Comfort but not cold comfort

By Stella Gibbons

Penguin

400 pages

By Comrade Reviewer Overcoat

Those readers expecting another Cold Comfort Farm should stop right here. The nightingales lack the sly wit and imagination of Flora Poste, and one will certainly find nothing nasty in the woodshed here. More’s the pity. However, for lovers of light romance, who shun the tawdry covers and cheap paper of Harlequins and Silhouettes, and who would not be caught in a woodshed with Sweet Savage Love, Nightingale Wood fits the bill. It is tasteful, amusing, and lightly funny. Daughters and a daughter-in-law run around, struggling with their repressed bosoms at The Eagles grim family home of Mr. Withers and the women of the family. The Eagles and its gardens function as an architectural externalization of Mr. Withers, his utter lack of imagination coupled with his overweening need for control. In short dullness is the order of the day.  As Gibbons notes, 

It is difficult to make a dull garden, but old Mr. Wither had succeeded. . . . The result was a poorish lawn and a plaster rockery . . . a lot of boring shrubs. Mr. Wither also liked the garden to look tidy, and on a fine April morning he stood at the breakfast-room window thinking what a nuisance the daisies were. There were eleven of them out in the middle of the lawn. Saxon must be told to get them up.

In short, The Eagles under Mr. Wither’s watchful eyes is not the ideal place for two young daughters (ages 35 and 39) and one daughter-in-law and former shop girl (age 21) to contain their amorously heaving (yet repressed) bosoms.

But bosoms will heave no matter how dimly crotchety old fathers view such heaving. And . . . given the introduction of someone new, in this case Viola the shop girl cum daughter-in-law now widow, something is bound to happen. Chauffeurs and daughters, daughters and dogs, a daughter-in-law and a less-than principled Prince Charming, and Prince Charming’s brainy yet discontented cousin Hetty – where will it all end? Read the book and find out for yourself.

Reading this book may save your goat's life

By D. G. Pugh

Saunders/Elsevier

468 pages

By Comrade Reviewer Overcoat

Before you say, “But I don’t have a goat,” pause. Ruminate. You may not have a goat (yet), but consider the goats of thy neighbor. The same law enjoining you to tend to your neighbor's business and to be careful of his ass, also demands that you tend to his goats. Pause again before you say, “But my neighbor doesn't have goats.” If he doesn’t have goats now, he will (pet goating currently being a fashion statement).  And since you punctiliously discharge your duties to your neighbor's business, ass, and goats (present or future), you need to be prepared.  You cannot begin learning too early.

If you have been raised in the United States, chances are great (but ever-diminishing) that you have a number of misconceptions about goats that need clearing up.

Misconception 1: Goats smell.  Female goats do not smell at all except with their noses.  Male goats smell and smell with their noses unless of course they have been “wethered” (technical goatspeak for “castrated”).  In the presence of willing does (as the female goats are called), males perfume themselves.  This excites the does and leads felicitously to more goats ~150 days later. As for you if your nose is offended by the smell, cut it off.

Misconception 2: Goats are not nice.  False.  Goats are social creatures.  They enjoy talking to you and to each other.  Indeed, if your neighbor owns but one goat, you need to speak to said neighbor sternly. A lone goat will pine.  You do not want a pining goat living next door.  If you permit such a situation to continue, your conscience will trouble you for the rest of your life, and your failure to act may prohibit your passing to the place of your choice after death.

Misconception 3:  Goats will eat anything.  They will not.  They are browsers not grazers.  They nibble a bit here and there.  You cannot use them as lawnmowers.  Blessed are the goats that grazeth in the fields.

Misconception 4: Goats are tough.  Yes and no.  When goats feel well they feel quite well, but when they feel ill they often choose to die.  While it is not quite true that a sick goat is a dead goat, this statement corresponds closely enough to the truth to make reading this book vital. Physician heal thy neighbor’s goats. 

Again I can hear your complaints. “If my neighbor has goats,” you say, “let him heal them himself.”  Again pause and consider.  You neighbor may be at work, on vacation, kidnapped by aliens, or dead.  In which case you must behave like a good Samaritan or a girl/boy scout. 

You need to know what to feed the goat, what additional nutritional needs the goat has, what to do in case the goat gets scours (technical goatspeak for diarrhea), and how to deliver kids (technical goatspeak for baby goats).  In case your neighbor's goat hangs out with sheep, you need to know that while the goat enjoys copper, the amount needed by the goat will kill the sheep. Too much copper and the sheep keels over never to rise again.

