In Liza of Lambeth, Maugham draws on his own experiences as a trainee doctor who would frequently be called to attend on people in the poorer areas of London.  Liza is an eighteen year old factory worker who enjoys dancing, drinking, wearing new clothes and generally living life to the full.  She lives with her aging mother, walks out with Tom and spends time with her friend Sally.  All this changes when a new family move in to the street and the father, the much older Jim Blakestone, starts paying attention to Liza.  Even though Jim is married, Liza finds herself unable to resist him and so begins her downfall.

Like Up at the Villa which I read earlier last year, this book is not at all the sort of book that it seems to be from the first chapter, which is so full of stereotypical cockney merriment and hijinks that I half expected Dick van Dyke to pop up and start performing a song and dance routine.  However, it does not take long for Maugham to reveal the hard reality of the daily lives of the inhabitants of Vere Street, in which all men beat their wives, women fight each other, and death is an ever-present possibility.  None of the characters ever seem particularly unhappy with their lot in life, facing their relative poverty with equanimity and good cheer, prosaically discussing the practicalities of having insured a person as they lie dying or excusing their husbands’ violence as just being down to drink.  Of course, this makes it all the more heart-breaking and shocking to read as a modern reader or even a Victorian reader of a higher class with different expectations of what life should be like.

There were two things that I found irritating in this book (although do remember that I was predisposed to be irritated anyway).  The first is Maugham’s attempt to reproduce a cockney accent in his writing.  Although it is usually possible to work out what characters were saying, unlike in some books where attempts at written accents make a character’s speech virtually unintelligible (Lorna Doone, I’m looking at you), it is rather grating.  I know Maugham wants to stop readers from imagining the inhabitants of Vere Street speaking in perfect RP, but this is already implied through vocabulary choice and the accent reproduction was a step too far for me.  The other thing was Liza and Jim’s relationship, which Maugham makes no attempt to explain.  The attraction for older, married Jim is obvious, but why does Liza fall in love with him?  She knows he is married with a daughter only a few years younger than her, she knows he beats his wife, she knows he gets drunk and yet still she goes with him.  When Liza is first introduced, she is such a feisty and opinionated character that I expected her to slap Jim and screech at him when she first feels him surreptitiously stroking her leg as he sits beside her in the cart, but she keeps quiet at the time and later lets him follow her home and kiss her.  Perhaps her downfall is supposed to seem all the more tragic because her love is inexplicable and illogical, but I personally found it too unbelievable.

I would have probably enjoyed this book more had I not read the introduction first, not because Maugham gives away anything of the story but because the writing in it out-classes that of the actual story completely.  The introduction is far more polished, professional and engaging and I found it more interesting than the story itself.  Liza of Lambeth was Maugham’s first novel, written when he was only twenty-three, and the introduction in the Vintage edition of the book was written for a retrospective collection of his works when he was a much older man with a much better developed writing style, so the discrepancy is entirely understandable.  Nevertheless, the comparison that it invites is not favourable and so this is another introduction which would be better moved to the end of the book, I think.

Liza of Lambeth by W. Somerset Maugham.  Published by Vintage, 2000, pp. 139.  Originally published in 1897.

Elizabeth and Her German Garden is a semi-autobiographical account of a year in the life of Elizabeth von Arnim in the garden of her house in Pomerania.  It is a book which is in equal parts an elegiac description of her physical surroundings and a keenly observed, wryly detached depiction of the people who inhabit that world with her, most of whom are apparently rather unwelcome.

At only 207 pages in the edition I read, and that with large type and larger margins, it is a short book but full of excellent content.  Whether she is discussing plants or people, von Arnim’s writing is a delight to read, and my copy of the book is littered with tiny bits of paper marking pages with particularly lovely passages.  Her musings on governesses are typical of her style which is both insightful and often amusing:

I wonder why governesses are so unpleasant.  The Man of Wrath says it is because they are not married.  Without venturing to differ entirely from the opinion of experience, I would add that the strain of continually having to set an example must surely be very great.  It is much easier, and often more pleasant, to be a warning than an example, and governesses are but women, and women are sometimes foolish, and when you want to be foolish it must be annoying to have to be wise. 

