I read this because Barbara Pym admired Compton-Burnett’s writing. I likewise admired it, but agreed with Compton-Burnett’s self-assessment that her books could be ‘hard not to put down’.
Why should I have thought this? It ought not to have been the case, based on the characters Compton-Burnett creates and the way they reveal themselves and the beastliness of their small, parochial, socially exclusive and financially limited world. This is done, as is well known, through a nigh elimination of anything that is not dialogue. This means a Compton-Burnett’s novel reads like a play – except there is not necessarily any indication as to who is speaking. This requires close attention from the reader and skill on the writer’s part in establishing, if I might hazard the word, an idiolect for individual speakers. Moreover, any speaker may in the course of their speech change the person they are addressing or occasionally change topic or digress or go off at a tangent. The reader is required to be, in effect, an actor or a director reading a script, imagining how it might be presented and what it reveals about the characters.
Another feature of the writing is that the characters are often guarded in how they express themselves, or so subtly barbed in their delivery that the reader can miss their tone and either their evasiveness or their petty wickedness.
In fact, I found I had to have wits very much about me.
Broadly, the novel – only 100 paperback pages – explores the relationship between the several members of a small post-WW1 upper middle class group of ‘friends’, varying from academically able to academically pretentious and academically mediocre and those with no academic training at all. One of the academically trained and not untalented, Mr Herrick, owns a small private school for young boys; he is indolent to the point of ineffective lethargy and masquerades as working on a highly original academic study. His reputation is protected by his half-sister who looks after him and his interests. The school is actually run by a third rate master, inaptly named Mr Merry, who is socially inferior to the Herricks and seems obsessed by the difficulty of making boys into young gentlemen. William Masson and Richard Bumpus are the Herricks’ full-time academic friends, one of whom turns out to be working on the same subject as Herrick – except Herrick’s interest is largely as it turns out, in a deliciously concealed way that surely fools no one, fraudulent.
This sense of the concealed is very important. No one in the novel appears to speak his or her mind plainly; their object seems to be to be socially pleasant, habitually complementing each other with practised self-effacing smoothness, fishing for reassuring compliments by apologising for their inadequacies or deftly sneaking in a snide remark under the guise of politeness. Some of the women are simply deluded about their men, and none of them is obviously happy, most of them being unmarried. One, Delia Bentley, 30 year-old daughter of her crotchety clerical father by his first wife, is particularly pitiable in her role as housekeeper and mother to her listless 12 and 13 year old half-brothers, whose mother, Mr Bentley’s second wife, has died. Mr Bentley, a friend of the Herricks’, plays a minor role in the novel, but is used to say things that are cripplingly caustic, degrading, humiliating – sometimes plainly, sometimes couched in verbal structures designed to baffle and mislead: one may imagine the other characters would like to say the things he does, but are simly more restrained. But Mr Bentley’s manner pretty clearly is deployed to allow him to fend off doing something about his deep dissatisfaction with his pointless life by taking out his misery on others.
Compton-Burnett describes for us a world of ‘quiet desperation’ and, once the reader has cracked something of her style, one that we can suffer only through the grimly black humour with which she presents it.
I’ve given it 3 stars, but I’m fairly sure a second reading would raise that to 4. In this respect, Compton-Burnett’s writing is probably like poetry – enjoyable, but deepeningly so with re-reading.