V.R. Christensen's Blog, page 7
June 5, 2012
The Opening of the Central and South London Railroad (The Tube) – an excerpt
4 November 1890
In Lambeth the crowds were positively thronging. Was it the railway that drew so many out? Or was it the chance of seeing—and perhaps being seen by—the Prince of Wales? Abbie wondered, but did not much care. She didn’t like crowds, and she was nervous. But, with the crush of people from all walks of society—Dukes and Lords in high hats and long coats, their ladies in fur and silk, mingling alongside the city’s poor and dirty and hungry—she supposed she need not worry too much about her appearance. Lady Crawford had not yet noticed her altered attire. (Her heavy wool coat concealed her quite entirely, after all.) And, at the moment, she was wholly pre-occupied in the imminent arrival of Prince Edward.
“There he is now,” Abbie heard Lady Barnwell say to Lady Crawford. She looked in the direction where others, too, had begun to point and look. The crowd bellowed deafening cheers. And then she saw it. The Prince’s procession. She watched as it made its way from the station, from which the Prince had arrived on the train’s maiden journey, toward the depot.
The crowd filled in the path parted by the carriages and many followed the procession down Clapham Road. But it was here, at the station crossroads, where exhibits and festivities had been set up, that Abbie wished to remain. She wanted to see the train, to go into the tunnel and see for herself how it was meant to operate. Why so much to-doing if they were never going to see it?
“Are you coming?” Katherine said to her.
They were the first words she had spoken to her all day.
Mariana, who had been standing quietly beside her, preoccupied with the crowd and the excitement, took hold of her arm and followed, as David and Katherine led them onward.
“We will be too late to get a seat, if you we do not hurry,” Katherine added over her shoulder.
David said nothing. He did not even acknowledge Abbie as he fell in line with his family. Had Katherine told him, then? It would not take much, she ventured, to turn him against her once and for all. If only she had a chance to find out. But that chance was not now, as they followed in the wake of the Prince’s carriage.
In the little park of land before the City and South London depot, a great marquee had been set up, beautifully decorated in blues and ochres—and gold. And with intricately woven palampores to line the walls and to serve as doorways and curtains. It seemed to Abbie’s inexperienced eyes very like a maharaja’s pavilion, fit for a prince—which was its purpose, after all.
Abbie’s party, the Crawfords and Barnwells, were the last to be admitted, and their table was situated very near the back, the farthest from the
Prince’s view. Or would be, when he arrived.
Sir Nicholas and Lord Barnwell excused themselves to speak with some acquaintances, while the rest of their party took their seats and waited for the Prince to arrive and for the meal to begin. Though Abbie was hungry, she was more conscious of the opportunity being missed. Would they not see the train, nor the station, at all? And as Lady Barnwell and Lady Crawford examined the room—the other guests, what they wore, who they were with—Abbie dared to ask the question.
It went unheard as the elder ladies chattered and gossiped, and as Katherine sat silent and cross. David, too, was too preoccupied to hear her, and James’ attention was wholly absorbed with Mariana.
“He has come,” Lady Crawford whispered to them all.
The crowd suddenly grew louder, then quieted again. The Prince entered and took his seat, looking around admiringly at the oriental décor, and remarking upon it.
At last the meal began.
Lady Crawford alternately prodded at her aspic and then at Abbie, urging her to sit straighter, to take smaller bites . . . not to eat that. No, not that. Perhaps a little . . . no. Until Abbie gave up the endeavour entirely.
Which inspired Lady Crawford to inquire: “Why do you not eat?”
“Perhaps she is nervous,” Lady Barnwell answered. “She has never been in the presence of royalty. She is not so used to it as we are.”
“As if we dine with the Queen once a fortnight.”
“Sarcasm does not become you, Katherine.” Lady Barnwell looked from her daughter to Abbie with a disapproving look.
Yes, Abbie was to blame for Katherine’s foul mood, and she was conscious of it. If she could fix the problem she would, but she knew no way, at present, of doing it.
“I wish I could say I thought your ward ready for this,” Lady Barnwell said now. “I regret to say I do not.”
Lady Crawford, too, examined Abbie. She had no doubts. Or did she? Her eyes narrowed as she looked her up and down.
“Unbutton your cloak, Arabella. I want to see your dress.”
“It is a little cold in here. I would really rather—”
“Unbutton it, I say,” Lady Crawford demanded as Lady Barnwell tsked and frowned.
Reluctantly, Abbie obeyed.
“That is not the dress I bought you, and it is certainly not the one you were meant to pick up from the dressmaker.”
“No, ma’am,” Abbie answered. “I’m afraid it’s not.”
“May I ask why not?”
“The truth is, ma’am, I did not feel it quite right to adopt a manner of dress so very different from what my sister would wear on this or any occasion. She remains in mourning. So must I show the proper respect for the father I dearly miss.”
“Well,” Lady Barnwell said and sat straighter in her chair. “I do not envy you the work you have undertaken, Margaret.”
“Do you know, Arabella,” Lady Crawford said at last and laid her wadded napkin upon the table, “sometimes I wonder if you are not a little ungrateful.”
“I am sorry, ma’am.”
“Perhaps if you insist on presuming to decide what is best for you on such occasions, the bill might come out of your allowance. Do you have any idea what I paid to have that dress ready on time?”
“Forgive me, ma’am, but I’d hardly dare presume to any figures. And I’d certainly never consider doing it at the table.” It was daring, but it was out before she’d given the words the thought they deserved.
“Oh, dear!” Lady Barnwell said and fanned herself as her friend turned a violent shade of red.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Katherine hide a smile in her napkin and look away.
“You are right. That is a conversation for another time. But I will take this opportunity to express my displeasure at finding Sarah has gone, as well. Is this, too, your doing?”
“No. It’s mine,” James answered for her.
“Yours?” Ruskin demanded.
“It turns out the position was quite beyond her. I felt it necessary to let her go.”
“Let her go? You go hiring and firing at your own pleasure, James, without a thought that it isn’t your place. How dare you do it without consulting me!”
“I’ve not done any hiring. Who said I’d hired anyone?”
“You know very well what you’ve done. What I’d like to know is why you thought it your place to do it.”
“Is that an answer you’d like to have now, dear brother? Because, to be quite honest, you figured into the decision. Shall I explain how?”
Ruskin turned a little pale, but said nothing. Nor was he given much opportunity to do it.
“This is not the place for this,” Lady Crawford very nearly hissed. “Needless to say we are all very disappointed in you, Arabella. Very disappointed, indeed.”
“Well I’m not disappointed,” James said to Mariana. “Are you, Miss Gray? Or is that Holyoak. I’m simply rotten with names.”
“James, please,” Mariana said and stabbed broodingly at her aspic.
Lady Barnwell tsked again in Abbie’s direction. Lady Crawford lifted her chin and looked away from the table, assessing, or so Abbie supposed, the likelihood that their little scene had been witnessed by any of their neighbours, or, God forbid, the Prince himself. No one, it seemed, from the moment they had entered until now, had taken any notice of them at all.
Abbie’s gaze shifted from Lady Crawford to pass over those who sat about the table. David had not eaten, but was sipping idly at his glass. James was pouring himself a second and offering to Mariana who refused. And Ruskin had forgotten his meal entirely and was simply staring at Abbie with what appeared to be a strange combination of anxious frustration. She turned from him. Her dress was a trifling matter, and she had no doubt he thought so, too. His displeasure was simply for her going against his mother’s wishes. Or was it more than that, after all? He seemed, at the moment, a little afraid of her.
Sir Nicholas and Lord Barnwell returned, still speaking among themselves, and it was not until they were seated that they realized that something at the table was amiss.
“What is this?” Sir Nicholas asked, looking from one dour face to another.
