The Romantic Armchair Traveller

France: The Devil’s Door by Sharan Newman

Set in twelfth-century France, The Devil’s Door by Sharan Newman is the second installment in the historical mystery series featuring Catherine LeVendeur, one-time novice at the Paraclete, the monastery founded by Peter Abelard and now ruled over by the learned Abbess Heloise. While the plot is hobbled by somnolent pacing and convoluted by artificial twists and turns that draw out the mystery far longer than its simplicity warrants, the mindset of the characters and the intellectual and religious moorings of the setting are strongly enriched by the author’s doctoral background in mediaeval studies. Another feature which makes this series particularly noteworthy is that mediaeval Jewish society is brought out of the shadows it usually is relegated to in mainstream historical fiction: the perspective is fresh, multi-layered, and inclusive.

 

A missing noblewoman is found fatally beaten and brought to the Paraclete for succour. But when she takes the veil before she dies, donating a piece of forest land to the convent, her outraged relatives accuse Abbess Heloise and her fellow nuns of conspiracy. Grief is in short supply as the seemingly worthless plot of land suddenly attracts interest from near and far.

Only convent boarder Catherine LeVendeur, daughter of a Parisian wine merchant, questions the general assumption that the assailant was a jealous neighbouring landowner, now fled. Her determination to ferret out the truth meets with resistance on all sides and conflicts with the promise of marriage made between her and Edgar of Wedderlie, the young Scottish nobleman for whose love she has decided to refrain from taking monastic vows.

Edgar is not about to have Catherine cantering alone across Champagne in her quest to aid Abbess Heloise and discover the real killer. But even he does not foresee quite how prone Catherine is to ending up in the midst of murderous trouble.

 

Series adherents sometimes wonder why someone would pick any other book than the first in familiarising themselves with a new series. In my case, the closure standalone stories bring contributes to a satisfaction I seldom find in novels with plot threads that develop over several books. Since I am not fond of being bound to a series for its own sake, I select as my introductory sample the installment with a storyline, setting, and characters that intrigue most in order to use the book as an indicator of whether the series will carry enough appeal to justify a bigger investment. Cliffhanger endings, unresolved major plotlines, and character relationships that can only be deciphered by reading previous entries cause quick rejection even when the rest pleases.

The Devil’s Door displays none of these disadvantages, yet when I pulled it out of some rearranged bookshelves earlier this month I was astounded at the pencilled notes which recorded that I had read the book in 1996 (my edition: Forge mass market paperback, 1995). I had not the slightest recollection of the story, nor any inkling of why, with my partiality for things mediaeval and French, I had abandoned or forgotten about the series (10 books now). A week of struggling between admiration and frustration and another to convert the ambivalent experience into a coherent post gave me the answer.

I have striven to avoid spoilers that might ruin the first book, Death Comes As Epiphany, for those who would prefer to start there.

The good first, and there is plenty of it to entertain mystery lovers, historical enthusiasts, and romantics alike. Multiple plot strands combine into a complex tale that transcends genre expectations. The Devil’s Door can of course be read as a straight mystery, but through events both fictional and historical and a multitude of vigorously-drawn characters from every layer of society a simultaneous (and in my opinion more rewarding) examination emerges of mediaeval family, marriage, love, religion, power, and powerlessness.

Newman’s mediaeval France has texture and substance. It is also free of fictional sanitation. Lice is seen in the hair of one character, smiles reveal rotting teeth , and rats scurry in unchanged bed straw. Everyday people regard prejudice and discrimination as their Christian duty, while educated characters scoff at the superstitions of the ignorant even as they themselves harbour beliefs that we smile at today. The precarious existence of those who live on or outside the margins of acceptability is not exploited to showcase the admirable virtues of protagonists with modern values. Although I would have preferred less vague visual descriptions of places such as Paris (map of the town c. 1200), Troyes (map of the twelfth century town) and its palace, where much of the drama takes place, the atmosphere of all locations, including the forest of Othe and the monastic community of the Paraclete, does come adequately alive through the characters that inhabit them.

The cast of characters in The Devil's Door is a dynamic mix of historical and fictional. The former group includes luminaries such as Heloise (Héloïse d’Argenteuil), Peter Abelard, and Bernard of Clairvaux. The one-time lovers, Abelard and Heloise, are described as having matured into commitment to their separate roles in life while continuing to share an unbroken affection for each other. I enjoyed the author’s take on them both: Abbess Heloise as humbly and penitently striving to fulfill God’s will but secretly doubting He listens to her prayers; and Abelard, the aging scholar too harassed by charges of heresy – the developments surrounding the Council of Sens forms one of the subplots – to dwell on their past history but unhesitatingly turning to Heloise for spiritual comfort. Less is known about their son, Astrolabe, but the author turns available material into a sympathetic characterisation of a man caught between the fame of his parents yet tenderly supportive of both. (Even Eleanor of Aquitaine puts in an appearance at Sens – as King Louis’s queen – but the mention is so fleeting that I bring it up only as a piece of trivia for readers who enjoy fictional encounters with her.)

The relationship between Catherine and her teacher, Heloise, derives poignancy from the similarities and differences between their lives and choices. Protective and proud of her charge, Heloise has become a mother figure for the younger woman who, while intensely caring and determined, is impetuous and has not yet fully mastered the discipline to respond rationally. The troubled marriage of her parents, her mother’s illness, and newly revealed family secrets have seared self-doubts into Catherine that are not shaken off by the love she shares with Edgar. Her mind and heart tend to analyse and question everything; she calls these contrary thoughts “her voices”, and they sometimes lead her to fearing that she will one day succumb to the insanity that runs in her family. Although the silliness of her actions toward the end cross deeply into TSTL territory (with the help of equally idiotic decisions made by those who should possess a more mature judgment), I found Catherine an engaging and very appealing character with her physical clumsiness, kind heart, intellectual hunger, and devotion to ensure justice for the wronged.

