Rich Horton

Around the turn of the millennium, Michael Swanwick wrote a sequence of short-shorts based on Goya's satrical etchings Los Caprichos. He had done short-short sequences before, most notably Puck Aleshire's Abecedary, in The New York Review of Science Fiction in the late '90s, and The Periodic Table of the Elements, a story for each then-known element, that appeared in Ellen Datlow's seminal online 'zine Sci Fiction beginning around 2001. Those two series became chapbooks in 2000 and 2005 respectively. The stories based on Los Caprichos, collectively called The Sleep of Reason, appeared in Eileen Gunn's excellent online magazine Infinite Matrix in 2002-2003, but did not get book publication until PS Publishing produced this volume in 2024. I got my copy at World Fantasy in Niagara Falls last year, and Michael was kind enough to sign it.

(He has done numerous other pieces of flash fiction, I should note, many making up smaller sequences, often published as beautiful tiny books from his wife Marianne Porter's Dragonstairs Press. I've been fortunate enought to obtain a couple of these, but the print runs are very small. Michael's bibliographer will have an Herculean task assembling all the information on those books!)

The title of this collection comes from the 43rd etching in Los Caprichos, "El sueño de la razón produce monstruos" (normally translated "The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters" though Swanwick replaces "monsters" with "nighmares").) These etchings were made in 1797-1798, and published in 1799. This volume reproduces each of the 80 prints on one page, with Swanwick's accompanying story on the opposite page. (The original edition of Los Caprichos included some prose commentary, probably by Goya, but Swanwick states in the last entry in this book that he found the commentary unsatisfactory, even complacent, in contrast to the implications of the prints themselves. (It seems that Goya included these comments partly to help explain his intent, but also to avoid reprisal from the objects of the satire by (unconvincingly, it seems) disguising the true targets, which presumably would have included the Inquisition. In the end the first edition was mostly withdrawn by the publisher, and Goya ended up selling the unsold copies and the original plates to the King. Several further editions have been produced from those plates, most recently in 1970.)

Each individual story is a sardonic narrative based on a particular etching. The stories are not presented in the numerical order Goya gave in his edition. The prints depict some recurring characters, named by Swanwick Prick the Donkey, Elena, and Grace; as well as recurring themes: nightmares, witches, monsters human and otherwise. Swanwick's reordering allows him to develop some thematic threads, as well as a continuing narrative for each of Prick, Elena, and Grace. The pieces about Prick develop his career, involving corruption in business, war, and politics, including time spent as the US President. Elena is a clever woman who delights in using her sexual wiles (and her job as a whore) to make fools of men, while Grace is an innocent beauty who is forced by circumtances into prostitution, and is treated dreadfully throughout. The witches and nightmares and the various other monstorosities pretty sharply illustrate the dark side of humanity (and society.)

The result is bracing -- a very funny book in a very uneasy way; a fierce satire on the depredations of the powerful; a despairing look at the the way men treat women; a condemnation of politicians, the church, the rich, and people in general. All of this was present in Goya's original, aimed then primarily at Spain. It is present in Swanwick's 2002 text -- aimed both at people throughout time, and the specifics of our world, especially our country, at that time. And the message resonates as much or more today, even if the specific details were originally aimed at others.

It's a dark book, for sure, and sardonic. At times the tone is cynical, at times almost imploring, at times just angry. It's not necessarily a book to read in one go -- perhaps pacing it like the original pacing of the stories' publications would makes sense. I read it in tranches of 5 or 10 stories at a time over a few weeks. Recommended.

Review: The Early Worm, by Robert Benchley

Review: The Early Worm, by Robert Benchley

by Rich Horton

Robert Benchley (1889-1945) was one of the leading American humor writers of his time, as well as a theater critic and a fairly successful character actor. He worked for a variety of publications, most notably the New Yorker in its early years, but also Life, Vanity Fair, and numerous other places. He was one of the most prominent member of the "Algonquin Round Table", a group of wits who met regularly at the Algonquin hotel. (Other famous members included Dorothy Parker, Alexander Woolcott, and Harold Ross.)

