This short account of Evelyn Waugh’s travels in East and West Africa in 1930 is advertised in its new Penguin Modern Classics edition as ‘perhaps the funniest travel book ever written’. The ‘perhaps’ is well placed, because ‘funny’ is a matter of taste, ‘perhaps’ the taste of one who finds colonialism, racism and British Establishment expectations from the interwar years to be rip-roaringly jolly. I have read a great deal of reactionary writing for work purposes, and consider myself reasonably inured to its extremes. I do admire Waugh very much as a stylist and for his spectacularly good satirical imagination. Brideshead Revisited (1945) is a genuine classic, one of the great novels of the twentieth century, and I love Scoop (1938), The Ordeal of Gilbert Pinfold (1957) and Helena (1950), his snarky biography of the mother of the Emperor Constantine. His 1950s novels of the Second World War express the sadness and disillusionment of society at war with compassion as well as loathing. He’s a great writer, no question. But he is also an unkind bully and a vicious commentator on anything he disapproved of or disagreed with. Taking all that on board, what can we make of Remote People?
The first thing to recall is that – as he says in the section so engagingly titled ‘Second Nightmare’ – he wrote the first few chapters of Remote People to stave off boredom by the ‘desperate expedient of writing’, in a cabin in the Prince Leopold, sailing down the Congo River unwillingly in company with a Seventh Day Adventist (Waugh the recently converted Roman Catholic finds this belief system so ludicrous that he makes it the man’s entire identity). Waugh was travelling through central Africa after his posting to Abyssinia to report on the coronation of Haile Selassie. He was bored nearly everywhere, though to do him justice he also found a great deal of interest in unexpected places and people. His descriptions of the preparations for the coronation, and all the ways it differed from his expectations, are certainly absorbing to read. I found myself counting the disparaging references that rely on the reader’s prior knowledge of the anthropology of upper-class English tribal practices.
The second thing to recall is that Waugh was writing as a man of his class, of his upbringing and of his political orientation. He was not interested in Africa as a place with its own values, only as a place that had been appropriately conquered by white people but was now run very badly. He refers to animals seen from his train or car not as ‘wildlife’, or even by their species names, but as ‘game’, indicating that their proper purpose is to be shot as entertainment. Waugh’s defence of the ‘Happy Valley’ set in Kenya is an extended apologia for the rights of colonialism that should be set reading for any class in post-colonial studies, to show the colonial perspective.
Remote People, is, as you might have gathered, quite a bracing book if you flinch at British 1930s attitudes to people in Africa who were not white. Waugh finds many of the people he meets quite pleasant, but there is no doubt that all foreigners are regarded with a raised eyebrow and a firm belief in his own, British, superiority. On his arrival at Addis Abbaba Waugh is stuck for accommodation, since the city is overrun with journalists and dignitaries of all nations, but he is rescued by a vision at the entrance to the Hotel de France: ‘the supremely Western figure of Irene Ravensdale in riding habit’. It is not explained who this lady is, but on researching her one finds that she was a hereditary peeress, a socialite and a former lover of Oswald Mosely (her future brother-in-law), going on to be a notable figure in charitable work and politics. She represents everything in Waugh’s world that was right and proper, signifying his value system for the whole of the book.
I imagine that Waugh wrote Remote People partly for the money, and partly because at this stage in his career, what he wrote, he published. It’s a uncomfortably personal response to countries and people in which he had no interest and found disappointing, but when was Waugh ever not personal in his writing? The very few events that he admits to enjoying depend on romping, riotous living, for example invading a wedding party or a brothel to cause a fuss and make a noise. He also enjoyed the relief of sybaritic standards, and with reason, since he does seem to have endured the rigours of travel for quite a long time. His visit to Mr Leblanc in Aden was ‘particularly emollient and healing’ because it was an oasis of white society, white waistcoats, new gramophone records, and a delicious dinner with iced vin rosé. His visit to the Kenyan coffee-planting circles occurred during their racing season, which he describes in a brilliant vignette of partying that could have taken place in Mayfair, so strongly does he long for his own friends and habitat. He mentions things largely to complain about them, or to note that they were ‘uneventful’. He finds beauty and value only when it comes near to things he will find at ‘home’. This is not funny: it is desperately sad. The very last section, the ‘Third Nightmare’, is an ironic portrait of his first night out in London on his return, which he finds ‘hotter than Zanzibar, noisier than the markets at Harar, more reckless of the decencies of hospitality than the taverns of Kabalo or Tabora’ (all of which he has told us are vile). The man is a misanthrope, and nothing will satisfy him.