“After all the trouble we’ve gone to,” Lady Crawford said and waved a hand in Abbie’s direction. “Just look at her! After all the care we’ve taken to see she is at her best, and to come all this way to see . . .”
“To see a train,” Abbie reminded them, and tried to sound respectful.
“Which is precisely why the Prince of Wales is here,” Sir Nicholas added. “You did not think he came especially to see us, my dear?”
“No, of course not. But it was an opportunity for Arabella to be seen by him, and if he should pay her any especial attention, well her success would be guaranteed.”
“If you counted on so much, my dear lady, then it’s no wonder you are disappointed. I’m not sure it’s fair to lay the blame of the Prince’s preoccupation at Arrabella’s door. And as for the train,” he said addressing Abbie now, “there’ll be time to see it afterward.”
“But the crowds,” Lady Crawford said in objection.
“You do know it’s open to all,” added Lady Barnwell. “And underground, too. Must we, really?”
“For heaven’s sake,” David said and arose.
“Where are you going?” his mother asked of him.
“It’s close in here. I want some air.”
“You will miss the speeches.”
“I really do not care. Excuse me.”
Sir Nicholas cleared his throat and gave Ruskin an awkward glance. Abbie expected him to be angry with his son’s unwillingness to comply. Wasn’t he here to mix and mingle as well? Sir Nicholas, however, did not seem to mind at all that David would much rather not remain.
“Perhaps if you were to take Arabella with you,” he said to his son. “You might go now, before the crowds converge once more . . . ?”
David stopped, looked to Abbie, and then to Katherine. Then to his father, as if he were uncertain this was a burden he was prepared to bear.
“But, Nicholas,” Lady Crawford said, clearly disappointed by this change of plans. “Think of the opportunities he will miss, that they must all miss, if they quit the luncheon now.”
“It isn’t certain they’ll miss anything at all, my dear lady,” he said to his wife. “And if Miss Gray wishes to acquaint herself with this rail project,” he added with a pointed look in David’s direction, “then perhaps there is no better time to do it, when the crowds are occupied here and we are busy with our meal.”
“Oh . . . . very well,” Lady Crawford said at last, and in a pitch that was almost a whine.
Ruskin stood. “I suppose I might as well go with them.”
“I want you here, Ruskin,” his father said.
Ruskin sat again, picked his napkin up, and shook it out as if it had caused him some offence.
“Miss Gray,” David said, addressing her very respectfully. He turned then to her sister, “Miss Mariana. If you would care to accompany me, it would be my pleasure . . .”
Abbie arose, and Mariana as well. And so, necessarily, did all the gentlemen.
“You too, James?” Lady Crawford asked of her youngest son as he moved to follow them.
Abbie did not stop to wait for the answer, and neither was it given by James, but by his father.
“Let him go.”
Once more outside, Abbie took a steadying breath and let it out slowly. She took her sister’s arm and waited for David to lead the way, but he was 
looking over her shoulder in the direction of the tent door. She turned to see the curtain part again.
“Wait. I’m coming,” Katherine said as she joined them.
David took her hand and kissed her on the temple. Surely it meant a great deal to him to be able to share this with her.
“Shall we, then?” he said, and at last led the way.
Abbie and Mariana followed, but James was not to be left behind.
“You don’t really mean to make me walk by myself, do you?”
“Of course not,” Abbie said and made room for him between them.
“Are you really such a child, Mr. Crawford?” Mariana asked him.
“Who’s to say I may not have the opportunity to play the gallant hero today?”
“Who indeed?” Mariana said, and though she tried to stifle the smile that followed this, she was unsuccessful. “It’s something we would all like to see, I’m sure.”
“None more so than myself,” his brother said and walked on.
Abbie followed behind David and Katherine, who did not talk, and beside James and Mariana who did. After the din and commotion of the luncheon, she was almost grateful for a moment of peace. It did not last long. Soon enough they were back amidst the throng of the festivities, and in a moment or two more, they were entering the domed station.
The tunnel, once they arrived there via a hydraulic lift, was not quite the dark and foreboding place Abbie had expected. It was brightly lit by both gas and electricity, and the walls, the vaulted ceiling, too, were tiled in white, which shone and reflected and made the tunnel seem almost comfortable.
The train sat on one side of the platform, and an attendant, by way of opening the gate, encouraged them to board. David handed Katherine up, then turned to offer the same assistance to Abbie, who hesitated a moment before giving David her hand. His attentiveness seemed to her a trifle forced. He did not smile, would hardly meet her gaze. But he was being polite. Perhaps that was the best she could hope for under the circumstances. She only wished she knew just what those circumstances were. Was there a way to find out?
Once inside, they examined the car—a single compartment—in close detail. The walls and doors of gleaming wood, the vaulted, whitewashed ceiling. The high backed and comfortable benches, one on each side of the long car, and the narrow row of windows just above the seats’ backs. Through these there wasn’t much to see. The train sat stationary today, allowing for a view of the platform without. Travelling through the tunnels, however, would be quite dark. Still, they offered a sort of optimism that Abbie found comforting. In the reflection she caught David’s gaze, which altered its direction the moment her eyes met his.
David looked to Katherine, who was apparently not so pleased by the spectacle as was he.
“I can’t imagine who would want to ride on such a narrow, cramped thing,” she said. “Scores of people all in one car, trapped together underground, and with no way of knowing just who you might be sitting next to. It could be a lunatic or a murderer for all you know.” And she rubbed her fingers together as if she’d already acquired so much unwanted human filth. She turned and exited the car.
“I too find it rather cramped and close,” Mariana said, breaking the awkward silence. “Do you mind, Abbie, if I wait for you on the platform?”
“Not at all,” she said and watched as James accompanied her sister and Katherine off the train.
Perhaps Abbie ought to follow, but she did wish for a moment more. To see the train, yes. But to speak with David if she could manage it.
“It is not steam, I think,” she said, and was truly curious to know. “Not down so far beneath the surface.”
“No,” he answered. “It was meant to be run by cable, but they at last decided on electricity. It’s the first major railway to use it.”
“I venture it won’t be the last.”
“No,” he said and smiled, apparently encouraged. “There are others being built as we speak. In America, and on the Continent.”
“It’s a shame we can’t actually travel in them today. Do they not begin running right away?”
“It won’t open to the public for another six weeks.”
“Six weeks? Won’t we have returned to Holdaway by then?”
“I believe so.”
“How very disappointing.”
There was silence, and then it was broken as they both spoke at once.
“Look, I’m sorry about—” David began, but stopped upon realising Abbie had spoken as well.
“I apologise for the—”
They were both silent again. It was David who spoke first. “My mother likes to make a great matter out of small things. I hope you will not let her upset you.”
“It is difficult to avoid, it seems. But you did advise me against doing that which I did not wish to do.”
“I did. And I meant it. We’re all a little highly strung just now. It isn’t your fault.”
“Are you certain of that?”
He looked at her a moment, and looked away, examining the carriage once more. But the car was not large, and all there was to see had been seen already.
“Katherine is unhappy. That at least is my fault.”
“Perhaps,” he answered.
“Has she told you what it is over, our . . . disagreement?”
“No,” David answered with a fleeting smile and an even more fleeting glance in her direction.
“She will, of course. She must.”
“I’ve forbidden her from speaking of it—to me, or to anyone.”
“Have you?” Abbie asked him and hesitated to take hope. “But why?”
Neither did he answer this.
“If I should cause embarrassment or dishonour . . .”
“The dishonour’s been done already.”
“Because I’m here?”
“Stop that, will you? There is no shame in our having adopted you as our special cause. If that is what we choose to do, whose business is it but our own? But if you truly believe you are not fit to be among us, you will, whether you intend to do it or not, convince others to believe it, too. I do not know what this great controversy is between you and Katherine. If you wish to tell me I’ll be happy to hear it. If not then I’ll respect your wish for privacy. But if you fear dishonour, truly, I have to tell you, I think it’s just as likely to come as a consequence of encouraging you to feel obligated to us for that which you had no choice but to accept.”
