The Second Footman
By Jasper Barry
Published by Matador, 2013
Five stars
Jasper Barry is a brave man (presumably), to write a book such as this, knowing as I do the audience for (1) historical romance and (2) gay historical romance. I gave this five stars because it is superbly written, deeply thoughtful, and complex in a way that echoes the great novels of the 19th century. It is a novel in English that captures the flavor of the language of Balzac, Flaubert, and Stendhal, all of whom I read as a French major in college. It is a remarkable, beautiful book. It will not, however, please everybody.
What is perhaps the most breathtaking feat is that Barry manages to depict something close to the reality of being a “Uranian” in 19th-century France. Not illegal as it was in England, and thus not a danger to life and limb, sexual attraction to your own gender could easily result is social ostracism, especially for aristocrats who lived their lives surrounded by others who watched them closely. Being gay was not a concept; there was no such thing as “pride” in one’s orientation. Physical attraction to your own sex was a curse, a misfortune, something that had to be accommodated or ignored depending on who you were and what you believed.
Somehow, Barry achieves a sense of love triumphant in this very long, very layered book. What makes it all the more startling is that, right to the end, we are never quite sure what love really means, or what its triumph might mean. Barry’s depiction of love is lopsided and weighted with issues of class and wealth. It is not entirely comfortable, and yet it feels somehow accurate.
Armand de Miremont is a marquis (second highest rank in the aristocracy, as in England) with vast wealth and an ancient lineage (dating to Henri II, who was very much on every Frenchman’s mind in this period, as the chateaux of the Loire were being restored by Viollet-le-Duc). Armand manages to make it to forty without realizing that no matter how well he behaves, how carefully he performs all the required tasks of his title and heritage, he will never be as other men are. Armand’s mid-life crisis is to realize that he is attracted to men – and only men. He has a shrewish estranged wife and two daughters to prove that his best efforts to conform have failed.
Maxime Fabian, on the other hand, is a footman in a great household, that of the Duchess of Claireville, a longtime close friend of the Marquis de Miremont. He is at the very bottom of the social ladder, and his own past – revealed in fragments over the course of the book – is mysterious and (from what we see) horrifying. He lives in the demimonde in Paris, befriending immigrant musicians and other servants, desperate to find a patron who will allow him to raise himself out of the gutter and finally find his rightful place in the world. The problem is, we never quite know what this rightful place is, and what we learn from Max is, from the very start, acknowledged to be suspect. He is the unreliable narrator of his own life.
Armand de Miremont is Dickensian in his goodness. He is truly a generous, compassionate, thoughtful, loyal man; and he is often as not despised for it by other aristocrats and by his own servants, who compare him constantly with his father. Unlike Max, Armand remembers his parents with nothing but happiness and love. Born the younger son of a great house, Armand had his whole life planned, until disasters left him as the marquis, emotionally bereft and saddled with the tremendous duties that accompanied his enormous wealth.
Max, by contrast, is a schemer and an opportunist. He is completely comfortable with his sexuality, and more than willing to accommodate intimacy with women if it furthers his needs of the moment. For Max, love is a tool to get what he wants, and by the early part of this narrative it is clear that he doesn’t really know what love is, other than as something useful to his ambition. Max, too, is emotionally bereft, but for different reasons. His scars, physical and psychological, have damaged him in ways he doesn’t fully recognize.
And that’s where this book shines so richly. Don’t get me wrong, there are many characters who are vividly developed and very entertaining – each of whom help us understand both Armand and Max by their reflected realities. However, it is mostly through Max and Armand’s eyes that we watch this story unfold, and it is from them we learn how the past has shaped them.
The novels of the 19th century were long and layered, not unlike the interiors of the houses of the time. You needed to take your time over them, looking at the details, savoring the colors and textures. Whether it was Nathaniel Hawthorne in the USA, Trollope in England, or Balzac (my favorite) in France, you didn’t rush through these books. It takes time, and patience to read “The Second Footman,” but for me the journey was worth every minute.
I am not sure I like Maxime Fabian. I know I love Armand de Miremont. I also know that the author is not done with them, or with me. I’ve already bought the second book of the trilogy. I hope the long arc of romance tends toward happiness; but I am willing to take the risk.