Plot Similarities: Thomas Hardy and Henry James

 About half way though Thomas Hardy's "Far From the Madding Crowd," I had a sudden thought: that the basic plot was remarkably similar to that of "The Portrait of a Lady," by Henry James.  Both revolve around attractive, independent women who have come into an unexpected, significant inheritance at an early age and who are pursued by three different men.  Both women make the wrong choice when it comes to marriage, but in the end, Hardy goes in one direction and James in another.

The similarities were so striking I thought: "I can't be the only one who thinks so," and, indeed, not.

An Internet search soon turned up a thesis on this very topic, written by a woman named Susan Shepeard in 1976 in partial fulfillment of a Master of Arts degree at William & Mary College in Williamsburg, Virginia.

"The striking similarities in theme, characterization and imagery go so far as to suggest that Hardy's earlier work might have influenced that of James," Ms Shepeard said, and, indeed, there is evidence to suggested that such could have been the case.  When "Far From" first appeared in 1874, it got a distinctly mixed review from James. whose "Portrait" was published in 1881. In other words, he was very familiar with Hardy's story prior to writing his own rather similar story. In addition,  the two men knew each other.

Shepeard's thesis doesn't attempt to resolve that particular controversy, focusing instead on how the two authors progressed from similar starting points to differing views on love and marriage. As such, I highly recommend her thesis to those interested in such ideas and/or the two authors.

One notable difference between the two works is their settings: very rural England in the case of Hardy and rather glittering European society in the case of James, a difference that initially serves to obscure their similarities. A young woman owning and running a farm (albeit on leased land) and, in the process, engaging in a lot of work, is enough to put Bathsheba on a pedestal in "Far From."  In contrast, Isabel, an American, needs the vast wealth she inherits to set her apart in the rather jaded European social milieu in which she finds herself and she has neither need for nor thought of employment.

Each woman is initially pursed by a man attracted to her before she came into wealth and both reject the advances. Both are also pursued by wealthy neighbors whose motives seem not dishonorable if less than ideal for women determined to be more independent than such liaisons would likely permit. And both eventually marry flawed individuals they seem to think they can help, only to be taken advantage of. 

In Hardy's case, certain circumstances serve to give Bathsheba an "out" and she then marries the man she apparently should have in the first place, an outcome Hardy justifies by offering readers a definition of the nature of true love. I wrote about that here.

In the case of James, "Portrait" ends with Isabel in such dreadful, unresolved circumstances that Irish author John Banville not long ago decided a sequel was needed. Banville's effort, "Mrs. Osmond" (Isabel's married name) was published in 2017. It is an interesting if less than totally satisfactory read.

Does it Really Matter Who Choreographs a Ballet?

 An interesting question that has arguably been around for a long time, but which has gained considerable currency lately, is: when it comes to a work of art, if it satisfies a viewer, does it matter who created it?

In other words, once launched, does a work of art (and similarly, a work of intellect) stand on it's own?

While I've written about this a number of times, the latest iteration comes from a comment made by the newly appointed artistic director of the National Ballet of Canada, a woman named Hope Muir.

According to an article in the  July 22, 2021 New York Times, she was an unexpected selection and as a result, Roslyn Sulcas, one of the paper's dance critics, asked her what kind of artistic vision she presented to the ballet company's search committee.

"There wasn't a vision statement as such," Muir replied. "They gave the candidates a three-year programming exercise that included various anchor ballets that you had to incorporate, as well as making sure there was representation of female choreographers, Canadian choreographers, and Black, Indigenous and people of color choreographers in each season."

In other words, just who choreographed a given ballet is to be a more important consideration for the National Ballet of Canada than the quality of the piece. An alternative approach would be, leaving aside the so-called anchor ballets, considering each piece on its merits without knowing the race, color, national identity, gender, sexual orientation, etc. of the choreographer and let the chips fall where they may.

Muir said she found the National Ballet of Canada's requirement fascinating and satisfying "because when you look at ballet repertory, you realize that most ballets are choreographed by white men." 

Well, let's think about those "anchor ballets," one or more of which must be present in every season -- ballets such as "Swan Lake," "The Nutcracker," "Sleeping Beauty," "Giselle" and so on and so forth. Why continue to mount such time-worn productions?  Well, they sell lots and lots of tickets since the public continues to love them. Choreographed by dead white males (a major target of "cancel culture" movements), they in effect subsidize the efforts of all the others.

