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For the second in our Reading Back series we go back to Issue 14. Spring 2004. Philip Davis, now editor of The Reader, recommends Mrs Oliphant’s great novel Hester. Who reading the magazine back then could have imagined that the events of the book – a nineteenth century financial crisis, complete with greedy bankers and a run on the bank – could happen again, let alone just four years into the future? Suddenly, Hester is a novel absolutely for our times and for the moral and financial predicament in which we find ourselves.

(Hester is an Oxford World’s Classics paperback, edited by Philip Davis and Brian Nellist, and is available here at The Reader Bookshop.)

The Reader Recommends:

AN UNKNOWN MASTERPIECE
Margaret Oliphant, Hester

Philip Davis

Hester is a magnificent novel whose story and characters are guaranteed to keep the reader turning the pages from first to last. The principal character, Catherine Vernon, is what we would now call a career woman: an unmarried Victorian lady who has become chief executive of a bank, the family bank which she stepped in to save when her cousin John had brought it to the edge of ruin. He then absconded to France. At one time, it had looked as if she might have married this cousin, but he jilted her for a more beautiful young woman. From then on, the disillusioned Catherine has devoted her life to the bank, along with a host of poor and dependent relatives whom she houses and supports. We first meet this formidable Catherine when she is 65, and though she is beginning to take a back seat in the business of the bank, she remains the matriarchal centre of her provincial world and, indeed, the protagonist of Margaret Oliphant’s long-neglected novel of 1883.

So why isn’t this novel called Catherine and who is Hester? Hester is the fourteen-year-old daughter of cousin John. We first encounter her on her return from the family exile in France, her father now dead, her widowed mother seeking refuge in Catherine’s family charity. Hester doesn’t know the story of her father’s disgrace. A firebrand and a spitfire, she is already a proud and powerful young woman, determined to find something to do in the modern world. The one woman she knows who has really achieved something is, of course, Catherine. Although she admires her, Hester also resents Catherine, for her power and her control. Too alike to get on well together, they are like an older and younger version of each other. Anyone interested in the paradoxical love and hate, life and death conflicts of young and old will be absorbed in the deep psychological realism of Hester.

It is not called Catherine, because increasingly as the story develops, it is clear that the future of the modern world must lie with the younger people. But Hester herself is not the centre of the novel either, precisely because she is young and unformed – and because in this novel the character of the young is all too conventionally rebellious against the conventions of the old. Margaret Oliphant is expert at seeing both sides, in putting herself and her reader in the place of both characters almost simultaneously. The reader doesn’t quite know who to feel for most, because the author has thoroughly immersed us in life’s complexity. As one of the book’s older characters magnificently puts it: though ‘right and wrong, are like black and white’, the things that baffle us ‘are those that perhaps are not quite right but certainly are not wrong’.

The third major character in this novel is the young male relative to whom Catherine increasingly yields the running of the bank. Edward Vernon is the one person left whom she trusts, like the son she never had. He is her faith, her religion. And yet, secretly resentful of his benefactress, he threatens to repeat the old story of cousin John, by privately gambling his customers’ deposited money on the fortunes of the new Stock Exchange. It is Edward who drives the desperately compelling plot of this novel in a new modern world of money and of sex, combining as he does the pursuit of wealth with the pursuit of Hester herself. What happens virtually kills Catherine. In another story, in the happier parallel existence that shadows this book, Hester would have been Catherine’s daughter by cousin John – and that is partly why Catherine resents her.

‘No one will even mention me in the same breath with George Eliot,’ lamented Mrs Oliphant in Autobiography. But Hester should take its place beside the novels of George Eliot. In addition, it is the disguised and transmuted story of the author herself: a caustically rueful but determinedly powerful widow, left in debt by her artist-husband to bring up three children by the earning power of her pen. As a single parent, she felt she had perhaps sacrificed the quality of her work for the sake of her family. But worse, for all that sacrifice, her two boys still went wrong, just as Edward goes badly astray in the novel, leaving the mother wondering whether that too was partly her fault, through the very desire lovingly to protect them. In Hester, Margaret Oliphant turns round on her own motherly concerns, on her own powerful intelligence, and even on her own capacity for satiric bitterness. ‘Human nature may be easy to see through, but it is very hard to understand.’

Hester is bitter, pained, moving and sad, yet also often satirically funny and alive at the expense of its men; absorbingly exciting in story, profound in character and relationships. When you cannot find another novel by George Eliot or Elizabeth Gaskell, when you find yourself vainly wishing that the Brontës had written more, read Hester.

Did you know that you can download previous issues of The Reader magazine from our website?

Did you also know that it’s completely free to do so?

Issue 33 is now available to download

This means that you can now access the past four issues of The Reader– that’s a whole year’s worth, for free! Just follow the link above, and enjoy all The Reader has to offer.