Finally, you need to know the meaning of really big words like theriogenology, auriculopalpebral nerve block, and pseudorinderpest so you will not embarrass yourself and others at parties.  As I do not wish to spoil the book for you, I will not define these words here.  D. G. Pugh’s book Sheep and Goat Medicine will answer any questions you may have about total goat care. It will also answer the same questions about sheep, but this review addresses only the goat question. Buy this book today. Do not delay.  Remember goats are like grapes in the wilderness and will bring you joy like ripe figs (unless the goats get to the figs first).

Arm-wrestling aunts and wicked captains

By Russell Hoban

Illustrated by Quentin Blake

Godine

32 pages

By Comrade Reviewer Marienka

All of us have had an Aunt Fidget Wonkham-Strong in our lives—the kind of aunt who, when we were little, made us eat “cabbage-potato-sog” and “learn off pages 65 to 75 of the Nautical Almanac” so we wouldn’t “fool around so much.”  Fooling around looked suspiciously like playing to the Aunt Fidget Wonkham-Strongs in our lives; and if there was one thing such aunts couldn’t abide, it was playing.  If we didn’t behave, our Aunt Fidget Wonkham-Strongs sent for Captain Najork and his hired sportsmen “who taught fooling around boys [and girls] the lesson they so badly need[ed]” . . . the dangers of fooling around. Some of us have never recovered from the trauma of an Aunt Fidget Wonkham-Strong. And some of us still have one hanging around, spoiling our parties, raining on our parades, and dispensing advice we don’t want.  In our adult years, these aunts go by the name of Great Aunt Martha. They are our crosses to bear because we did not learn, indeed never have learned, to stop fooling around. As P.G. Wodehouse once said, “Aunts aren’t gentlemen.” You need to be Tom to triumph.

Those of us who are lucky are intrepid children who don’t stop fooling around and who never learn our lessons and who are never sorry we haven’t. All of us aspire to be Toms, but most of us wimp out. We simply don’t have what it takes to invent an anti-sticky, jam-powered frog or beat Captain Najork and his hired sportsman at games of “womble, muck, and sneedball.”  We need help to best the Aunt Fidget Wonkham-Strongs, Captain Najorks and the  infamous bands of hired sportsmen.

By Russell Hoban

Illustrated by Quentin Blake

Godine 

32 pages

Enter Russell Hoban to the rescue.  In two easy books—How Tom Beat Captain Najork and His Hired Sportsmen and A Near Thing for Captain Najork—Hoban shows us how to show those arm-wrestling aunts what’s what.  Despite his scheming aunt's efforts, Tom triumphs over Aunt Fidget-Wonkham-Strong and the nefarious Captain Najork (and his hired sportsmen) every time. And in the end there’s always Aunt Bundlejoy Cosysweet, who has never stopped fooling around either and who is not sorry she hasn’t.


Ages 4 to 95 (or 110)

Netochka Nezvanova . . . no saintly orphan

By Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Translated by Jane Kentish

Penguin

176 pages

By Comrade Reviewer Overcoat

Christmas Eve. I was minding my own business, drinking a bottle of strengthening vodka, and reading Netochka Nezvanova. I have always been curious about the Comrade housekeeper Nezvanova's past. Dostoyevksy confirmed my suspicions.  But not before I experienced a moment of unsteadiness.  I tried to reach for the vodka to right myself, but tumbled backward instead receiving a sharp blow to the head. At least I think I received a sharp blow to the head. When I awakened, I found myself in the company of a geisha somewhere in the wilds of Japan.  Although she attempted to assault my manly virtue, I remained firm, at which point she made snide remarks about my overcoat.

I escaped nearly scathed (but not quite) and attempted to find a troika to take me home.  Strangely none was to be found. Instead I caught a slow boat to China and from there made my way painfully on foot back to Russia. Possibly the sake I drank in Japan bore some responsibility for my belated return home. 

I was much relieved to leave Japan as I also escaped a Methodist Faun, whom I met at a sake bar. He is quite a tiresome fellow. Really, he would have been much happier in a Russian novel (preferably one by Dostoevsky but any Russian novel would do). Why he lives in New England with his progenitor Anne Parrish is beyond me. I fear he will turn out to be another Miniver Cheevy . . . but more of the Faun later (much later one hopes).

Having arrived home at no small trouble to myself, I settled down in what passed for a comfy chair (I do not think genuine comfy chairs exist in Russia) and read Netochka Nezvanova. By the time I finished, I was giddy with laughter. How not in novel dominated by a mad musician (talented but a wastrel), a long-suffering wife—the recipient of his sadism and without whom he would long ago have starved, a step-daughter (the eponymous narrator) who adores him and spends much of her time despising her mother, a brief lesbian interlude between two teenagers who spend several days in ecstasy before being separated, mysterious princes and princesses, one murderous dog named Falstaff, and lots of death. Why my mother did not take me on her knee and read this one aloud to me when I was a wee tot is beyond my comprehension.

