Villette-along Week IS IT OVER YET? "Fighting the battle of life by proxy"

I lost steam there at the end, as did Charlotte by all appearances.

He advanced; he opened the door; my back was toward it; I felt a little thrill---a curious sensation, too quick and transient to be analyzed. I turned, I stood in the supposed master artisan's presence: looking toward the doorway, I saw it filled with a figure, and my eyes printed upon my brain the picture of M. Paul.

MY EYES PRINTED UPON MY BRAIN THE PICTURE OF M. PAUL.

But not, like, ALL of them.

Although I would've appreciated if Lucy had exerted herself to yell something more than "Dog in a manger!" at Madame Beck (who is a colossal twat, by the way, and I take back all the nice things I said about her at the beginning of this readalong).

I still like Lucy, because she personifies abstract ideas like a boss ("Freedom excused himself, as for the present, impoverished and disabled to assist; and Renovation never spoke; he had died in the night suddenly.") and because everyone else is so awful that she seems pretty okay in comparison. Also she says things that make me want to put her in a nest and pet her head:

I believe in that goodly mansion, his heart, he kept one little place under the skylights where Lucy might have entertainment, if she chose to call. . . . gradually, by long and equal kindness, he proved to me that he kept one little closet, over the door of which was written "Lucy's Room."

Ginevra eloped just because she felt like it, but still got a trousseau and family money and a proper wedding after the fact. And remember how she was disgusted by John's whiskers and Lucy described de Hamal as really feminine? Well de Hamal also saw a nun's dress and thought, "I should definitely put that on and walk around a little and then keep doing that on a regular basis." Juuuuust saying.

So after a long period of Lucy being passive to an infuriating degree, M. Paul presented her with a place to live and her own school and might have said that he would maybe want to get married when he came back in three years.

He promptly went to the West Indies and . . . never came back? (CB, what is with you and the West Indies as a place where bad things happen to love interests?) Did he come back? I DON'T KNOW.

What I do know is that the three characters I hated the absolute most in the whole book lived long and prospered all the days of their lives, because that is the literal last line of this 559-page book of which they are not the main characters.

I mean it this time, Charlotte.

Villette-along Week 5: "I never offer flowers to those I love."

You have to give CB credit for writing a love story that is simultaneously predictable and bizarre. At this point, it seems pretty inevitable that M. Paul and Lucy will end up legally bound, but the way they're getting to that conclusion is so gradual that I almost didn't notice it was happening. Lucy's attitude toward M. Paul has been evolving almost imperceptibly, largely because even though she's narrating, she's not really telegraphing her mind-set at specific points in time. Our latest sign post was, "I did not dislike Professor Emanuel." And that, from Lucy, is as good as a declaration of love.

M. Paul is not a clear-cut romantic hero. That is to say, if CB tells us one good thing about him, she immediately balances it out with something negative.

• He tutors Lucy one-on-one and challenges her to stretch herself mentally because he believes in her intelligence even if she doesn't. (HURRAY!)
• He's a jerk to her when her hard work pays off and she finally starts excelling in her studies. (BOO!)
• But "when M. Paul sneered at me, I wanted to possess them more fully; his injustice stirred in me ambitious wishes---it imparted a strong stimulus---it gave wings to aspiration." (Excellent use of reverse psychology, M. Paul.)
• He rifles through her personal effects. (Not cool, man.)
• He leaves her chocolates and books he knows she'll enjoy, and she does. (Oh, well played I guess?)
• He censors those books by literally cutting portions out. (What, are you her dad?)
• He validates Lucy's Ghost Nun sightings. (ABOUT DAMN TIME.)
• The only reason he's seen Ghost Nun is because he's been rear-windowing from his private rented room over the garden. (There is nothing okay about this, and thank goodness Lucy voices as much.)
• He exhibits actual childlike glee when Lucy presents him with his birthday present. "This object is all mine?"

In the end, my opinion of M. Paul's actions has to be informed by Lucy's reactions to them. She's clearly charmed by his habit of going through her things. The more worked up and unruly he gets, the more content she feels ("It seemed as if the presence of a nature so restless, chafing, thorny as that of M. Paul, absorbed all feverish and unsettling influences like a magnet, and left me none but such as were placid and harmonious"). And while I would not find it endearing if a man commented on my choice of clothing, because it's a woman's personal business if she wants to wear a ribbon, yo, this is how Lucy receives M. Paul's criticism of her "gay fashions":

You are well habituated to be passed by as a shadow in Life's sunshine: it is a new thing to see one testily lifting his hand to screen his eyes, because you tease him with an obtrusive ray.

