What fun it was to read this almost gothic novel by Jessie Fothergill! It is the story of May Wedderburn, a young English girl who flees her home for Germany to study music and develop her voice. Among the first encounters she makes in Germany is the acquaintance of the charming and mysterious Eugen Courvoisier. There is romance of the kind I so adore, it is a Bennett-Darcy romance, in that the two seem to be at cross purpose, but cannot seem to avoid the spin of gravity that pulls them together while pushing them apart.
All his lines were lines of beauty, but beauty which had power and much masculine strength; nowhere did it degenerate into flaccidity, nowhere lose strength in grace.
I was in absolutely the perfect mood for this perfect tale. I suppose you might say it is predictable, but this is one of those books where you are delighted to take the journey, even if you have already seen the destination. Jessie Fothergill has a fluid and captivating writing style and never bores the reader. She also knows her classical music and weaves it into the tale with precision and finesse. Again, I was never bored with the musical passages. I could easily picture the hall, the musicians, the excitement of the audience, the nerves of the performers–in short, I was so yearning to be there that I often put youtube to playing the music she mentioned while I was reading those chapters. (BTW, Shubert’s unfinished symphony in B-minor is terrifically stirring).
On art and music:
I do not think it ever entered our heads to remember that a man with a quick life throbbing in his veins, with feelings, hopes, and fears and thoughts, painted the picture, and that in seeing it we also saw him—that a consciousness, if possible, yet more keen and vivid produced the combinations of sound which brought tears to our eyes when we heard “the band”—beautiful abstraction—play them!
Bits of wisdom, like this one on idle hands and careless mistakes:
I believe that idleness is sometimes as strong as work, and stronger. You may do that in a few years of idleness which a life-time of afterwork won’t cover, mend, or improve. You may make holes in your coat from sheer laziness, and then find that no amount of stitching will patch them up again.
Before this novel, I had only read short fiction by this author, and had enjoyed it very much. I will now place her other long works high on my list of books to get to. Seems I have another Victorian author to be excited about. One of the reasons I never seem to make it to reading the latest releases!