Unfortunately Dostoevsky did not finish Netochka Nezvanova. Arrest, a fake execution, and a trip to Siberia interrupted his writing for a while. One wonders whence he would have proceeded with this novel? But he didn’t proceed, leaving only a mystery: What happened to Netochka, who is barely eighteen when the novel stops? Did she marry? Did she become a great artist? Did she turn out like her stepfather? Was she reunited with Katya? Did she become a monster or a saint? (I think we all know the answer to this question. She is a menace with her iron skillet.) And finally, who is S.O.? Is he S.? Does B. play a bigger role than hitherto suggested in the novel?

Netochka Nezvanova cries out to be made into a tragic opera with a musical score composed by Schoenberg, who unfortunately is dead. How inconsiderate of D., and Schoenberg to die before either Netochka Nezvanova the novel or Netochka Nezvanova the opera could be completed. Only Schoenberg could have written the brilliantly forceful violin solo that would recur throughout the opera as a thematic and musical motif (I know, I know, Schoenberg didn’t like recurring motifs). Lest my kind reader(s) doubt my choice of Schoenberg, listen to this clip (make sure you click “sound on ”) while reading the following passage from Netochka Nezvanova:

. . . then the music began. But it was not music . . . I remember everything distinctly; to the end I can remember everything that caught my attention. No, this was not like the music I later came to hear. They were not the notes of a violin, but the sound of a terrible voice that was resounding through our room for the first time. Either my first impressions were incorrect or delirious, or else my senses were so thrown by all that I had witnessed that they were prepared for frightful, agonizing impressions—but I am firmly convinced that I heard groans, the cries of a human voice. Complete despair flowed forth in these chords and . . . , at the end, there resounded the last awful note, in which was expressed all that is terrible in a cry, the agony of torture and the misery of hopelessness.

Now that I know Comrade Nezvanova's lascivious and perfidious nature, I will be watching her closely.  I fear a horrible exposé about her may be forthcoming in the Dark Tea Times.  Indeed, I have often urged Comrade editor Davushka (still missing) to investigate her past.  He has refused. Perhaps he has succumbed to the blandishments of a Transylvanian crime ring and for a discreet sum has agreed to paper over this woman's nefarious past.  But the truth will out. As he is missing, l must take on the onerous and thankless task of investigation.

Editor's Note: We cannot vouch for Comrade Overcoat's veracity.  He often thinks he has been assaulted by geisha (who are not those kind of women) when in truth he has merely passed out in his Soviet issue hovel.  Good help is hard to find.

Give us more saintly orphans: Ursule Mirouët and the hazards of good breeding

Ursule Mirouët

By Honoré Balzac

Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley

Project Gutenberg

By Comrade Reviewer Marienka


Whenever you encounter a book with an orphan, particularly a saintly one, you can be fairly certain you are on to a good thing. Why? Orphans sell books.  We identify with orphans.  In our childhood, many of us cast ourselves in the leading role of saintly orphan.  Some of us even reach adulthood believing we are saintly orphans. And if we can't quite summon up the necessary assurance that we are saintly orphans, we can turn to excellent literature, not to mention Disney movies, to satisfy our deep inward need to be saintly orphans.


Consider the case of Little Nell of Old Curiosity Shop fame. So saintly and beleaguered was she that droves of demented American fans stormed the harbor when the ship carrying the last installment of The Old Curiosity Shop pulled in—all of them shouting to the sailors, “Is Little Nell dead?”[1]  And that was before the age of midnight media-staged releases of Harry Potter—another orphan of note. The only close competitor to the saintly orphan is the saintly and faithful dog.  Put the two together and you've got midnight madness at the rapidly vanishing bookstores. Even Oscar Wilde, who famously declared, “One must have a heart of stone to read the death of little Nell without laughing,” would probably agree.[2]



Let's face it; almost everyone loves an orphan except the villainous characters in the book who connive with one another as to the best way to destroy the orphan and/or that orphan's saintliness. But whatever the advantages of being a dead saintly orphan are, live saintly orphans are more satisfying, particularly if the villainous characters gnash their teeth in the end and cry “Curses! Foiled again.”


