Like South Riding, Anderby Wold is set in Yorkshire and deals with a community struggling with social change.  Mary Robson is a young woman who has married her cousin in order to have the means to pay off the mortgage on her family farm and the skills to keep it running.  Life in Anderby Wold is hard but quiet until David Rossitur, a young handsome social reformer, arrives and begins to shake things up, not least on Mary Robson’s farm.

Anderby Wold is nowhere near as polished and accomplished as South Riding but it is by no means a bad novel; Winifrd Holtby not at her best is still Winifred Holtby after all.  Its focus is narrower, on a few key players rather than each individual in a community, but many of the themes which will be developed and expanded in her later work are present in their nuculaic form here.  There is the same emphasis on the indivdual as part of the community and the differences between individual responsibility and social responsibility.  It’sreally very difficult not to make this sound incredibly dull, but in fact it paints a fascinating picture of a community going through a time of quiet but important change.

One of the things that has impressed me about both Holtby novels that I’ve read so far is her ability to create characters who are neither inherently good nor inherently bad.  Everyone has an opinion that they think is right and good: giving to the poor, workers’ rights and social equality.  It’s difficult to disagree with any of them individually, but each character’s approach towards achieving what is right is somehow at odds with that of the others and therein lies the conflict.  People do bad things, but noone is bad.  There is no villain to boo; instead there is a complicated moral maze which Holtby refuses to guide the reader through.  Instead she happily abandons you there, leaving you to find your own way out, and that for me was the main appeal of Anderby Wold.

Anderby Wold by Winifred Holtby.  Published by Virago, 2011, pp. 278.  Originally published in 1923.

The House in Dormer Forest follows the fortunes of the Darke family and their servants who live and work in Dormer Old House.  It’s difficult for me to summarise the plot so long after reading the book, but I’ve copied the blurb from the back of the book in my initial post concerning the novel.  Suffice to say that it is dark and oppressive and Stella Gibbons can’t have had much work to do in producing a parody, as the writing is so incredibly overwrought it almost feels like a pastiche to begin with.

Occasionally (very occasionally), her writing is intentionally amusing as Webb reveals her characters to the reader:

“I can’t be thwarted!” grandmother suddenly broke out.  She had a theory that, if crossed, she would die.  She was fond of saying: “I’ve got a weak ‘eart, Rachel!” –dropping her “h” not because she could not aspirate it, but because she did not see why, at her age, any letter of the alphabet should be her master.

I think this perfectly encapsulates grandmother Darke’s (the obvious counterpart of Aunt Ada Doom in Cold Comfort Farm) tyrannical desire to control everything and the manipulation ways in which she does so. 

Sometimes, the language is wild and beautiful, if rather over dramatic:

Dormer, in its cup at the bases of the hills, was always full of damp air and the sound of water.  Besieged by this grievous music — and what is there in nature sadder than the lament of falling water? — she felt as if she had opened the door not to the night and the stream, but on to a future full of doubt and dread, veiled in mist.

Yes, it’s a little bit much, but it’s suitably atmospheric and I think it’s quite effective.  I’m partial to the odd Victorian sensation novel so I am more than willing to forgive melodrama under the right circumstances.  Unfortunately, the majority of the time, the language tends towards being florid to the point of being ridiculous:

Who would ever seek in Amber Darke, so still, of so sad-coloured an exterior, the creature of fire and tears that could feed a man’s heart with faery food and call him into Paradise with songs wild as those of hawks on the untrodden snow-fields?

I appreciate that Webb is trying to emphasise how plain Amber is compared to other more attractive, lively women and therefore unlikely to attract her ideal husband, but really, Mary, is this necessary?  Faery food?  Hawks?  Untrodden fields (which seems an odd place for the hawks to be on; I would have assumed they were in the air as birds of prey hopping along the ground are really quite comedic and not at all wild and romantic as I think Webb is trying to suggest).  Jane Eyre has exactly the same thoughts about being plain and therefore unlikely to attract attention, but Bronte manages to express them without recourse to overblown similes about hawks and fairies, in a way which makes the reader sympathise with Jane rather than giggle at her.  Sadly for Amber, I found her impossible to relate to because her inner life is so ridiculous and extravagant rather than believeable.

The best example of this overwrought style comes when Jasper has gone to a track known ominously (everything in this novel happens ominously) as ‘the Beast Walk’ to think about things:

To climb this path harrowed his soul, made is face even at ten years look quite wizened.  But now, in his young manhood, the dark spell was infinitely stronger.  He drank here of a charm thick as black honey made from purple poison flowers by bees in hell.

Intellectually I know that this is supposed to show Jasper brooding and generally being consumed by dark thoughts; in reality I was too busy pondering why there are bees and flowers in hell, if the bees have committed some terrible sin and are therefore condemned to an eternity of making black honey and what this might be supposed to taste like.  Who on earth imagines a hell which features bees and flowers?  On the whole, I have to conclude that metaphors generally work best if the thing to which you are comparing something else actually exists or at the very least makes sense to your readers.  This is just ridiculous.

I can forgive ridiculous writing if a book has something else to recommend it (as in the case of early gothic novels which I also rather enjoy).  However, the plot of The House in Dormer Forest is one of sheer, unrelenting doom in which no one is ever happy and everyone goes on about it at length.  The atmosphere is suffocatingly dark and claustrophobic, and while this may have been the desired effect I think it needed to be accompanied by better writing so  that the reader could at least have had something to enjoy in the novel.  The only grim humour comes in the form of Sarah, a servant who visits retribution on those who displease her by deliberately breaking their china ornaments and gluing the shards together to form a globe.