Under the guise of criticism, M. Paul gives Lucy permission to see herself as "volatile and versatile," as a blaze instead of a shadow. He is the literal antithesis to John Graham Bretton, just as Lucy is to Paulina.

And every scene Lucy and M. Paul share in this section (which is a section mainly of scenes with Lucy and M. Paul) veers into the territory of quirky rom-com. I know some of us are wishing for sexual tension (because obviously), but if I was in a room with these two people I would definitely think they were about to bone:

As for me, I took it with entire coolness. There I sat, isolated and cut off from human intercourse; I sat and minded my work, and was quiet, and not at all unhappy.

"Is that far enough away?" he demanded.

"Monsieur is responsible for it," said I.

"You know very well that it is not so. It is you who have created this immense void: I had nothing to do with it."

Not touching can be sexy, too.

And THIS, this is like a description of an alternate universe wherein Casaubon was actually worthy of Dorothea Brooke:

There were few bound and printed volumes that did not weary me . . . but his tomes of thought were collyrium to the spirit's eyes; over their contents, inward sight grew clear and strong. I used to think what a delight it would be for one who loved him better than he loved himself to gather and store up those handfuls of gold dust, so recklessly flung to heaven's reckless winds.

CB seems to be providing an honest portrayal of a romance between flawed people whose flaws perfectly dovetail to make each a better person. And is that not kind of beautiful, at the end of the day?

Villette-along Week 4: "You are at once mournful and mutinous"

All right, Charlotte. We've always agreed, you and I, that there's just something about a man with a crunchy exterior and a gooey center, but M. Paul. You're blowing it, dude.

We can all see that he's sometimes mean to her because he loves her and doesn't know quite what else to do about it. But he is a grown and educated man, and at a certain point it becomes counterproductive to have an adult tantrum in front of the object of your admiration and her classroom full of young girls.

The stove stood near my desk, and he attacked it; the little iron door was nearly dashed from its hinges, the fuel was made to fly.

"Est-ce que vous avez l'intention de m'insulter?" said he to me, in a low, furious voice, as he thus outraged, under pretence of arranging the fire.

Which is a real possibility if you don't back up off that stove.

But more interesting than M. Paul's continued reliance on the Crush Handbook for Adolescent Boys is the slooooooow metamorphosis of Lucy's attitude toward him. I mean, for the longest it was, "M. Paul was not a good little man, though he had good points," and "Never was a better little man, in some points, than M. Paul; never, in others, a more waspish little despot." But then she saw him rise majestically out of that orchestra pit at the Tribune and heard him talking politics with the perfect balance of reason and passion, and afterward he was all, "How did I do?" and she was all,

If he overhauls his technique, he may actually have a shot with her, because she seems pretty thoroughly disenchanted with Dr. John these days. And well she should be.

A sampling of gripes against Dr. John:

• He's getting reeeeally pushy about this Ghost Nun business and a little too adamant in his belief that Lucy is hallucinating everything. Can anyone remember a time in a Victorian novel when a man insisted a woman was seeing things and it ended well for her?
• He was writing Lucy regularly and showing up late at night to whisk her off to the theater and generally being a friend, and then he reunited with Polly and . . . SEVEN WEEKS later, his mom wrote Lucy to invite her over for dinner and see this old mutual acquaintance of theirs that she didn't know John had been spending his days with all that time. And then I do believe three months of silence from his quarter followed that. What. the. hell, John?
• He still talks down to Polly.
• He expects Lucy to do and be whatever suits him in the moment, and she's sick and tired of it. "I realized his entire misapprehension of my character and nature. He wanted always to give me a role not mine. Nature and I opposed him."
• He doesn't properly appreciate Vashti. I'll bet M. PAUL would've appreciated Vashti.

Yeah, let's end on that. Vashti. That whole section of chapter 23 was seriously intense and I'm sure laden with meaning I'll never grasp. Not only was it a bit of a turning point in Lucy's infatuation with John but I think a moment of personal epiphany for her and just a damn good description of a complex woman.

Before calamity she is a tigress; she rends her woes, shivers them in convulsed abhorrence. Pain, for her, has no result in good; tears water no harvest of wisdom: on sickness, on death itself, she looks with the eye of a rebel. Wicked, perhaps, she is, but also she is strong; and her strength has conquered Beauty, has overcome Grace, and bound both at her side, captives peerlessly fair, and docile as fair.

At first it's like . . . is this an endorsement or a judgment, Lucy? And then you forget about forming an opinion of the woman or even understanding what the hell this opera is about, because Vashti is a gorgeous mess of qualities, "a mighty revelation." And that could apply to Lucy, because everyone has a particular view of her personality (Madame Beck: learned and blue; Miss Fanshawe: caustic, ironic, and cynical; Mr. Home: model teacher, essence of the sedate and discreet; M. Paul: adventurous, indocile, audacious), and she finds that variation ridiculous. But maybe with the help of Vashti she could begin to see that it's possible to be all those things at once.