I've known of his work and reputation for a long time, but hadn't really read him, so I figured I'd try when I found his 1927 collection The Early Worm at an estate sale. My edition seems to be a first, from Henry Holt, but it's in rather poor condition. It is illustrated by Gluyas Williams, with some additional engravings by John Held.

I have to say that my basic reaction to most of the book is "I guess you had to have been there". And by "there" I mean, mostly, in New York in the early 1920s. It's easy to see that what he writes is supposed to be funny, and probably was when it was first seen, but doesn't quite come off now. Some of this is simply that the references are very topical, and sometimes pretty geographically bound as well. Some of this is that times have changed -- one essay laments that surely New York will soon by treated as Sodom and Gomorrah were, due to the profusion of theatrical revues featuring scantily clad women. This may have hit home then, but falls flat now. (I should note that Benchley was not being at all serious in this case.)

At times he belabors a joke too long -- the worst example is a series of short pieces for Life which tell of the "Life Polar Expedition" -- in which a group of writers for the magazine decide to race the Byrd and Amundsen expeditions to the North Pole -- on bicycle. That's one joke -- and it's a joke that was made effectively enough in the first 1000 words or so. So why was it extended to six entries?

But there are some bits here that are still amusing. He did a series of essays on "Fascinating Crimes", which tell of elaborately silly fictional crimes, in a sort of shaggy dog fashion, and I thought those were pretty nice. And some of his complaints about society do hold up -- "What College Did to Me" is a fine satirical look at his college career, and with minor updating it still applies today. Two satirical looks at Christmas traditions, "A Good Old-Fashioned Christmas" and "The Rise and Fall of the Christmas Card", are pretty effective. There are several supposed "interviews" with prominent people of that era -- Mussolini, Vice President Dawes, the Countess Karolyi -- which are so absurd as to keep the interest. And a parodic suggestion as to how Theodore Dreiser should write his next novel seemed spot on!

I should say that throughout there are occasional jokes, and an off-handedly witty point of view, that tickled this reader. I do suspect that he was writing for a specific audience here, and for that reason dulled the edge of his wit -- I would bet he might have been better being more savage. Still -- I don't doubt that he deserved his reputation -- but I'm not sure he really repays reading now. 

Hugo Novel Ballot Review: A Sorceress Comes to Call, by T. Kingfisher

Hugo Novel Ballot Review: A Sorceress Comes to Call, by T. Kingfisher

by Rich Horton

I'll be working my way through the 2025 Hugo Ballot for Best Novel in the next couple of months. I have already read Kaliane Bradley's The Ministry of Time, which I highly recommend. I chose T. Kingfisher's novel next, in large part because I hadn't read any novels by her, nor by her alter ego Ursula Vernon, before; though I've read some short fiction which I enjoyed. 

Ursula Vernon is a very successful writer and illustrator -- of graphic novels and children's books. Most of her work for adults (not counting the graphic novels) is under the pseudonym T. Kingfisher. She has won a Best Novel Hugo for Nettle and Bone, a Best Graphic Novel for Digger (at the first Worldcon I ever attended, in Chicago in 2012), three short fiction Hugos, plus a Nebula and a Lodestar (for Best Young Adult Novel) and has received numerous other awards and nominations. Suffice it to say that she's been very successful -- and based on what I've read (mostly the award winning short fiction) she deserves her success.

A Sorceress Comes to Call is told through two viewpoint characters, and I listed to the audiobook, narrated very well by Eliza Foss and Jennifer Pickens. One of them tells the chapters from the point of view of Cordelia, a 14 year old girl; and the other the parts from the POV of Hester, a 50ish woman. 

