Chekhov's "The Darling:" Controlled Variation Says Saunders

 A "darling" is a beloved person who can do no wrong. One thinks of Peter Pan's friend Wendy. 

Wendy was quite literally a Darling -- that was her last name. The implication, of course, was that she was also a darling in the definitional sense and, as depicted by J.M. Barrie in his stories about Peter Pan, that seems to have been the case. She was indeed a beloved person and except that her difficult father at one point objected to her telling "silly stories" to her younger brothers, she was apparently about as perfect as a girl, and later a woman, can get.

But unlike Chekhof's darling, a woman named Olga Semyonova, or Olenka as she is known to family and friends, Wendy had to make a difficult choice: whether to stay in Neverland with Peter and remain a child forever, or return home and face adulthood with all of its challenges. Olenka, about whose background readers are told little, just drifts through life, falling in love with one male after another and then conforming her life to theirs -- sharing not only their activities but their opinions.

"The Darling" is one of three Chekhov short stories that American author and creative writing instructor Geoge Saunders elucidates in his recent book "A Swim in a Pond in the Rain." The book's look at seven Russian short stories is based on workshop sessions Saunders has conducted with students at Syracuse University over a period of about 20 years.

Olenka, "the daughter of a retired collegiate assessor," is presumably not uneducated. But her fundamental characteristic is that "she was always enamored with someone and could not live otherwise." Physically warm and comfortable, she's otherwise an empty vessel that needs to be filled from some external source and remains over the years unchanged in that respect. 

After first focusing on a French teacher, then on her now-dying father and then an aunt, Olenka as young woman first falls in love with a rather unattractive theater impresario because she feels sorry for him. When he somewhat mysteriously dies on a business trip shortly thereafter, she marries a lumberyard owner and lives happily with him for six years although they are unable to have children. Next comes as an army veterinarian (armies had a lot of horses back then), but he's married so her infatuation is removed and mostly one-sided. Finally, as a mother figure, she loves the now-retired vet's young son, who finds her annoying. 

End of the story.

For Saunders, "The Darling" is a "pattern story" -- a tale in which a basic theme recurs, but each time with slight changes that both give readers pleasure and appear to infer new meaning.  In his book about Russian short stories, he spends a lot of time explaining just how Chekhov went about constructing it.

Readers who like music will probably immediately recognize this technique as theme and variation. It's ever-present, such as when jazz musicians pass around various riffs on a particular melody, but I most enjoy it Handel's vocal music where theme and variation is ever present and with great imagination. Easily approachable in that respect is "Every Valley," the second aria from "Messiah." 

The technique is probably a lot less used in literature, and especially as blatantly as in "The Darling." And not without reason: as the tale proceeded, Olenka seemed came across for me as more caricature than character and, indeed, at one point Saunders admits she can appear to be somewhat robotic.

No matter how good a melody is, it can become boring if it is simply repeated in unchanged form. Likewise, Saunders warns against stories are too static in nature. One or more expectations need to be set at the beginning and resolution comes through a series of what he calls "escalations." In other words, the stakes have to get higher.   

At the end of the day, and in view of the fact that "The Darling" ends without a striking development that proclaims "Resolution!" one can't help wondering what the theme that was subjected to variation was all about.

In Saunders view, Chekov was writing about love, and how it can become a complete absorption for one person as opposed to a form of communication between two. Others, such as Leo Tolstoy ("War and Peace," "Anna Karenina") have tried, Saunders said, to make tale about the nature, or natures, of women. There is, of course, the age-old question: "what do women want?" In Olenka's case, the answer would seem to be "to be a caregiver." 

Well, fine, but it still seems to be told as caricature, or too simplistic. Olenka lacks complexity and as such, it's tough to find her of any great interest as an individual. 

At the end of the day, Saunders said that he teaches "The Darling" as "a brisk little primer on just how much organization the story form can bear and will reward," adding that in this instance, he finds Chekov's tale "a beautiful system for presenting a tale of controlled variation."

Now let's see, where did I put my cd of "Messiah" arias and choruses? Talk about a beautify system of controlled variation!

   

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.

One Way In Which to Justify a Happy Ending in Fiction

 Thomas Hardy's "Far From the Madding Crowd" is a comedic novel, which means it has a happy ending.  That's as opposed to a tragic novel, which doesn't.