And John's reaction to the same spectacle that inspired so much introspection for Lucy? "He judged her as a woman, not an artist: it was a branding judgment."

You don't want a man like that, Lucy. And you may not want a jealous little wasp who embarrasses you in public, either. You don't have to choose either of them. You can stay independent. You can even choose Ginevra if you want! It would definitely do her some good.

*sound moral drubbing*

Villette-along Week 3: "A pink dress! I knew it not. It knew not me."

After this week, I'm more certain that I love Lucy and moderately less certain that I love Dr. John, and a surprise dark horse has emerged in the competition for Lucy's heart.

But Lucy. Allow me to briefly sing her praises.

She's clearly smitten with Dr. John and, if that little tangent about his portrait is any indication, has been since they were teenagers. But she still brings up Ginevra Fanshawe's name just because she knows it will make John happy if he's given an opening to talk about her. She submits willingly to play the Watts to his Eric Stoltz.

Complete with occasional
sass, of course.

She's aware and accepting enough of her shortcomings to be candid with M. Paul about her difficulty in caring for Marie Broc by herself. He's hard on her about it, but she doesn't give in to the temptation to make herself out as a naturally patient caregiver when she's not. And there's no shame in that at all. Not everyone is cut out to care for children, let alone children with special needs, and that was not her job at the school. She got the responsibility by default because she was the only one not leaving town for the holiday. She did her best, and she isn't going to beat herself up about it.

But even as harsh as M. Paul has been with Lucy, I'm joining Jenny in championing him as a suitor. Beginning with the vaudeville, he's been steadily challenging Lucy to be more than she thinks she can be (with tough love). He's not going to gush over her the way John does with Ginevra or encase her in jewelry, probably, but his admiration for her is based in fact and not fantasy and is thus worth infinity more than all of John's flattery and presents. M. Paul's methods are unconventional, but I think Lucy recognizes their merit.

M. Josef Emanuel stood by them while they played; but he had not the tact or influence of his kinsman, who, under similar circumstances, would certainly have compelled pupils of his to demean themselves with heroism and self-possession. M. Paul would have placed the hysteric debutantes between two fires—terror of the audience, and terror of himself—and would have inspired them with the courage of desperation, by making the latter terror incomparably the greater.

Music teachers: Terrifying their students into excellence
since the 1800s at least but probably even before that

Next to M. Paul, Dr. John, with all his square jaw and strong chin, looks bland. Although I am liking him much better now that the Ginevra Spell is broken (take note, ladies: do not laugh at a man's mother), he has a worrying habit of being generally . . . close-minded.

For example, contrast Lucy's disdain for the "Cleopatra" painting with his. Where she is adorably confused as to why everyone is so impressed by this sizable woman who is naked and lying on a couch amidst her own clutter in the middle of the day, John goes straight to body shaming with a side of skin-color prejudice as casually as he would ask Martha what's for dinner.

And in his tirade against Ginevra at the concert, he puts Lucy in the awkward position of having to defend a person whom she doesn't much like. Even as insufferable as Ginevra is, Lucy is fair enough to see that she hardly deserves to be a labeled a slut because of the very specific meaning Dr. John assigned to a very brief look she exchanged with de Hamal across a crowded room.

I love Dr. John's banter with his mother and Lucy, and I'm pretty sure I would also love his face, but I'm afraid he's the sort of man who's only safe for women who manage not to fall off the precarious pedestal he's placed them on. We've all encountered such men. They're the ones who have very particular ideas about what women should want and how they should behave, and dangerously little respect for those women who fall short of those strictures.

No, my vote is for M. Paul.

Yet, in the midst of prejudice and annoyance, I could not, while watching, avoid perceiving a certain not disagreeable naivete in all he did and said; nor could I be blind to certain vigorous characteristics of his physiognomy, rendered conspicuous now by the contrast with a throng of tamer faces: the deep, intent keenness of his eye, the power of his forehead—pale, broad, and full—the mobility of his most flexible mouth.

If popular culture has taught us anything, it's that righteously abrasive men and composed yet opinionated women, when combined and mixed with cold weather, lead to a chemical reaction of hot-flaming love.

Don't worry, M. Paul. Next time she won't choose to study
another man's coat sleeve instead of your glorious hawk-like face.

Villette-along Week 1: So far, so Brontё

Villette readalong! Another fantastic excuse, kindly provided by Alice at Reading Rambo, to talk about Victorian literature approximately once a week.