I posted a partial rant, and a partial wave of enthusiasm over on Vulpes Libris today, on Ida Cook’s (reprinted) memoir We Followed Our Stars, now calling itself (annoyingly) Safe Passage. Go there to discover the tangled web of marketing versus editorial, the heroic imaginative rescue of 29 Jews from pre-WW2 Austria and Germany, and a passion for opera that made globe-trotters of two ordinary sisters from London. Ida Cook found a second career as a prolific and very popular Mills & Boon novelist, and was one of the founders of the Romantic Novelists’ Association. Her memoir is an excellent book that the publicists would like readers to assume is a ‘new’ story, when in fact it’s been in print since 1950.
Today’s letter in the Really Like This Book podcast series A-Z is I, and I have moved out of fiction, and to the intriguing biography by Molly Izzard, of the Middle Eastern traveller and woman of letters, Freya Stark. Stark made her name in the 1930s as the first western woman to travel in some very remote regions since the legendary Gertrude Bell, and also for being the first westerner to map and survey various parts of modern Iraq and Iran. She was awarded various prizes by the British Royal Geographical Society, and was fast becoming a legend in her own lifetime, as an intrepid woman explorer and as a writer, when the Second World War broke out. During this conflict she became even more famous for her intelligence network of propagandising pro-British supporters in Cairo and points further East, and continued to write her successful books, of travel and reminiscence.
Molly Izzard came across Freya Stark’s books when she was herself living in Egypt. She was full of admiration for Freya’s achievements, until she was rather surprised to be told by another famous British traveller and explorer, Wilfrid Thesiger, that Freya was nothing special, and had been hyped beyond anything she deserved. This disjunction, a very positive public impression contrasted with authoritative private reservations, led Molly Izzard to look into Freya’s actual achievements, in the context of history, geography, Freya’s diaries and the work of other surveyors at the time. She began to realise that the legend of Freya Stark was very carefully constructed indeed, with a large number of facts glossed over or unsaid because they did not suit Freya’s own ideas about her own history.
This biography is in many ways a debunker of the legend but not in the usual manner. Freya Stark WAS a great explorer of her day and WAS important and innovative in the intelligence work she did for the British during the war. Izzard shows that she was also ruthless, a fantasist, unscrupulous and very selfish. Freya was an important figure in feminist history for her independent achievements within a patriarchal system. She was also a user of women and monopoliser of men. This isn’t so serious, on the scale of things, but her personal behaviour, and her selective lack of scruples, are rather off-putting. Her conduct, in terms of how she manipulated the system and took advantage of people, and avoided taking responsibility herself, is increasingly irritating, as we are led through her story, and during the war it becomes simply outrageous. By halfway through this biography I was appalled at Freya’s behaviour, but also bewildered as to how I was supposed to feel about her.
This is a fascinating biography in two ways. The first is what we learn about Freya Stark, her work, her historical context, and about what happened in her life. The second is how the biography is written, and the subjectivity of the biographer. I don’t mean that Molly Izzard is too subjective, but that reading this biography forces you to think about the process of biography, and about what we choose to remember, and what we want to be told about a person.
