Review: A White Bird Flying by Bess Streeter Aldrich

July 10, 2012 by leavesandpages

A White Bird Flying by Bess Streeter Aldrich ~ 1931. This edition: Scholastic, 1964. Paperback. 318 pages.

My rating: 5.5/10

American writer Bess Streeter Aldrich (1881-1954) is likely best known for her popular novel, A Lantern in Her Hand, the story of Nebraska pioneer Abbie Deal. I had read and greatly enjoyed that novel, so was quite looking forward to reading A White Bird Flying, which follows Abbie’s granddaughter, Laura Deal, on her own coming-of-age journey.

I am sorry to say that strong Abbie’s granddaughter is a wishy-washy little thing, and that I was generally disappointed in this lightweight  novel. It reminded me of some of the more sentimental twaddle perpetrated by our iconic Canadian author Lucy Maud Montgomery, who wrote in a similar time period and genre; much as I love some of her stronger novels, she was also capable of churning out some dreadful slush; ditto Aldrich.

The first part of the book is perhaps the strongest. Abbie Deal has died and been buried with due ceremony; young Laura stands in her beloved grandmother’s house a few days after the funeral, and tries to come to terms with death and what will happen next. Laura is a deeply emotional, imaginative child; at twelve she already aspires to one day be a writer, and she thinks in those terms.

She was half enjoying herself in an emotional way. There was a sort of gruesome ecstasy in making herself sad with memories. She would like to write about it. “The girl moved about from room to room, touching the things lovingly,” went through her mind. She was in one of those familiar moods when she looked upon life in a detached way as though she herself were not a part of it. She could never talk to anyone about it, but in some vague way she felt withdrawn from the world. She lived with people, but she was not one of them.

Perfectly captures the essence of an introspective adolescence.

Laura goes on her dreamy way, often at odds with her practical, striving mother who is often bewildered by her introverted, sentimental daughter. Laura continues to pursue her private ambition, turning out poems and stories and seeing the world through detached eyes.  She often thinks of her grandmother, and of how Abbie had given up her own ambitions to dedicate herself to full wife- and motherhood; Laura is appalled at the thought of a similar fate for herself and resolves to form her own life quite differently. She decides that she will turn her back on love, and particularly marriage; instead she will dedicate herself to her art and become truly fulfilled in a way a mere housewife can never attain.

Well, the inevitable happens. Laura dreams her way through college, and attracts the attention of a boy from her own home town, Allen Rinemiller, who has strong ambitions to improve the family farm with modern ideas, and has a rather interesting philosophy himself, which Laura scornfully dismisses.

Allen proposes; Laura naturally declines.

“…I can’t think of anything more prosaic than settling down here…and sort of letting the world go by.”

“I don’t call it letting the world go by,” he returned quickly. “I call it tackling a small piece of the world and making something of it. You admit Morton and his bride and all the rest of the old pioneers did a great thing when they crossed he river and started their settlements. You’ve said it was romantic and intensely interesting, and quite worthwhile. You think their own love lay at the bottom of their acts of courage and bravery. All right – did you ever stop to think that maybe we’re pioneers, too? Haven’t you the vision to see that? Why isn’t it something of pioneering that I’m trying to do? Agriculture in most quarters has been a hard, wearisome proposition…I’m pioneering, too – and a whole lot of other young fellows from colleges and universities, we have visions, too – a new outlook on the whole thing…We’re pioneering…starting a new class…the master farmers who are attempting to develop agriculture to the nth degree. Why couldn’t you enter into that in the same spirit your grandmother did? …Because you’re rooted in the soil, need you be a nonentity?”

Allen’s stirring words fall on deaf ears; Laura has already decided to pursue the celibate life, and has even promised her wealthy, childless aunt and uncle that she will remain unmarried and look after them as a daughter would, in return for inheriting their fortune, justifying this strangely unromantic and mercenary agreement by the excuse that it will allow her to pursue her writer’s career without worry and interruption.