I'm getting a pretty strong Jane Eyre vibe so far, which I find comforting because of how much I love Jane Eyre. Something I used to forget about that novel, until about the fifth reading, was that the characters start out as children. That happens in Villette, too, but they don't stay children for nearly as long.

We also have Brontё's trademark (based on my knowledge of the one other novel, but just go with it) level-headed and beleaguered protagonist. Lucy Snowe is only 14 at the start of the story. By the end of Chapter 5, she is 22 and has lost everyone in her family and then also the sickly Miss Marchmont, whom she'd just recently grown attached to. And I'm not sure, but I have a feeling she's going to lose the blue-eyed, auburn-haired Graham, too . . . probably right after she's decided she loves him. For now, she doesn't seem to love him.

"I told you I liked him a little. Where is the use of caring for him so very much? He is full of faults."

"Is he?"

"All boys are."

I'm assuming that Polly Home (who's ten years younger than Graham) will end up catching his fancy in the coming chapters. There've already been some concerning interactions between sixteen-year-old Graham and six-year-old Polly.

I'm sure it's perfectly innocent when Graham cradles Polly in his lap or snatches her up and holds her aloft or tries to coerce her into kissing him. And even her infatuation with him seems natural. Younger children idolize older children all the time. But it also feels ominous, somehow, like it won't end well for one or both of them.

This is clearly the best, though:

"Little Mousie" crept to his side, and lay down on the carpet at his feet, her face to the floor; mute and motionless she kept that post and position till bedtime. Once I saw Graham—wholly unconscious of her proximity—push her with his restless foot. She receded an inch or two. A minute after one little hand stole out from beneath her face, to which it had been pressed, and softly caressed the heedless foot.

No one understands her pain.

Brontё also foreshadows unfortunate events, such as Miss Marchmont's death, with turbulent weather, which was a major literary device in Jane Eyre. And Lucy uses a storm at sea as an extended metaphor for the difficult events of her life in the eight years after she leaves her godmother's house ("The ship was lost, the crew perished").

Speaking of foreshadowing, Miss Marchmont's story about her lover, Frank, dying in her arms was so heart-achingly detailed that its inclusion hardly seems incidental. Since we know Lucy is recounting this story as an old woman, I'm wondering if her life will somehow imitate Miss Marchmont's. Will she, too, be alone at the end, looking back on her short-lived encounter with true love?

Grapes of Wrath Week 4: Almost certainly not worth the wait

I'm so embarrassingly behind that I ALMOST didn't even try to write this final post . . . but then a grown man suckled at a teenage girl's bosom. So . . . yeah.

I know some people have been concerned about how women are portrayed in this book, but . . . I'm more inclined to believe that the men get the short end of the gender-role stick in this one. The men are kind of powerless in this economic environment. They aren't even the sole providers anymore, now that women and children are taking to the fields to help bring in the pennies. And, at least in the Joad family, Ma is quite publicly running the show.

"'You get your stick, Pa,' she said. 'Times when they's food an' a place to set, then maybe you can use your stick an' keep your skin whole. But you ain't a-doin' your job, either a-thinkin' or a-workin'.'" (p. 388)

I would prefer that use of a stick not be acceptable in ANY situation, but we'll take what we can get here.

What Pa DOES get to do is say all the things I'm thinking.

"Uncle John shook his head over his plate. 'Don't look like we're a-gonna get shet of this here. I bet it's my sin.'
'Oh, shut up!' Pa cried. 'We ain't got time for your sin now.'" (p. 433)

"Ma said softly, 'Pa, I got to talk to you. Ruthie tol' some kids how Tom's a-hidin'.
'What?'
'She tol'. Got in a fight an' tol'.'
'Why, the little bitch!'" (p. 456)

God bless you, Pa.

On a more serious note (because the REST of GoW is such a hoot), I kind of think Tom drowned? Because he was living in a bush . . . and then there was a lot of rain. Someone should probably look into that.

ALSO:

"Tom looked over at the wide-eyed children. They seldom blinked their eyes. It was as though they were afraid something might happen in the split second of darkness." (p. 441)

AND THEY WERE RIGHT.

OK . . . so the breast feeding. I GET what Steinbeck is going for here. Desperate times, desperate measures. People have to help each other. And it's kind of nice that Rose of Sharon gets a chance to redeem herself for being generally the most selfish person ever for the vast portion of this book.

But when I read this:

"Her fingers moved gently in his hair. She looked up and across the barn, and her lips came together and smiled mysteriously" (p. 502)

all I can pictures is this:

Grapes of Wrath Week 3: Bullet points are for AWESOME people

**DISCLAIMER: This post contains spoilers and more GIFs than words.**

THINGS are happening. TOO MANY things. So I'm busting out the emergency bullet points.