One of the things that struck me about this book was the faint air of sadness about it.  I think it came across particularly because of reading Perfume from Provence quite recently, which also has a section on the trials and tribulations of creating a beautiful European garden.  Whereas Winifred Fortescue’s happiness and enthusiasm burst from the page, Elizabeth appears to have a rather unhappy life and to be trying hard to create her own happiness along with her garden, although her attempts are often frustrated.  I initially thought that The Man of Wrath must be a teasing, affectionate name for her husband, but the more she spoke about him, the more apt the name seemed, while Winifred Fortescue and Monsieur are obviously perfectly matched and gloriously content together.  Had Perfume from Provence not been so fresh in my mind, this impression might not have come across so strongly, but as it is the tone felt slightly wistful.

I long more and more for a kindred spirit–it seems so greedy to have so much loveliness to oneself–but kindred spirits are so very, very rare; I might as well cry for the moon.  It is true that my garden is full of friends, only they are dumb.

In spite of this, Elizabeth and Her German Garden is not a sad or depressing book.  Von Arnim has a great sense of comedy and the book is filled with wit and charm.  Thankfully von Arnim seems to have been rather prolific, so I have plenty more of this to look forward to in her other novels.

Elizabeth and Her German Garden by Elizabeth von Arnim.  Published by Virago, 1995, pp. 207.  Originally published in 1898.

Maggie Tulliver is an intelligent, impetuous little girl who lives in the Mill of the title.  She plagues her mother with her unwillingness to behave in a neat, respectable way; she adores her straightforward but proud and litigious father; and she worships her older brother Tom, living for the times when he comes home from school.  As she grows up, the Tulliver’s fall on hard times and she is forced into more subdued behaviour, although her passionate nature and readiness to love remain simmering beneath the surface.  Slow and forthright Tom finds his place in his sister’s affections challenged by other men and Maggie faces difficult decisions.

Instead of focussing on romance as I expected, The Mill on the Floss is a book which explores relationships of all different kinds.  It examines the ties that bind an extended family network of aunts, uncles and cousins together through thick and thin, so that the relatives who scold and tut and say “I told you so” can nonetheless always be relied upon to provide support and lend a helping hand where necessary.  There are people drawn together out of pity, duty, friendship and tolerance.  The romantic relationships depicted in the book vary widely in their nature, their causes and their means of expression; some arise out of kindness and mutual loneliness rather than love, while others are due to restlessness and adventure.  Some relationships are easy and others are difficult and these are not always the ones that the reader might expect.  And of course, there is never any doubt that the two most important men in Maggie’s life are her brother Tom and her father Mr Tulliver.

Maggie herself is a fascinating character.  As a quick-witted, volatile little girl of violent passions she is utterly believeable.  Her emotionally charged decisions to cut off her hair or to run away with the gypsies are shown as being perfectly logical through Maggie’s childliek reasoning, though her repentence following these irrevocable decisions is swift and easily anticipated by the reader.  Her growth into a quieter, more mature and subdued figure is equally believeable, although it is not a little disappointing to see her spirit being crushed by circumstances.  She is not the sort of character that is always likeable, but she is constantly fascinating and the reader genuinely wants her to find happiness.

The best aspect of the book, for me, was George Eliot’s prose which is always insightful and heartfelt.  For example, when she talks about Tom returning home from a term away at school:

But it was worth purchasing, even at the heavy price of the Latin Grammar — the happiness of seeing the bright light in the parlour at home, as the gig passed noiselessly over the snow-covered bridge: the happiness of passing from the cold air into the warmth and the kisses and smiles of that familiar hearth, where the pattern of the rug and the grate and the fire-irons were ‘first ideas’ that it was no more possible to criticize than the solidity and extension of matter.  There is no sense of ease like the ease we felt in those scenes where we were born, where objects become dear to us before we had known the labour of choice, and where the outer world seemed only an extension of our own personality: we accepted and loved it as we accepted our own sense of existence and our own limbs.  Very commonplace, even ugly, that furniture of our early home might look if it were put up to auction; an improved taste in upholstery scorns it; and is not the striving after something better and better in our surroundings the grand characteristic that distinguishes man from the brute — or, to satisfy a scrupulous accuracy of definition, that distinguishes the British man from the foreign brute?  But Heaven knows where that striving might lead us, if our affection had not a trick of twining round those old inferior things — if the loves and sanctities of our life had no deep immovable roots in memory.