The only fly in this particular ointment is that Laura is no prodigy; her talent is modest at best, as she is slowly beginning to realize.

The rest of the story follows its predictable-from-the-first-page path; no surprises here. Laura does marry Allen and dedicate herself to the farm; there are some tough years, but even through these Laura`s issues are not on par with those of her grandmother’s generation. Laura bemoans the fact that she cannot afford new curtains, and a new carpet, and a new dress; Abbie Deal dealt with life and death concerns and had a much more elemental notion of what the truly important things in life were than her grandchild ever faces up to.

I do get the feeling, however, that Aldrich portrays this dichotomy deliberately; the decadence of the descendents of the pioneers, though sympathetically portrayed, is a common undercurrent of her books I’ve read so far. She was obviously very interested in the generational and cultural shifts of the pioneer-to-modern era, and by and large captures the essence of the succeeding generations and their attitudes towards those who came before.

I will be reading more of this author’s works, as opportunity allows, though I doubt I will go to a lot of effort to seek them out. And while White Bird was not a particularly strong novel, it had its generally well-written and thoughtful moments, and I will overlook my vague annoyance at self-centered Laura and her self-created melodramas to classify it merely as a lesser entry into the long-respected Aldrich canon.

I am editing this review to add a Young Adult classification. It was re-published by Scholastic, after all, and the subject matter may be of interest to teenage readers, though I suspect many of them will be as annoyed at Laura as I am.

Posted in 1930s, Aldrich, Bess Streeter, Read in 2012 | Tagged , | 1 Comment »

Poem: “The Baler” by Hayden Carruth

July 10, 2012 by leavesandpages

The Baler

You tourist composed upon that fence
to watch the quaint farmer at his quaint task
come closer, bring your camera here 
or fasten your telescopic lens 
if you're too indolent; all I ask 
is that when you go home you take 
a close-up among your color slides 
of vacationland, to show we pay the price 
for hay, this actual panic: no politic fear 
but tumbling wild waves down the windrows, tides 
of crickets, grasshoppers, meadow mice, 
and half-feathered sparrows, whipped by a bleeding snake.
 
Hayden Carruth, circa 1970

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My World: Summer Blues

July 8, 2012 by leavesandpages

A glimpse into my world. Red melic and delphinium against a blue blue July sky, early morning. We are haying after all – got called in to harvest 20 acres for a neighbour a few miles down the road – I am enjoying the brief lull this morning before the hours of heat and dust and rattling around on our ancient tractor which await me this afternoon. Summertime – while the living ain’t necessarily easy, it does feel pretty darned good!

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Poem: “Leaves of Grass, Flowers of Grass” by D.H. Lawrence

July 8, 2012 by leavesandpages

Leaves of Grass, Flowers of Grass

Leaves of grass, what about leaves of grass?
Grass blossoms, grass has flowers, flowers of grass
dusty pollen of grass, tall grass in its midsummer maleness
hay-seed and tiny grain of grass, graminiferae
not far from the lily, the considerable lily;
 
even the blue-grass blossoms;
even the bison knew it;
even the stupidest farmer gathers his hay in bloom, in blossom
 just before it seeds.
 
Only the best matters; even the cow knows it;
grass in blossom, blossoming grass, risen to its height and its natural pride
in its own splendour and its own feathery maleness
the grass, the grass.
 
Leaves of grass, what are leaves of grass, when at its best grass blossoms.
 

D.H. Lawrence, circa 1920

Posted in 1920s, Poetry | Tagged | 1 Comment »

Review: An American Girl in London by Sara Jeannette Duncan

July 7, 2012 by leavesandpages

An American Girl in London by Sara Jeannette Duncan ~ 1891. This edition: Rand, McNally & Co., circa 1900. Inscription: “To another American girl – Mary Couch Huntington, Xmas 1900.” Hardcover. 290 pages.

My rating: 7.5/10

This is that most pleasant of things, a book purchased on a whim for a for a minor sum, which turns out to be a grand read, and then, even better, to add another author to the “keep an eye out for” list.