Despite hints that neither the reader nor Catherine knows everything about Edgar’s Scottish family, his subservient role in the dominant mystery prevents him from developing into something more interesting than an occasionally frustrated companion and eager love interest. But he is a nice foil for Catherine, and together they make a sweet couple.

With so much to praise about this novel, it is time to look at why my reading experience was not more enjoyable. Accuracy in historical fiction is sacrosanct to some readers, and to others, merely an interesting bonus. When the historical record is silent about a person or event, writers, like readers, take different paths in deciding how the missing information should be dealt with. Sharan Newman’s philosophy differs from my preferences, and so, when she takes genuine historical characters about whom virtually nothing is known and invents histories for them that serve her plot purposes, it poses a problem for me. In more than one case I felt the treatment of these characters seriously overstepped reasonable artistic license. It made me crabby, distracting me from the story and steaming me up about the ease with which some authors abuse historical record for the purpose of masking up entirely fictional creations in borrowed authenticity. As Newman’s erudition ensures that judicious portrayals of major historical characters and events intensify an already realistic setting, I cannot acknowledge any need for pretend-historicity. This author possesses all the knowledge and skill required to create believable fictional characters that blend seamlessly into her historical tapestry. History in historical fiction does not become more more legitimate through distortion, however clever.

I wish the prose and pacing in The Devil’s Door had been as competent as the characterisations. Smooth passages are suddenly punctuated by awkward paragraphs and confusing sentence constructions that I sometimes had to re-read until my eyes glazed over, muddled about who exactly was saying or doing what. Moreover, at the beginning of the story quite a few names and pedigrees are tossed about in a manner that repeatedly required me to leaf back and search for some information about who these people were and what their connection was to the subject under discussion.

The acceptance of the mystery and the time it takes for the protagonists to uncover the truth relies heavily on the reader’s willingness to respect, along with the characters, the sanctity of a certain religious practice. I did, but looking back I have to say the premise is an extremely flimsy foundation on which to carry an entire mystery novel. It is perhaps fortunate that the story takes several detours from the mystery. The downside is that although the subplots integrate admirably with the main plotline they inevitably slow down an already gentle pace. I grew impatient with clues and twists that are meted out too infrequently and laboriously to sustain narrative tension, and ended up shrugging at the mystery finale due to its lacklustre handling of what should be a shocking revelation. I also questioned the logic of certain crucial actions and decisions committed by several key characters.

It is obvious that no one can be an expert at everything, although many writers make heroic efforts to eliminate errors and inaccuracies. Even The Devil’s Door is not devoid of one or two cringe-worthy blunders. In one instance, a poor but compassionate hermit is able to casually dispense packets of peppercorns to sufferers who consult him for minor ailments. (Peppercorns were a luxury spice coveted by the wealthy, and worth gold in mediaeval times). More significantly, the central plot point regarding female inheritance gave me considerable pause. I am reluctant to conclude a scholar like Newman got something so basic wrong, but the assumptions the plot makes seem to me to be in conflict with local practice. (See, for example, the Champenois custom of partible inheritance discussed in Theodore Evergates’s The Aristocracy in the County of Champagne, 1100-1300; alternatively see the 1212 statute of Blanche of Navarre, Countess of Champagne, which deals with feudal inheritance by women in Champagne. A translation can be found in Evergates’s Feudal Society In Medieval France: Documents from the County of Champagne.)

Finally, a couple of minor grumbles. The inconsistent naming conventions for French characters irritated me. We have some anglicised names such as Walter and William and Peter, while others follow Old French spellings (Thibault, Mahaut, Jehan, Alys), Latin forms (Gaufridus, Paciana, Johanna), or even, in the case of one noblewoman, something Italianate (Constanza). Similarly, while I enjoyed that the French phrases and epithets occasionally exchanged by the characters are in Old French (“Diex te saut”; “C’est mes acors”; “Avoutre!”), the old lay brother at the Paraclete, a former crusader, rather inconsistently shouts “Montjoie et Saint Denis” instead of “Munioie! Saint-Denys!” (“Montjoie et Saint-Denis” appears to be a modern corruption of the battlecry.)

Although the issues I experienced with The Devil’s Door eventually dampened my enthusiasm (the pacing was the death knell) and I sadly concluded that Sharan Newman’s style is not a stimulating match for me, I do hope other readers are inspired to give the series a try. Reviewing my post I find I have almost persuaded myself to give it a second (third) chance... This is solid historical fiction that belongs on the shelf next to Elizabeth Chadwick and Ellis Peters/Edith Pargeter’s depictions of the twelfth century. I hope I will one day find another mediaeval mystery series that carries its scholarship as gracefully.

 

Books of related interest: Rabbi Solomon bar Isaac or Rashi, who was one of the most important scholars of the Middle Ages, is closely associated with the Jewish community of Troyes, which plays a part in The Devil’s Door. The stories of his daughters, who were famed for their learning and married students of their father, have been novelised by Maggie Anton in four books: Joheved, Rachel, Miriam, and The Secret Scholar. I have not read them but plan to do so now. Among non-fiction, The Jews of Medieval France: The Community of Champagne by Emily Taitz seems particularly relevant. My 1970s edition of The Letters Of Abelard And Heloise, translated by Betty Radice, includes, among other things, seven letters, the Historia Calamitatum, and a 45-page introduction to their lives, works, and legacies. The revised 2004 edition seems to have been slightly expanded. Heloise’s surviving correspondence is also available online, as are, I believe, many of Abelard’s writings. Michael T. Clanchy’s 1999 biography of the latter, Abelard: A Medieval Life, challenges some of the received truths about Abelard and Heloise, asserting that the latter’s contribution to the former's philosophy is much more significant than previously assumed. And finally, The Aristocracy in the County of Champagne, 1100-1300 by Theodore Evergates, provides an analysis of “one of the more vibrant principalities of medieval France“.