Most biographies start at the beginning, usually with the meeting of the subject’s parents, or even their grandparents, and then go on through life until the subjects die. There might be a coda of afterlife, an assessment of the subject’s achievements and influences, and a suggestion of some kind of figurative rebirth. The biographer is very rarely present, the narrative is related anonymously and if any personal or subjective opinion appears, it often feels like an intrusion. We don’t expect a biographer to give us their personal views. A memoir is different: in a memoir a specific person is doing the remembering, and the memoir is all about their subjective opinions. In this biography of Freya Stark, Izzard moves between memoir and biography, but also writes as an investigative reporter.
She begins three-quarters of the way through Freya’s life, with a description of their meeting, and then the story moves back to when Freya had just achieved her first fame, in the mid-1930s, and thereafter carries on until the end of the war. This takes up most of the book, and Izzard finishes with a triumph of detective work that reveals the truth of Freya’s ancestry, her relations with her father, her mother, her sister, and her Italian brother-in-law. These dynamics shaped Freya into the explorer and independent spirit that she became. Izzard also suggests that Freya was a suppressed lesbian, but I am unconvinced by this. So there are a lot of facts presented in a back-to-front and inverted way, quite contrary to the usual biographical pattern. This is enough in itself to shake up one’s assumptions, and to force a rethink about how a life can be told, and how the way this particular life is being told is giving us information.
Throughout all this, we are expected to already know some of Freya’s works, to know roughly what she did, and most importantly, to accept her as being a famous and admirable person. She had, after all, been given a Damehood, the equivalent of a knighthood, by the Queen. Her connections to twentieth-century British life and letters are social rather than cultural: Freya knew the son of Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning when she was a child, she lost a friendship battle to Ivy Compton-Burnett after the First World War, and she was a friend of the British Queen Mother in her old age. But what if you don’t know any of that cultural background? What if you’ve never heard of Freya Stark, and might be interested, perhaps, in reading the book because it’s an account of the end of British imperialism in the Middle East, and describes the background to modern Iranian and Iraqi politics?
Izzard knows this area intimately, since she too worked in Intelligence in the war, and lived in the Middle East for some decades. Her account (and here we are certainly in memoir territory) is of how the British imperial machine was beginning to lose touch with politics, by failing to recognise that there were new states emerging from the dying British empire. In the context of Freya’s activities, this presents Freya not as an unreliable and unprofessional operator, in imperial administrative terms, but as an iconoclast and a rebel against the state. It’s an abrupt change of perspective, and it certainly makes you think harder about exactly what Freya was doing when she was busily organising pro-British propaganda activities: was she perhaps thinking further ahead, past the end of Empire and the need for some pro-British residual feeling in these areas, for the times to come when Britain would need the goodwill of Iraq and Iran?
Freya’s sheer audacity comes through again and again in this book. She was mischievous and anarchic, as well as being an imperious grande dame. She was an opportunist and was at times a hypochondriac and an egotistical monster. Izzard explains a lot of this by explaining Freya’s hideous childhood accident when she was nearly scalped by a factory machine, and her intensely close relationship with her mother. Freya was deliberately eccentric, and cultivated a persona of Edwardian aristocracy which was quite unconnected to where she came from, but had a lot to do with the people and lifestyle she preferred. Her personal belief systems defy comprehension, but so do the bizarre beliefs of her paternal grandfather, who founded his own Starkite sect of Protestant non-conformists in Devon in the nineteenth century. Even when she was affected by the early stages of senility Freya could still make small talk with strangers in four languages, and revelled in being the Grand Old Lady of the Italian village in which she spent much of her life when not travelling.
Izzard shows us all this, and opens up a box of complicated memories and shuttered experiences. How she tells this story is as important, and revealing, as what she tells us. Both are gripping, and the book is very rereadable, if only because the revelations at the end make you want to start it all over again. I do recommend this book highly.