I paid 50 cents for this “genuine antique”; it was half-price book day at the local Sally Ann; I dipped into the gilt-edged, obviously well-read volume and it looked promising, well worth a tiny monetary gamble. I had initially thought that it was a volume of genuine reminiscences, but early in I realized that it was instead a gently satirical fiction. I found myself completely drawn into Miss Mamie Wick’s fresh and frank dialogue, and I eagerly followed her as she solitarily travels from Chicago to New York, and sets sail for England.

What a grand period piece this amusing novel is! Written in the late 1800s, the narrator is not shy of poking gentle fun at herself and the thousands of her American compatriots who are eager to explore England’s historical places and partake of whatever social whirl they can shoehorn themselves into.

Our own Miss Wick is extremely fortunate in her shipboard acquaintances; she makes a strong impression on a young British aristocrat (how strong becomes quite apparent to us early on, and to Mamie herself at long last, near the end of the story), as well as on an initially frosty elderly ladyship who completely unthaws under the influence of Mamie’s unusual charm, with interesting further consequences.

Mamie does all of the typical American tourist things; she visits Madame Tussaud’s, the London Zoo, the Epsom Derby, boat races at Oxford, and all the rest, but her aristocratic acquaintances smooth her way to higher levels and grander experiences than most American tourists ever attain, and she shares every impression with us. I did truly get a vivid picture of what the England of the time (at least in the relatively “higher” circles in which Mamie’s social class moved) looked, sounded and felt like through Mamie’s eyes; the author, while maintaining a delicately cynical tone, obviously had a great fondness for all of the best aspects of contemporary and historical England and her inhabitants.

The protagonist is thoroughly likeable and full of little unexpected insights and surprises; I laughed out loud several times at her philosophizing and her witty internal voice; she doesn’t miss much, but she continually minds her manners and behaves with impeccable politeness, much to her credit, as the same cannot be said of some of the people she encounters.

My only complaint was that the ending was much too sudden; it was the only part of the story that felt a bit forced; but as we could have gone on with Mamie forever I suppose it was a necessary break.

I was so impressed by this story and its unexpected quality that I researched the author. Lo and behold – Sara Jeannette Duncan turns out to be a well-respected and quite well-known turn of the century Canadian author and journalist. Here she is:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sara_Jeannette_Duncan

http://www.biographi.ca/009004-119.01-e.php?&id_nbr=7912

Several of Sara Jeannette Duncan’s works are available on Project Gutenberg, and many of her works are still in print; she is apparently a staple of Canadian women’s studies courses at our universities. Who knew?! (Well, obviously a lot of people. Just not me. But I know now!)

And I am mildly thrilled to discover that An American Girl has a sequel,  A Voyage of Consolation. I started reading this on Gutenberg last night, and then decided to quit with that and try instead to find a print copy; I want to read it in perfect comfort, meaning not on a screen, and then place it on my shelf next to my newest antique, ready for re-reading at my leisure.

Sara Jeannette Duncan’s more serious works, fictional and journalistic, are now top of my look-for list, and if these light novels are any indication, she will be a smooth and witty read in any genre.

Bonus: I can add this review as my second entry in the 6th Canadian Book Challenge: http://www.bookmineset.blogspot.ca/2012/06/6th-annual-canadian-book-challenge-what.html

This author is authentically Canadian, despite the title of this piece, which had led me to initially assume she was American, and her body of work reflects her native land, though she did leave Canada both to travel widely in her journalistic career and to accompany her British husband on his postings abroad. Sara Jeannette Duncan died in England in 1922, at the much-too-young age of 62.