 

Popularising Austen And The Brontës

Upon its publication in 2008, Colleen McCullough's irreverent homage to Pride And Prejudice, The Independence Of Miss Mary Bennet, had Janeites/Austenites up in arms. One of the most ferociously aired objections was the unflattering depiction of Mr. Darcy (Fitz) and his disillusioned relationship with Elizabeth. In light of that uproar, it is arresting to note the relative acceptance of the derivative works that are saturating the market these days.

If anything, the current craze for mash-ups, sequels, and re-interpretations make McCullough’s perceived faux-pas seem an exercise in delicacy. Along with Emma And The Vampires, Pride And Prejudice And Zombies, Murder At Mansfield Park, The Phantom Of Pemberley, Jane And The Damned (in which, according to AAR’s review, Austen is "turned into a vampire, [...] kills French soldiers, and takes a lover") are a cohort of authors who romance every aspect of Austen’s creations in novels such as In The Arms Of Mr. Darcy, Mr. Darcy’s Obsession, and A Darcy Christmas. (Heidenkind of the blog Truth, Beauty, Freedom, And Books makes a thought-provoking note about the current obsession with zombies in her latest post.)

Are zombies and murderers a less threatening contribution to the canon than a marital crisis? Perhaps, if Jane Austen is considered mainly in the current light of her iconic status in romantic literature. To me, her romantic couples are of lesser interest than her sharp-tongued observations about genteel society, which may explain why I leafed dispassionately through McCullough’s novel and feel no stirring of excitement at trying other authors’ romantic retellings.

Fitzwilliam Darcy, as written in Pride and Prejudice, for all his purportedly sterling qualities seems the most tedious of conversationalists. Has anyone else noticed that whenever he is mentioned in glowing terms on the Internet (outside academic circles), the discussion tends to segue into his screen appeal? Ask enthusiasts for their favourite Darcy quote from the book, and the reply is often either a blank or a scene from a film or series (Colin Firth rising from the pond). Frequently my impression is that people have fallen in love with the idea of Austen’s world rather than with her written words, and the screen portrayals of Darcy more than the figure in the novel.

In my case, as someone who was moved by the poignancy of Anne’s situation in Persuasion but whom Austen’s writing style strikes as airless, desiccated, and monotonous, screen interpretations have helped supply the imagery, emotional clues, passion, and freshness the novels lack for me. (I believe I have read them all, including some juvenilia, Lady Susan, and the fragments of Sanditon and The Watsons.) For example, the only time I have felt a sympathetic connection with Darcy was via Matthew MacFadyen’s interpretation in the 2005 film version: the actor brought a sensitivity and earnest intensity to the role that explained Darcy’s haughtiness in terms of diffidence rather than arrogance. It made me willing to re-read Pride And Prejudice. That is why, while on an artistic level it exasperates me beyond expression to see so many novelists rip off or re-imagine original characters instead of creating their own, the classic literature fan in me feels relaxed, pleased at the prominence the Brontës and Austen are enjoying.

Not all works that draw on romantic classics are complimentary, of course; The Independence Of Miss Mary Bennet was far from the first time a beloved classic's fictional creation had received less than venerable treatment. There is, notably, Jean Rhys’s now (deservedly, I think) classic Wide Sargasso Sea, which savages Edward Fairfax Rochester (Jane Eyre), and Mrs. De Winter and Rebecca’s Tale which, if (pained) memory serves, make mincemeat of Maxim de Winter (Rebecca).

As with Austen, the Brontës are beginning to receive trendy attention, too – see Jane Slayre, for example. The only surprising thing is that Emily and Anne Brontë have escaped the zombologists and vampirists so long; Anne's trenchant study of alcoholism and a disintegrating marriage in The Tenant Of Wildfell Hall (which has one of the strongest heroines of 19th century literature) made even the outspoken Charlotte nervous.

But in the current climate, I doubt the Brontës will ever come close to the general appeal of all things Austen. Popular culture seems overwhelmingly more at ease with the latter. For one thing, as much as I may think Darcy is dull on paper, he is certainly more easily romanticised than the colourful but perennially controversial Rochester. John Knightley (Emma) comes in dazzlingly shining armour whereas Wuthering Heights's Heathcliff (classic zombie material, surely) has alarmed critics and readers since his first appearance. And gossip and class barriers do allow for a very different kind of comedy than bigamy, alcoholism, maiming, and revenge.

Still, filmmakers do return to Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights, trying to make sense in two hours or less of the former’s span from childhood to adulthood and the latter’s labyrinthine, multi-generational structure. The newest adaptation of Jane Eyre is set to premiere in the spring of 2011. To judge by the trailer (below), it seems fairly un-revolutionary in that it, too, despite the production site's mention of Rochester's "coldness" appears to soft-focus on the romance and its gothic qualities. So far, the version I have had least problems with is BBC’s 2006 mini-series. Not only did the longer length permit the inclusion of the Rivers family and Jane’s school experiences, but the cinematography and sets were beautiful and the chemistry between Toby Stephens and Ruth Wilson brought out (with one (in)famous liberty) the sensual quality of the intensely physical attraction between Jane and Rochester that had gone primly missing from other adaptations. I do look cautiously forward to seeing how Mia Wasikowska and Michael Fassbender interpret one of my favourite literary couples.

 

 

Ecuador: Elsewhere In The Land Of Parrots by Jim Paul

Curious, cocky, and sociable, the wild rainbow lorikeets who daily wandered into my Sydney flat, exploring the lianas (wires) under the computer desk and the localised rain in the shower, and who companionably expected to be served apples from the fruit bowl in the kitchen, now belong to my fondest memories of Australia. When I encountered a Teaser Tuesday entry excerpted from Elsewhere In The Land Of Parrots by Jim Paul, I pounced at the chance of enjoying a literary encounter with relations of these astonishing creatures. I cannot judge the accuracy of the author’s information about cherry-headed conures (also known as the red-masked parakeet), but as presented, it vividly engaged both my intellect and my emotions. I returned from my fictional foray into the South American tropics with misty eyes and a big, silly grin.