With Dreamsnake I’m not talking about dragons, but proper hard-edged science in futuristic fiction, even if it’s made-up science, where women are equal to men. I do enjoy novels where the gender thing is unimportant: where feminism has done its job, or, in the science fiction canon, shows how the job ought to be done to produce a future society, how society ought to be. Fantasy is no good for this sort of speculation, because science has rules, plots have to obey them, and fantasy is so deliciously soggy and woolly, you can’t follow any proposition to its logical conclusion when wizards and magic get in the way. McIntyre’s edge over other science fiction writers of her day was that she trained as a geneticist, so she knows her stuff.
Dreamsnake (which won the Nebula, the Hugo and the Locus awards) is an eco-healthcare feminist novel, set in a post-nuclear holocaust world, in which communities have developed astounding gender-equal and sexual orientation-equal communities, but have lost much of the art of modern medicine. It’s a curiously divided setting: the villages in the mountains are medieval and pre-industrial; the towering guarded city called Center is intergalactic, since they host alien visitors and trade with them; and the nomadic communities wandering around the deserts are Bronze Age, only using knives. In The Exile Waiting, McIntyre’s 1975 first novel, which is set in Center, the space-ageness of the society is a total contrast to the outside world, without the midway points of a redeveloping civilisation that Dreamsnake presents.
Dreamsnake is about a healer, a travelling doctor called Snake, who arrives at a nomad community to heal a small boy of a stomach tumour. Her medicines are manufactured for her by her snakes, for this is how these healers make their medicine. She has three: a cobra called Mist and a rattlesnake called Sand, who make drugs from catalysts fed to them by Snake, according to the disease to be cured; and a dreamsnake called Grass, who is the anaesthetist. The dreamsnake can take away pain and give dreams, but it can also kill when it’s needed, giving a painless and easy death when there is no other way. There are no other heavy-duty painkilling drugs other than alcohol in this world (though they do have aspirin), so the dreamsnake is crucial. And this nomad group have never seen snakes used in medicine before, and are scared. The dreamsnake is killed when one of the boy’s fathers sees it snuggling up his son’s chest, as a comforting companion while he sleeps.
I said ‘fathers’ because this is a triploid society. Almost all the family groups and partnered parents are in threes, either two men and a woman, or the other way around. Children are born to the woman (some things don’t change), but all the extended family take care of the child. We get the impression that children don’t come along often, because this is a post-nuclear holocaust world. Mutations are feared and cast out by the people of Center, even though they inbreed among themselves without understanding the consequences. The knowledge owned by these different social groups consists of patches of very advanced science surrounded by swathes of ignorance, coupled with fear of the unknown, and a refusal by many to learn.
Outside the city, there are craters in the badlands where something large and nuclear exploded centuries earlier. Snake’s next patient, Jesse, fell off her horse there, and lay for a day in the radiation-soaked sand before being found. Without the dreamsnake, Snake cannot ease Jesse out of life while her body collapses in agony.
Without her dreamsnake, Snake is crippled: she cannot give relief, and she cannot ease death. She’s also distraught because the dreamsnakes are exceedingly rare. She cloned hers as part of her training, and no-one knows where they come from. Some people think the aliens brought them, and no-one knows where the aliens are. Center won’t let the healers into the city to talk to them. With Grass gone, Snake has no chance of getting another. And so she heads for her home in the mountains to work out what to do.
The novel tackles all sorts of social issues, but the principles for maintaining a strong and socially-responsible community are the most often invoked. This is an idealistic novel, an example of how a society ought to evolve, where equality is already a fixed part of social relations. The women are social leaders along with men: leading tribes, training doctors, running businesses, trading and running matriarchal family groups. Men are just as important, but the women have an equal share of the power. It’s a utopia struggling to emerge in a dystopia, though you’d need to read The Exile Waiting to realise quite how dystopic it is in that huge walled city, to understand better what the outside world communities are getting away from.