Posted in Canadian Book Challenge #6, Duncan, Sara Jeannette, Read in 2012 | Tagged , , , , | 4 Comments »

Poem: “Maud Muller” by John Greenleaf Whittier

July 5, 2012 by leavesandpages

The sun is finally shining after several weeks of rain, with a forecast of a week of sun and heat, and the Cariboo is alive with the sound of swathers as everyone scrambles to cut their hay. I was out early this morning “looking at the sky” as the ranchers would say, and rather wishing I could be getting ready to cut as well. This year we are grazing off our hayfields in preparation for mid-summer reseeding, so we are feeling a bit anticlimactic as this is the first time in 20-some years the tractor is sitting idle as all around us the farming year hits a high peak of activity.

As I leaned on the fence and mused on summers past, the first lines of this poem, relic of a childhood affection for an old anthology titled Best-Loved American Poems, came suddenly into my head. Rather than  searching through the shelves for the book itself, I turned to the trusty internet. And here she is –  Maud Muller in her innocent glory. A little trip down memory lane, in honour of sun and summer and the sweet smell of hay.

Enjoy!

MAUD MULLER

Maud Muller, on a summer’s day,
Raked the meadows sweet with hay.
 
Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
Of simple beauty and rustic health.
 
Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee
The mock-bird echoed from his tree.
 
But, when she glanced to the far-off town,
White from its hill-slope looking down,
 
The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast–
 
A wish, that she hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.
 
The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
Smoothing his horse’s chestnut mane.
 
He drew his bridle in the shade
Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid,
 
And ask a draught from the spring that flowed
Through the meadow across the road.
 
She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up,
And filled for him her small tin cup,
 
And blushed as she gave it, looking down
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.
 
“Thanks!” said the Judge, “a sweeter draught
From a fairer hand was never quaffed.”
 
He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees,
Of the singing birds and the humming bees;
 
Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.
 
And Maud forgot her briar-torn gown,
And her graceful ankles bare and brown;
 
And listened, while a pleasant surprise
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.
 
At last, like one who for delay
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away,
 
Maud Muller looked and sighed: “Ah, me!
That I the Judge’s bride might be!
 
“He would dress me up in silks so fine,
And praise and toast me at his wine.
 
“My father should wear a broadcloth coat;
My brother should sail a painted boat.
 
“I’d dress my mother so grand and gay,
And the baby should have a new toy each day.
 
“And I’d feed the hungry and clothe the poor,
And all should bless me who left our door.”
 
The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill,
And saw Maud Muller standing still.
 
“A form more fair, a face more sweet,
Ne’er hath it been my lot to meet.
 
“And her modest answer and graceful air
Show her wise and good as she is fair.
 
“Would she were mine, and I to-day,
Like her, a harvester of hay:
 
“No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs,
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues,
 
“But low of cattle, and song of birds,
And health, and quiet, and loving words.”
 
But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold,
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold.
 
So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on,
And Maud was left in the field alone.
 
But the lawyers smiled that afternoon,
When he hummed in court an old love-tune;
 
And the young girl mused beside the well,
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.
 
He wedded a wife of richest dower,
Who lived for fashion, as he for power.
 
Yet oft, in his marble hearth’s bright glow,
He watched a picture come and go:
 
And sweet Maud Muller’s hazel eyes
Looked out in their innocent surprise.
 
Oft when the wine in his glass was red,
He longed for the wayside well instead;
 
And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms,
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms.
 
And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain,
“Ah, that I were free again!
 
“Free as when I rode that day,
Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay.”
 
She wedded a man unlearned and poor,
And many children played round her door.
 
But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain,
Left their traces on heart and brain.
 
And oft, when the summer sun shone hot
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot,
 
And she heard the little spring brook fall
Over the roadside, through the wall,
 
In the shade of the apple-tree again
She saw a rider draw his rein,
 
And, gazing down with timid grace,
She felt his pleased eyes read her face.
 
Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls
Stretched away into stately halls;
 
The weary wheel to a spinnet turned,
The tallow candle an astral burned;
 
And for him who sat by the chimney lug,
Dozing and grumbling o’er pipe and mug,
 
A manly form at her side she saw,
And joy was duty and love was law.
 