• Hungry children watch Ma cook stew . . . and then make the Joads reallllllly uncomfortable while they're trying to eat.

• Casy gets taken to jail after kicking a deputy in the THROAT.
• Connie gets to California and promptly runs away after realizing he won't be able to own an ice box.

• Uncle John is the MOODIEST.
• The Joads settle in at a government camp (aka UTOPIA) and set themselves up for more heartbreak I'M SURE.
• THERE'S A CHARACTER NAMED WILKIE.
• Ruthie and Winfield have an adorable sibling moment involving a newfangled toilet contraption.

Grapes of Wrath Week 2: It's not Tuesday?

**DISCLAIMER: Readalong post, spoilers . . . you know the drill.**

Since I'm still not QUITE finished with this week's reading and it is, in fact, Wednesday right now, I'm a'gonna blurt out some thoughts so I can do what I really want to do, which is read what everyone else wrote look at everyone's GIFs.

Chapter 12: Someone (I think Laura?) said something smart about the book being full of biblical references, and here one is!

"66 is the path of a people in flight, refugees from dust and shrinking land, from the thunder of tractors and shrinking ownership, from the desert's slow northward invasion, from the twisting winds that howl up out of Texas, from the floods that bring no richness to the land and steal what little richness is there." (p. 128)

Correct me if I'm wrong, but this is most probably an "exodus from Egypt" comparison. And THEN there's that whole tedious paragraph about all the cities 66 runs through, and that reminded me of biblical genealogies (this guy begat this guy who begat that guy).

Chapter 13: There are ladyfolk sitting in the front seat now. I don't understand why that's suddenly allowed, but I'll TAKE it. Also, Steinbeck killed a dog and Grampa in the same chapter, but neither of those things hit me as hard as this:

"On her mattress, away from the fire, Granma whimpered softly like a puppy. The heads of all turned in her direction.

Ma said, 'Rosasharn, like a good girl go lay down with Granma. She needs somebody now. She's knowin', now.'

Rose of Sharon got to her feet and walked to the mattress and lay beside the old woman, and the murmur of their soft voices drifted to the fire. Rose of Sharon and Granma whispered together on the mattress." (p. 159)

Chapter 14: "For the quality of owning freezes you forever into 'I,' and cuts you off forever from the 'we'" (p. 166). Careful, Steinbeck. Your Communist is showing.

Chapter 15: "Mae really smiles with all her might at truck drivers. She bridles a little, fixes her back hair so that her breasts will lift with her raised arms, passes the time of day and indicates great things, great times, great jokes" (p. 167). You lost me at "back hair."

Chapter 16: Someone mentions splitting up the group, and Ma brandishes a jack handle and sasses the men into submission. You NEVER split the party, and you never mess with a woman wielding a metal rod. Some truths are universal.

Chapters 17 and 18

Grapes of Wrath Week 1: Gender roles and other thinky stuff

**Disclaimer: This is part of a group readalong, which means if you've never read Grapes of Wrath, this post might resemble hearing only one side of a phone conversation. But maybe you're into that sort of thing? So proceed as you will.**

Steinbeck is doing some pretty fascinating things with gender roles. Right away, he described how the women look to their men to assess how severe a situation is. "Women and children knew deep in themselves that no misfortune was too great to bear if their men were whole" (p. 4). Depression-era women and children depended on their menfolk. This is not news.

Boom . . . serious picture.

But THEN Steinbeck subverts that expected framework (and breaks my heart a little) by throwing Ma Joad into the mix.

"Her hazel eyes seemed to have experienced all possible tragedy and to have mounted pain and suffering like steps into a high calm and a superhuman understanding. She seemed to know, to accept, to welcome her position, the citadel of the family, the strong place that could not be taken. And since old Tom and the children could not know hurt or fear unless she acknowledged hurt and fear, she had practiced denying them in herself. And since, when a joyful thing happened, they looked to see whether joy was on her, it was her habit to build up laughter out of inadequate materials. But better than joy was calm. Imperturbability could be depended upon. And from her great and humble position in the family she had taken dignity and a clean calm beauty. . . . She seemed to know that if she swayed the family shook, and if she ever really deeply wavered or despaired the family would fall, the family will to function would be gone." (pp. 79-80; emphasis mine, and also a good candidate for being tattooed somewhere on my person)

This paragraph WRECKS me, and I think it's because this is a description of MY mom. (Mom, if you're reading this, this is YOU.) It's beautiful, but it's also tragic, because the STRENGTH and self-denial required by such a "great and humble position in the family" . . . I can't even imagine.