We begin with Cordelia at church, and something strange is going on -- she has no control of her body. We soon gather that her mother, a sorceress, makes her "obedient" from time to time -- takes over her body either as punishment, or to make sure Cordelia does just what she wants. It's quite clear that the mother, Evangeline, is a monster, and indeed she is one of the most unremittingly evil characters I've encountered in recent fiction. Before long Evangeline's latest "benefactor" has broken off with her, and she hatches a plan to move to a larger city and seduce a wealthy man, with the goal of marriage and thus a more long-term secure financial position. But Evangeline knows that her age likely means she won't be able to gain the attention of as wealthy a man as she hopes, so she also decides that Cordelia, once established as the stepdaughter of a socially acceptable man, must attract an even wealthier husband, hopefully one old enough to die and leave his fortune in Cordelia's hands -- which functionally would mean Evangeline's. Cordelia hates her mother and hates that plan, and attempts to run away -- only to learn that her beloved horse Falada has betrayed her -- he is not a real horse, but Evangeline's familiar, and anything Cordelia tries will come immediately to her mother's attention. 

Hester, meanwhile, is the sister of Samuel, a Squire. She is fairly comfortable living with her brother, whom she loves affectionately, though he is a shallow if likeable man. She has had a lover, Lord Richard Evermore, but she rejected his marriage proposal for a couple of reasons: insecurity (she and Richard were about 40 when he proposed and she worries that her looks will fade and he'll lose interest) and a desire for independence. But suddenly she has a premonition of "Doom". And before long "Doom" shows up, in the person -- as the reader will have guessed -- of Evangeline, who has already attracted the Squire's attention. Samuel has never shown much interest in the "Parson's Trap" as he calls it -- but Hester senses that Evangeline might be problem in that area, though she doesn't know why. She does know, quickly enough, that Evangeline is a terrible person.

Cordelia and her mother are soon long-term guests at the Squire's house. And, slowly, Cordelia and Hester form a relationship -- Hester is suspicious of Cordelia at first but soon understands that she has been at least mentally abused by her mother, and that she needs helps as much or more as the Squire needs to be saved from a disastrous marriage. We also learn -- indeed, Cordelia realizes for the first time -- that her mother is more than just a terrible mother -- she's a murderer, and she has "punished" her former benefactor in an utterly horrifying fashion.

Hester hatches a plan to interfere with Evangeline's schemes -- she'll invite some friends to a "house party" in the hopes that the Squire can be distracted from Evangeline. But Evangeline is a tricky character -- and a murderer, and things accelerate horribly. Cordelia finally tries to convince Hester of Evangeline's real nature, and eventually she and Hester and Lord Evermore and a couple more of Hester's friends are desperately trying to learn how to stop sorcery. The problem is -- nobody in this world believes that sorcerers are capable of anything beyond, basically, hedge magic. So there's a step to get people to believe in the danger Evangeline poses -- and a lot of work to track down a way to deal with her. The resolution is pretty well done, with some very dark scenes, and courage, and some pretty clever magical logic.

So -- it's a good book, and I quite enjoyed it. The abuse of Cordelia is horrifying and well-depicted. Hester is a really nicely done character, and her romance is nice to see resolved. There is a fine gaggle (word chosen advisedly -- read the book!) of smart and witty women side characters, and a good butler and a nice lady's maid. There is a fun ghost, and the villainess is appropriately vile, and her actions are truly scary. I was involved throughout, and I cared about the plight of the good guys.

So, it's too bad this is a Hugo review. But I need to ask -- is it a great book? A worthy Hugo winner? I have to say, I don't think so. Part of it is simply a sense that it's a bit slight. It's enjoyable but not entirely convincing to me. Some of this worldbuilding -- the setting is sort of faux-Victorian, or perhaps faux-Regency, in a polity that seems somewhat similar to England in that time frame, but with references to the "Old Country" that make one things of Colonial America -- and none of that holds up which is OK I suppose because it's a fantasy world of sorts. But -- I found myself not believing things. And even in that context, the magical part is, well, kind of routine, if handled nicely enough. The solution is, as I suggested, kind of neat in context -- but also on the convenient side. None of my issues are at all fatal, I hasten to add -- it's a good read that I'm happy to have encountered -- and I'll be reading more by T. Kingfisher. It's just -- not quite Hugo level in my mind. 