“But I thought I was an avaricious grasper. Were those not your words?”
David removed his hat and rubbed at his forehead.
“Forgive me if I find you puzzling and unpredictable. You are certainly inconsistent.”
He nodded his acknowledgement of this. She took the opportunity of the silence to contemplate all he had said.
“Is there a price?” she asked him at last. “Is that what you are trying to tell me?”
“Is there some horrid secret that will put all my family’s plans for you at risk? Is that what you are trying to tell me?”
Neither question could or would be answered, and so silence ensued once more.
“Look,” David said, coming to stand very near her, “I cannot say I do not care what comes of all of this. I simply care for different reasons. Make your choice. Decide what you would do. Take no one’s happiness into account but your own.”
“You would encourage me to be selfish?”
“I have a feeling it’s not something you are used to doing. Of the average person I would hesitate to suggest any such thing. Of you, I think it’s precisely what you need most to consider.”
“And if it all blows up in your faces?”
“Then it is the risk we took in having you.”
“It is hardly a risk you chose to take.”
“I am choosing it now.”
She looked at him, uncertain what to say, or even to believe. He appeared perfectly and soberly sincere.
“We should go,” he said.
She stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Thank you.”
He only shook his head in answer.
“This train,” she said, stopping him again, “it means a great deal to you, doesn’t it?”
He smiled briefly, even sadly. “If I am to fulfil my obligation, I am to encourage you to do the same.”
“I do already, but why should it matter if I—”
She was interrupted by the opening of the door. James stepped inside. “We have company,” he said, looking only, and very intently, at David.
David looked at his brother for a moment, apparently puzzled.
“It seems there are some people we just keep bumping into,” James said as if it should offer some clarification.
Clearly it did, for David immediately followed after James, leading Abbie by the elbow and then handing her down to the platform once more.
“Shall we go, then?” James asked as they joined the others, and in a manner entirely different from the concerned one Abbie had just witnessed. He was perfectly jolly now.
In the lift, David stood very near his brother. “What is he doing here?”
“I’m not quite certain,” James answered. “Not yet, at any rate.
“Who?” Mariana asked. “Tell me who it is?”
“James Benderby. I’ve seen him hanging about your neighbourhood. Is there any way he can have known we’d be here today?”
“Oh no,” was all Abbie could think to say, and felt her sister take a tight hold of her arm.
“Of course, it’s possible,” was Mariana’s answer.
“Who is this man?” Katherine asked.
“He was one of our labourers.”
“Was? But no more?”
“Precisely.”
“And you do not know what he wants?”
“Well,” James said, but haltingly. “I suppose there is one simple answer.”
“Which is?”
They had reached the surface now, and the opening of the door released James from any obligation to answer. Likely he would not have done it anyway.
Again they went quickly on their way, but they had not crossed the station floor before Benderby was seen to come out of the stairwell, breathless and perspiring.
“Move along,” James said, once more in his merry voice.
The Crawford carriages, and that which belonged to the Barnwell’s, were on the street outside. Three altogether. James put Mariana and Katherine into the first. “You’ll send them on?” James asked of his brother.
“Yes, of course. Where are you going?”
“I’m going to go see what this is about.”
“I don’t see him now,” David observed.
“No,” James said. “But that’s little comfort.” And he slid off into the crowd.
“Please, Miss Gray,” David said to her as she hesitated join her sister and Katherine in the carriage.
“Let me stay.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I can talk to him. I think I know what he wants. And I can talk to him.”
“It isn’t worth the risk, Miss Gray. I think it best to let James handle this.”
“Please?” she said. “Let me try. We’ll deal with him together, as we did with Mr. Summerson.”
Reluctant still, he looked up at the driver of the first carriage and signalled for it to drive on home. A second carriage he directed to return to the marquee to fetch his parents and Lord and Lady Barnwell.
And then it was just he and Abbie. “I have a feeling I’ll regret this,” he said. “Until he can be found, will you . . . ?” He gestured toward the interior of the second carriage.
She agreed with a nod and stepped up. But when she turned to take the hand David offered, she stopped and stepped down once more.”
“There he is!”
***Read the original newspaper articles here, and here.
Cry of the Peacock will be available October 2012.
May 29, 2012
No Name
So I’m just finishing up the Goodreads discussion on No Name, by Wilkie Collins. Which means I’ve finished the book! I really ought to have read it sooner and I’ll tell you why. It has SO much in common with Of Moths & Butterflies it’s almost frightening. In fact, if you take my suggestion and read it, and if you’ve read Moths, you’ll probably have a hard time believing this book didn’t inspire mine. But it didn’t. It was actually my uber-fantastic illustrator B. Lloyd who suggested I read it. And yes, as I said, I should have done it sooner.
The book starts out with two sisters. Norah and Magdalen. Now, knowing that Collins and Dickens were best friends, you can probably bet that name Magdalen means something. Only not quite what you’d think. Well … not quite what I thought. He does what he does best, gives us clues and then leads us astray, only to bring us round again so that we’re looking at an issue from an angle we hadn’t expected, or would not have chosen for ourselves. (I love this about George Eliot, too, particularly in her treatment of the Jewish culture, family, and gentlemanly honour in Daniel Deronda.) Magdalen is no Magdalene by the common understanding. (For more on the topic of the Victorian Magdalene and Magdalene societies, I’ll have an upcoming post.) What she is, but does not know, is the illegitimate child of her parents who, for most of her life, were never married. They couldn’t marry, you see, because, like George Eliot’s life companion, George Henry Lewes, he was already married. But then his wife dies. His girls are nearly women. He marries the mother of his children, then learns, by a peculiar condition of law, that a man’s will, upon his marriage is void, and must be rewritten.
Up to that moment he, like many other persons, had been absolutely ignorant that a man’s marriage is, legally as well as socially, considered to be the most important event in his life; that it destroys the validity of any will which he may have made as a single man; and that it renders absolutely necessary the entire reassertion of his testamentary intentions in the character of a husband.
Only he doesn’t get the chance. And so, Norah and Magdalen are left with nothing. Their father’s fortune transfers to an estranged uncle, and then to a cousin upon the uncles death. Neither of them will lift a finger to help the disenfranchised sisters. And the law, to the detriment of Nora and Magdalen, is all on the side of the men who inherited. The girls are illegitimate, they have No Name to claim for their own and are cast upon the world to make their way. Only they go about it very differently. Nora accepts her lot, but Magdalen, again drawing a comparison to Daniel Deronda’s Gwendolyn, refuses to sit back and accept misfortune as her lot.
And here is where the coincidences begin to rain down. Magdalen, in an attempt to regain her fortune by any means she can, determines to marry her cousin Noel. She marries him, under an assumed name, and by fraudulent means. And so the question of marriage and the validity of it comes in. (Of which I’ve already written a post, but will be writing another, so keep an eye out for that as well.) She is also warned, by a sort of strange relation (her mother’s half brother or step brother or some such) who she has enlisted to help her, that a third party might challenge the validity of the marriage while her husband lives.
“If Mr. Noel Vanstone ever discovers that you have knowingly married him under a false name, he can apply to the Ecclesiastical Court to have his marriage declared null and void. The issue of the application would rest with the judges. But if he could prove that he had been intentionally deceived, the legal opinion is that his case would be a strong one.”
“Suppose I chose to apply on my side?” said Magdalen, eagerly. “What then?”
“You might make the application,” replied the captain. “But remember one thing—you would come into Court with the acknowledgment of your own deception. I leave you to imagine what the judges would think of that.”
“Did the lawyer tell you anything else?”