 

Shortly after arriving in Ecuador, graduate student Fern Melartin discovers she has been fooled. Instead of doing fieldwork on the near-extinct Aratinga erythrogenys in the mangrove swamps of the Guayas estuary, she has been conned into looking after caged animals in a private zoo owned by a womanizer who, she comes to suspect, conducts an illegal trade in threatened species. With no money left to pursue her dissertation topic elsewhere and no local contacts she can turn to for help, her career in tropical ecology is about to founder before it has even started.

In his work, deconstructionist poet David Huntington attempts to free language of its cage. But his own introverted life is tightly circumscribed by neuroses that make even a trip to the other side of his home town, San Francisco (USA), a panic-inducing prospect. The unexpected gift of a parrot from his father and a generous grant for his poetry crack open his hermit-like existence. While the accolades for his work are very welcome indeed, the loud, demanding parrot grates on his nerves until, one day, he throws it out the window. But there is no peace in the abrupt silence, only an unnerving feeling that the bird is calling to David to follow.

Somewhere in Ecuador, flocks of cherry-headed conures still fly free like their feral counterparts of Telegraph Hill in San Francisco. Are their raucous calls signals, and if so, what do they signify? Fern and David’s separate quests to find out may lead in the same direction – if they can muster the courage to break the chains of safety.

 

I did not know what to expect when I opened Elsewhere In The Land Of Parrots, and perhaps that is one reason I was charmed. In its own, gentle way the story is unpredictable, its simple plot full of interest. It sets its own rules, taking note of both literary fiction and genre romance but acknowledging no need to be bound by the conventions of either. Quietly humorous, straightforwardly told, and earnest in a way that these days seems to be considered old-fashioned, Elsewhere In The Land Of Parrots is an entirely character-driven story about finding the courage to explore and communicate with the world beyond one’s own windows.

The catalysts and facilitators for this are the parrots – or rather, parakeets – of the novel’s title: the cherry-headed conure, or Aratinga erythrogenys. Everything in the novel relates back to and references these birds, their place in the world, their interactions with humans, and, through them, human interaction with nature. The wonder is that despite this intense focus on one subject the novel calmly avoids the pitfalls of preachiness and affected quirkiness. Still, I suspect the novel will resonate better with those who are willing to discover the topic along with the characters than with readers who simply wants to get on with the story.

Also, while the easy sincerity with which moments of awe or emotion are handled prevents things from tipping over into sentimentality, the ending is arguably an exception. I accepted the outcome in the spirit it was offered – as an organic and inevitable progression – but felt the last chapter rushed developments along in a manner that fit awkwardly with the thoughtful tenor of the rest of the narrative. This is an instance where I think an epilogue would have served the overall tone of the story better.

Now, on to Fern and David, the protagonists, whose stories are told in alternating chapters until their paths intersect late in the book. In romances, the meeting of the heroine and hero marks the beginning of the story. In literary fiction, more often than not, male-female relationships are doomed to expire on a gloomy note. The protagonists of Elsewhere In The Land Of Parrots, however, are not even aware of each other’s existence for most of the book, although the plot clearly builds up to some culminating event to do with their shared passion for aratingas.

David names his noisily aggressive, incomprehensible parrot Little Wittgenstein after the philosopher who “had argued that language had no meaning.” David has made a living, supplemented by teaching, writing poetry that is based on this theory, and when it earns him a literary prize that will make him financially independent for several years it reinforces his belief that “any meaning would have reflected an outmoded way of thinking”. His self-important pride in the obscurity of his X poetry is gently satirised: alongside a tongue-in-cheek mockery of the literary avant-garde, David’s efforts to write verse that does not succumb to rational structures controlled by meaning is pointedly contrasted with his painstakingly regulated, anxiously sheltered existence. This, however, is the world that Little Wittgenstein challenges. As David’s irritation at the parrot turns to regret and concern at its disappearance, and as his investigations little by little pull him out of his shell, he grows from someone I was not certain I liked into a layered character who won my fascination and empathy with his quailing steps to reach out and communicate with a world from which he has fearfully closed himself off. David’s eccentricity hides an intensity and a patience that made his passage from anxious recluse to spontaneous traveller both touching and surprisingly believable to me.

While David’s cage is of the mind, the preoccupations that keep Fern captive are more concerned with the practical. She is literally stuck, whether in the zoo or, when the tidal flows of the river she has to navigate in her boat turn against her, in knee-deep mud. Outwardly more enterprising than David, she becomes deprived of her independence and freedom to act when her naivety lands her in an impossible situation and she does not know how to assert herself for fear of losing everything she has worked for. She sympathises with the tiger she watches pacing behind its bars, its eyes and demeanour betraying a mind that remains free and wild, always alert for that one moment that could mean escape. Her own moment to break free comes after she has worked to overcome language barriers and made a connection that means the difference between hope and failure. A conventional character when compared to David, she comes into her own when her passion for her research subject is put to the test. Although I enjoyed reading about her, I already find my grip on her personality slipping. Nevertheless, for most of the novel hers is the more adventurous, expansive setting (described with a dedication that sprouted a steamy, fragrant, and intensely alive tropical jungle around my reading chair), and even when she gets tangled up in obstacles there is a physicality about her that provides stimulating contrast to the introverted mood and narrow, cautious confines of David’s world.

Elsewhere In The Land Of Parrots belongs to the sort of fiction that educates even as it entertains. Saying that, however, seems to reduce this uplifting novel to much less than it is: on one level, a witty conversation about nature, about interconnectedness, about freedom; on another, a lovely flight of imagination that invites the reader to open a window to somewhere else and do more than dream.