[A side note -- not a comment on quality at all -- the novel is advertised as being an adaptation of the Grimm fairy tale "The Goose Girl". And you can seem some parallels -- but they are pretty slim, really. Which is just fine! It's its own story -- doubtless suggested or inspired by "The Goose Girl", but not really a retelling.]

Review: The Old English Baron, by Clara Reeve

Review: The Old English Baron, by Clara Reeve

by Rich Horton

Clara Reeve (1729-1807) was one of the significant woman writers of the 18th Century, though she got a late start. She published a book of poems at the age of 40, then in 1772 The Phoenix, a translation, from the Latin, of John Barclay's 1621 romance Argenis. She kept writing to the end of her life -- several novels and some nonfiction, including Plans for Education, concerning education for women, and a major early study of prose fiction, The Progress of Romance (1785). 

The Old English Baron is one of the most influential (if not necessarily one of the best) early works of Gothic fiction. It was first published in 1777 as The Champion of Virtue, then revised in 1780 as The Old English Baron. The author (originally anonymous, but with the revised version she began using her name on her books) wrote it as an explicit response to Horace Walpole's The Castle of Otranto (1764), and the plot has strong points of similarity to that book. But Reeve's purpose, in part, was to model a more realistic mode of the Gothic -- both to reduce the supernatural elements to make them more believable, and to emphasize the moral message.

It's a short novel -- maybe 55,000 words -- and fairly simple in plot. Sir Philip Harclay returns from the wars (in Turkey, it seems), and after reestablishing his own household, goes off to visit is close friend Lord Lovel, with whom he had lost contact during his time overseas. As he comes close to the man's manor, he learns from a peasant that the old Lord is dead, and that the new Lord Walter Lovel has sold his castle to another man, the Baron Fitz-Owen. Upon finally reaching the castle, he meets the Baron and his sons and their friend, including a young peasant named Edmund who has been brought up in the Fitz-Owen family almost as a sone -- and who is close to the younger son, William, but is disliked by the elder son, Richard. Sir Philip immediately notices a resemblance between Edmund and his late friend Arthur Lovel. The reader, of course, quickly guesses what's going on!

Four years later, Edmund having grown to the age of 18, the jealousy of Richard and especially of his friends has only grown, and they begin scheming to discredit him. Much of this is because Edmund and Lord Fitz-Owen's daughter, Emma, have fallen in love, and one of Richard's friends also wants her favors. It is time, too, for the young men to learn the arts of war, and they head off to France, where Ednmund distinguishes himself despite the schemes of Richard's friends. Upon their return to Lord Fitz-Owen's castle, things come to a head, as the scheming begins to have an effect on Lord Fitz-Owen. At the same time he is renovating an abandoned wing of the castle, which is rumored to be haunted. And so as a sort of trial, Endmund agrees to spend three nights in the haunted wing. Unsurprisingly, he is indeed haunted -- by the ghosts of Lord Arthur Lovel and his wife, and it becomes clear that they met their deaths by misadventure, and that Edmund is their son. In the end, Edmund leaves the Fitz-Owens and goes to Sir Philip Harclay, along with some proofs of his claims gained from visiting the peasant couple who had raised him until Lord Fitz-Owen took him into his household.

Not long after -- and only about two thirds of the way through the book -- Sir Philip agrees to help Edmund regain his rightful position. A letter is sent to Lord Walter Lovel, whom we now know arranged to have his kinsman murdered because he desired to have his wife for his own -- but she refused him and ran away, but died in childbirth due to the stress of fleeing. Walter Lovel refuses to admit his guilt, and what follows is a trial by combat. And then 50 pages or so of rather extended denouement, arranging for the fair disposal of everyone -- for Edmund to marry Emma and reclaim his father's title and castle, for Lord Fitz-Owen to be compensated for the castle he had innocently purchased, and even for Walter Lovel to have a chance at redemption after exile; and then a winding up of the future lives of Sir Philip, of the Fitz-Owens, and of course of Edmund and Emma.