Here I am, eating my lunch, at my desk, reading the news online (I know I should get outside but I will, later) and I come across a feature from the Guardian called, ‘Reclaim you lunch hour’. What’s it about? Seeing 45 minute theatre productions at London’s Bridewell Theatre in your lunch hour. Obviously, something will be lost in the shortening of the plays but what a backdrop to your sandwich munching. Click on the link above to watch a short video about the idea behind Lunchbox Theatre and the current production of Two Gentlemen of Verona. It’s certainly food for thought about how we spend our lunch hour.

Gilead by Marilynne Robinson

with Jane Davis, Director of The Reader Organisation

25th August, Liverpool

19 Abercromby Square, Liverpool, L69 7ZG

What have I to leave you but the ruins of old courage, and the lore of old gallantry and hope?  

 

If Wordsworth were to be reborn as a twentieth century American, Gilead is the book he would write. Human, humane, real, devout, and connecting the inner spiritual with the outer public life, this moving novel was mentioned by Barack Obama as a favourite.

While you read this, I am imperishable, somehow more alive than I have ever been.

 

Jane Davis is Founder and Director of The Reader Organisation, a charity on a mission to bring about a reading revolution, making the content of great books available to all. Jane’s talent, energy, and belief in the value of reading are an inspiration to all who meet her: don’t miss this chance to experience the power of the reading revolution for yourself!

For more information please contact Casi Dylan, Training Manager, on casidylan@thereader.org.uk or 0151 794 2830.

You can download a booking form here: PDF/ Word.

Following on from last week’s discussion of Browning’s Two in the Campagna, My Last Duchess is this week’s featured poem. Robert Browning (1812-1889) is renowned for his creation of dramatic monologues like this one, where the character of the Duke examines a painting of his ‘last duchess […] looking as if she were alive’, whilst revealing his own jealousy over her behaviour towards other men: ‘She liked whate’er / she looked on, and her looks went everywhere’, which results in her death: ‘I gave commands; / Then all smiles stopped together’. Though Browning never presents us with the full context of the poem, it appears that the Duke is conversing with a servant whose ‘master’ is in the process of securing the ‘dowry’ for his daughter’s marriage to the Duke. The effectiveness of the poem lies in the fact that we are only aware of the other character’s reaction through the Duke’s speech. After the chilling revelations throughout the poem, Browning indicates that the servant to whom the monologue is addressed may not be too keen to let his ‘master’ proceed with the marriage of his daughter to the Duke, yet is forced to remain by his side and therefore prevented from revealing this insight into the Duke’s character: ‘Nay, we’ll go / Together down, sir’.

At the poem’s end Browning warns that, like the Duke’s painting of his ‘last Duchess’, his new bride is already his ‘object’: a source of admiration and praise, who will no doubt meet the same untimely end as the Duke’s previous wife. The Duke’s preoccupation with how the painting of his Duchess stands ‘as if alive’ suggests that he is only able to appreciate her beauty once it has become lifeless and no longer threatening, emphasised by the Duke’s boasting of ‘Neptune […] taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity / Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!’, and showing that the painting of the Duchess no longer represents her life, but is merely another work of art that the Duke can claim ownership and control over.

My Last Duchess

That’s my last duchess painted on the wall,

Looking as if she were alive. I call

That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf’s hands

Worked busily a day, and there she stands.

Will’t please you sit and look at her? I said

“Frà Pandolf” by design, for never read

Strangers like you that pictured countenance,

The depth and passion of its earnest glance,

But to myself they turned (since none puts by

The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)

And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,

How such a glance came there; so, not the first

Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’twas not

Her husband’s presence only, called that spot

Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek: perhaps

Frà Pandolf chanced to say “Her mantle laps

Over my lady’s wrist too much,” or “Paint

Must never hope to reproduce the faint

Half-flush that dies along her throat”: such stuff

Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough

For calling up that spot of joy. She had

A heart how shall I say? too soon made glad,

Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er

She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.

Sir, ’twas all one! My favor at her breast,

The dropping of the daylight in the West,

The bough of cherries some officious fool

Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule

She rode with round the terrace all and each

Would draw from her alike the approving speech,

Or blush, at least. She thanked men good! but thanked

Somehow I know not how as if she ranked

My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name

With anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame

This sort of trifling? Even had you skill

In speech which I have not to make your will

Quite clear to such an one, and say, “Just this

Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,

Or there exceed the mark” and if she let

Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set

Her wits to yours, forsooth, and make excuse,

E’en then would be some stooping; and I choose

Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,

Whene’er I passed her; but who passed without

Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;

Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands

As if alive. Will’t please you rise? We’ll meet

The company below, then. I repeat,

The Count your master’s known munificence

Is ample warrant that no just pretense

Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;

Though his fair daughter’s self, as I avowed

At starting, is my object. Nay we’ll go

Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,

Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,

Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

Robert Browning, 1842

The Aga Saga – a bit like The Forsyte Saga, only with fewer characters and more carbon monoxide. In this episode, Mr Nellist gets all Sooty and requires a Sweep. All we need now is Syoo…

(Disclaimer: The Reader Organisation in no way advocates or condones the dropping of chickens down chimneys. So stop it.)