Ursule Mirouët eponymous heroine of Balzac's novel is a saintly orphan of the first order.  A orphan with a complicated history-the legitimate daughter of her godfather's illegitimate brother-in-law, Ursule becomes the ward and goddaughter of her uncle, Dr. Mirouët, a wealthy widower who offers the infant Ursule a home, promptly names her after his saintly dead wife and retires to Nemours, a small provincial town outside Paris where a host of his relatives live-relatives who are neither saintly nor virtuous.  Ursule's arrival upsets their great expectations of inheriting beaucoup d'argent, a fact that makes them gnash what teeth they have and begin plotting.


In the meantime, the good Dr. Mirouët raises Ursule in virtuous and innocent isolation from the evils of the world.  In this task, he is aided by his good friend the Abbé Chaperon, so saintly that his breeches are mostly on the verge of falling down because he has sold the buckles keeping them in place to aid the poor.  “A beautiful naïveté,” the narrator informs us.  Monsieur Jordy, “a Voltairean nobleman and an old bachelor,” joins the good doctor and the abbé in bringing up baby.  All these benevolent gentlemen function as Ursule “three mothers.”


Virtue, piety, and the protection of a wealthy uncle would seem to guarantee an easy life for Ursule, but the vagaries of French law concerning inheritance and illegitimacy and the cursed relatives threaten Ursule's peace . . . or would if she were wicked. 


First published in 1842, Ursule Mirouët is an obscure novel but one that Balzac described as “the finest work [he] had written” thus far.[3] As the omniscient narrator remarks, “Bless them, therefore, and be not envious; seek an Ursule for yourselves a young girl brought up by three old men, and by the best of all mothers-adversity.” Read it and judge for yourself. Remember.  We saintly orphans must stick together.

Works Cited

Schlicke, Paul, ed. Oxford Reader’s Companion to Dickens. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999. [1] [2]

Balzac, Honoré de. The Letters of Honoré de Balzac to Madame Hanska. Trans. Katharine Prescott Wormeley. Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1900. [3]

Finding the shortest way to Hades

By Sarah Caudwell
Dell, 1995

320 pages

By Comrade Reviewer Marienka

Sarah Caudwell's name is probably a familiar one for those who enjoy witty murder mysteries. However, for rest of you, here’s a brief history of Sarah Caudwell. First of all, she’s dead—she’s been sick for quite a long time as we say in the south. Before she died, she hung out at the Chancery Bar, not to be confused with Chancery’s Bar and Grill, and hobnobbed with all the Lincoln Inn nobs (i.e., barristers). She specialized in tax law and wrote four mystery novels: The Shortest Way to Hades, Thus Was Adonis Murdered, The Sibyl in Her Grave, and The Sirens Sang of Murder.

On my bookshelf, I find only three of the novels listed here. Perhaps the fourth was purloined, or perhaps I have been hanging out at Chancery’s Bar a wee bit too long. Whatever. Yesterday I decided to take The Shortest Way to Hades since many of my Tea Partying neighbors suggested that would be a good place for me to spend my Thanksgiving vacation. Herewith follows my experience.

Based on hearsay, which appears to be reliable in this case, one Hilary Tamar narrates, investigates, and generally provides services as Johnny on the spot in all of Caudwell's novels. When not engaged in the aforementioned, Tamar teaches law or something like that at St. George’s College, Oxford. If you can’t find her there, check all the pubs, bars, and restaurants in the area. Before she died, Caudwell did not see fit to reveal Professor Tamar’s gender; however, based on all available evidence it appears Tamar is either male or female. I myself tend to think of Tamar as male, so I will refer to him as such for the remainder of this epistle. If anyone wishes to take issue with or umbrage at my designation, please feel free to comment. Currently, I can be found at a little cafe in Soho—The Virago Naughty Room—eating figs and hanging out under the name of G. Saunders.

But I digress. On to The Shortest Way to Hades. The charm of Caudwell’s novel lies not in the plot (someone is murdered, a usual occurrence in mystery novels I am told), but in the wit. Professor Tamar is no prude although he does have a slight bias against Cambridge and considers all its graduates educationally deficient. Other than this normal fellow feeling toward a rival university, Tamar is quite likeable and disarming—a talent that serves him well in his investigations, in this case the murder of one Deidre Robinson, who lacks the good fortune of being an heiress, beautiful, or even nice. Her cousin Camilla, who possesses all three charming qualities, affectionately refers to her as Dreary, a nickname that helps remind the reader of Dreary’s shortcomings—useful as she dies shortly after a brief and unpleasant appearance in chapter one.