I have to say I found the structure a bit confounding -- and I'm not the only reader! The book properly should have been wrapped up much more quickly after the trial by combat. The novel on the whole is just OK -- it's short enough that it's worth reading. The writing is not bad, very much of the 18th century in style, but well enough executed. It was Reeve's first novel -- she wrote a few more, a couple of contemporary novels and an historical novel, as well as poetry and nonfiction including an ambitious history of "Romance". It's true that The Old English Baron is more realistic in presenting its supernatural elements than The Castle of Otranto (which I haven't read but know the basics via synopsis.) But I felt in the end that a happy medium might have been achieved between the rather rudimentary haunts shown in this novel and the admittedly too over the top events from Otranto. (I am told that other Gothic novels such as Ann Radcliffe's The Mysteries of Udolpho and The Italian, or M. G. Lewis's The Monk, may be better examples of peak Gothic.)

Review: Miss Marjoribanks, by Margaret Oliphant

Review: Miss Marjoribanks, by Margaret Oliphant

by Rich Horton

Margaret Oliphant (1828-1897) was a Scottish writer of some dozens of novels published from 1849 until her death. Per Samuel Johnson's rule, she was no fool -- she wrote for money, to support her family after her husband's early death. But prolific as she was, she was also supremely talented; and while her work, like that of many Victorian writers, especially women, was quite neglected for quite some time, she has been profitably rediscovered. I earlier read Hester (1883), a first rate novel about a young woman eager to use her considerable powers to the fullest but restricted by the sexism of that era, only to eventually reach an uneasy rapport with her much older cousin, a very powerful women as well. Hester is one of Oliphant's best known novels, but her most famous work might be the six volumes called the Carlingford Chronicles (1861-1866, with a last novel in 1876) -- consciously influenced by Anthony Trollope's roughly contemporaneous Barsetshire series, in using the limited scope of a small provincial town as the setting for novels of what seem minor events, but as important to their characters as those of any saga.

Miss Marjoribanks (pronounced "Marchbanks" as the main character's father insists) was published in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine in 1865-1866, and in book form (three volumes) by William Blackwood and Sons in 1866. I both read and listened to it -- I have the Penguin Classics editon from 1998, edited by Elizabeth Joy; and I listened to a Librivox recording, in which the first volume was read by Michelle Crandall and the last two volumes by Marisol Cui. Curiously, the Librivox recording was of the serial edition, which has a number of minor differences and one very significant difference from the book version, which I'll discuss later. 

We meet Lucilla Marjoribanks at the age of 15, as her mother is dying. I will quote the delightfully subtle passage that suggests her appearance: "the most common description they gave her was, that she was "a large girl"; and there was great truth in the adjective. She was not to be described as a tall girl -- which conveys an altogether different idea -- but she was large in all particulars, full and well-developed, with somewhat large features, not at all pretty as yet, though it was known in Mount Pleasant that somebody had said that such a face might ripen into beauty, and become "grandiose," for anything anybody could tell. Miss Marjoribanks was not vain; but the word had taken possession of her imagination, as was natural, and solaced her much when she made the painful discovery that her gloves were half a number larger, and her shoes a hair-breadth broader, than those of any of her companions; but the hands and feet were both perfectly well shaped; and being at the same time well clothed and plump, were much more presentable and pleasant to look upon than the lean rudimentary schoolgirl hands with which they were surrounded."

She pronounces herself ready to take over the household for her father, a Scotsman who has served as Carlingford's physician for decades; but Dr. Marjoribanks is used to having his own way, and sends her back to school, and then on a Grand Tour -- but finally, Lucilla comes home, and declares herself ready to "be a comfort to her dear papa". She swiftly takes command of the household, demoting the very capable cook Nancy to "Prime Minister" and her father to a sort of emeritus position. Her next goal is to reform Carlingford society; and she sets to that task with a vengeance, especially by establishing a regular series of "evenings" every Thursday -- expanding on her father's longstanding meals with his friends (much appreciated due to Nancy's cooking and Dr. Marjoribanks' cellar.) 