And then there's Granma, who damn near took her husband's butt cheek off with a shotgun, and in so doing earned his admiration . . . because he's impressed by that sort of thing.

And Steinbeck made another nod to changing gender roles when the preacher took over salting the pork, despite Ma's protestations that it's "women's work." The preacher replied, "It's all work. . . . They's too much of it to split it up to men's or women's work" (p. 117). Quite right, Casy, and way ahead of your time.

But the Joads do still observe some gender rules of conduct. For example, even pregnant, Rose of Sharon (WHAT is this name? No one wants to say that whole thing every time.) must ride standing up in the back of the truck because the patriarchs of the family get the honor place beside the driver. And that's just how it is, whether anyone likes it or not.

And now some scattered observations:

1. Steinbeck's tangents about soulless tractors, while beautifully written, seem . . . a little overdramatic?

Steinbeck: THE MACHINES ARE TAKING OVER.

2. "A man didn't get enough crop to plug up an ant's ass" (p. 50). This, my friends, is why Steinbeck is one of the greats. Pure poetry.

3. These people live in a HARSH world. This is how you can tell: Pigs get into the house and eat babies, bulls gore men to death over by the barn, women bludgeon solicitors with live chickens, and a man can get 7 years in prison for killing in self-defense.

4. This description of the oldest Joad boy, Noah: "He lived in a strange silent house and looked out of it through calm eyes. He was a stranger to all the world, but he was not lonely" (p. 85). Whoa.

5. Steinbeck's Tom Joad:

"His eyes were very dark brown and there was a hint of brown pigment in his eyeballs. His cheek bones were high and wide, and strong deep lines cut down his cheeks, in curves beside his mouth. His upper lip was long, and since his teeth protruded, the lips stretched to cover them, for this man kept his lips closed." (p. 5)

Hollywood's Tom Joad:

Eh, close enough

Grapes of Wrath readalong: Mmmm, wrathy grapes

Ohhhh, Steinbeck. What happened to us? We used to be so close. I was 13. You were . . . never mind that. But, oh! The times we had. First, you made me sad with Of Mice and Men. Then you made me sad with The Red Pony. THEN you made me sad with The Pearl. And then you made me REALLY sad with East of Eden. I don't remember all the details, Steinbeck, but the ANGST . . . you totally got me.

You and I have always been like . . .

I stayed away from all things Steinbeck for a looooong time (basically the entirety of my adult life thus far) . . . because angst. It's exhausting.

But here I am, about to read The Grapes of Wrath for the first time, with some of my favorite people in one of my favorite months. And there will be sad GIFs and angry grapes, and I'm sure also a new-found adult appreciation for Steinbeck that isn't based solely on hormones.

What? I didn't say NO hormones. *swoon*

The Moonstone Week 4: It's guy love, between two guys

Woman in White was all about the ladies . . . and sure, there's a little of that in The Moonstone (Lucy + Rosanna FOREVER eventually). But can we talk for a minute about the varying degrees of manly affection that are RAMPANT (like a spinster) in this book?

We have the sweetly sentimental relationship between Betteredge and Franklin.

"There he was—the dear old friend of the happy days that were never to come again—there he was in the old corner, on the old beehive chair, with his pipe in his mouth, and his Robinson Crusoe on his lap, and his two friends, the dogs, dozing on either side of him! . . . My own eyes were full of tears. I was obliged to wait for a moment before I could trust myself to speak to him." (p. 309)

Then there's the father/son dynamic between Sergeant Cuff and Gooseberry (aka Octavius Guy).

"In our modern system of civilisation, celebrity (no matter of what kind) is the lever that will move anything. The fame of the great Cuff had even reached the ears of the small Gooseberry. The boy's ill-fixed eyes rolled, when I mentioned the illustrious name, till I thought they really must have dropped on the carpet." (p. 448)

"'One of these days,' said the Sergeant, pointing through the front window of the cab, 'that boy will do great things in my late profession. He is the brightest and cleverest little chap I have met with, for many a long year past.'" (p. 449)

And let's not forget Godfrey's undying love for . . . Godfrey.

But my personal favorite is the complicated feelings Ezra Jennings harbors for Franklin.

"What is the secret of the attraction that there is for me in this man? Does it only mean that I feel the contrast between the frankly kind manner in which he has allowed me to become acquainted with him, and the merciless dislike and distrust with which I am met by other people? Or is there really something in him which answers to the yearning that I have for a little human sympathy—the yearning, which has survived the solitude and persecution of many years; which seems to grow keener and keener, as the time comes nearer and nearer when I shall endure and feel no more? How useless to ask these questions! Mr. Blake has given me a new interest in life. Let that be enough, without seeking to know what the new interest is." (p. 407)

Yowza.

