With its circular opening chapter, coming back to and explaining the titular hat just as Hill House comes back to whatever walked there, this advertises itself from the first as a confection of impossible elegance, and makes clear why its roundabout account of scandalous goings-on in the good twenties caused such a splash on first publication a century ago. There are elements in common with all the pre-eminent chroniclers of that most glamorous decade: the crystalline enchantment, yearning and paradoxes of early Fitzgerald; an urbane narrator and sense of the ridiculousness of it all not a million miles from Wodehouse; insinuations of the shabbiness and sin behind the veneer to recall Waugh. And whenever beautiful, damned Iris Storm's* primrose Hispano-Suiza sweeps ominously through the silent streets, I can only picture it in the style of the title sequence animations from Wimsey or Jeeves & Wooster. Certainly I'm glad I read it in Capuchin Classics, their green spine so close to the one Penguin's 20th Century Classics once had (though undoubtedly not the green of the hat - and I could wish that Capuchin bound a little more elegantly, and didn't have quite such minuscule page numbers quite so low on the page, but still). At the same time, it's not hard to see why the book has been half-forgotten since; Arlen, a Bulgarian-Armenian refugee from Turkish genocide, determined on being more English than the English, can occasionally combine a desperate Continental seriousness with distinctly British humbug, resulting in some worst of both worlds passages recalling Wilde's Salome after Bosie had been at it, or Patricia Lockwood's cat. In places, characters' snide remarks about boys of both sexes, or stuffed shirts complaining how a fellow can't say anything to a woman nowadays without getting in trouble, could easily be from a zeitgeisty novel published last week, although the foundation of the plot rests on some distinctly old-fashioned hypocrisies and stupidities. Despite which, and the tragic dénouement, there is at least a sense of a new world dawning after the empty-headedness of the old ways has been so comprehensively exposed, something which seems far more elusive now. Deeply flawed, outright infuriating in places, but that this could ever have been a bestseller is yet another credit to those twenties.
*Formerly Iris March, then married to the late Hector Storm, and if you think these names are a bit much then wait until you meet Venice Pollen.