Unfortunately, just as I keep reading books I don’t enjoy in the hope that they will improve, so a book can deteriorate as it progresses, and I found myself loving The Mill on the Floss right up until the ending, which I loathed.  I’m desperately trying not to give anything away, but it is overly sentimental and completely out of keeping with the rest of the novel up to  that point both in content and tone.  I really wish that it had ended differently, but I remain pleased to have finally made it to the end of this book.

The Mill on the Floss by George Eliot.  Published by Fontana, 1979, pp. 507.  Originally published in 1860.

The eponymous Nicholas Nickleby travels to London with his mother and sister, Kate, following the death of his father which leaves his family penniless.  There he seeks help from their only remaining relative, Ralph Nickleby, who has no desire to assist Nicholas at all, and quickly packs him off to Yorkshire to take a low-paying job as assistant to the wicked school master Wackford Squeers.  After witnessing the cruelty that goes on at Dotheboys Hall, Nicholas finds himself unable to stop himself intervening as Squeers punishes a particularly wretched boy known as Smike and is forced to flee back to London following his actions.  THere he must once again find work to support his family, while defending his sister from the lecherous advances of Sir Mulberry Hawk and attempting to trace a mysterious lady he has seen.

There is much to be enjoyed in Nicholas Nickleby.  The plot is engaging and its episodic structure, a legacy of publication in installments no doubt, causes it to tear along at an impressive pace, surprising considering the size (not to mention the tiny print) of the volume.  The tone of the writing is often light and comic and it is populated by a whole host of entertaining caricatures, by turns repulsive and delightful, with equally entertaining names.  Who could fail to be intrigued by such intriguing, and indeed revealing, names as Smike, Newman Noggs, Madame Mantalini, Sir Mulberry Hawk, Lord Frederick Verisopht, the brothers Cheeryble and of course, Wackford Squeers?

The problem with Nicholas Nickleby is that, even with my limited experience of Dickens, I was able to guess exactly what would happen to every last character the moment that they were introduced.  This of course is not a problem in and of itself: there are plenty of authors whose books I love who are equally predictable.  So often in literature it is not where and author goes with a book but the way in which they get there that is of interest, and this is something that I didn’t find wholly satisfying with Nicholas Nickleby.  Dickens is by no means a concise writer and is often unnecessarily verbose, particularly when he was grinding the axe of social injustice.  I know that he writes social satire and that his novels were intended to bring the plight of the urban poor to the attention of the masses, but as a reader I think they detract from the story with their length and sentimentalism.

I also found that, much as I enjoy Dickens’ well-written and insightful caricatures, I missed the presence of more developed and believable characters in the novel.  This was particularly apparent with the young female characters, Kate Nickleby and Madeline Bray.  They seem to have no function other than to be good, beautiful and submissive and act as lures for the evil gentlemen and ultimate rewards for their good counterparts.  The two are so similar that they are virtually interchangeable, and I wish that they had at least a few distinguishing features and character traits.  From the amount of times I’ve heard Little Dorrit referred to as ‘Little Doormat’ it would seem that this might be a problem which extends beyond Nicholas Nickleby into Dickens’ other works.  I really hope that isn’t the case.

Nicholas Nickleby by Charles Dickens.  Published by Odhams, 1930, pp. 764.  Originally published in serial, 1838-1839.

The eponymous Warden is Mr Septimus Harding, who presides over the twelve bedesmen of Hiram’s Hospital, a local almshouse.  Everyone lives a comfortable, happy life until John Bold, a zealous young reformer who comes courting Mr Harding’s younger daughter, launches a campaign to redistribute the way that the income from the Hospital is apportioned between the bedesmen and the Warden as Bold believes the Warden receives an unfairly large amount.  Soon the press are involved, Mr Harding’s good reputation is tarnished, the bedesmen become increasingly eager for more money and Mr Harding’s son in law Archdeacon Grantley is interfering.  But the biggest problem of all turns out to be Mr Harding himself.

Ever since reading Elizabeth Goudge’s cathedral city books at the prompting of a wonderful English teacher I have been a fan of gentle stories of the clergy in which very little happens, so I was sold on the concept of The Warden before I even began to read it, and I wasn’t disappointed in the slightest.  The story is sweet, charming and amusing, absorbing because of its characters and the way in which it is told rather than for what happens.