And a more beautifully tragic character than Ezra has never been written (by Wilkie) (I don't think). Falsely accused of . . . something really quite bad (WHAT WAS IT, WILKIE?). Forced to give up the love of his life to spare her the infamy of his name. Overcome by a deadly illness. Dependent on opium (500 drops!) just to function from one day to the next. Wracked by nightmares (again, the opium). Grateful to be instrumental in the reunion of Rachel and Franklin (or so he SAYS). Buried in an unmarked grave, the only way to be free of the rumors that follow his name.

"God be praised for His mercy! I have seen a little sunshine—I have had a happy time." (p. 439)

And now, I'm gonna pull a Julie and hit some numbered points to close out this magical Moonstone journey we've been traveling together.

1. IT WAS GODFREY ALL ALONG (and also drugged Franklin, of course). And he wore an elaborate DISGUISE. (Alley wasn't far off with her Mission: Impossible guess.)

2. Is anyone at all concerned about that poor boy NEVER getting the money from his trust now that Godfrey spent it all and then conveniently died?

3. Was it just me or did Betteredge sound far less educated when he was being quoted by Ezra? He used the word wrostled. I just don't know.

4. "You have caught a Tartar, Mr. Jennings—and the name of him is Bruff" (p. 423). I had lofty plans to look this up, but now I'm tired. What is a Tartar in this context, readalong hive mind?

5. Of COURSE Franklin has Pamela and Man of Feeling in his room. Of course he does.

6. The Indians were finally rewarded for all their lurking about in obscurity. They may or may not have killed Godfrey (they definitely did), but the important thing is that the Moonstone has been restored to its rightful place in a lifeless deity's forehead.

And now The Moonstone readalong is over, and life is meaningless.

The Moonstone Week 3: The Telltale Nightie

I would just like to preface this post by saying I WAS TOTALLY RIGHT ABOUT GODFREY. I AM VINDICATED (even though no one really disagreed with me).

He was just pretending to love Rachel because he wanted her moneys, putting on a variation of the show he had perfected with the charity ladies. But Rachel (God bless her and forgive me for ever doubting her) refused to marry Godfrey when she found out that he inspected her mother's will. And of course he went right along with calling off the engagement because he knew marrying Rachel wouldn't get him a large enough chunk of money to pay off his debts.

Houses in London...houses in Yorkshire...a handsome income.
And then?

And stupid Clack still thinks he's a religious icon, which contributes to probably the skeeviest scene in the book, when he moons all over her and calls her his "best and dearest of friends" to get back in her good graces and, in so doing, into the coin purse of her wealthy acquaintance on the charity committee.

"He pressed my hands alternately to his lips. Overwhelmed by the exquisite triumph of having got him back among us, I let him do what he liked with my hands. I closed my eyes. I felt my head, in an ecstasy of spiritual self-forgetfulness, sinking on his shoulder. In a moment more I should certainly have swooned away in his arms." (p. 269)

Oops...I've forgotten myself spiritually.

And speaking of ulterior motives. Clack is only concerned about redeeming Rachel's soul, right? RIGHT?

"When I had converted her, she would, as a matter of course, have no concealments from Me. I should hear all about the man; I should hear all about the Moonstone." (p. 270)

Which makes it all the more satisfying when Mr. Ablewhite gets all red in the scalp and rages at her. True, he doesn't have much to his credit in this situation, but anyone who can call Clack an "impudent fanatic" and a "Rampant Spinster" gets bonus points . . . at least 5 bonus points for Mr. Ablewhite.

But THEN, as we depart from Clack's narrative at last, Wilkie has to give us a hint that she isn't quite as immune to worldly opinions as she would have us believe. And damn you, Wilkie . . . you made me feel sad for her, for the briefest of moments.

"I was left alone in the room. Reviled by them all, deserted by them all, I was left alone in the room." (p. 280)

These feelings...they're entirely unwelcome.

I'm realizing more and more that Rachel is a pretty decent human being. I can get behind a lady who's self-dependent (like a man . . . dare I say, like a Marian?) and puts more stock in her own opinion of herself than in anyone else's opinion of her. And all her earlier bratty behaviors are justified beautifully by her selfless desire to protect Franklin (whom she saw steal the Moonstone WITH HER OWN EYES) and her willingness to bear the burden of everyone's suspicion (including ours at times) as a result. And I think it's important to note that she loved Franklin enough to keep his secret but wouldn't compromise herself by continuing her relationship with him, even as much as she loved him. That's commendable.