Then she took up her burden of life again,
Saying only, “It might have been.”
 
Alas for maiden, alas for Judge,
For rich repiner and household drudge!
 
God pity them both! and pity us all,
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall;
 
For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these: “It might have been!”
 
Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies
Deeply buried from human eyes;
 
And, in the hereafter, angels may
Roll the stone from its grave away!

John Greenleaf Whittier, 1856

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Review: Dancing Girls by Margaret Atwood

July 3, 2012 by leavesandpages

Dancing Girls by Margaret Atwood ~1977. This edition: Bantam Seal, 1978. Paperback. ISBN: 0-7704-1531-1. 245 pages.

My rating: 5.5/10. A few too many misses for a really high rating.

*****

A collection of short stories written early in the career of Canadian icon Atwood.

I have an ambiguous relationship with Margaret Atwood, or, rather, her work. I greatly admire the real person; Atwood has become an outspoken and lucid critic of much of what is troublesome about Canadian societal, political and environmental issues. I have heard many of her interviews and lectures via our venerable CBC Radio, lifeline of many Canadian rural dwellers far from the bright lights of the cities which have absorbed the majority of the population in this vast and still-wilderness-filled land. Just thinking about her, Atwood’s distinctive voice fills my head; nasal, cynical, with a deadpan delivery that would make her a knock-out stand-up comic if she were ever to desire to switch careers at this late date.

But… I am not completely comfortable with much of her written work. I’ve read all the novels dutifully as they’ve appeared through the years, as a typical middle-aged, literate, Canadian liberal feminist (as good a description of my demographic as any) should. I can nod and smile knowingly during literary discussions with the local intelligentsia, though I add little to the conversation myself; I am very aware of my value as an audience to my much more vocal acquaintances and have no real desire to step into the conversational limelight myself much of the time; it’s simpler to stand by and listen…but I digress.

Atwood. How to describe my feelings? Well… ambiguous… I guess. There is no doubt that the woman can write. Her words flow, dance, surprise, shock – grand stuff indeed! But too often I put down the latest Atwood feeling a vague dissatisfaction. Are things really that bad? Are all of our relationships – friendly, familial, societal and particularly sexual and marital – as deeply flawed as Atwood continually portrays? A course of Margaret Atwood often drives me to the other extreme; to the literary arms of, say, Elizabeth Goudge, with her encouragements of perseverance and sacrifice rewarded, versus Atwood’s cynical view that it doesn’t really matter how hard you try, you’re pretty well screwed from the get-go. (I rather agree, but all in all, it’s not that bad; most of us muddle along with a fair amount of happiness despite the inevitable rough bits. Don’t we?)

But this woman can write.

Here is what you’ll find in Dancing Girls.

***  =  the ones I greatly enjoyed.

*  =  Worth reading.

The rest I rather wish I hadn’t subjected myself to, though opinions obviously will differ.

  • The War in the Bathroom – A week in the life of a woman who has apparently descended into some form of mental illness; she has split into two personalities; the intellectual (controlling) and the physical (responding). Typically depressing; not one of the gems of this collection.
  • ***The Man From Mars – An unattractive student is targeted by a stalker, “a person from another culture”.  I liked this one. Melancholy (of course!) but very well presented; cynically amusing; I can hear Atwood’s best voice loud and clear.
  • Polarities – A woman goes slowly mad. Dreary as the winter setting and the doomed relationships it describes.
  • Under Glass – Another doomed love affair. Sad, sad, sad.
  • The Grave of the Famous Poet – A journey becomes a metaphor for another imploding relationship.
  • ***Rape Fantasies – This one story is probably worth buying the book for. Four young women discuss rape fantasies. Atwood at her wickedly humorous best.
  • ***Hair Jewellery – Beautifully written. Another relationship unravelling, but the protagonist moves successfully on. Or at least so we think.
  • ***When It Happens – An elderly woman prepares for the end of the world. Haunting.
  • A Travel Piece – A travel writer on a trip that goes terribly wrong. Taps into all of my worst-case flight scenario fears. Wish I hadn’t read this one – personal nightmare stuff!
  • The Resplendent Quetzal – Too many details about an unhappy marriage and the petty meannesses that bitter people resort to.
  • *Training – A young man examines his motivations and innermost feelings as he deals with his family’s and his own expectations for his future.
  • *Lives of the Poets – This one feels autobiographical. Another relationship tragedy, enhanced by the futility of struggling artistic careers.
  • *Dancing Girls – Culture clashes in a rooming house.
  • ***Giving Birth – The ambiguities of expectant and new motherhood. Excellent.