 

Excerpt

(Harcourt Books hardcover, 2003, page 124-5):

“Still, by the time he arrived where he thought he was going, he wasn’t sure anymore. Montgomery, a broad city street downtown, here seemed like a mountain trail. It grew narrower and more crooked, carved into the promontory crowned with Coit Tower. The land on his right dropped away, and he could see the wharves down there, small toothy projections into the blue bay. Then the street concluded in a cul-de-sac, where there was a railing, from which David looked down over the tops of trees. They looked like an odd collection of trees to him, palms and regular trees and the occasional red-leafed one, all in a sloping thicket.

And then, before he was ready for them, before he had stood at the top for even a minute, the parrots appeared. David heard a cry answered by a clamor that sounded like a troop of chimps in the trees, and at that moment a dozen or so of the birds flew out of the thicket toward him. They were bright green, and the flock banked together in formation in the sunlight. Their orangish underwings flashed in unison as they headed north toward Fisherman’s Wharf. Even at that distance, with no special training as a birder, David recognized them. They were Little Wittgenstein birds, cherry-headed conures.

The sight made David so excited he shouted, ‘Wait!’ at the retreating flock.”

 

USA: Bride Of A Stranger by Patricia Maxwell

The recent reviews of some of Jennifer Blake’s historical romances by Misfit of At Home With A Good Book And The Cat drew my interest to the author’s gothic fiction, originally penned under the name Patricia Maxwell. Bride of A Stranger was released at a time when the boom in gothic romances had begun its downward slide but – with the exception of marketing’s choice of cover – shows none of the effects of weariness, artificiality, and cynicism that marked much of the output by the mid-1970s. Gothic romances generally focus on the heroine's journey, and the best of the later ones are often clearly influenced by or deliberately incorporate feminist themes. In Bride Of A Stranger marriages of convenience are a tragedy, not a source of romance.

 

1816*. With one pitying glance across a hot Creole ballroom at a stranger's scarred face, Claire de Hauterive’s life changes. Society outcast Justin Leroux tears her from her comfortable fiancé and beloved New Orleans by marrying her against her will and installing her on his isolated sugar cane plantation on the banks of a Louisiana bayou.

Sans Songe is indeed a place without dreams, without illusions. In the main house, unspoken trespasses and mutual dependencies have woven an uneasy truce between bitter family members. In the slave quarters, fear and voodoo reign. Accidents and threats harass Claire from the first, but her new husband is more intent on breaking her will than listening to her concerns. Gradually Claire realises she can trust no one but herself if she is to survive – and that nothing is more dangerous than blind love.

 

The most interesting thing about Bride Of A Stranger is its heroine, Claire. Even now, almost forty years after the novel’s publication, she remains in some ways a unique romance heroine. Nothing proves this better than the last scene in the book, which shows a bedroom dynamic and personal priorities I don’t think I have seen in any other romance I have read over the years. An unequivocal nod to feminism, it certainly wrings something fresh out of formula.

Claire has her less intelligent moments in the latter parts of the story, but in the final judgement I thought her a breath of fresh air. She has been brought up to behave in accordance with society’s conventions and to respect accepted authority, and when these trap her into unjust situations she protests but, if unsuccessful, adjusts without indulging in self-pity. If it is true now that heroines often melt or grow passionate when locked in an embrace with a hero they supposedly despise, this was doubly true in romances in the seventies and eighties. Yet when Justin forces his bruising attentions on Claire, she is neither seduced nor weakened by his warm, low-voiced coaxing. She recognises that he tries to use passion as a tool of subjugation, and refuses to take responsibility for his sense of humiliation at her self-possession:

“’What kind of man are you to expect me to fall in with your – your – [...] – plans, and meekly agree to make you a comfortable and accommodating wife?’ Her voice shook with the strain of putting her resentment into words and also her fear of what he would do to her, but she was determined. [...] ‘And now – now that you have proven that you can force me to your will, that you care nothing for my feelings. [sic] I wish you pleasure then of your reluctant bride.’ Her voice was hard with the promise that, so far as it was within her power, he would gain nothing. [...] Claire wished, as the quiet seconds passed, that she could agree, could say that she too had enjoyed their days together, but the lie stuck in her throat. She had not enjoyed them. She had known constantly that she was only there because Justin willed it.” (Pages 45,46,62-3.)

Justin’s response? “But he grasped her arm, his fingers bruising her flesh so that she bit back a cry of pain.’Don’t try my patience, Claire. When it snaps I might enjoy the consequences. You, I’m persuaded, would not!’” At Sans Songe, cruelty, violence, and death are the legacy of love gone wrong. Justin’s understanding of love has been warped since childhood, and in adulthood he behaves like a spoilt boy who in a perverse fit destroys his toy, then whines over its loss. As a “hero”, he is an arrogant and domineering yet marginal figure; a deliberate stereotype, it seems, used to expose dangers inherent in romanticising a certain type of hero or love.

It is probably relevant to note here that there is no instance of rape or forced seduction (pick your euphemisms) in Bride Of A Stranger, nor any sex scenes either on the page or behind closed doors. Physical consummation of the marriage is tied up with the outcome of Claire’s fight to establish her equal standing in a juster relationship.

Not everything about the story questions stereotype, however. It felt peculiar, not to say bizarre, to read scene after scene of master-slave interactions that, in the complete absence of narrative commentary to the contrary, imply that the greatest enemy here is not the inequality of the institution but an outside threat that disrupts this relationship. On the face of it, the situation parallels the inequality between husband and wife in marriages of the time, as experienced by Claire. But (within the story) Claire is allowed to explore her role and challenge injustice, whereas the slaves, once the outside threat has been contained, are expected to remain as they were: subservient, and now smiling about it. There is one potential exception: a person of colour who is shown to have an intriguing life of her/his own making beyond the relationship to the Lerouxs. Nevertheless, this is a remote character who all but disappears into the cloak of mysticism that surrounds her/him, rather than a path-builder.