The more I read about it, the less worried I am about "cancel culture" -- in the long run, at any rate. 

Ultimately, in the eyes of those members of the public that appreciate the arts, individual works will stand or fall on their aesthetic merits. White male choreography -- perish the thought -- will be with us for some time even if contemporary white male choreographers appear likely to find themselves far from "privileged" in the prevailing circumstances. Indeed, based on Ms Muir's comments, when it comes to the National Ballet of Canada, white male choreographers still alive and working can pretty much forget it.

William Faulker’s “Dry September” as a Possible Opera

           The opera takes place one exceptionally hot afternoon and evening in a small town named Jefferson in the American south just after WWI, perhaps around 1920 during the Jim Crow era of strict racial segregation.  A rumor is sweeping town that a Black man has done something transgressive to a local white woman, but no details have been forthcoming.

Principal characters:

           Minnie Cooper (soprano), an unmarried woman about 39, who lives with her ailing mother and a problematic aunt. She’s “on the slim side of ordinary,” frequently goes into town wearing new, voile dresses and tries to represent herself as younger and more desirable than she actually is, asking the children of friends she knew in school to call her “cousin” rather than “auntie.” That’s been the case for several years now, after she had a four-year relationship with a widowed bank clerk about 15 years older than she was. The affair, her first such relationship, ended when he left for Memphis without her and although he returns to Jefferson every Christmas, he has had no interest whatsoever in seeing any more of Minnie.

           Will Mayes (tenor or baritone), an attractive Black man, probably in his late thirties or early forties, who works as a night watchman at an ice-making plant outside of town. Little else is known about him in Faulkner’s story, but in the opera, he recently did an odd job for Minnie.

           Hawkshaw (tenor or baritone), a middle-aged white man who works as a barber with two or three other barbers in a shop in Jefferson. He claims to know both Minnie and Will and insists that if a negro was involved in the rumored incident, it couldn’t have been Mayes. He urges restraint until the facts are known.

            McLendon (bass), a man in his 30s who led troops in WWI and was decorated for his service. He is insistent that whether the rumor is true or not, the untouchable status of white womanhood, and thus of the prevailing order of society, must be maintained whether the facts are clear or not. He questions anyone who would believe a Black man before a white woman. Carrying a pistol, he declares himself the man to lead a mission of retribution and urges others to join him

 Prelude (in front of the curtain)

             There are brief scuffling noises of an indeterminate nature off stage left and Minnie, somewhat disheveled, appears. She starts to run across the stage, but suddenly pauses, quickly glances about, and then briefly checking her attire, tugging a shoulder strap or sleeve down a bit more. She then resumes running in an agitated state. She seems to be saying something, but nothing comprehensible.

 Scene One (a barbershop in town, late on a hot Saturday afternoon)

             The curtain rises on an animated discussion among a group of men – three barbers, a couple of customers in the chairs plus various other men awaiting their turns or just hanging about. Hawkshaw’s chair is downstage and he is shaving a client, evidently a traveling salesman known as a “drummer” passing through town. Prominent among the others is a poorly spoken, hulking youth called Butch.

During the discussion, which is mainly if not entirely sung, Hawkshaw, seemingly out of the blue, declares that if anything did happen, and he doubts it did, that Will Mayes was most definitely not the culprit. He repeatedly says he knows Mayes and that Mayes is “a good nigger.” Hawkshaw’s client accuses him of being “a hell of a whiteman” and the youth accuses him of being “a nigger lover.”

 Another man attempts to quiet the youth, who had lept to his feet. But the salesman backs Buck up, declaring “if there ain’t any white men in this town, you can count on me even if I’m a stranger.”

The man who first attempted to quiet Butch says there is plenty of time to look into things. But the stranger insists there can’t be anything that excuses a nigger for molesting a white woman. He accuses the man of being from somewhere up North and the man responds by saying he was born and raised in Jefferson.

During the course of the discussion, Hawkshaw says he also knows Minnie and implies she’s too much of a spinster to attract the attentions of a man.   Another man asks her age and Hawshaw says she’s about 40. No one says anything more about her.

The youth fulminates, struggling without success to explain his thoughts. (He’s clearly threatened if Blacks are allowed to advance.)