By far the most appealing aspect of the book is Trollope himself.  His narratorial style is both distinctive and enjoyable.  I love the way in which he alternates between protesting that he has no control over what happens to the characters as they act entirely of their own volition and assuring the reader not to worry about the characters because he knows exactly what will happen to them and it is nothing bad.  His persona as the narrator come as being genial, jocular and slightly bumbling, like an elderly uncle in a Dickens novel (an impression not helped by his bearded and bespectacled physical appearance), but at the same time it is impossible to forget that as an author he is sharp and intelligent, capable of making keen observations and challenging accepted ideas even though the story itself is very mild.  I enjoyed this so much that I think I’d gladly read him talking about almost anything if this is the style in which he does it.  Thankfully I have lots more Trollope to discover as this impressively prolific author wrote forty-seven novels, as well as a handful of other works.

The Warden by Anthony Trollope, illustrated by Peter Reddick.  Published by the Folio Society, 1976, pp. 234.  Originally published in 1855.

As the title suggests, the book is a fictionalised diary of fifteen months in the life of an ordinary man .  Mr Charles Pooter is a middle class man, living in a typical London suburb, who works at a bank.  As he goes about his daily life, his aspirations are constantly frustrated by his troubles with his workmates, his layabout son, the tradespeople and the blasted scraper outside his door.

The aspect of this book that I enjoyed best was definitely Mr Pooter himself.  In spite of his pompous manner, his ineffectual nature, his jokes that fall flat and his highly inflated opinion of himself, I found him somehow endearing.  I rarely sympathised with him, he often frustrated me, but I liked him nonetheless.  His ill-advised notions (perhaps most delightfully deciding to paint everything with red enamel paint, leading to a rather bloody-looking bath after it dissolves in the hot water) often had me giggling.  His constantly frustrated narration is rather entertaining:

By-the-by, I will never choose another cloth pattern at night.  I ordered a new suit of dittos for the garden at Edwards’, and chose the pattern by gaslight, and they seemed to be a quiet pepper-and-salt mixture with white stripes down. They came home this morning, and, to my horror, I found it was quite a flash-looking suit.  There was a lot of green with bright yellow-coloured stripes.

I tried on the coat, and was annoyed to find Carrie giggling.  She said: “What mixture did you say you asked for?”

I said: “A quiet pepper-and-salt.”

Carrie said: “Well, it looks more like mustard, if you want to know the truth.”

How interesting that the Victorians evidently said “pepper and salt” instead of “salt and pepper” as I always hear it nowadays.  The things you learn from books.

I also appreciated the fact that not every entry was intended to be funny, which made it feel more like a real diary, with someone just recording the mundane things that had happened that day.  Often these entries provided build up to an amusing anecdote, but it nonetheless adds a flavour of realism to an otherwise comic novel.

Diary of a Nobody by George Grossmith, illustrated by Weedon Grossmith.  Published by Pan, 1947, pp. 171.  Originally published in 1892

Rudolph Rassendyll is an upper class English idler with a distinctive nose and red hair which suggest that rumours of a family connection to the royal family of Ruritania might just be true.  As upper class English idlers  were wont to do in the Victorian era, he decides to journey around Europe to kill some time and his travels soon lead him to Ruritania itself.  There he meets the king the night before his coronation and, amused by their uncanny resemblance to one another the king (also called Rudolph, naturally) invites English Rudolph to celebrate with him.  The next morning, the king’s retainers are horrified to find that his villainous half brother, Black Michael, has drugged the king so that he will be unable to attend his own coronation.  In desperation, Rudolph agrees to stand in for the king for the day, but by the time they return the king has been kidnapped and so the charade must continue until the king can be rescued from the castle of Zenda.  Meanwhile, Rudolph must avoid attempts on his life, fool the nation and court the king’s intended bride without falling in love with her himself.

This is the sort of book in which characters are black and white: every bad person is a dastardly, scheming, blackguard and every good person is honourable, gallant and virtuous.  It’s also the sort of book in which words like ‘blackguard’ and ‘cad’ (greatly underused in modern conversation, I feel) are thrown about with wild abandon.  There are duels, mysterious notes and daring escapes a-plenty.  It’s a rollicking adventure story, full of implausible plot twists and unlikely situations in which many buckles are swashed and swashes are buckled.  It’s language is arch and witty and it’s great fun to read.