Social manners and conduct are extremely important. Snake is constantly coming across new social conventions because she has never travelled outside her mountain home before. Healers didn’t use to leave the mountains, so when Snake decided to explore, and look for new ways to help patients, she was an emissary into the unknown. We and her both; it’s a good narrative technique. The conduct rules in these small societies are designed to prevent conflict, and to maintain acceptable, safe living conditions. Some we can recognise from our own society; anyone fouling the water at a desert oasis will be asked to leave. No-one steals from someone else unless they’re crazy. This also impacts on personal relationships. The mayor of Mountainside spends half his time mediating and arbitrating to prevent conflict. The tribal leaders’ word is law, but they also work with a council and elders. Everyone has rights, and anyone violating those rights in a psychologically disturbed way (like in abusing children) has to go to something rather chilling called ‘the menders’, voluntarily or publicly. Mature teenagers are trained how to have sex, how to maintain control over their fertility. Girls can even bring on their own abortions, after a lot of training, presumably because of the frequent birth deformations that kill the babies beforehand: this is not a novel about Pro-Life or Pro-Choice, it’s too early for that. In some ways, this emphasis on behaving perfectly in a perfectly idealised society gets a bit too perfect, the people seem more like parables than characters. But there is enough erratic behaviour to add scratchy interest for development.
On her miserable way back to her teachers, Snake cures more patients, and meets people who show us more of this society, and wonders about the mystery of why her camp was attacked and shredded by a crazy desert wanderer. There’s a lengthy subplot about the mayor’s son in Mountainside, an outcast among his people, because he was unable to control himself, got his friend pregnant when they decided to have sex, and then she nearly died from the self-induced abortion she hadn’t been trained enough to control. He became an instant pariah: see how well women’s rights are regarded here? Trouble is, his rights, of being given the right training, were neglected, since Snake realises he was taught in an out of date way by a very old, revered and arrogant man whom no-one questions, and so he knows nothing of modern techniques. The scrotum needs heat, not cold, to reduce fertility. (I have no idea how correct this is, but frankly it doesn’t matter; it works perfectly in the plot.) But the point is, again, perfect knowledge is not always correct knowledge, and we all need to update our understanding, talk to other people, see what else is being discovered. As a metaphor for how society advances its knowledge in shut-off communities, it’s pretty effective.
Snake also rescues Melissa, another victim in Mountainside – my, this town certainly has some nasty secrets behind its perfect façade – a little girl who works invisibly in the stables, hiding because of her burns after the stables caught fire. The stablemaster takes all the credit for her work, and rapes her at will. Snake rescues her by adopting her as payment for curing the mayor of gangrene. Melissa will be Snake’s daughter and partner, using her street sense to offset Snake’s idealisation of her mission, and helps her to survive their travels.
The crazy person attacks Snake again because he wants the dreamsnake that he assumes Snake is still carrying in her snake bag, because that’s what all healers do. She realises that he’s been using dreamsnakes for drugs: he has bite scars all over his body. So this is interesting, that addiction exists in this perfectly idealised society. It feels like an infection from the decadent corruption of the city. Second, there must be hundreds of dreamsnakes somewhere if he’s been using them to bite him. Snake heads straight for the mountain where the crazy person leads her, and finds a crashlanded alien spaceship, some really extraordinary alien plantlife that is not so much invading the Earth, but adapting to it, enfolding itself into the earth and colonising it: we hardly notice this part of the narrative because by now we’re all keyed up looking for dreamsnakes and hardly have the attention to spare for McIntyre’s ideas about what is alien and what is natural. There is a great pit in the floor of the valley, and Snake and Melissa are forced into it to receive an indoctrinating overdose of dreamsnake venom, that will tie them both to the owner of the pit, and the dreamsnakes, forever, and make them his slaves. But in the pit, Snake works out the reason why the healers never been able to get dreamsnakes to breed, and how she has to save Melissa from an overdose of biting. It’s very tense. And there’s a muted love story in there too between Snake and a nomad that I haven’t even begun to tell you about.
Dreamsnake is a great novel: stuffed with ideas, and beautifully told, very satisfying, making you want more of this world. For that you’ll need to read The Exile Waiting. Go to McIntyre’s website for details of her short stories and uncollected writing, there’s a lot there to rootle around in.