Suddenly a door bangs and there stands McLendon, heavy set, wearing an open white shirt, and a felt hat. “Well,” he sings,” are you going to sit there and let a black son rape a white woman on the streets of Jefferson?”

“That’s what I been telling them,” sings Butch, cursing and fulminating in a ever-more agitated fashion.

­Aria:  McLendon sings an aria in which he mentions his citation for valor in the recent war, says he is ready to lead an immediate mission of retribution and calls on others to join. During the course of this, he advances themes associated with what are known as “the lost cause” of the Confederacy and the Southern way of life, centering on the inviolable nature of fragile, vulnerable women. Such women, the symbol and essence of a superior culture, must be protected at all cost. Blacks, who must keep their place, can’t be allowed to think otherwise. It’s a slippery slope and any perceived transgressions must be nipped in the bud.

 "But did it really happen?” one of those present asks.

 "Happen? What the hell difference does it make? Are you going to let the black sons get away with it until one really does it?" McLendon says as he demand of the group: “Who’s with me?”

Butch jumps up eagerly and several others follow more reluctantly.  McLendon whirls around to head out, the butt of a pistol visible in his back pocket. Hawshaw hesitates for a while, looking at the other two barbers who have remained at their chairs.  Then suddenly, tossing down a towel, he heads after the group.

Scene Two (a deserted property, ice plant visible in the background, a bit later in the afternoon as dusk is just starting to fall.  A black man stands alone, thinking about things.)

 Aria: Will Mayes sings an aria about what it is like to be a Black man in the Jim Crow era. Among other things, he sings about the difficulty of getting an education and finding decent work (he’s about to start his shift as a night watchman). He sings of doing odd jobs for whites, most recently for Millie Cooper and her mother who needed porch steps repaired, grateful that they at least paid him promptly. He sings about wanting to get married and have a child, but also that he’s hesitant to bring anyone else into the world as he experiences it. But he ends on a hopeful note.

The men led by McLendon suddenly arrive, surprising Mayes who asks what they want.

“What is it captains?” Mayes sings, adding “I ain’t done nothing.” He looks at the men, mentioning some names, but not that of Hawkshaw who has claimed to know him.

“Get him into the car,” McLendon demands.

A brief scuffle ensues, during which at one point, Mayes lashes out, randomly hitting Hawkshaw in the mouth, who hits him back.  But he’s rapidly subdued and the men haul him off-stage toward the car (headlights can be seen shining).

 Hawkshaw at first starts to follow, then declares he isn’t going.  They leave him behind.

 Aria: Hawkshaw sings of the hopeless state of things and his own inability to effectively act on what he thinks is right. Society doesn’t have to be this way, but what can change it? What can one man do?

As Hawshaw is finishing his aria, a single shot rings out in the distance, off-stage – far enough away to be somewhat muffled, but still audible.

 Scene 3 (Minnie’s house. She is wearing a robe and bathing out of a tub on the floor. Her aunt is helping her while her mother sits nearby. She’s in an odd mood, a bit distracted, it seems, reminiscing about the past.)

 Aria:  Minnie (with her aunt and/or mother occasionally joining in) reviews her past life: how pretty she was as a girl, how things were going well until other kids started saying rude things about her behind her back (you didn’t understand our station, her aunt or mother sings. We’re proud people who can take care of ourselves even after your father died, but those others don’t think we’re as good as they are. Some families have been here a long time, some even owned slaves.) Minnie continues, singing about her friends pairing up, getting married, having children. They started getting their children to call Minnie “aunty.”  Then the bank clerk with the new car came along (Minnie brightens up) and started “courting her.” (that’s not how the town people saw it, her aunt reminds her. It was like adultery in their eyes).  Minnie bristles. His wife had died, he was a widower. I was still young and pretty, she insists, and he showed me off as we drove around in his car – the first in town.  I was ever so proper in my motoring bonnet and veil. (But he tired of you, picked up and moved to Memphis just like that, the aunt or mother sings). Comes back every Christmas, but not to see you. You’ve got nothing left but the whiskey he taught you to drink).  Minnie’s mood darkens and she starts to sing a different song, but there is a knock on the door.

Two of Minnie’s women friends arrive and the mother and aunt leave the room.