At no point does Claire observe or study the slaves to try to come to any conclusions about her own situation. Instead her reactions to the house slaves, for example, alternate between uncertainty, suspicion, and fear for her life. (Exactly who truly controls the servants is a source of tension and mystery in the plot.) In Bride Of A Stranger, slaves seem synonymous with unreliance, savage passions, and loss of control. While the atmosphere of paranoia that pervades the novel (not merely in regard to the slaves) may reflect how slave owners historically felt about their own situation as a minority among a much larger group of people who might quickly overpower them if they chose to rebel, any commentary about these or similar considerations is absent from the novel. Similarly, I was jolted when Justin remarks on Claire’s colouring, (blonde hair and) “'your skin so white [...] so different from the sallow crones’” who were her fellow Creole women at the ball where the pair first met (p. 45-6). It is a remark that is probably true to the historical period but that, unexplained, becomes very disturbing in a modern novel where the hero is a slave owner.

The success of gothics rely heavily on a doom-laden, unsettling atmosphere. Evoking a tense, ominous mood seems an effortless talent on Maxwell’s part. With plenty of nice details about the material culture and customs of early nineteenth-century Louisiana Creole society, there is a solid, rich feel about this aspect of the setting. The writing style is sharp and readable, and the plot entertaining despite a conventional mystery, many unsympathetic characterisations, and an extremely contrived denouement.

While Bride Of A Stranger most definitely is an interesting gothic, calling it a romance almost seems a misnomer. While the novel contains many recognizable elements of romance it also defies some of its most cherished tropes. It is the heroine’s realisation of the importance of self-respect and self-reliance that is the main story here. The growth of a loving, romantic relationship gets short shrift since the increasingly random interludes between the hero and heroine are more concerned with redressing the unequal balance between their states than with deepening the bonds of couplehood.

Patricia Maxwell displays considerable storytelling gifts in this novel, not least in her breaks with romantic convention. But the enjoyment this gave me was marred by a portrayal of slavery that I cannot call anything but insensitive. To me, Bride Of A Stranger ultimately reads as a commendable gothic experiment with a strangely flawed narrative.

 

*The year is not explicitly noted but in the first chapter it is stated that “Napoleon had been mewed up on St. Helena for several months” (page7). Chapter three, a few weeks later, mentions spring rains. Since Napoleon was taken to St. Helena in the summer of 1815, I have assumed Bride Of A Stranger opens in the spring of 1816.

 

Excerpt

(Fawcett Gold Medal paperback, 1974, p.47-8):

“The rumble of thunder woke her. Lightning forked the sky and a wet wind filled with rain struck the coach. Claire shivered and felt a stir of pity for the driver and groom riding up on top. She hoped that they had brought oilskins with them. And where was Justin? His great-coat would hold the rain off for a time, but he would eventually be soaked. Hard on that thought came the fear that he might ride back to join her inside the coach, and hurriedly she pushed her feet into her shoes. Then, gathering her hairpins from the floor and the seat, she smoothed her hair and coiled it in a flat knot on top of her head.

Straightening in her seat, she looked out the window. On one side was the forest, thick, dark, and impenetrable, but on the other was a fairly large bayou, its current swollen with spring rains. It must be near daylight, she realized, for although it was raining she could still see the water running swiftly along and also the thick, green grass studded with flowers at the edge of the roadside.

Abruptly the coach tilted forward, and by leaning against the glass she could see that they were heading down to what appeared to be a crossing; a crude, railingless bridge over the bayou. The body of the coach jounced on its springs as the wheels struck the thick hewn planks, then there was a rumbling as they started across. Claire could feel the bridge sag with the weight of the diligence, and her breath caught in her throat, but then they were past the dangerous half-way point and she began to relax.

At that moment she heard a hoarse yell above her. The coach stopped, and began to rock violently as the sounds of scrabbling hooves and frantic neighing came to her. The coached backed, then slewed sideways.”

 

Ottoman Empire: Tears Of Pearl by Tasha Alexander

The sleuthing heroine of Tears Of Pearl sweeps through the Ottoman imperial harems of late nineteenth-century Constantinople (Istanbul) with an ethnocentrism reminiscent of Anna in The King And I. With a mystery that relies on coincidence and tampers with a historical figure, Tasha Alexander’s fourth entry in her series featuring Lady Emily Bromley, now Hargreaves, employs heightened romance and a setting that has long titillated Westerners to bolster excitement, not always successfully. But delve underneath the excess of ingredients and a sombre theme emerges that gives the novel its poignant emotional core: Tears Of Pearl proves aptly titled, for the plot deals with parenthood and loss.

 

1892. The honeymoon plans of Lady Emily and Colin Hargreaves go awry almost from the moment they step off the Orient Express in Constantinople. Instead of proceeding on a leisurely tour of classical sites in the Levant the pair find themselves embroiled in Ottoman intrigue when the kidnapped daughter of a British diplomat turns up murdered in the sultan’s gardens.

Since the imperial harem, where the young woman had been an inmate since childhood, her tragic origins unknown, is closed off to male outsiders, Sultan Abdül Hamit II grants Emily permission to conduct an investigation on behalf of British authorities. But the women prove reluctant to share what they know, each seemingly having her own agenda to protect. Nevertheless, on one thing almost everyone, from the rivalling adoptive mothers of the sultan to the unhappy concubine Roxelana and the forceful palace eunuch Jemal, seem to agree: the girl was troublesome. Not as troublesome as Emily can be, however, when she sets her mind to something. Only this time her defiance of warnings may not come without personal cost.

 

I think Tears Of Pearl would have benefited from an increased page count. Tasha Alexander crams a lot of story into 306 (trade paperback) pages of spacious text and the result is enforced shallowness. Since the sadness of the theme I mentioned carries through many aspects of the story and creates narrative tension with the pleasures of the honeymoon, the superficiality detracted more from my reading experience than is common with escapist mysteries.