“One thing besides,” said Captain Wragge. “Whatever the law might do with the marriage in the lifetime of both the parties to it—on the death of either one of them, no application made by the survivor would avail; and, as to the case of that survivor, the marriage would remain valid. You understand? If he dies, or if you die—and if no application has been made to the Court—he the survivor, or you the survivor, would have no power of disputing the marriage. But in the lifetime of both of you, if he claimed to have the marriage dissolved, the chances are all in favor of his carrying his point.”
There was some debate amongst the reading group as to what this meant. I don’t understand what need Magdalen would have of challenging her own marriage after Noel died. She would have the money and she’d be free to marry again if she wished. In my mind, and having researched marriage law for Moths, I decided what he was warning her was that NO survivor could challenge the marriage, including any interested third party who wished to deny her of her inheritance. Or perhaps he’s just warning her that once this is done, it cannot be undone.
Of course in Moths, this is all switched, and it’s he who marries under a false name and she who is coerced into it (which would also make it invalid). The marriage was conducted in good faith on the part of the gentleman. The fraud came in by that third party, and it could be challenged by another party. But, most likely, it would stand. That it would ever be annulled was likely not possible, but it was a threat nevertheless and one that was used to keep the parties in question obedient to the wishes of the controlling uncle.
Back to No Name, Magdalen’s attempts to get the money through her cousin are frustrated (they’re always being frustrated) and so, making another attempt, she goes in disguise to the house of the next in line to inherit and hires herself out as a servant.
I know!
So yes, I sort of wished I’d read this earlier. But I think I got my facts all straight and that it all works. It is sort of reassuring to know that these plot devices have been used before. It’s like evidence that it could have been done, or that others have made it work. There is a great deal of Moths that was borrowed from the works of others, as I think I’ve said before. Moths has a bit of Tess and of Nicholas Nickleby, of Our Mutual Friend and Daniel Deronda and clearly some Collins, too!
Returning to Collins, I would like to point out that there are some great lines in No Name that are certainly worth remembering.
The lasting preservation of a secret is a miracle which the world has never yet seen.
Giants of both sexes are, by a wise dispensation of Providence, created, for the most part, gentle. If Mrs. Wragge and a lamb had been placed side by side, comparison, under those circumstances, would have exposed the lamb as a rank impostor.
The one thing needful is never to let Mrs. Lecount catch you with your wits wool-gathering.
There is also a priceless soliloquy on the moral responsibility of the Swindler:
Who, and what am I? Carry your mind back to our conversation on the Walls of this interesting City, and let us start once more from your point of view. I am a Rogue; and, in that capacity (as I have already pointed out), the most useful man you possibly could have met with. Now observe! There are many varieties of Rogue; let me tell you my variety, to begin with. I am a Swindler.”
“Don’t be shocked,” proceeded the captain; “don’t be astonished. Swindler is nothing but a word of two syllables. S, W, I, N, D—swind; L, E, R—ler; Swindler. Definition: A moral agriculturist; a man who cultivates the field of human sympathy. I am that moral agriculturist, that cultivating man. Narrow-minded mediocrity, envious of my success in my profession, calls me a Swindler. What of that? The same low tone of mind assails men in other professions in a similar manner—calls great writers scribblers—great generals, butchers—and so on. It entirely depends on the point of view. Adopting your point, I announce myself intelligibly as a Swindler. Now return the obligation, and adopt mine. Hear what I have to say for myself, in the exercise of my profession.—Shall I continue to put it frankly?”
“Yes,” said Magdalen; “and I’ll tell you frankly afterward what I think of it.”
The captain cleared his throat; mentally assembled his entire army of words—horse, foot, artillery, and reserves; put himself at the head; and dashed into action, to carry the moral intrenchments of Society by a general charge. (I love this!)
“Now observe,” he began. “Here am I, a needy object. Very good. Without complicating the question by asking how I come to be in that condition, I will merely inquire whether it is, or is not, the duty of a Christian community to help the needy. If you say No, you simply shock me; and there is an end of it; if you say Yes, then I beg to ask, Why am I to blame for making a Christian community do its duty? You may say, Is a careful man who has saved money bound to spend it again on a careless stranger who has saved none? Why of course he is! And on what ground, pray? Good heavens! on the ground that he has got the money, to be sure. All the world over, the man who has not got the thing, obtains it, on one pretense or another, of the man who has—and, in nine cases out of ten, the pretense is a false one. What! your pockets are full, and my pockets are empty; and you refuse to help me? Sordid wretch! do you think I will allow you to violate the sacred obligations of charity in my person? I won’t allow you—I say, distinctly, I won’t allow you. Those are my principles as a moral agriculturist. Principles which admit of trickery? Certainly. Am I to blame if the field of human sympathy can’t be cultivated in any other way? Consult my brother agriculturists in the mere farming line—do they get their crops for the asking? No! they must circumvent arid Nature exactly as I circumvent sordid Man. They must plow, and sow, and top-dress, and bottom-dress, and deep-drain, and surface-drain, and all the rest of it. Why am I to be checked in the vast occupation of deep-draining mankind? Why am I to be persecuted for habitually exciting the noblest feelings of our common nature? Infamous!—I can characterize it by no other word—infamous! If I hadn’t confidence in the future, I should despair of humanity—but I have confidence in the future. Yes! one of these days (when I am dead and gone), as ideas enlarge and enlightenment progresses, the abstract merits of the profession now called swindling will be recognized. When that day comes, don’t drag me out of my grave and give me a public funeral; don’t take advantage of my having no voice to raise in my own defense, and insult me by a national statue. No! do me justice on my tombstone; dash me off, in one masterly sentence, on my epitaph. Here lies Wragge, embalmed in the tardy recognition of his species: he plowed, sowed, and reaped his fellow-creatures; and enlightened posterity congratulates him on the uniform excellence of his crops.”
In the end I felt that Collins was trying to persuade his readers to be more understanding of those whose circumstances are less than ideal, but whose circumstances were beyond their control. It was a trying age, full of hypocrisy and unjust laws. They knew it then. Noel even admits it is unfair he had Magdalen’s money, but the law is on his side, and he’d be a fool to give back what the law has given him. I suppose one might also say that it shows how patience and submissiveness as Norah exemplifies has it’s rewards. Magdalen’s efforts came to nothing, after all, save to reduce her nearly to death. But that final point, I think, might be up for some debate. The story was about Magdalen, and Magdalen, in the end, did prevail, even if it was only over her darker self.
This was a fantastic read, and I highly suggest it to anyone who loves Victorian literature. B. Lloyd also recommended Armadale. And so I’ll be tackling that one next. And from now on, I’ll not procrastinate following her wise counsel!
May 25, 2012
On revising and revisioning
I’ve neglected my blog lately. I’m neck deep in revisions for Cry of the Peacock and I tend to shut everything out when I’m in my own books. There’s just too much to mentally keep track of for me to handle much more, and blogging takes so much time. Not that I don’t love and appreciate my readers, but I really do see it as a supplement to the books and not a way to grow an audience.
It’s interesting, though, delving back into Peacock after a year and a half absence from it. I realise I’ve not been as good at taking criticism as I should be. It’s taken me years to learn how to separate useful criticism from the not so useful. And it’s hard to know your work isn’t as good as you think it is. But experience, and time, do offer clarity. I thought this book was ready two years ago when an agent very nearly signed it. I didn’t understand what the problems were. I revamped it, sent it out to friends and editors. Still there were problems. The same problems. And I was heartsick with frustration. I just couldn’t see it. It wasn’t for a lack of trying, either. It was for a lack of ability to see it clearly. Only time could give me that.
Going back into it this time, I see exactly what the problems are. I see that my desperate attempts to salvage scenes and dialogues I once thought were gems have weighed the book down. I read it this time with almost new eyes. “What on earth was I thinking?” I asked myself more than once. Some of the dialogues, written nearly ten years ago, were just plain immature. Others had ceased to work as the scenes around them had altered so much as to make them obsolete.