We meet the main inhabitants of the central street of Carlingford, Grange Lane: the elderly couple Colonel and Mrs. Chiley, Mr. and Mrs. Woodburn -- the latter known for her satirical imitations of people; Mrs. Woodburn's brother Mr. Cavendish -- one of "The Cavendishes" and rumored to be the next MP from Carlingford once the current man has the grace to die; Sir John Richmond and his wife; the Misses Brown who are devoted to photography; the Rector, Mr. Bury, and his sister; and so on. Lucilla's cousin Tom Marjoribanks visits, and seems to be ready to pay his court to Lucilla -- but she quickly sends him packing, for had she wanted to marry, she needn't even have come home. Miss Marjoribanks takes the controversial step of inviting Barbara Lake, the daughter of the drawing master, who lives in lowly Grove Street, not on Grange Lane -- because Barbara's magnificent contralto will go so nicely with Lucilla's voice. And she plans for the handsome Mr. Cavendish to be a "flirt" -- because you always need a flirt to keep an "evening" hopping.

Lucilla's evenings are a success, and after a bit it seems that she and Mr. Cavendish might become an item. But Barbara Lake is a very attractive woman, if somewhat vulgar ... and Mr. Cavendish can't make up his mind. And so things continue -- Mr. Cavendish's character is portrayed as not precisely bad but just that bit shady, and Lucilla adopts another case, the widow Mrs. Mortimer, who is in terrible economic straits until Lucilla sets her up as a schoolteacher; and then the Archdeacon visits, amid rumors he is in line to be a Bishop if the rumors that Carlingford will be the seat of a new bishopric turn out to be true. There is an unexpected connection linking the Archdeacon, Mrs. Mortimer, and Mr. Cavendish. Lucilla's rumored prospects of marriage excite the whole town, but somehow, amid hints of scandal (not involving her) and social upheavals (which she manages to control) she rides out everything, avowing that her "affections were never engaged". 

That portion takes up the first two volumes. The third volume is somewhat tonally different -- it is set 10 years in the future. Lucilla is about to turn 30. She has the social life of Carlingford operating efficiently, and she is looking for a new challenge. And one arises when the old MP finally dies. Lucilla choose her candidate -- Mr. Ashburton, a wealthy man who had moved into a fine estate nearby. (And who is, thus, a very eligible bachelor indeed.) But Mr. Cavendish returns, and decides he too will run for the seat, as he had already planned. And just as the campaign is raging, an unexpected sad event wholly alters Lucilla's prospects. But she is capable of rising to yet another challenge ... and there's no need to say more.

The book is essentially a comedy, and it is very funny in its lightly satirical fashion. There is plenty of incident -- some of it a bit melodramatic even -- but in the end the stakes are small. The characters are well done but with one exception somewhat sparsely sketched. But the exception is, of course, Lucilla Marjoribanks, and she is a masterful creation. Oliphant walks a fine line her, and never stumbles. The book both satirizes her -- her self-absorption, her pretenses, her vaunting ambition to be leader in such a small orbit -- and yet for all that she is admirable. She really does succeed in her efforts. She really does make people (mostly) happy -- with the caveat that her class prejudices do seem unfair to the likes of the Lake family. She is amusingly contemptuous of men -- in a way that seems at once a bit oblivous -- but that also has real bite, hits home. You can't help but like Miss Marjoribanks -- and feel for her. She is, in an almost unknowing fashion, a feminist, who would be shocked to be described so. 

Miss Marjoribanks is the fifth of the Carlingford novels, but while the books do share characters, it seems that for the most part they are independent stories. I did a quick scan through the Carlingford series on Project Gutenberg, and Miss Marjoribanks shows up in only one other novel (though her father appears elsewhere): in The Doctor's Family, Lucilla is briefly a potential love interest for a new doctor, Dr. Rider. This is indeed mentioned in passing in Miss Marjoribanks, and we can see that Oliphant manipulated the timeline a bit as the series continued -- in The Doctor's Family Miss Marjoribanks is presented as an old maid some years Dr. Rider's senior, while in Miss Marjoribanks, it is made clear she is the same age as Dr. Rider. Likewise, Miss Marjoribanks' role as the prime mover in Carlingford society is prominent in this novel, but not mentioned in the other books.