War and Peace: an Anthology of Somali Literature is a unique and rare collection of classic Somali poems and stories exploring matters of conflict and its mediation. The work has been collected by Ismaaciil Aw Aadan and Axmed Aw Geeddi: poets who have an enormous understanding of Somali classical poets, their poetry, and the historical context of their literature which spans over 200 years.

The collection explains how pastoral nomadic communities were brought into conflict, and explores the role which literature can play in matters of peace-keeping: providing both Somali and non-Somali readers with a fascinating insight into the history of a creative community which may have otherwise been lost.

The anthology will be launched at the Mooge Festival and Hargeysa International Book Fair, and can now be ordered from Red Sea Online.

Trafford Council is currently hosting a four-week celebration of literature, Trafford Wordfest, which began last Monday. All events are literature-related, and range from informative sessions on how to get your work noticed by publishers, to interactive poetry performance workshops, and a Chicken Licken puppet show for 3-6 year olds!

Events are being held at Sale Waterside Arts Centre and surrounding libraries, as well as many other venues across the borough. Although many events are free, booking is essential.

You can find specific details of events, plus information on how to get tickets, by following this link to the festival homepage.

Amy Lowell (1874-1925) composed over 600 poems during her lifetime, and her poetic style was heavily influenced by the Imagist movement led by Ezra Pound. Though born into a prominent New England family, Lowell was unable to attend college and instead was largely responsible for educating herself, accumulating a huge collection of books over the years. Her poetry was not all well-received at its time of publication, and many critics seem to have been somewhat offended by her sexuality. Lowell lived with actress Ada Dwyer Russell from the early 1900s until her death in 1925, though the nature of their relationship remains unclear after all correspondence between them was burned by Russell upon Lowell’s death. However, the unknown presence in this poem is believed to be Russell, of whom Lowell considered Madonna of the Evening Flowers to present ‘so exact a portrait’.

Lowell won the Pulitzer Prize posthumously in 1926 for her volume entitled What’s O’clock? (1925).

The most striking aspect of this poem is the emphasis on the visual: the precise descriptions of the sun shining on the ‘books’, ‘scissors’ and ‘thimble’ lying exactly where they were left, contrasted with the unexplained absence of the ‘you’ to whom the poem is addressed. Though Lowell does not present us with the person’s physical description, their absence is very keenly felt throughout the poem, mainly due to the effect they have on the speaker themselves: ‘Suddenly I am lonely’. The swiftness with which this mysterious, absent person is able to impact upon the speaker makes the relationship between the two an extremely compelling one to encounter: the urgency of the speaker’s desire to be reunited with the absent person is resolved by the second stanza, and we are able to see just how profoundly the poem’s speaker is affected by the presence of the so-far absent ‘you’: ‘I look at you, heart of silver [...] And I long to kneel instantly at your feet’. The poem’s movement from the domestic into religious vision is another effective technique of Lowell’s: the poem’s title, as well as images of the ‘Canterbury bells’, emphasises the extent to which both the absence and physical presence of ‘you’ stirs the emotions and reactions of the narrator.

Madonna of the Evening Flowers

All day long I have been working
Now I am tired.
I call: “Where are you?”
But there is only the oak tree rustling in the wind.
The house is very quiet,
The sun shines in on your books,
On your scissors and thimble just put down,
But you are not there.
Suddenly I am lonely:
Where are you?
I go about searching.
 
Then I see you,
Standing under a spire of pale blue larkspur,
With a basket of roses on your arm.
You are cool, like silver,
And you smile.
I think the Canterbury bells are playing little tunes,
You tell me that the peonies need spraying,
That the columbines have overrun all bounds,
That the pyrus japonica should be cut back and rounded.
You tell me these things.
But I look at you, heart of silver,
White heart-flame of polished silver,
Burning beneath the blue steeples of the larkspur,
And I long to kneel instantly at your feet,
While all about us peal the loud, sweet Te Deums of the Canterbury bells.

Amy Lowell, 1919.

If you liked this, here’s a link back to another of Amy Lowell’s poems: The Pike

Mr Nellist shares his thoughts on the work of Willa Cather (1873 – 1947), an American author and Pulitzer Prize winner, known for her depictions of frontier life on the Great Plains (between the Rocky Mountains and the Mississippi River) in novels such as O Pioneers! (1913) and My Ántonia (1918).

Plus, inevitably, a short digression on the English and Flemish rabbit.

Hope you like it – and decide to read some Willa Cather! And if you already have, do please post a reply and tell us what you think. Who knows, a conversation may result…