Looking at it with fresh eyes, I can see that there is a lot of rewriting that needs to be done. A lot of plot restructuring. A lot of relayering and filling in. A lot of development of character and motivation. I’m halfway through it now, and I’m so pleased by how it’s shaping up. I really have worried that I’d never be able to get this book right. It was my first book and there’s a great deal of attachment to it. But I have learned, through trial and error, how the revision process works and how to really see when the focus is right. Of course I still have to send it back out to my editors, and of course I know there will be issues remaining, but I’ll know how to treat them this time. And it will be for different reasons than before. Miscommunications, perhaps some filling in of descriptive detail (I’m always spare with those) or a lack of clarity. But the plot…I think I’m getting it.
A lot of this clarity came by way of just taking that break. But I know a great deal of it also came by way of the good and honest critics who helped me, and did not shy away when I cried and whined at the changes still ahead of me. (For that I’m very sorry.)
I’m so glad now for that experience on Authonomy. Not only did I make many wonderful friends and met so many wonderful authors, friends and not so friends, but I really learned how to listen to criticism. Some comments are only opinion. Some have to be considered in the context of the reader. I think I have one review of Moths from a reader who doesn’t read historical fiction or classic literature, and they didn’t get it. That’s fair enough. I can respect that and I’m grateful they tried something new, even if they turned out not to like it. I’ve had a few people say it’s too long. That’s fair, as well. I’m aware that for some, it will seem too long, and that, quite possibly, it is too long, but it was what I wanted of it at the time. And from that I know to be more careful of keeping my plots moving and watching my word count (boy do I struggle with word count!). For others it was boring. Fair enough. It won’t please everyone. Some feel the heroine should have resolved her issues sooner. I agree with that. At least I understand where those criticisms are coming from. I purposefully dragged it out to show how very difficult such struggles are to overcome. I admit I may have dragged it out too far. And so now I’m conscious of those things.
There are many, too, who loved it, too. And of course those comments are helpful. When you hear the same things over and over again, you know you’re doing something right (or wrong, as the case may be.) Moths is evocative of the era, well researched, convincing and relevant. I love that! (I also love it when people say it’s not too long, but that’s just me taking comfort in what it is rather than what it should be.)
It’s true a book reaches a certain state of finishedness, if you will. Peacock isn’t there yet. And perhaps in a few years’ time I’ll be able to look over Moths once more and see how I might have done it a great deal better. That’s called growing, and a writer must always be prepared to grow and improve. That’s the whole purpose of experience. I used to be afraid of that. Not of the growth in itself, but of being able to say the books I publish now are better than the books I’ve published before. To me it was like saying my work, when it was published then, wasn’t as good as it could have been. It’s a useless way to look at things, and I’ve learned to overcome it. Moths will not be my strongest piece. That’s a good thing. It was what I needed it to be, though. It told a story I needed to have told. And now I can move on. The next books won’t be so personal. I won’t be quite so attached to them. I’m enjoying the writing and revising of them more. And I’m meeting my deadlines! Which means there’s much less stress than there has been in the past.
I’m looking forward to having Peacock out to readers. I know many others are looking forward to it, too. If you’re one of them, you can expect to see Cry of the Peacock this October (2012), and of course I’ll keep the updates coming.
For now, though, it’s back to work for me.
April 24, 2012
On Wilkie Collins (It’s in the details, man!)
True he’s not my only favorite author. If you know me at all, you’ve likely heard me wax poetic about many a Victorian writer; Dickens, George Meredith, Silas Hocking, George Eliot…. The truth is, I learn so much from classic literature that it not only forms the foundation of my research, it is the foundation of my writing career. I didn’t start as a writer, after all. I started as an avid reader, who got so enthralled in these wonderful stories, that I eventually dared to try my hand at it. But I still must read, read, read in order to learn, learn, learn. It helps me in other ways, too, but chiefest among them is finding the golden nuggets of detail that make a little bit of history clear, or, more exciting still, shatter the preconceptions we’ve allowed to cement about an era that truly was very dynamic. For those details about the day to day lives of men and women (particularly women) in the Victorian era, there’s no one quite like Wilkie Collins.
First a bit of history. William Collins was born January 8, 1826 in Marylebone, London. His father was a Royal Academy trained landscaper, also named William Collins. Hence the son took his uncle’s middle name, Wilkie, and by it was known most of his life. He lived for a time in Italy and France, when he was a boy of about ten. The time abroad greatly influenced his tastes.
Back home, and at a boarding school, Wilkie Collins was introduced to his creative career, by a bully. The lad tormented Collins and would not let him be until he agreed to tell him a story each night in order to help him get to sleep. Collins only spent two years at that school, but the creative germ took off and never let him go.
In 1843 his first story was published, but his first full length novel, Iolani, which he submitted two years later was rejected, never to be published in his lifetime. In 1851, however, he was introduced to Charles Dickens and a lifetime friendship took off, as well as the making of his career. Many of his works were either published or serialised in Dickens’ paper, “All the Year Round.” His most famous works include The Moonstone, The Woman in White, Armadale and No Name! Which book I’ve just begun and will be leading a discussion on over at Goodreads. So do, please join us. It’s going to be a lot of fun.
So why do I love Wilkie Collins so? Well, as I might have mentioned before … It’s in the details, my friends. In the details!
There are a great many understood stereotypes with regard to the Victorian era. Women had no rights, therefore had no will or purposeful ambition of their own. Of course this doesn’t make for very interesting storytelling, but one must break those preconceptions gently, so as not to offend the reader. I smirk here. Because if women weren’t strong in the Victorian era, who on earth did all the fighting for their rights? Men? Ha! Ok. I take it back. There were some men, like Collins, and Meredith who played the private and public champions for the cause of women. And I thank them. But for the most part, it took the courage of some very intrepid women in order to get the legistlation passed that would grant them their rights, their separate identities from the men they chose to marry (which I mean to cover in an upcoming post.)
Needless to say, we modern readers like to read about strong women. We modern writers like to write about them. But at what point to you challenge preconcieved ideas at the risk of being reprimanded? For me, I look for such examples in contemporary literature. Not contemporary to my day, but theirs. And in Collins, it abounds.
See this from Marian Halcombe in The Woman in White:
“Are you to break your heart to set his mind at ease? No man under heaven deserves these sacrifices from women. Men! They are the enemies of our innocence and our peace – they drag us from our parents’ love and sisters’ friendship – they take us body and soul to themselves, and fasten our helpless lives to theirs as they chain up a dog to his kennel. And what does the best of them give us in return? Let me go, Laura – I am mad when I think of it!”
Indeed, it is only because of Marian’s strength that her sister is not grievously robbed by her husband, and that she ever survives her marriage to him.
When it comes to what we understand about fashion trends of the era, Collins likes to say it how it is. Of course all women wore corsets and laced them as tightly as they could. Didn’t they?
Again, from The Woman in White, but this from Mr. Hartright’s point of view, as he first observes Marian.
“Her figure was tall, yet not too tall; comely and well developed, yet not fat; her head set on her shoulders with an easy pliant firmness; her waist, perfection in the eyes of a man, for it occupied its natural place, it filled out its natural circle, it was visibly and delightfully undeformed by stays.”
Yes. That’s what it said! Now whether it means she did not wear a corset or rather that she didn’t tight-lace, I’m not certain. But I find that remarkable. Never before have I read such a thing as that. And that the passage should imply that liked a woman’s figure ‘undeformed by stays’, and that other men would agree with him, rather blew my mind when I first read it.
As I mentioned, I’m presently reading No Name, and so it only seems right that I include a few gems from it as well.