I mentioned the differences between the serial version and the book version above. The Penguin Classics edition that I have gives an extensive side by side comparison -- and most of the changes are quite minor. But Oliphant made on significant alteration: she combined two chapters in the serial into one, and cut a long passage in which Barbara Lake's sister Rose is invited to one of Lucilla's "evenings", and brings a portfolio of her art (she is a promising artist) along with one piece by her talented brother Willie. The Archdeacon leafs through the portfolio, and takes up Willie's drawing, and expresses astonishment at how good it is, especially from the hand of an inferior woman. Rose is terribly embarrassed. It's a good scene -- comic but pathetic -- but I can see while it was taken out, for we never really hear much about Rose's eventual fate, and having her take such a prominent role in one scene sort of raised my expectations.

Finally, I'll include a few quotes from the novel, that I liked a good deal.

Lucilla on religion:"Miss Marjoribanks was not a woman to be blind to the advantages of this situation, but still, as was to be expected, it took her a little time to get used to it, and to make all the use of it which was practicable under the circumstances -- which was all the more difficult since she was not in the least "viewy" in her own person, but had been brought up in the old-fashioned orthodox way of having a great respect for religion, and as little to do with it as possible, which was a state of mind largely prevalent in Carlingford."

Lucilla on her education:""Oh, you know, I went through a course of political economy at Mount Pleasant," she said, with a laugh. "One of the Miss Blounts was dreadfully strong-minded. I wonder, for my part, that she did not make me literary; but fortunately I escaped that.""

On men:"For everybody knows that it requires very little to satisfy the gentlemen, if a woman will only give her mind to it. As for Miss Marjoribanks herself, she confessed frankly that she did her best to please Them. "For you know, after all, in Carlingford, one is obliged to take them into consideration," she said, with a natural apology."

Lucilla on on the place of women:"Miss Marjoribanks had her own ideas in respect to charity, and never went upon ladies' committees, nor took any further share than what was proper and necessary in parish work; and when a woman has an active mind, and still does not care for parish work, it is a little hard for her to find a "sphere." And Lucilla, though she said nothing about a sphere, was still more or less in that condition of mind which has been so often and so fully described to the British public -- when the ripe female intelligence, not having the natural resource of a nursery and a husband to manage, turns inwards, and begins to "make a protest" against the existing order of society, and to call the world to account for giving it no due occupation -- and to consume itself. She was not the woman to make protests, nor claim for herself the doubtful honours of a false position; but she felt all the same that at her age she had outlived the occupations that were sufficient for her youth. To be sure, there were still the dinners to attend to, a branch of human affairs worthy of the weightiest consideration, and she had a house of her own, as much as if she had been half a dozen times married; but still there are instincts which go even beyond dinners, and Lucilla had become conscious that her capabilities were greater than her work. She was a Power in Carlingford, and she knew it; but still there is little good in the existence of a Power unless it can be made use of for some worthy end."

Review: On the Calculation of Volume I, by Solvej Balle

Review: On the Calculation of Volume I, by Solvej Balle

by Rich Horton

This is the first of a planned seven volumes of a long novel. Solvej Balle is a Danish writer who has been well-regarded in her home country for decades, to the point that she has received a lifetime grant from the Danish Arts Foundation. Her first novel, Lyrefugl (The Lyre Bird) appeared in 1986. For the next three decades she published poetry, nonfiction, a memoir, and four volumes of "short prose", & (1990), Hvis (If) (2013), Så (Then) (2013), and  Ifolge loven, fire beretninger om mennesket (According the the Law: Four Accounts of Mankind) (1993). As far as I know, only the last book has been translated into English, and it seems to the book that established her reputation. (I'm not entirely sure whether the other collectons of short prose comprise short stories or essays or both.)