They tell Minnie they are so sorry about what happened and ask her if she feels well enough to go out.  She nods and asks if they can hand her first her underwear and then her new, pink voile dress, all of which is laid out near by.

“When you have had time to get over the shock, you must tell us what happened. What he said and what he did; everything,” one of her friends sings.

Aria:  (Minnie sings as she puts on her sheer underclothes and then her new pink voile dress). I’m not sure what I can tell you because I’m not sure just who he was. I was out back, in a laid back chair in the shade of the two big trees. It was so hot I felt faint and my eyes were closed. I think I was almost sleeping when I felt it like a dream – a hand on my breast. Just every so lightly, you know, that I didn’t move at first. But I awakened and tried to cry out as I rose up, but nothing came out.  The hand was gone and at first I was scared to turn around, but I did and no one was there.  I heard some movement, but couldn’t see anything because of the trees. (She shudders and stops in mid phrase).

"It's alright, Minnie," one of her friends assures her.

 “So he didn’t ….?

 “ … rape me? I …I … I …”

 “McLendon says he deserves to pay if he even thought about it.”

 “McLendon?”

 Minnie for some reason starts to laugh, tries to control it, but can’t. Her friends look confused, then worried.

Aria resumes: Minnie sings in what sounds like a confused state – phrases, then laughter, then phrases – something about men, what they want, what a woman pays, the bank clerk, children, she will show them – more laughter, more confusion – she did what she needed to do. And as she passed through town in her pink voile dress in the wake of the rumor, even lounging young men followed with their eyes. So Faulkner tells readers. So Minnie sings in feverish triumph.

 Minnie’s friends try to calm her.

 “I heard McLendon and some men have gone after Will Mayes,” says one.

 “Will Mayes?”

 “Well, he was at your place, doing some work for you, wasn’t he?”

 Minnie sits up, puts her hand up to her mouth, but can’t stop a hysterical laugh that rapidly turns into screams.

 “Go fetch a doctor” one friend says to another as Minnie’s mother and aunt reappear.

 Aria resumes: Minnie’s hysteria results in her “mad scene” aria along the lines of Lucia’s, or even better (in my humble opinion) the “mad scene” aria sung by Electra in “Idomeneo.” The society of which she is a victim has sacrificed an innocent on its behalf using her plight as an excuse for atrocity. Madness is a salvation.

[What’s going on here?  Minnie, increasingly sexually frustrated after having been abandoned by the bank clerk, a man to whom she sacrificed her reputation as well as perhaps other things, and upon realizing she is reaching the end of the line in such matters at only age about 40, loses her senses and commits a desperate act.

 She invented an incident to make society still see her as a desirable woman without considering the possible consequences. Learning what has transpired, she realizes she has in all probability just killed Will Mayes.

 The desperation of an abandoned woman, in the tradition of Medea, Dido and a host of other, is a  trope, if you will, most recently extensively mined by Elena Ferrante, author of  "The Days of Abandonment" and four novels known as "The Neopolitan Quartet." Abandonment is a major subject for her, Ferrante makes clear in series of interviews.

Minnie, in her days of abandonment, began drinking whiskey supplied by a clerk at a soda fountain, and continued to go out into town in her new voile dresses, insisting that the children of her friends call her “cousin” rather than ”aunty” to reinforce the notion she is still young and potentially desirable.  But it was no use. “Lounging men did not even follow her with their eyes anymore.”

Based on what Ferrante, if no one else, tells us about abandoned women, Minnie’s resentments were thus continuing to build along with, one can fairly assume, her sexual frustrations. Surely her four-year relationship with the bank clerk, given his background, age and likely desires, was not devoid of intimacy.

On the day in question, on the single afternoon and evening during which the story takes place, readers, though the narrator’s eyes, are allowed to see Minnie late in the day, feverish (presumably as a result of the rumored incident) and having trouble dressing while three seemingly sympathetic, but also salaciously curious, female friends await her story.

“While she was still dressing her friends called for her and sat while she donned her sheerest underthings and stockings and new voile dress.” Her friends told her (the narrator relates) that when she got over the shock, she was to tell them everything – “what he said and did.” Who was “he?”

In the eyes of a John McLendon, a WWI veteran who commanded troops and was cited for valor, any Black male would do. “What the hell difference does it make?” he asks when Hawkshaw suggests the sheriff investigate the rumored incident to discover who, if anyone, is to blame. “Are you going to let the black sons get away with it until one really does it?” (my emphasis), McLendon says.