No name hinges on the legal aspects of inheritance and marriage law. I don’t think I will spoil anything for you by telling you that what comes of a marriage solemnised after the birth of a child results in that child being thrown upon the mercy of the world with No Name. But how it comes about is a bit of a puzzle. Fortunately for us modern readers, Collins knew better than to trust us to understand the law as he did. He even goes so far as to doubt that most men understood the consequences of late marriages which were meant to legitimise the births of their children. Well, in the eyes of the English legal system, it didn’t. In fact, it did one worse, by rending a man’s will, however tightly it was written, completely useless upon his marriage. See here:
Up to that moment he, like many other persons, had been absolutely ignorant that a man’s marriage is, legally as well as socially, considered to be the most important even in his life; that it destroys the validity of any will which he may have made as a single man’ ad that it renders absolutely necessary the entire reassertion of his testamentary intention in the character of a husband.
In explaining how all this has come about, it is necessary for the histories of the girl’s parents to be recounted. I’ve studied the rules of courtship. I’ve read countless etiquette manuals and books about it, both contemporary to their time and my own. And what I’ve learned from them is that so many guides and rule books would not have been written if the rules were so very set in stone. One of the rules I’ve used in a piece of my own writing, was that of not dancing with a woman more than thrice in an evening. Hmm. Well, it seems, that while that is the advice given from all quarters, there are still ways and means to skirt it. See here:
There they met. She produced a strong impression on him the moment he saw her. To me, as to him, she was a total stranger. An introduction to her, obtained in the customary manner, informed him that she as the daughter of one Mr. Blake. The rest he discovered from herself. They were partners in the dance (unobserved in that crowded ball-room) all through the evening.
This is interesting on several levels. They danced together and with no one else, I assume that constituted more than three dances. But as they were both strangers, there may well have been those who noticed and wondered, but as they were unknown, there was no gossip to spread, no scandal to form in the wake of it. If the two should form an attachment, who was to stop them? The lawyer, who is telling this tale, refers to an introduction ‘in the usual manner.’ The lawyer was not a stranger there, and he no doubt sought out someone who could introduce his friend to her connections, for she must have been invited by someone.
But that’s beside the point. I value it for the exception to the rules it illustrates.
Another thing I really like about Collins is his apparent fondness and respect for women. Like George Meredith, who also wrote extraordinarily strong women, his admiration for them is apparent. I noted this passage especially.
Her heart was the heart of a true woman. It accepted the conviction which raised Norah higher in her love: it rejected the doubt which threatened to place Magdalen lower.
I hope that is true of women still. I hope it is true of myself. At any rate, I’m a great fan of Collins as you can see. And I’m so excited to be leading the discussion of No Name this month on Goodreads. Do come join us there!
April 17, 2012
Lucky 7
A Game of ExcerptsAs some of you may know, Of Moths & Butterflies was recently reviewed by the lovely Mirella Patzer. I was not only extremely pleased by her kind praise of my debut novel, but I was really honoured to be noticed by Mirella, for whom I have the greatest respect and admiration. As if her magnificent review wasn’t enough, she also tagged me to take part in this little Lucky 7 game that’s going around, where authors are chosen to share seven lines from their current work in progress. The timing could be better, for I return this week to working on Cry of the Peacock. It’s about time, too, as the publication date, October 2012, looms before me.
The contest rules are:
1. Go to page 77 of your current work in progress.
2. Go to line 7.
3. Copy the next 7 lines or sentences as written and post them onto your blog or website.
4. Tag 7 other authors.
5. Let them know they’ve been tagged.
Cry of the Peacock is the story of Abbie Gray, who has spent her life on the Radcliffe Estate as the daughter of the overseer. When her father dies, she finds herself the recipient of an offer to assume a place within her wealthy landlord’s family. She’s sceptical of the motivation behind such an extraordinary invitation, but having nowhere else to go, she accepts. But from the moment she enters their home, her suspicions that there is more to their kindness than meets the eye increases. Neither is she universally accepted among them. While the eldest brother and heir to the estate seems to have taken an exaggerated interest in her, his younger brothers are determined to expose her as a mercenary and an upstart, and to give her every reason to leave. But things, as Abbie feared, truly aren’t what they seem, and the outcome turns out to be more dire for the family than for Abbie. Of course, along the way, she forms allies, even if they are reluctant ones (at first).
Here’s a taste:
He spoke of piazzas and Palazzi and basilicas until it was all a blur of incomprehensible language. Antiquities, gallerias and musei littered the air and now and then he would drop into Latin or Italian—she was not always quite sure which was which—as his mother nodded and smiled and offered the perfectly placed “I see” whenever it was convenient.
“It sounds as though you had quite a time,” she said when it seemed he had at last finished.
“Yes,” he answered. “If I had not to drag James around to see the sights- At least his idea of sightseeing was somewhat different than mine,” and he darted a telling glance in Abbie’s direction…
Read MoreNow to tag seven authors whose works I have both read and love. I hope they’ll be able to participate, but considering how busy some of these wonderful people are, I’ll excuse them if they cannot. Do check out their blogs anyway. They’re definitely worth a look.
April 11, 2012
(pr)eHarmony – or Alternative Courthsip in the Victorian era
I think most people who read, and especially those who write literature and Historical Fiction of the Victorian era understand the typical in's and out's of courtship propriety. (For a brief discussion on the topic, visit my post, here.) But it's interesting, if you think about it, how unsettled the canon actually was. And the proof of this is in the sheer number of etiquette manuals and advice guides written and published which focused on the single issue of courtship and marriage. There seems to have been a veritable battle to claim authority over the subject, and to establish a uniform code.
Honestly, it amazes me how little things have actually changed, when you think about it. Perhaps the craze to get married is a thing of the past, but the desire for love and companionship is just as great as ever.
It sort of started with the advice columns. People would write in asking for advice about love and relationships, about how to deal with the opposite sex. The letters themselves were not printed, but the advice offered in reply supplied enough detail as to make the reader adequately enlightened upon the subject at hand. The opportunity arose herein to communicate, via a sort of coded language, with former lovers, or acquaintances of interest, or even with those with whom there had been a misunderstanding. (Sounds a lot like Facebook, doesn't it?) The trend started in the penny magazines and papers aimed at the lower and working classes, but soon the London Times had picked up on the fun, and on the potential readership such sensational articles attracted. (It makes sense to me that the Times would get involved in the fun of publishing the encrypted 'agonies' of their readers, and encouraging them to decypher the messages. Have you ever tried to do their crosswords?) In fact the correspondence articles became so popular that whole magazines were soon dedicated to them. Some of which took upon themselves the office of advising the advertiser as to which replies he or she should accept or disregard.
These correspondence articles grew so popular, that whole magazines and newspapers were printed, dedicated to that very aim: Matrimony. There are no less than twelve such papers, in London alone, listed by Jennifer Phegley in her book Courtship and Marriage in Victorian England (part of the invaluable Victorian Life and Times series, of which I mean to read all), including the Matrimonial News, Matrimonial Chronicle, Matrimonial Courier, Matrimonial Gazette, Matrimonial Intelligencer, Matrimonial Journal, Matrimonial Post, Matrimonial Recorder, Matrimonial Register, Matrimonial Times, and Matrimony. These were often delivered in a discrete envelope, as described below. Though sometimes that dignity saving envelope came with an extra cost.
THE MATRIMONIAL HERALD
AND
FASHIONABLE MARRIAGE GAZETTE
Official organ of the World's Great Marriage Association (Lmd), the Gigantic and sole recognised Marriage Institution for all classes in the British Empire, (10 years' public reference, vide the entire Press). Sent in plain sealed envelope, 5d. – Editor, 40, Lamb's Conduit St London.
But what sort of person would advertise this way? The low? The common? The desperate? The poor? I have a sampling, not from London alone, but from all over the country, and they display a wide assortment of folks seeking love and the supposed security of Matrimony (the word marriage isn't used).