The first book of On the Calculation of Volume appeared in Denmark as Om udregning af rumfangin in 2020, though evidently Balle conceived the story in the '80s and began writing it in 1999.  It was translated into English and published by New Directions last year. By now, five books have been published in Denmark, and the first four have been published in English. The first two volumes are translated quite ably by Barbara Haveland, who also translated According to the Law. The third and fourth books are translated by Sophia Hersi Smith and Jennifer Russell. Each book is quite short -- the first one is 161 pages, perhaps 45,000 words. Still -- the final work will be over 300,000 words, big by any standard. 

I have read just the first book so far. It is narrated by Tara Selter, an antiquarian bookseller living with her husband in a small town in northern France. She opens by describing her life as of day #121. "There is someone in the house." But it's not horror, not a thriller -- the someone is her husband. And Tara lives, it seems, in the spaces her husband does not. But not because she's alienated from him or anything -- she still loves him and misses him. But it is the 121st time she has experienced November 18. 

We learn the story: she had gone on a short trip to Bordeaux for an auction, and then to Paris, to pick up some books they had ordered, to look for others -- and, as it turns out, to visit an old friend, a coin seller, and his new girlfriend. She went to sleep in the hotel room -- and woke up in the same room, but back to the start of November 18. She realizes this fairly quickly, and relives the day in Paris, with some changes, and realizes she's stuck in a time loop. So she heads back home, and remains in the loop. After several days explaining and re-explaining this to her husband, and trying variations on her routine to see if somehow she can break out of the loop, she has retreated to the spare bedroom, and has started living in the interstices of her husband's life -- going out shopping or walking where she knows he won't be, making tea and eating at times he won't hear her, and so on. 

And, in a way, that's the book. Which seems kind of boring -- and, to be honest, I was bored for stretches of the book. But there were other stretches that really worked. Some of the scenes are strikingly beautiful, and affecting. Tara's observations -- her detailed learning of everything she can about her house, her husband's routine, their yard, the weather and the stars and so on of November 18th -- gain a, well, volume of impact. The philsophical elements are intriguing too -- why is she stuck? Some things stay with her (some of the books she got at auction, for example) and some seem to return to their previous places? She ages a day at a time, but her husband and everyone else is unchanged. Her routine can change -- her waking times, for example; or the exact time that the loop resets. What does it mean that the food she consumes is gone -- so the shelves of stories mysteriously empty even though she only buys enough each day for her needs. 

There are changes as things go -- first the time spent with her husband reliving the day again and again, then the time hiding away in the spare room, then a time when she wanders more widely, even risks meeting her husband on his daily routine, or returning to Paris to try again to break the loop. And eventually she finds a vacant house to occupy. But for all that -- it is, by the end of the book, a year of reliving the same day. I understand that in the subsequent volumes there are more extensive changes to her repeated single day -- travel to other countries, for example.

I liked the book -- at times loved it, but at times labored a bit. But I will continue to the rest of it. There truly is an interesting series of philosophical questionss -- about time, and about the volume one person occupies in time, and about how much one person's changed routines affects people who are reliving the same day over again without remembering the other iterations of the loop. And the question arises -- what about November 19th for everyone else? Does it even exist? If it does, where is Tara? Or can time only continue when she escapes the loop.

As a genre reader, one who has read a great many time loop stories, and seen a number of time loop movies, it's hard not to expect a resolution -- an explanation, or at least an escape. But I'm not at all sure that's where this book is going. It's interested in asking questions; and in observing -- in, somehow, knowing that single day, November 18, more completely. Other reviewiers inevitably compare the book to Groundhog Day, or to the Adam Sandler movie Palm Springs. But if I were to choose a single movie for comparison, it might be The Map of Tiny Perfect Things, a 2021 movie starring Kathryn Newton and Kyle Allen, based on a short story by Lev Grossman -- only because the main characters in that movie, in making their map of perfect things they see on the day they relive, does suggest something of the experience of Tara Selter's close observation of her single day. But in reality, On the Calculation of Volume is something new and different in this familiar subgenre.