But again back to Minnie: eventually she sallies forth, escorted through the town to a film by her friends, “fragile in her fresh dress” – pink in color readers eventually learn thanks to one observer.

And rather than the apparent lynching, about which readers are told nothing, what happened to Minnie is described in some detail. She wanted to break out laughing and hoped the film would help the laughter under control “so it would not waste away so fast and so soon.” She clearly wants to enjoy something she has apparently pulled off, but to no avail. Her friends hear her, take her home in a taxi “where they removed her pink voile and sheer underthings and stockings.”  They put her to bed and as her laughter, increasingly hysterical, turns to screams, send for a doctor, but since it was a Saturday evening, one couldn’t easily be found.

An abandoned woman, one might argue, is a force of nature. While Dido limited the destruction by killing herself with a sword Aneas, her lover and the founder of Rome, had left her as a souvenir, Medea murdered her own sons by Jason, who abandoned her, as well as various others.

“Can one continue to live if one loses love?” Ferrante asks in an essay contained in her book of miscellany called Frantumaglia. “It seems like a pretty much discredited subject; in reality it’s the question most crudely posed by female existence. The loss of love is a failure; it causes an absence of sense.” [my emphasis]]

 Scene 4 (About midnight, at Mclendon’s neat new, but very small house)

 Mclendon returns home and discovers his wife sitting up, waiting for him. He demands to know why, telling her he has repeatedly told her not to.

 Aria:  McLendon’s wife sings “what kind of a man have you become since you went away to the war?  I still want you, but I don’t know you anymore. Within you there is no longer love, but hatred.”

When she has finished, McLendon slaps her and pushes her half over the chair where she remains, sobbing.

McLendon walks over to a screened-in window and gazes vacantly outward, removing his shirt, which he uses to wipe down his sweat-coved body. The butt of a gun is visible in his rear pocket.

Curtain

 

 

 

 

"A, S, D, F" Is a Text That Flows From Childhood Sex Abuse

I hesitate to call "A, S, D, F," a recent New Yorker fiction offering, a story since it isn't much of one. Instead, let's just call it a text, which is how a contemporary literary academic would refer it to it in any event. It's a text not so much about childhood sex abuse as it is a text that derives from such abuse.

In a nutshell, it's about a man who is going nowhere in life, which, come to think about it, characterizes a lot of New Yorker fiction these days. Also, like most current New Yorker offerings, this piece is promotional in nature, It's taken from a book of short stories by Saïd Sayrafiezadeh called "American Estrangement" scheduled to be published in August 2021.  My guess is that in return for printing this, the publisher, W.W. Norton & Co., gave it to the New Yorker free of  charge and made the author available for the usual interview as well. As a subscriber, I can't help wondering if a subscription price discount might be in order.

The protagonist of the piece seems to have one notable talent: he can type 70 words a minute on a manual typewriter with commendable if not total accuracy and as such seems to be of value to his employer, the owner of what amounts to a vanity art gallery in Aspen. Colorado. From that comes the title -- the first four keys upon which the fingers of one's left hand typically rest as one gets ready to type.

Touch typing is muscle or body memory and unlike mental memory, is arguably never forgotten. In this case, the body memory of typing is an allegory for the body memory of childhood sex abuse, which also apparently can't be forgotten even if suppressed. I use the word "apparently" only because I did not experience any such abuse myself and thus hesitate to say anything definitive about it.

Well down into the text, readers are told, more of less in passing, that when the unnamed protagonist was a child, his mother once left him with  neighbor and something happened. "No name, no face, no address. In other words, nothing actionable. I assume the doctor would say the memory has intentionally been buried."  

But clearly, not entirely.

In the New Yorker author interview, one learns that Mr. Sayrafiezadehthe himself was sexually abused as a child and is still attempting to come to terms with it -- in part at least by crafting this particular text. It apparently wasn't easy because according to the author, "A, S, D, F" went through about 20 drafts before emerging in its current form. As such, does it ultimately make a lot more sense to the author than it will to most readers?  I wouldn't be surprised if that were the case.

But then there is a familiar trope at the end: the protagonist, clearly submissive in nature, meets a woman of the other persuasion. Are they right for each other?  Not even the author knows, readers of the interview learn.