The origins of my love of 19th-century fiction lie in the frocks. Think of the paintings of James Tissot, the French painter who worked mainly from Britain, who is most famous for his paintings of society ladies in wonderful dresses. His parents worked for the fashion trade, and he specialised in portraits of parties in the later years of the 19th century, where the dresses are the focus: ruched, frilled, spotted, draped, gored, sweeping, acres and acres of fabric and trimmings, they’re just glorious. I used to trace them from a book of fashion history onto kitchen paper when I was a little girl, and spent days in the summer holidays lying outdoors on the grass colouring them in. These are the kinds of dresses that Katy and Mrs Ashe would have bought from Worth when they were in Paris.
But I am getting ahead of myself. There are other novels in the series, concerning Katy’s siblings and their adventures in life, but they’re not as strong. The last two of the Katy series, Clover and In the High Valley, are very good on the process of colonising the American West, when towns were growing but needed new inhabitants, but they lack the snap and powerful innocence of the Katy novels. There isn’t much information available about Susan Coolidge, the pen-name of Sarah Chauncey Woolsey (and aunt of the poet Gamel Woolsey) who died unmarried in 1905, aged 70. I’m dubious about the rather vague critical opinions we can find online. One person’s ‘good’ may be another person’s ‘not as romantic’ or ‘yet more drivel about children’s games’. She was a prolific author of children’s novels and short stories for magazines, and a former nurse in the American Civil War. She lived in Cleveland, Ohio; in New Haven, Connecticut; and in Newport, Rhode Island. She doesn’t write about the lives of the very rich on Rhode Island, but she does give a splendidly critical portrait of the home of the awful Lilly Page and her snobbish mother, which says everything we need to know about Coolidge’s views of their values in life. The contrasting portraits of the Carr family in Burnet, and the Agnew family in Boston, which are all pictures and children and love, are so much more appealing. The Page family home is very like the Shaw house in Louisa May Alcott’s An Old-Fashioned Girl (also a podcast): all show and expense and no comfort or friendliness. Both families have a neglected and nagged teenage son, whom the visiting girl manages to tame. Coolidge is very interested in family dynamics, and how a home is run, and I assume that the scenes in the Carr home in Burnet, Ohio, and in Rose Red’s homes in Boston, are all based on her own experiences: they ring so feelingly true. One of the very good things about Coolidge’s novels is that they are a lot lighter on the evangelical messages and temperance propaganda that her contemporary, Louisa May Alcott, dished out.
The first three of the five Katy novels are What Katy Did (1872), its sequel What Katy Did at School (1873), and a later sequel to that, set three years later, What Katy Did Next (1886). The titles are plain and the plots do what they say: these are straightforward narratives of family life in Ohio in the 1860s. Katy is a Carr, the eldest child in a motherless family of six, whose father is a busy family doctor, and the house is run by their misunderstood aunt, Aunt Izzie. Katy is a perfectly natural, normal child, constantly getting into trouble, and her siblings are also natural and normal. What makes What Katy Did remarkable is that portraits of natural, normal children, as we understand them now, were exceedingly rare in the 1870s. When I read these books in the 1970s, these children seemed as familiar as my own friends. This was never the case with the Little Women, who were continually trying to be perfect, devout, prissy and irritatingly perfect in their little failing and sins. How did Coolidge write imperfection so well?