When it comes to Hollywood movies, just about any excuse will do, since the public by and large doesn't like films that end as "downers."  That was traditionally true of Broadway musicals as well, which is one reason "West Side Story" was a breakthrough: it doesn't end happily.

But back to Hardy (1840 -1928): his heroine, Bathsheba Everdene, by the time she was only about 24 years old, had already rejected one suitor, married the wrong man and then when he appeared to have died, promised to marry an older man she didn't love as a result of a thoughtless Valentine's Day gesture sometime earlier. Fortunately (for her), the former was shot and killed by the latter who then turned himself in to serve essentially a life term in prison.  That left her free to marry the right man, the man who had first proposed to her only to be rejected.

But why should readers believe this man, Garbriel Oak,  really is the right man and that their future together will be a happy one?  In Hardy's view it has to do with the nature of real, or true, love.

Briefly by way of background, Oak, an exceptionally competent and reliable fellow had, following a stroke of ill-fortune, come to work for Bathsheba when she inherited a prosperous farm and gained considerable social stature in the process. Whenever problems arose, Oak was there to take care of them, never again pressing his suit as he worked closely with Bathsheba and eventually became her second in command.

Then, just as Bathsheba is finally free of those other entanglements, Oak announces a plan to go to America (the novel being set in rural England), leaving Bathsheba unjustifiably distraught. "She was aggrieved and wounded that the possession of hopeless love from Gabriel, which she had come to regard as her inalienable right for life, should have been withdrawn just at his own pleasure in this way." She is, after all, far from a worldly woman in age and experience despite her pluck and independence. 

Thinking about it, Bathsheba comes to realize she is about to lose the only true friendship she had and, taking matters into her own hands, convinces Oak that if he will only propose again, she will marry him. Somewhat bemused, he does: he has always wanted her.

The reason, in Hardy's mind, that their love for each other will now last is because if "a substantial affection" survives an initial knowledge of  the rougher sides of each other's character, and only develops into romance "in the interstices of hard prosaic reality," it will make for a solid bond.

"This good fellowship -- comaraderie --  usually occurring through similarity of pursuits, is unfortunately seldom superadded to love between the two sexes, because men and women associate, not in their labours, but in their pleasures merely. Where, however, happy circumstance permits its development, the compounded feeling proves itself to be the only love which is as strong as death -- that love which many waters cannot quench, nor the floods drown, beside which the passion usually called by the name (love) is evanescent as steam."

And there the novel ends, on page 428 in the Penguin Random House 2015 Vintage Classics Edition.

Flirting for Profit: A Taibbi Article and a New Yorker Story

 I was reading an article by Matt Taibbi on how an ordinary American couple rather innocently got swallowed up in student debt when one particular turn of events in the saga reminded me of the March 1, 2021 New Yorker short story: "Good-Looking," by Souvankham Thammavongsa.

In his article on student debt, Taibbi said:

They [the young couple] took classes at Sacramento State, finished credits for degrees from Humboldt, and then discovered what a lot of young people in the eighties and nineties were learning, that the implied bargain of college — get a degree, get a good job — was less than a concrete proposition. “It was a wake-up call,” Robin says. She remembers an early job selling muffins.

“The muffin route that I took over, was from a beautiful woman, who was very charismatic, bubbly, and stunning,” she recalls, laughing. “She knew her route, and gave me the list, saying, ‘Do these muffins.’ I shadowed her the first day, and she sold them all! ‘Okay,’ I thought. ‘I'll do the same thing.’ I quickly found that part of the customer attraction was seeing her. I came back with half the muffins.”

Well, the muffin lady was undoubtedly using her charms to either overly, or in effect, flirt with her customers, monetizing that capability.  Some customers, her replacement found out, evidently weren't all that interested in the muffins. They were paying for the delights of charming lady's company, apparently in an innocent and harmless fashion. 

Monetizing one's ability to successfully flirt is the jumping off point of "Good-Looking," but with a twist.  Someone other than the charmer is apparently getting all, or at least most, of the proceeds.

The chief protagonist, a 38-year-old married man who works part time as a gym instructor, was encouraged by his boss to flirt with the predominately female membership, in part because he was good looking. That would help keep the women coming, the boss said, arguing that it was "harmless."  Except that the married instructors who engaged in such activities were urged to take off their wedding rings.