In addition to the expected romance and multiple murders, the myriad elements I contended with include an examination of parental grief, comparisons of the rights and restrictions between women in Ottoman society and their counterparts in Britain, reflections about the limits of Emily’s freedom to follow an independent course, the doubts and uncertainties of motherhood, desperate worry about a pregnant friend back in England, a long-term visit from another friend in the midst of said honeymoon, and the moral and ethical pros and cons of concretely interfering with a different way of life.

With so many components to juggle, it is to the author’s credit that I did not feel I had lost anything by skipping the first two books of the series and leaving the third, A Fatal Waltz, unfinished. Certainly a greater familiarity with Emily and Colin’s backgrounds would have helped to flesh them out as characters, but as their past neither impacts the mystery nor complicates their relationship, I experienced no gaps of understanding. Alexander inserts sufficient information in the first few pages for anyone to catch up on relevant details.

Tears Of Pearl may play out during the protagonist’s honeymoon, but the emphasis is where it should be, on the mystery. In the case of A Fatal Waltz, I foundered on the narrator’s voice (Emily, first person POV), which to me read as paper-dry, cool, and aloof, before the mystery even had time to mature. In Tears Of Pearl, which I read from cover to cover despite continued reservations about an undisciplined prose style that fluctuates between elaborate Victorian formality and modern American colloquialisms, the execution of the mystery plot is defective, and again the trouble is related to Emily, this time her incompetence as a problem solver.

Amateur sleuths are an honoured tradition in mystery writing, and I often enjoy their curiosity and common sense more than the trained skill and Holmesian intelligence of professional types. Emily’s detective work in Tears Of Pearl is enthusiastic, but based on her methods I cannot share the flattering opinion of her talents displayed by Colin and herself. Her most aggravating failing is to develop a pet theory, which consistently leads her to try to fit the facts to her theory rather than develop a theory from the facts. It is Not A Good Thing when a mystery reader is mentally shouting at the protagonist to please, for mercy’s sake, ask the obvious questions and connect the obvious dots. From picking out the villain/s to unravelling the motives and actions of players in the subplots, I was chapters ahead of Emily, a novelty that grew tiresome remarkably quickly (although I like mysteries, they stump me more often than not). On page 258, Emily finally realises an all-changing fact and is “Filled with new enthusiasm at this revelation – for I considered it nothing short of just that”. I felt pained.

There are a few eyebrow-raising plot coincidences and implausibilities. Several have to do with the curiously named Ceyden, the girl kidnapped at age three but immediately, in a night-dark garden, recognized by her father in her adulthood. The circumstances surrounding the search for her, the fact that her name was never changed, the place where she ended up and where her father was known, the benevolence of her custodians, and the language she spoke at the time, all made me question her supposed untraceability. (As a side note, Ceyden appears to be a Turkish name, not Algerian or British in spite of her parentage.)

It is a shame, because implementation blunders aside, the ideas behind the plot are sound. The mystery gets off to a swift, intriguing start, builds steadily, and by being intricately layered continued to grip my interest even after I had began sighing about the shortcomings of the oblivious protagonist. Subtler clues, much more sophisticated red herrings, a greater variety of complex suspects with believable motivations, combined with rational deduction – instead of false turns generated by impulsive jumping to conclusions – could have built an admirable mystery.

With the exception of Emily, characterisations in Tears of Pearl fall on the sketchy side. Her secret personal fears are explored with a care and thoughtfulness not given any other subject in the novel, and this both deepens the serious mood into which the story descends after its lively beginning, and inspires some genuinely affecting scenes. I wish this quality had been extended to other parts of the story. It gave me clearer understanding of why this historical mystery series has many loyal followers, and persuaded me to acquire Tasha Alexander’s next, French-set book (Dangerous To Know).

Colin Hargreaves is described as an enlightened and supportive Victorian husband in the sense that although he respects Emily as an intellectual equal and there exists an understanding that he wants to “give [her] the freedom [she] need[s]”, legally he is under no obligation to do so. An agreeable stock figure rather than a compelling character in his own right, after getting Emily to Constantinople and opening diplomatic doors for her, his function in the story seems reduced to acting as an inadvertent catalyst for one of Emily’s worries and sending her glances that make her body tingle. The door is closed on their physical relationship, but an abundance of innuendo shows it is mutually happy and satisfying.

Mystery series or not, for a couple on their honeymoon Emily and Colin spend remarkably little time in each other’s company once they leave their bedroom. Although their relationship has evidently played an important role from the very beginning of the series, and both are involved in the investigations in this book, we don’t see them exploring side by side or working together to solve the murders. Indeed, while they brief each other on their progress, so entirely separate are their investigations that they make a bet about which of them will solve the mystery first. Furthermore, in the second half of the story Emily’s accomplice around Constantinople is an American friend who has blithely intruded on the honeymoon without causing either spouse observable regret beyond their initial surprise. As this friend serves a negligible role in the plot before, for all intents and purposes, bowing out off-stage at a critical point in order to raise the stakes for Emily, and as there is no foreshadowing indicating that the series will ultimately prove Emily’s marriage to be a disappointment, I was puzzled by the author’s choice to play up (the otherwise welcome emphasis on the importance of) female friendship at the expense of deepening the newly formed marital bond in a honeymoon-set novel.

I can see the plot reasons for making Emily feel, in one regard, emotionally on her own. Unfortunately, since she keeps silent about an arguably significant personal concern it paints her as something of a hypocrite when, in a scene that invites an exchange of confidences, she reminds Colin that they have always been open with each other. Apparently she requires open-heartedness from Colin but is unwilling to reciprocate. This distrust makes her seem lost and less mature than Colin, at the same time as it undeniably gives her characterisation a complexity that is lacking from his. In Tears Of Pearl the two seem better matched physically than emotionally. While Emily’s needs are discussed by them both, Colin’s (non-physical) personal life receives no attention, and they don’t conduct conversations that meaningfully probe and develop their relationship.