The Prisoner of Zenda is also not at all what I expect when I think of Victorian literature.  However, as it was first published in 1894, Victorian is what it is.  When I think of Victorian literature, I tend to think of books that may be entertaining and absorbing but are rather weightier and more serious than Anthony Hope’s novel.  It’s easy to forget, I think, that the Victorians enjoyed fun and froth in their literature just as much as we do now, and that for every Jude the Obscure there were many more lighthearted, silly novels such as this one.  I’ll definitely be looking for the sequel to this book, Rupert of Hentzau, for the next time I need to be reminded that the Victorian era wasn’t all about morality and seriousness.  Does anyone know of any other similarly amusing Victorian literature?  I’d love to read some more.

The Prisoner of Zenda by Anthony Hope.  Published by Penguin, 2007, pp. 200.  Originally published in 1894.

I have a sizeable stack of unread Victorian novels on one of my shelves, which is rather worryingly suspended from the wall above my bed.  As death by collapsing bookshelf à la Leonard Bast in Howards End is not on my list of things to accomplish in 2011 (‘get married’ and ‘buy house’ take precedence over ‘die excruciatingly painful death’) I feel I should probably get around to reading some of them and removing the imminent peril.  Consequently, I was thrilled to stumble across the Victorian Literature Challenge 2011, run by Bethany of words, words, words.  It seems the ideal way to get me reading some of these rather intimidating tomes and also gives me plenty of people with whom to chat about them.  I look forward to seeing what everyone else reads.

What you need to know:

This challenge will run from 01 Jan 2011 – 31 Dec 2011.
Participants can sign up at any time throughout the year.

Read your Victorian literature.
Queen Victoria reigned from 1837-1901. If your book wasn’t published during those particular years, but is by an author considered ‘Victorian’ then go for it. We’re here for reading, not historical facts! Also, this can include works by authors from other countries, so long as they are from this period.

Literature comes in many forms.
There are so many Victorian reads out there, including novels, short stories, and poetry. One poem doesn’t count as a ‘book’: pick up an anthology instead!

Choose your books.
List your books before you begin, or pick up titles along the way. It’s up to you! You can review them if you choose to, but it’s not necessary. If you don’t have a blog, that’s fine! Link to a Facebook, or a page somewhere where you can list what you’ve been reading. If you can’t link up, no problem – feel free to just comment and enjoy.

Spread the love.

Post the reading challenge on your blog – make your own post(s), or stick the button on the side of your page. The more the merrier, after all. Let’s build a big community of Victorian literature lovers!

Choose from one of the four levels:

Sense and Sensibility: 1-4 books.
Great Expectations: 5-9 books.
Hard Times: 10-14 books.
Desperate Remedies: 15+ books.

• The Warden by Anthony Trollope (1855) – I really want to get to this one as I’ve been reliably informed that I will love it.
• Middlemarch (1871-72) and The Mill on the Floss (1860) by George Eliot – I’ve tried to read The Mill on the Floss twice now, but I’ve been unable to get into it.  I thought Silas Marner was excellent though, so I have encouragement.  Should I try the book a third time or try Middlemarch instead?
• Mary Barton by Elizabeth Gaskell (1848) – Cranford was such a sweet book that I definitely want to read more from this author, and this is the one that I happen to have on my shelves.
• Villette (1853) and Shirley (1849) by Charlotte Brontë - I hope to read Villette before the end of the year, but if not it will definitely be on the list as Jane Eyre is quite possibly my favourite book ever.
• The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (1848) and Agnes Grey (1847) by Anne Brontë – I’ve shamefully neglected this Brontë sister for far too long.  Which one should I try first?
• Something by Wilkie Collins – The Woman in White was one of my favourite books that I read this year.  I’ve already read The Moonstone, but so long ago that I can hardly remember it so I might revisit that one.  Alternatively, I could go for something new.  Any Collins recommendations?
• Something by Thomas Hardy – I started to read numerous novels by Hardy numerous times when I was younger but I found him so unrelentingly bleak and depressing that I never made it through a book and now I’m a bit Hardy-shy.  I think this is the year to conquer my fear of Hardy, so which would you say is his most approachable work (no joking and recommending Jude the Obscure)?  I have Tess of the D’Urbervilles and The Woodlanders, but I could probably sacrifice a penny or two to purchase a new book if it happened to be a better read.  It might be best to start afresh anyway.
• Something by Dickens – I have a lovely cloth bound set of the complete works of Dickens which I picked up in a charity shop for a mere £15 a few years back, but I’ve only read the two of his novels that were assigned reading at university (Oliver Twist and Great Expectations) and I want to read more this year.  Any suggestions for where to begin?