And SPEAKING of Franklin, let's talk about Rosanna. HOW disappointed are we that she really IS dead and really WAS pathetically in love with Franklin? I kind of like the guy myself, but she didn't know enough about him to warrant such an all-consuming obsession. Limping Lucy knows what I'm talking about.

"'No,' said the girl, speaking to herself, but keeping her eyes still mercilessly fixed on me. 'I can't find out what she saw in his face. I can't guess what she heard in his voice.'" (p. 318)

Poor Franklin. He gets insulted by a bitter Lucy, and then he learns that he's in some way responsible for Rosanna's death. He never meant to hurt her feelings. In fact, he was trying to spare her in every instance when she thought he was shunning her. And then she KILLED herself because of those things he did that she thought meant something they didn't MEAN.

And Rosanna stole Franklin's paint-smudged nightgown and hid it in the same quicksand where she hid herself, which is a little weird. You know what else is weird? The fact that everyone in the house wore the same nightgown and wrote their names inside with Victorian Sharpie. You know what ELSE is weird? I just realized that the Shivering Sand is basically the Swamps of Sadness.

ARTAX ROSANNA!

There's more (there's always more), but I'll let everyone who took notice of Ezra Jennings waaaaay long ago talk about the fact that HE'S BACK . . . and suspiciously Indian in appearance.

The Moonstone Week 2: Enter the Clack

We get a pretty good description of Rachel's appearance, and except for the fact that her face isn't HIDEOUS and her backside is mentioned not even once (which is probably a good thing since old Betteredge is narrating), she kind of sounds like a Marian clone.

"In a minute more, Miss Rachel came downstairs—very nicely dressed in some soft yellow stuff, that set off her dark complexion, and clipped her tight (in the form of a jacket) round the waist. She had a smart little straw hat on her head, with a white veil twisted round it. She had primrose-coloured gloves that fitted her hands like a second skin. Her beautiful black hair looked as smooth as satin under her hat. Her little ears were like rosy shells—they had a pearl dangling from each of them." (p. 169)

But is it weird that Betteredge remembers exactly what Rachel was wearing on this particular day? I mean, the man is 70 . . . and also a man.

And then Rachel took her primrose-coloured hand and "unmanned" Franklin with it. Poooor Franklin. But is he the doomed love she was talking about when she finally agreed to marry Godfrey? I think he is. Which means he did something VERY naughty and made her never want to see him again. What did you DO, Franklin? I don't think even he knows.

I know we have our qualms with Betteredge's old-fashioned ideas, but who didn't love him after his reaction to Rosanna's (alleged until I see a body) death? And then this too:

"I don't think I ever felt what a good dutiful daughter I had, so strongly as I felt it at that moment. I took her and sat her on my knee —and prayed God bless her." (p. 178)

So you're thinking about taking a woman on your knee . . .

I think this might be scandalous, but I'm not sure:

"I left him, miserable enough, leaning on the sill of my window, with his face hidden in his hands—and Penelope peeping through the door, longing to comfort him. In Mr. Franklin's place, I should have called her in. When you are ill-used by one woman, there is great comfort in telling it to another—because, nine times out of ten, the other always takes your side. Perhaps, when my back was turned, he did call her in? In that case, it is only doing my daughter justice to declare that she would stick at nothing, in the way of comforting Mr. Franklin Blake." (p. 180)

She would stick at nothing, you say?

Lately, I'm suspicious of Lady Verinder (may she rest in peace). She frequently spoke with Rachel behind closed doors during the investigation, when Rachel wouldn't talk to anyone else. And when Cuff wanted to see Rachel's reaction to the news of Rosanna's death, Lady V insisted on going and delivering the news herself, alone. Plus, Rachel IS protecting someone in all this moonstone business. I don't think it's Franklin, because he commissioned all these narratives and because she appears to HATE him at this point. But as close as she is to her mother, she would protect her at all costs, right? I choose you, Lady Verinder! Don't think being dead gets you off the hook, missus.

Are we thinking there's a bit of a Sherlock/Watson dynamic between Cuff and Betteredge? Maybe a smidgen of guy love?

"'I declare to heaven,' says this strange officer solemnly, 'I would take to domestic service tomorrow, Mr. Betteredge, if I had a chance of being employed along with You!" (p. 195)

"I looked with righteous indignation at the Sergeant to see what he thought of such a testimony as that. The Sergeant looked back like a lamb, and seemed to like me better than ever." (p. 186).

Stop looking at him like that, Cuff. It's weird.

 Three words regarding Limping Lucy's speech after Rosanna's death: UNREQUITED LESBIAN LOVE. Thank you, Wilkie. Just thank you.

And you GUYS . . . Miss Clack's first name is DRUSILLA.

Miss Rachel speaks out of turn.
She's a bad example, and will have no cakes today.