The arrival of the American friend, Margaret, and the letters from England that are regularly interspersed throughout the novel, seemed to me a clumsy way of maintaining reader contact with recurring characters. It put me in mind of the family reunions that romance authors seem overly fond of placing in their series books. Their artificiality tends to disrupt the narrative flow. Using another technique to integrate the news and issues raised in the letters to Emily would have eliminated disjointed storytelling. Another thing that could have been handled more smoothly is the way that physical setting is detailed. Descriptions are often inserted in chunks that resemble paragraphs from a travel guide. They convey interesting information but sometimes feel like more like mini-lectures about architecture, for example, and rarely evoke the deeper spirit or atmosphere of a place. The research was there, but its application was lacklustre. I would like to think this author is capable of better.

This leads me to the depiction of Ottoman society. Despite a half-hearted attempt at a balanced presentation, issues arising from cultural differences receive only the most superficial treatment. Both the relatively powerful Valide Sultans, Bezime (Pertevniyal) in Topkapi and Perestu (Rahime Piristû or Perestû) in Yildiz, and powerless harem inmates come across as orientalist stereotypes, scheming, deceitful, and greedy. The one partial exception happens to be a secretly converted Christian. Harems are the family quarters, but we see no children running about. There is some talk of perceptions versus reality, and in one emotional scene the author does show Muslim women in a lovely, warm light, but in the end the scales tip rather strongly against a society about which Emily herself admits she knows little. Lady Emily shows herself to be not so much an explorer of another culture but an imposer of her own values. In this, she is much closer to Anna Leonowens than to Gertrude Bell or even Isabel Burton.

In the interview printed at the back of my edition (Minotaur Books trade paperback, 2010), in answer to a question about historical fact the author states that she is “fanatical about accurate details”. Tears Of Pearl is not the best example of this. For example, as she acknowledges in the afterword, Alexander twists the known facts about Bezime to accommodate the plot. The changes are not in regards to some trivial detail but amount to rewriting history. Secondly, the diplomatic language of Europe and the Ottoman Empire at this period was French, not English, and this is nowhere apparent. Emily comments on the fluency or inability of various people to communicate with her in English, using this language in her interviews with the Sultan and his family, without the (etiquette-decreed) presence of an interpreter. In line with custom, however, the languages spoken by Sultan Abdül Hamit II do not appear to have included English. Thirdly, basic Ottoman protocol for audiences with anyone from the royal family is utterly ignored, allowing Emily to be on first name basis with the Valide Sultans, and in speech and manners behave towards them and the Sultan – ruler of an empire and the Caliph of Islam – as if they are her country cousins. Fourthly, the decline of the Ottoman Empire is commented on with the most stunningly offhand remark: “’Due in large part to the excessive and obscene spending of Abdül Hamit’s predecessors. They’ve done more palace building than prudent this century – and that went a long way to bankrupting the empire.’” (page 33). What about the Crimean War? The Balkan rebellions? The Russo-Turkish War? The Treaty Of San Stefano? The Treaty Of Berlin? Fifthly, the British ambassador to the Ottoman Empire (the Porte) at this time was Sir Francis Clare Ford, who appears to have presented his credentials to the Sultan in March 1892, not Sir William White, who had died in December 1891. Sixthly – oh, never mind.

Usually when I encounter this many problems with a novel I conclude the author’s style and my preferences are incompatible. But in Tasha Alexander’s case I am intrigued because in spite of my criticisms I remained absorbed and entertained throughout. The very human dilemmas and pains that lie at the heart of Tears Of Pearl give the mystery a compassionate dimension. The prose is articulate and on the whole the characters display attitudes and sensibilities that pleasantly evoke the late Victorian period. I liked the serious side of Emily’s nature and the sweetness of Colin’s. Although I do not by any means regard Alexander’s use of her Ottoman setting as an unqualified success, I appreciate that she took on an historically and culturally exciting location and tried to turn its potential into a vibrant mystery. Now I itch to find out whether Dangerous to Know follows in the footsteps of A Fatal Waltz or builds on the promise of Tears Of Pearl.

 

The line of poetry quoted by Colin in Tears Of Pearl is from William Butler Yeats’s "When You Are Old" (originally published in 1893; Colin mentions that Yeats showed it to him in Dublin in its pre-published state). Here are the first two stanzas (W.B. Yeats: Selected Poetry, edited by A. Norman Jeffares, Pan Books, 1974, page 17):

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

I will leave out the final quatrain, as it is not suited to a honeymooning couple!

 

Books of related interest: First published in 1915, A Turkish Woman’s European Impressions details the exchanges between Ottoman Zeyneb Hanoum and English Grace Ellison. Through Hanoum’s letters and Ellison’s commentaries the book provides insight into the shared hopes and cultural differences between Eastern and Western women at a time when both were struggling for emancipation. The frank and intelligent discussion in the excerpts I have read promptly inspired me to put the book on my TBR list. The Concubine, the Princess, and the Teacher: Voices from the Ottoman Harem by Douglas Scott Brookes (2008) offers the newly translated memoirs of three Ottoman palace ladies, all writing at the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth century: “Filizten, concubine to Sultan Murad V; Princess Ayse, daughter of Sultan Abdulhamid II; and Safiye, a schoolteacher who instructed the grandchildren and harem ladies of Sultan Mehmed V.” The lengthy introduction is available online. Oriental panorama: British travellers in 19th century Turkey by Reinhold Schiffer (1999) seems an incredible resource with its wealth of detail about everything from court protocol to eating habits; as I browsed through its pages I became more interested in studying it than in finishing this post! Additionally, for anyone interested in Tasha Alexander’s sources, a selection of suggested reading is appended among the bonus material at the back of the (2010) paperback edition of Tears Of Pearl; it includes the journal of Lady Layard.