Posted in 1970s, Atwood, Margaret, Canadian Book Challenge #6, Read in 2012, Short Stories | Tagged , | Leave a Comment »

The Canadian Book Challenge 6 – July 1, 2012 to June 30, 2013

July 3, 2012 by leavesandpages

The 6th Annual Canadian Book Challenge

The 6th Annual Canadian Book Challenge

13 (or more) Canadian books in 365 days – Read, Review and Share

I’m in!

Posted in Canadian Book Challenge #6 | Tagged | Leave a Comment »

Review: The Day of Small Things by O. Douglas (Anna Buchan)

July 2, 2012 by leavesandpages

The Day of Small Things by O. Douglas ~ 1930. This edition: Thomas Nelson & Sons, Ltd., no date stated;circa 1950. Hardcover. 286 pages.

My rating: 8/10

Who hath despised the day of small things?

Zechariah, iv. 10

Good things sometimes come in unpromising packages. Check out the cover illustration of this small novel. What would you think?  Perhaps a children’s holiday tale? Given the Biblical-reference title, what about a religious story-tract, one of those saccharine preachy ones so distressingly common in vintage book stacks? Girls’ school story? Luckily, it’s none of the above. Instead, a delightful “character” novel following the lives and thoughts of a group of women in a seacoast town in Scotland between the wars.

I was familiar with O. Douglas only through one of her earlier books, Penny Plain, which, while a pleasant and quaint diversion, was not a masterpiece by any stretch. The Day of Small Things, published 10 years after Penny Plain, is not a masterpiece either, but it is rewarding to see how the author has refined her craft in the years between the two books.  While Penny Plain is generally competently and appealingly written; Small Things is exponentially better.

This book is a sequel to an earlier novel, The Proper Place (1926), concerning an aristocratic Scottish family, the Rutherfurds, forced by circumstances to sell the family estate. Lady Jane has lost both of her sons in the recent Great War; the subsequent death of her husband and unexpected financial hardship prompts her one remaining child, a daughter, Nicole, to suggest their removal to a smaller establishment more within their new means. Accompanying them is Lady Jane’s niece, Barbara, but she has married and is back at Rutherfurd Hall at the opening of Small Things, leaving Lady Jane and Nicole in their new home, Harbour House, close by the sea’s edge in the fictional east coast town of Kirkmeikle.

I found the first few chapters rather confusing, as they continually reference people, places and events that I felt I should have known much more about; such is the nature of a sequel. However, I soon sorted it all out due to the author’s clarity of conversational “sorting out”, and I proceeded on my way, enjoying the story at hand while mentally resolving to read the earlier novel as soon as possible.

In The Day of Small Things, Nicole and Lady Jane have become more than reconciled with their new life; they have made Harbour House a refuge from the world’s storms for themselves and a varied parade of friends. Into their peaceful world comes a disruptive influence in the form of Althea Gort, Lady Jane’s sister-in-law’s niece. Child of a notoriously ill-matched and eventually divorced society couple, nineteen-year-old Althea is now an orphan, and well used to rejection. Her aunt wishes her upon the Rutherfurds hoping they will provide a settling influence, and also to remove Althea from an undesirable lover. While Lady Jane is welcoming, both Nicole and Althea bristle at the thought of sharing a home with each other – their upbringings and personalities are diametrically opposed and they resent each other even before they meet.