Here is one from someone of means and property:
MATRIMONY – Lady, refined and educated, with over £1000 yearly houses and other properties, wishes to MARRY: residential locality unimportant. – The Bristol Mercury and Daily Post, 23 January 1894
Here is one from someone of humbler, yet still respectable means:
A Chemist, with an income of about £200, wishes to Correspond with Lady with like amount with view to early marriage. – Liverpool Mercury, 18 March 1893
Note he has no aspirations to marry above his sphere, but wishes to marry an equal. I think this is fairly typical. Money, as I have said before, is often the deciding factor when it came to determining compatibility. Sometimes it is the chief characteristic desired in a potential mate, as illustrated here:
BACHELOR Gentleman, of good family, and pleasing disposition and manners, considered good-looking, wishes to meet Protestant Lady of means (Spinster or Widow). View, early marriage. All communications regarded with honourable and strict confidence, and returned, if desired. Bona-fide references exchanged. – Liverpool Mercury, 18 March 1893
Sounds a bit like the makings of a business arrangement, doesn't it? Make no mistake, it was.
This one is probably my favorite, she sounds a bit desperate. Likely she does not wish to go abroad, and the only way she can stay at home is to marry.
MATRIMONY – Lady, good family, aged 25, affectionate, domesticated, £450 yearly, will receive £1,500 if speedily married. Relatives going abroad. – Bristol Mercury and Daily Post, 17 October 1892
This one is likely of a similar nature. The lady has means enough to hire a companion, and now, having lost her, (a servant such as that was a commitment, after all) prefers to marry than replace her. Its also interesting because it appears to give her address, a London address, at that, (or it is that of a friend) rather than using the editor's address, which is the usual way. (Though often those addressed to the paper were never received.)
MATRIMONY – A Lady, without near relatives, 32 years, considered prepossessing, and of pleasant disposition, who has been travelling for many years with an elderly Lady, as Companion, now deceased, wishes to Marry. She has £3,000 saved, and desires to meet a Gentleman who can increase her resources for mutual benefit. Miss Hearn, 12, Stonebridge Road, South Tottenham, London, N. – Bristol Mercury and Daily Post, 17 October 1892
This one I find interesting because the Gentleman in question is clearly concerned about following the rules of propriety, even if he does take advantage of the Matrimonials for a little help.
A GENTLEMAN, aged 32, of independent means, is anxious to correspond with the Friends or Guardians of a young Lady with a view to MATRIMONY. The Lady's family must be in a position to introduce advertiser into good society. – Freeman's Journal and Daily Commercial Advertiser, Dublin, Ireland. 12 February 1875
It could also indicate, by that last line, that he is not in Society, himself, so he either wishes to raise himself (improbable) or he is new to London and without connections of his own. Interesting.
This one is fun:
TWO Gentlemen, Holding good positions in Cardiff, one aged 23 years, height 6 ft, complexion dark, and the other aged 32, height 6ft 1in., complexion fair, are desirous of arranging interviews with two Ladies, young, good looking, amiable, and possessing means, with view to marriage. Absolutely genuine. No Matrimonial Agency need apply – Address, enclosing photos (which will be returned). – Bristol Mercury and Daily Post, 19 Mar 1892.
Like most writers of the era, I concern myself a great deal with what was right and proper, but considering these advertisements, I'm wondering if there aren't some more interesting stories to be told in ways I'd not before considered. I think, in general, the Victorians were a far more diverse and enterprising people than most of us have given them credit for. I'm glad to see the stereotypes breaking, and our understanding increasing. Much thanks to Jennifer Phegley for writing her wonderful book, and for continuing to blog and discuss these issues in ongoing interviews. Truly fascinating stuff!
*** I should note that there were also Matrimonial Agencies and Matchmaking Correspondence Clubs, which were oddly effective in their ways, but which will have to be a post for another time.
April 8, 2012
Fanfare for the Common Man
"The Century of the Common Man"Victoria was dead. Edward was King and not much had changed. Men and women, bored by decades of peace, by prosperity, by idleness, yet motivated by a love of family, of country and freedom, prepared for a war that was, by and large, unexpected. Eager to engage the enemy, sons and brothers, fathers and husbands, took up arms to protect the things most important to them. Their land, their livelihoods, their liberty. Their loved ones.
This was World War I. To rally the troops, to inspire and encourage those at home, the British composer Eugene Goossens proposed a fanfare to be written and played at the opening of every orchestral concert.
The War to End All Wars ended. There were no victors. England lost three quarters of a million men in the effort. A truce was proposed, a laying down of arms. And to make it significant, men who had already tired of fighting, pretended to keep up the battle so that the guns could cease their firing at a time that no one would forget. Remember, remember the 11th of November: The eleventh hour, of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. It was a war to remember, indeed, and many prayed there would never be another.
But of course there was.
Wilson had promised not to enter the first war. It was inevitable we should. Equally inevitable was our participation in that second war. But how to rally our forces once more? How to encourage those at home to sacrifice their fathers and sons, their brothers and husbands?
It was Goossens idea to write another fanfare. He contacted fellow composer Aaron Copeland and asked if he would not consider writing it.
Copeland agreed, and his composition was inspired by US Vice President Harry Wallace's speech The Century of the Common Man, wherein Mr. Wallace delineated our history of Revolution, from the French Revolution, to the Russian Revolution, to the Revolution against Communist evils.
Things have changed a lot since then. Wallace's speech is full of Biblical references, calls to the duty of the Christian to promote Democracy, comparisons of the Nazi regime to Satan's army and of the oppressed to slaves. Much of his language would be cause for legal suit today. Is that a good thing? Personally I think not, but that's a debate for another time.
Wallace, in his speech, delineates the four basic freedoms for which those Revolution were fought, and for which we should still feel compelled to fight: freedom of religion, freedom of expression, and freedom from the fear of secret police.
Do we have these freedoms today? Would we fight for them? Should we? Freedom is still much in demand, of course. But things seem to me to rather have flipped. Religious tolerance is on the wane, the rights that are most often fought for today are not always for the greater good of man, but rather in protection of our immediate gratification. But at what cost?
Still, I like the idea of the common man rising to make demands of his oppressors. I like what I see in the industries pertaining to the arts, where artists, musicians, writers take a stand to protect their own work. Where artisans strive to keep a bit of themselves in their finished work, to keep it personal. I think it's a long time coming. I'm tired of music and literature and art produced 'for the masses', reduced to its lowest common denominator so that it will appeal to 'popular' taste.
And yet, the pursuit of righteous living seems to be largely at an end. It worries me. We complain as a people about the corruption of our leaders, yet where will those of tomorrow come from if we are not the ones to raise them? Once upon a time we were concerned with the next generation, determined to make the world a better place for them. Is that still the case? And what will our children raise their flags to defend? At the moment, mine are very nearly prepared to raise an army to defend their t.v. and gaming privileges. I'm not sure this is a worthy pursuit.
Generally speaking, there are little rebellions going on all over the world today. They don't seem very organised. People are generally unhappy, but I'm not convinced they know exactly why. I don't presume to provide the answers, but I do have a few theories.
What would I fight for? I have already fought (and for the most part won) the right to write, and to publish my work as I would wish to write it, with an aim at encouraging, enlightening, entertaining and inspiring. But I would also wish for a greater tolerance toward the ideologies of others. We think we are a more open minded people. By what I see in government and society, with the rise of rationalism and the attacks toward religion and faith, I don't see this as true. I do feel that in some places, people are becoming kinder, more understanding. Others are quick to judge and to make claims in violent adulation against those who lack understanding, or who understand things differently. I know I have grown by leaps and bounds in my understanding of certain social issues. But I didn't get there by being yelled at, or bombarded with malicious diatribe by those who would be hypocritical enough to call me the 'hater'. There is a lot of hypocrisy abounding. My heart was softened, my mind opened, by those who were kind and patient enough to maintain a dialogue with me, to keep the lines of communication open, even when my words, unknown to me, caused offense.