As always, my views are entirely subjective and it could be that I’ve missed the point of Webb’s novel entirely.  Search for this book on Amazon UK and you will find the same effusive 5 star review posted no less than twenty-two times, which makes me somewhat dubious about it, but this review from a website featuing the Midlands in literature provides an interesting counterpoint to my own opinions which is much more praise-filled.  The general consensus seems to be that this was by no means Webb’s best novel, so I will continue to read the rest of her books and see if I enjoy those more than I did The House in Dormer Forest.

The House in Dormer Forest by Mary Webb.  Published by Virago, 1983, pp. 292.  Originally published in 1920.

Title:

Author: Edith Wharton

Published: Virago, 1994, pp. 303

Genre: Modern classic
Blurb:In the conformist, closed world of upper-class New York, Newland Archer anticipates his marriage to May Welland, a young girl “who knew nothing and expected everything”.  Into this ordered arrangement bursts May’s cousin Ellen, the mysterious and exotic Countess Olenska, on the run from an appallingly unhappy marriage.  She alternately captivates and outrages the New York milieu and, as Newland’s sympathy for her deepens into love, he not only gains insight into the brutality of society’s treatment of women, but discovers the real anguish of loving outside its rules.

When, where and why: I picked this up about a month ago from my favourite second hand book stall in Winchester because I’ve never read any Wharton before and that seemed like rather an oversight.  I was prompted to read it now to fulfill the ‘Read a book from the 1920′s Pulitzer Prize list’ category of my current reading challenge.

What I thought: By the time I had finished the first page of this book I was wondering to myself why on earth I’d never read any Edith Wharton before, and my incredulity only increased the more I read.  Everything about this book was fantastic: the story, the characters, the wit, the writing.  I don’t usually get quite this effusive about books, but it was love at first sight for me, and I think that The Age of Innocence may be my favourite book so far this year.

The tone of Wharton’s writing reminded me a lot of Jane Austen, although the style is very different; it has the same mix of humour and wry wit accompanying social commentary which somehow manages to be both affectionate and biting.  Through this delightful narrative style she reveals the old New York of the 1870′s in all its artificial, innocent, cruel glory, a beautiful, fragile world which is rigidly structured.

The heavy carpets, the watchful servants, the perpetually reminding tick of disciplined clocks, the perpetually renewed stack of cards and invitations on the hall table, the whole chain of tyrannical trifles binding one hour to the next, and each member of the household to all the others, made any less systematised and affluent existence seem unreal and precarious. p. 190

Wharton’s writing makes that world seem real and immediate.  The opening chapter in particular is full of asides in brackets explaining everything from what one should wear to which parts of the opera it is acceptable to talk through which feel as though the author is talking behind her hand to you and have the effect of plunging the reader right into the world of New York society.  Wharton has a way of using unusual, unexpected words to perfectly capture very specific individual details: an elderly matriarch discussing the entrance of new blood into her social circle is ‘carnivorous’ and a hat brim concealing May’s face from Archer is ‘conniving’.  I love these details she includes and that she makes it a full sensory experience, as when describing the morning of May and Archer’s wedding:

All the old ladies in both families had got out their faded sables and yellowing ermines, and the smell of camphor from the front pews almost smothered the faint spring scent of the lilies banking the altar. p. 159

However lively and detailed this world may be, it is undoubtedly artificial and characters mostly interact by just skimming along the surface of things, never troubling the depths beneath.  As Ellen Olenska observes,

the real loneliness is living among all these kind people who only ask one to pretend. p. 81

Ellen is a worthy catalyst for the novel.  Unlike Archer, Edith Wharton never shows a scene from her perspective and so she remains mysterious and intriguing.  Whereas the author often relates what Archer says immediately followed by what he wishes he could say, the reader is given no such insight into Ellen’s thoughts and her mind remains closed.  Consequently, I was just as captivated by her as Archer is.  Archer and Ellen have the sort of relationship that I wanted Anna and Vronsky to have in Anna Karenina.  Both relationships are forbidden and yet inevitable, but while Anna and Vronsky are selfish and jealous, Ellen and Archer are dignified, loyal, noble and all the more romantic for it.  Wharton creates lingering, heart-wrenching romance out of a few conversations and a mere three kisses and the reader cannot help but experience every nuance of it.  One of my favourite moments in the book is when Archer meets Ellen from the station and says:

“Do you know — I hardly remembered you?”

“Hardly remembered me?”

“I mean: how shall I explain?  I — it’s always so.  Each time you happen to me all over again.” p. 243

Their relationship is one of the most believable and engaging that I’ve encountered in classic literature, from its initial stages of friendship right through to the end.  I thought that the conclusion of their affair was poignant and perfect and, just like everything else about this book, I loved it.

Where this book goes: With such a glowing review, it won’t be surprising that I’m keeping this book.  It returns to the shelf and will bo doubt be joined by many other Wharton books; I think I may have found a new favourite author.

Tea talk: I’ve been indulging in one of my favourite teas: milk oolong from Char in Winchester.  Some form of magic in the leaves caused by rapidly changing temperatures makes this tea taste milky, sweet and slightly peachy.  It’s delicious.