The transformation of Althea runs through this novel. There are many interweavings of  personal stories, and a wide array of characters. Those that stand out are the matronly “middle class”  (by her own description) Mrs. Heggie and her brusque but talented poet daughter Joan, and the newly widowed Esmé Jameson, seeking solace in a new home and garden, after nursing her husband through years of pain and suffering caused by his war injuries.

A theme that runs through both this novel and, to a lesser extent, Penny Plain, are the changes in social class and the blurring of societal boundaries since the war. The Rutherfurds are of the old aristocracy, but they also realize that their traditional “time at the top” has come to an end; they are gracious in their ceding to a new social order, while the strivings of the strong and rising “upper middle class” and the nouveau riche incomers are observed with a wry and humorous (but generally benign) eye. As in Penny Plain, wartime recovery, dealing with grief, and drastically changed circumstances also shadow a story mostly concerned with small doings; friends and social rivals drink tea, gossip and jockey either delicately or robustly for position among the evolving small-town cliques.

While one of the love stories in this tale resolves itself in the traditional way, another does not; the circumstances of both are well-handled by the author. There is a lot of emphasis on doing one’s duty and the importance of willing sacrifice of personal desires; again, these unfashionable moralities are handled with sensitivity and humour by the characters.

The narrative is flawed at times; some of the characters are improbably “good” in their thoughts and actions, though all are allowed to show a glimmer of human temper and weakness on occasion, saving the story from blandness.

I enjoyed this book enough to actively seek out more of O. Douglas’s titles; a number are being brought back into print, and several are available through Project Gutenberg, but as I prefer early edition hardcovers I have gone ahead and ordered several through the trusty ABE network; Priorsford, which is the sequel to Penny Plain, and The Proper Place, the prequel to The Day of Small Things.

These are just what I need right now, as in my real life there is a certain amount of emotional turmoil as friends and family deal with health problems and other life-altering challenges; we have very recently lost a dear family member to illness at much too young an age; books such as these are a diversion and something of a comfort as the characters are dealing hopefully and gracefully with similar universal problems.

Posted in 1930s, Douglas, O. (pseudonym of Anna Buchan), Read in 2012 | Tagged , | 1 Comment »

Review: Penny Plain by O. Douglas (Anna Buchan)

June 28, 2012 by leavesandpages

penny plain hc dj o douglasPenny Plain by O. Douglas ~ 1920. This edition: Thomas Nelson & Sons, circa 1950. No publication date can be found, but the flyleaf is inscribed “Christmas 1950”.  Hardcover. 380 pages.

My rating: 7.5/10

I picked up this title many years ago and regularly re-read it but I did not realize until just recently that the author, O. Douglas, still has a popular following, with a number of her books still in print and more planned for re-issue.

O. Douglas is the pseudonym of Anna Buchan, sister of John Buchan  (The Thirty-Nine Steps et al.)  While their works are not at all alike it is perhaps not surprising that a writerly talent would run in the family. O. Douglas was a bestselling author in her own right, as John Buchan was in his.

Penny Plain is a rather innocuous little story, but none the less enjoyable for its quietness; in fact, that would appear to be its intent. Its heroine is a 23-year-old Scottish woman, Jean Jardine, who lives in the small fictional Scottish town of Priorsford. Jean and her two brothers were orphaned at a young age and were brought up by a strictly religious aunt; Jean in particular has had instilled in her a strong sense of morality and duty which balance nicely with her natural exuberance and generosity. The aunt has gone on to her greater reward, and Jean is now the head of a lively household of siblings.

As the story opens, Jean is preparing to send her 19-year-old brother David off to his first term at Oxford. Money is very tight and Jean worries that he will find it a challenge to move as an equal with other students from much wealthier backgrounds. Jean worries a lot, and for a valid reason; she is of a naturally maternal bent, and besides David her responsibilities include another brother, 14-year-old Jock, and an adopted brother, 7-year-old Gervase.