Our battles today are likely not going to be fought with weapons. They'll be fought with minds and words. But sparring over a theological battlefield solves nothing. Let's open the lines of communication, agree to disagree if we must, but to truly be tolerant as we have for so long aimed to become, that so many of us pride ourselves in being.
I believe in the common man. And I believe he has the superior strength of will and intellect to choose the better way. That is what I am fighting for. My fanfare is a call to awareness and true concern for our fellow men, and for those who will come after.
What is yours?
The following is an excerpt of Harry Wallace's speech
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It can be read in its entirety here.
This is a fight between a slave world and a free world. Just as the United States in 1862 could not remain half slave and half free, so in 1942 the world must make its decision for a complete victory one way or the other.
As we begin the final stages of this fight to the death between the free world and the slave world, it is worth while to refresh our minds about the march of freedom for the common man. The idea of freedom — the freedom that we in the United States know and love so well — is derived from the Bible with its extraordinary emphasis on the dignity of the individual. Democracy is the only true political expression of Christianity.
The prophets of the Old Testament were the first to preach social justice. But that which was sensed by the prophets many centuries before Christ was not given complete and powerful political expression until our nation was formed as a Federal Union a century and a half ago. Even then, the march of the common people had just begun. Most of them did not yet know how to read and write. There were no public schools to which all children could go. Men and women can not be really free until they have plenty to eat, and time and ability to read and think and talk things over.
Satan now is trying to lead the common man of the whole world back into slavery and darkness. For the stark truth is that the violence preached by the Nazis is the devil's own religion of darkness. So also is the doctrine that one race or one class is by heredity superior and that all other races or classes are supposed to be slaves.
In a twisted sense, there is something almost great in the figure of the Supreme Devil operating through a human form, … who has the daring to spit straight into the eye of God and man. But the Nazi system has a heroic position for only one leader. By definition only one person is allowed to retain full sovereignty over his own soul. All the rest are stooges — they are stooges who have been mentally and politically degraded, and who feel that they can get square with the world only by mentally and politically degrading other people. These stooges are really psychopathic cases. Satan has turned loose upon us the insane.
The march of freedom of the past one hundred and fifty years has been a long-drawn-out people's revolution. In this Great Revolution of the people, there were the American Revolution of 1775, The French Revolution of 1792, The Latin-American revolutions of the Bolivarian era, The German Revolution of 1848, and the Russian Revolution of 1917. Each spoke for the common man in terms of blood on the battlefield. Some went to excess. But the significant thing is that the people groped their way to the light. More of them learned to think and work together.
The people's revolution aims at peace and not at violence, but if the rights of the common man are attacked, it unleashed the ferocity of a she-bear who has lost a cub.
The people, in their millennial and revolutionary march toward manifesting here on earth the dignity that is in every human soul, hold as their credo the Four Freedoms enunciated by President Roosevelt in his message to Congress on January 6, 1941. These four freedoms are the very core of the revolution for which the United Nations have taken their stand. We who live in the United States may think there is nothing very revolutionary about freedom of religion, freedom of expression, and freedom from the fear of secret police. But when we begin to think about the significance of freedom from want for the average man, then we know that the revolution of the past one hundred and fifty years has not been completed, either here in the United States or in any other nation in the world. We know that this revolution can not stop until freedom from want has actually been attained.
… [A]nd when the time of peace comes, The citizen will again have a duty, The supreme duty of sacrificing the lesser interest for the greater interest of the general welfare. Those who write the peace must think of the whole world. There can be no privileged peoples. We ourselves in the United States are no more a master race than the Nazis. And we can not perpetuate economic warfare without planting the seeds of military warfare. We must use our power at the peace table to build an economic peace that is just, charitable and enduring.
I need say little about the duty to fight. Some people declare, and Hitler believes, that the American people have grown soft in the last generation.
The people's revolution is on the march, and the devil and all his angels can not prevail against it. They can not prevail, for on the side of the people is the Lord.
April 3, 2012
April 1, 2012
Do you have what it takes?
It's a simple question, really. And I remember, in the early days of my writing career, when I was asked the question, I would immediately jump onto the defensive, as if he who had asked it were trying to cast doubt upon my abilities.
Do you have what it takes?
I've asked the question of myself a hundred times. And answered it. If I were completely honest, I would tell you that I answered it knowing that I didn't understand the full breadth and scope of the six seemingly benign words.
Do. You. Have. What. It. Takes?
To answer the question in it's simplest form, replying to that which I understood and ignoring the margins, well, yes. Yes, I do. I know a lot of words. A LOT of words. And I can string them together to make sentences both concise and complex. I can form a plot, make a scene work. All things I've had to learn over time. I write cracking dialogue. Once my greatest weakness, it is now probably my greatest strength. I have learned. I have more yet to learn. But yes, to answer the question in it's most basic context—or perhaps, as I, in my basic understanding, understood it…. Yes. Yes, I do have what it takes.
Or do I?
Because what I did not understand until fairly recently, is that when you have talent, people suddenly see you as a threat. To what, I'm not sure. It's not a concept I've ever been able to quite fully grasp. But I do know that there are a great many people out there who consider themselves the masters of their art. Funny, really, when you think of it, since I know very few forms of art with only one master at the helm. And yet people do, for whatever reason, feel the need to 'own' their talent, as if they have some kind of stake and claim to it that others do not deserve. As if there's some prize to be had for gaining a monopoly. There isn't.
I've made my own mistakes. I confess it. I've behaved out of pride (and usually called out for it). As posted in a recent article, I've also behaved out of vanity (and am still paying some of those consequences.) But it's a habit of mine, in dealing with people, to pull the rug out from under my own feet. I want people to like me, so much so, that I will sometimes sabotage myself, so that the other person feels they have the greater power. To avoid, if I can, any sense of threat or competition. I do not like to offend, even if it's to let someone know they have caused offense.
This is something, if I want to succeed, that I must quit doing.
Another part of this question I had not realised before, or did, but did not grasp the breadth of, was the fact that I am extremely introverted. All 
these guest posts, and reviews, interviews, newspaper articles, readings, signings and other appearances, whether live or in virtual reality really frighten me. And I don't mean at the time they are given or posted, but always. The more I put myself out there, the more vulnerable I become. I find myself, in the wake of increased sales, becoming depressed, having a hard time getting out of bed. I'm tetchy, emotional. I don't want to leave my house.
So do I? Do I have what it takes? Can I make the appearances? Can I do the readings without stumbling over my own words, without my knees literally knocking so hard I can barely stand? I don't know. All I can do is try. It is, after all, too late to go back.
Can I keep writing? Keep publishing? The answer, really, is I must! Because there are two books waiting in the wings, done for all intents and purposes, though there are several rounds of revisions ahead. There are half written stories, too. There are files full of ideas. There are half a dozen short stories waiting for a purpose. There is more I want to say.
Do I have what it takes to meet the deadlines? To get up each and every day and sit in front of the computer screen when I'd rather be outside, or keeping up with the housework? Do I have what it takes to persist when the umpteenth final, FINAL revision is due? When the reviews come in, some good, some bad? When the people you thought were your friends write scathing reviews, and condemning blog posts full of professional criticism and unprofessional fury? Do I have what it takes to help promote the authors in my writing groups whose talent deserves to be appreciated, even when I know they personally despise me for reasons I have no control over? Can I do it gracefully? Even when it hurts? Even when it's personal? Even when it's not? Do I have what it takes?
Well…do I?
I consider the question carefully.
Damn straight, I do!