I think the clue is in what she wrote about. Coolidge was interested in people, not morals, and in relationships. She was also a gifted writer about food: I can’t recollect a single meal in any of the Alcott novels, but the food in Coolidge’s writing stayed with me for decades, most of all the trouble Katy has in trying to order the meals from their patient cook Debby. At this stage in What Katy Did, Katy is fourteen, has been bedridden for a couple of years after a fall from a forbidden broken swing, and Aunt Izzie has just died from typhoid. Many Victorian writers would dwell interminably on the guilt the children feel on not having loved snappy Aunt Izzie better, and there would be at least a chapter of ghastly Evangelical moralising, and a lot of standing about mournfully in depressing black frocks. Not so with Coolidge: Aunt Izzie dies, there is a reasonable amount of surprise and grief, but life has to go on, the doctor has to bury his sister, and the meals have to be ordered from the cook, so at age fourteen, bedridden Katy become the housekeeper, and gets stuck into the cookbooks. Her puzzlement over unfamiliar ingredients (I read the word ‘shallot’ for the first time in this novel, and it was many years before I realised I could buy them from the Co-op down the road), and her longing for a new animal to be invented so the family could have some respite from beef and chicken, were so heartfelt, and such familiar feelings, I warmed much more to Katy the teenage housekeeper rather than Katy the suffering, rebellious patient stuck in bed for four years.
Katy’s back often puzzled me. What exactly did she do to herself when she fell off the swing in the woodshed? Dr Carr explained that she had bruised the membrane around the spinal cord, but four years seems a very long time for this to get well, and the very rapid improvement in her condition once she does find that she can stand again, is also puzzling. Not that the diagnosis or medical history matters much: the important thing is that Katy the rebel is trapped in bed for four years, and forced to be good, to be a surrogate mother, and to be a nicer person. Everyone likes a nicer person, but Katy’s transformation is actually more to do with her growing up, and accepting responsibility as an absorbing way of occupying her life, than the chastening power of suffering over time.
The moralising influence in Katy’s life is another bedridden woman, Cousin Helen, who visits from time to time, usually as a reward or as an encouragement to Katy, and is a very strange and fascinating person indeed. For a start she is perfect and good and beautiful, and only about ten years older than Katy. She too is suffering from her back condition, after being a giddy young girl. She is unbearably noble because she broke off her engagement after she fell from a horse, presumably because she would never be able to have children, and instead insisted that her ex-fiancé marry someone else. He obeyed, he and his wife moved in next door, named their daughter after Helen, who is little Helen’s godmother and surrogate perfect angel. That story gives me the shivers: it is potentially so claustrophobic and emotionally fraught, but it is the stuff of Victorian romance. It is a perfect side story to Katy’s own, to show what she and the other Carr children respond to, and how different, and down to earth, they are in comparison.
There are many ill people in these novels, mostly women. In the school story, What Katy Did Next, Louisa Agnew’s mother is paralysed, which Coolidge calls ‘lame’, but she has to be carried from place to place by her husband. Miss Jane the horrible teacher gets a month-long illness, and is nursed by hardly anyone except Katy. In What Katy Did Next, Mrs Ashe’s nephew gets scarlet fever, and so her daughter Amy comes to live with the Carrs for two months. Amy herself is ill with something called Roman fever, for weeks and weeks, in uncomfortable unhealthy Italy: was this too from Coolidge’s own experience? Such social history makes you realise that being ill 150 years ago was a frighteningly slow and dangerous business.
Once she can walk again (and has grown tall and ladylike, a prerequisite for moral perfection) Katy is sent to boarding school with Clover, to broaden their social horizons, and learn more about people than Burnet can teach them. They’ve already met Cousin Olivia, Mrs Page, who is a judgemental snob, very concerned with fashion and society, and they don’t like her. On their journey to the school, three days travel to Connecticut, they meet her daughter Lilly, an affected little madam whom we are expected to loathe. She too is a crashing snob, hypocritical, selfish, self-centred, and a pitiful creature because there is no way she will ever have a happy life, the way that Coolidge relentlessly makes her behave. This wonderful bitchy portrait is balanced by the utterly delightful Rose Red, a glorious, affectionate and uninhibited creature who belongs more in the Chalet School tradition of wild schoolgirls always breaking rules, one hundred years later, than in staid Victorian Connecticut. The things she does inside and out of school are wondrous, because she simply doesn’t care. No fear that Rose Red will be expelled: her father is a Senator, which means social nirvana to the Pages, and other wealthy parents, so the school will keep her there no matter what dreadful things she does. So much for democratic America. The scrapes that Rose Red gets into, and drags Katy and Clover into after her, are very trivial, so the school and its rules are revealed as a regime of pettiness. This house full of teenage girls, living next door to lively and possibly uneligible young men in college, are fenced inadequately round with rules and restrictions.