Since no one has any motive for murdering Dreary, one might conclude that one can pack up the book and head elsewhere. Indeed, early on the wily Professor Tamar informs his less credulous colleagues that no murder has occurred. But murder will out . . . and as my dear readers should have surmised mysterious accidents that bear a distinct resemblance to attempted murder start popping out all over the place. Eventually everyone is nearly murdered except, of course, the murderer. And that is all I can say. Although I do not generally care for mysteries, I give this one my hearty recommendation. I shortly expect to witness the death of Adonis and even as I write I hear sirens singing of murder.

Earnest silliness, high seriousness in Illyria

By Ann Bridge
Virago Press, 1990
353 pages

By Comrade Reviewer Marienka

Setting

Illyrian Spring . . . oh to be in Illyria during this long dark tea time of the soul. Doubtless, some of you are wondering, “where the heck is Illyria?” A good question. Illyria in this particular work refers to the first “Yugo-slavia” or perhaps the Republic of Ragusa, now Croatia (the author uses both terms interchangeably). Most of the action takes place in and around the city of Ragusa or Dubrovnik as it is known now.

So much for setting. On to more important issues, such as time, plot, characters, theme, and symbolism (not discussed here) and anything else inquiring minds want to know.

Time

A little vague. After WWI but before WWII. More about this issue to come.

Plot

Lady Kilmartin, internationally renowned painter and unappreciated wife of Sir Walter Kilmartin an equally renowned economist, decides she has had it with her unappreciative family, kicks up her heels and heads for Greece to paint and consider whether her marriage is over. Before she reaches Greece, she meets Nicholas Humphries, a frustrated painter (his family wants him to be an architect) sixteen years her junior. Things happen. They always do. The denouement is reached and the resolution . . . resolved. But . . . in the meantime, pressing questions arise: Can an attractive older woman and a much younger man with “groggy digestion” find true love? What about Professor Halther, the older sophisticated philosopher and general dispenser of wisdom? Will he become a competitor for the lovelorn Lady K.’s attention? Will Lady K. succumb to “the most insistent feelings of all, those which the body imposes on us whether we will or no”? Will Walter run off with Rose, an extremely intelligent but overweight economist? And that most pressing of all questions, will anyone make it to Greece? If I thought it would be good for you, I would answer these questions that undoubtedly keep the inquiring minds of inquiring readers in a tizzy. However, the Dark Tea Times frowns upon spoilers, so you will either have to read the book or apply your Sherlockian powers of deduction.

I must confess I initially was not a sympathetic reader. In fact for the first three hundred pages of the novel, I wanted to smack the living daylights out of Lady K. She is talented, intelligent, and kind, so why does she let people walk all over her (or snitty readers fantasize about smacking sense into her)? However, the last 100 pages redeemed the first 300 pages. Ordinarily, I do not give redemption much time; but redemption as used in this book  reflects the central arguments taken up in two texts I have read recently: Nocola Humble's The Feminine Middlebrow Novel: Class, Domesticity, and Bohemianism and Elizabeth Maslen's Political and Social Issues in British Women’s Fiction, 1928-1958. Both writers deal with roughly the same time period, and both want to restore “neglected women” writers to a position of respect; however, each approaches her subject from a slightly different perspective. After WWI, Humble argues, the old categories of class and gender began to break down. The feminine middlebrow novel provided a safe, comfortable space for women to explore new possibilities about work, family, and gender relations. Additionally, as the old normative notions of class collapsed, these novels provided an education in “good taste” and allowed women a space in which to flirt safely with bohemianism and alternative lifestyles. Maslen takes a slightly different approach, arguing that these novels fall squarely with the modernist project and tackle not only the issues Humble addresses but also more serious political issues such as war and fascism. In this regard, Illyrian Spring seems strangely out of sync with the times. The book published in 1935 curiously offers no hint of the Great War recently passed and only once lightly alludes to the growing fascism in Europe. Illyrian Spring remains suspended in a different time – perhaps one that never existed – an idyllic beautiful place for upper class ladies and gentleman to pass a few pleasant weeks.

So on to the really big question, should you read this book? My answer is mixed. Illyrian Spring is a genteel novel for genteel readers. If you do not fall into this category, exit stage left. If you enjoy cozy novels that begin in flight, proceed to melodrama, end in high comedy - didn’t someone named Shakespeare use this plot a lot?—and include much holding of febrile hands (all that groggy indigestion), passionate kissing of foreheads, and tumescent prose that leaves you at the edge of “the crisis” (an old-fashioned term I will not explain here), then you will like Illyrian Spring.

Of Related Interest

Nicola Humble. The Feminine Middlebrow Novel: Class, Domesticity, and Bohemianism. Oxford University Press, 2004. 288 p.

Elizabeth Maslen. Political and Social Issues in British Women’s Fiction, 1928-1958. Palgrave, 2001.