A new neighbour is about to sooth the pain of David’s departure by giving new life to the small community’s social circles. The Honorable Pamela Reston, 40 years old and facing a serious life-altering decision, has decided to make a retreat from the social whirl of her bust London life to quiet Priorsford,  to sort herself out and settle her mind with some musing time. She and her cheerfully outspoken maid Mawson have taken rooms with Miss Bella Bathgate, who, finding herself financially struggling since the war (the story is set several years post-Great War, about 1919-20) has decided to let rooms in her large house. The interplay between dour Scotswoman Miss Bathgate, Cockney Mawson, and English aristocrat Pamela is amusingly presented, and comes off well. O. Douglas bravely tackles several dialects, and the various voices come through loud and clear, though the reader will need to shift mental gears and pay close attention to the Bella-Mawson interchanges..

Pamela and Jean become fast friends upon their first meeting; Pamela is attracted to Jean’s sincere and gentle nature and Jean finds much to admire in Pamela’s outgoing and affable personality. They find they have many tastes in common, though Jean refuses to be patronized by her much wealthier friend and holds her own when her strongly conservative beliefs are challenged. The story progresses at a leisurely pace, describing the society of Priorsford, the tea parties and social encounters and continual interplay between the classes, with glimpses into the strivings, pleasures and pains of each set of characters.

This is what this book does so well. It is a true period piece; a story set in the time it was written, with happenings and emotions drawn from the real experiences and observations of the author. The Great War – World War I – is just over. Many of the characters are dealing with devastating loss – the actual loss of fathers, sons, brothers to the fighting; the loss of peace and emotional security as post-war adjustments are struggled with; and the loss of financial security as the war has affected investments and increased taxation. An undercurrent of grief and longing runs under the happy-go-lucky storyline, and we never lose sight of the gallantry of everyday people putting on brave faces and doing the best they can with what they have left. Few bemoan their fate; it’s all very stiff-upper-lip, but there are many poignant moments to keep the lightheartedness in balance.

The slender plot of the story itself is predictable to the extreme. It is simply boy-meets-girl, part ways, and come together again. Pamela happens to have a younger unmarried brother, Lord Bidborough, who comes to visit her in her self-imposed exile. He is immediately smitten by gentle Jean. Jean is smitten in turn, but her strong sense of duty to her brothers, combined with her fastidious morality which looks askance at the idea of a poor girl “running after” a rich man nips their relationship in the bud, at least temporarily. The Jardines themselves have an older unmarried cousin, Lewis Elliot, who happens to be a childhood acquaintance of Pamela’s; they renew their relationship with predictable results. Add in a mysterious visitor , and the unexpected rewarding of Jean’s good deeds and giving nature, and you have the outline of what could be a saccharine and preachy tale, but which somehow transcends its genre and results in a very likeable little feel-good tale. The author stays true to form and provides an unashamedly happy ending.

This is not an “important” book, but it is surprisingly attractive in its simplicity. I do believe the author succeeded in what she set out to do; to tell a pleasant tale about likeable people coping with difficult times and overcoming their personal challenges. There is no hidden meaning or deeper agenda; it is very much what it appears to be; a few hours of pleasure for readers, to allow them to escape into a fictional world that could very well be real, but where problems are happily resolved and virtue is rewarded; where tragedy is present and recognized, but where people overcome and cope, and where life very much goes on.

I have just come across another O. Douglas novel, The Day of Small Things, and I am looking forward with mild anticipation to reading this, and to exploring this writer’s works a bit more as circumstances allow.

Cover images supplied of two early issues courtesy ABE, though not my own copy, which is a small “austerity” edition with badly damaged black boards. I suspect my copy is wartime (WW II, that is) or immediately post-war issue; there is a list of other books of note and this statement from the publisher: “It is regretted that, while the present paper shortage persists, your bookseller will not always be able to supply the book you want.”

Posted in 1920s, Douglas, O. (pseudonym of Anna Buchan), Read in 2012 | Tagged , | 5 Comments »

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