The episodes of transgression, and Katy being framed for unladylike behaviour, and the social frisson caused by the proximity of adult men, give What Katy Did at School a lot of more tension than anything Alcott ever managed. Bad things happen, false accusations are made, unladylike behaviour ensues, people (usually Katy) suffer, and then things get better. The emotional journey is more varied, and the plot is consequently more enthralling, when the characters are having a tough time, even if the cause is no more than a faked note sent to a boy whom Katy doesn’t know. To hammer home the message, that these are trials of life to be endured, we return to the metaphor of food. Trying to feed a family and keep the meals interesting was a pleasant and reliable way of describing teenage housewifery. The terrible food the girls have to eat when Mrs Nipson takes over is fairly obviously symbolic of its penny-pinching and unegalitarian ethos. The Christmas box sent to Clover and Katy full of fruit, flowers, and home baking – someone American tell me, please, what is a jumble? – is a reminder that home cooking is always better than food cooked by strangers. The envy the less well-behaved girls feel for the lucky ones allowed to perform their piano pieces and mingle with the grownups at a school soirée, is mitigated by the reports of very ordinary food and drink being served: grown-up life is not as glamorous as it may seem.
Finally, in What Katy Did Next, at age 21, Katy goes to Europe. She’s taken there by Polly Ashe, the convalescing widow and neighbour, as a companion and as a nanny for Amy, her only child. There is also a fairly obvious match-making element, since Polly has a younger brother in the US Navy, whom she hopes they will meet up with in Naples. This is not a journey of unmitigated pleasure. There are probably more terrors and worries and disappointments than pleasures, so this novel too is a roller coaster for the emotions. The trials of seasickness, the disappointment of foggy London, the wholly implausible account of an afternoon’s trip to Stonehenge, the continual abandonment of plans due to bad weather or illness, are a realistic balance to Katy’s exuberant enjoyment of Nice, Sorrento and the Mediterranean. They take rooms in hotels and guesthouses for months at a time: oh the luxury. Polly is outraged to find that brother Ned is in the toils of horrible Lilly Page – bitchier and better than ever – so Katy is glad that she and Polly have had Paris gowns made by Worth to keep Mrs Page’s snobbishness at bay. Amy has to wait at death’s door in unhealthy Italy for a few weeks while Ned makes up his mind that a friendly woman in a grey gown who is a natural nurse is a much better bet for a naval wife than a selfish party girl. I don’t think romantic scenes were Coolidge’s strong point, but we get there in the end. The potential for passionate enjoyment that Europe has for the Victorian traveller is very strong in this novel. The food descriptions are surpassed by the flowers, and the glorious picturesqueness of the foreign scenes, even the down-to-earth descriptions of struggles with the ways of foreign servants.
Professionally speaking, I discovered that What Katy Did Next is a rather interesting fictionalised travelogue, because it mixes the real with the invented. Coolidge has Katy visit real places, which is standard, but she also encounters real people. She sees George Eliot getting out of a cab in London; a pink-coated hunt seen from the window of a train speeding through the English countryside reminds Katy of Muybridge’s time and motion photographs; she orders dresses from the most famous Paris couturier; she and Mrs Ashe borrow books from Vieussieux’s ex patriate library in Florence. This novel is partly a young adult romance, and partly a journal of 19th-century European culture, so was Susan Coolidge a traveller too? In In the High Valley (1890) she shows how little she knows of Devon, but her Colorado settings in Clover (1888) are completely convincing. She may have borrowed her European descriptions from other travellers, but they entranced me as a child, and still do.