Well, of course, one woman interpreted the message a bit differently and invited the instructor out.  He accepted, but with a twist that I won't reveal here so as not to ruin the story.

According to Thammavongsa, in the usual New Yorker author interview, "Good-Looking" is a riff on the question what is love?

But to me it was more compelling as a profile of the protagonist and as brief exploration of whether one can harmlessly flirt for profit. 

Does Francesca da Rimini Deserve to be in the Inferno?

In the preceding post, I talked about a woman known as Francesca da Rimini who Dante Alighieri placed in the circle of his Inferno reserved for the lustful. There, she and her lover are condemned to swirl around in the winds of Hell forever as a result of their supposedly transgressive behavior.

Why continue this topic?  An important aspect of character development involves motivations, and questions of who or what is really responsible for any particular outcome. And how reliable is the narrator?

While you can read about Dante-the-poet's justifications for the outcome in question in the previous post, legitimate questions can be raised as to whether it was actually justifiable, whether it was prejudiced by certain, debatable  assumptions about the human condition and whether the poem's sketchy account of what happened told the whole story.

Was Francesca's Punishment Justifiable?

First, one can ask whether what Francesca and her lover Paolo did really constitutes "lust." Their affair was hardly a one-night stand.  Rather it lasted for ten years and presumably would have gone on even longer had not Francesca's husband caught them together and immediately killed them both.  It sounds more like two people very much in love with each other, sex being a natural expression of such sentiments.

But it was nonetheless adultery some might say, and that's that. Maybe so, but that portion of hell -- not deep into the abyss to be sure -- is for the lustful. One could argue there is a difference and Dante was most definitely a man to make distinctions. His Commedia is endlessly about distinctions and gradations,  even in Paradiso  One might not immediately imagine there to be different degrees of beatitude, perhaps leaving Saints aside, but that's apparently the case up there.

Not much seems to be known about the state of Paolo's marriage -- how it came about why it seems to have been unsuccessful, in one respect at any rate. But it is known that Francesca's father, head of the Italian city of Ravenna, married her off at about age 20 to the very unattractive older son of the head of the neighboring city of Rimini to cement an alliance -- not an uncommon practice in the Middle Ages.

Since Francesca apparently had no choice in the matter (she was simply an asset to be deployed to the advantage of the family), it seems hard to characterize her love for her husband's younger brother as adultery.  She didn't first choose her husband and only after he had accepted her, reject him for another man. Her political marriage was something of a legal technicality, serving society, but not her. It's hard to believe Francesca was married "in the eyes of God."

Dante's Catholicism didn't expect mere mortals to be perfect even if God had given them the means, through reason and love, to be so.  Indeed, Dante-the-pilgrim as he wanders through the afterlife with various guides has much to atone for and only after he has satisfactorily done so, does he reach a level of Paradise where he can get a glimpse of God.

Indeed, there is a whole realm of the Commedia, known as Purgatorio, where people who have repented, often at the last minute of their lives, are given time to make amends and eventually reach heaven.  And the only way out of Purgatorio is up: once there, you aren't going to Hell although it could take a long time for you to work things out, as it were.

And further, there is a special level or zone of Purgatorio for the lustful.  So why isn't Francesca there? Because her vengeful husband didn't give her a chance to recant. Bad luck I suppose, but should one be consigned forever to the Inferno on the basis of luck? It doesn't seem right, and especially when it appears her husband is going to end up in one of the deepest and most dreadful regions of the Inferno, not for killing Francesca (of course), but for murdering his brother as Cain did to Abel in the Bible. (The region in question is named after Cain.)

Where is the justice in all of this? 

Is Dante Right About The Human Condition?

Now let's turn to the poet Dante's underlying assumptions about the human condition and how they could be dead wrong. 

Dante-the-poet (as opposed to Dante-the-pilgrim who comes across as clueless much of the time) operates on the basis of the following assumptions: God endowed mankind with love, reason and free will. Because of the last mentioned and because love engenders strong desires, if reason isn't properly applied, it is easy to go astray. For our purposes, the key notion here is that love is internal to a person and controllable. So by failing to use her reason properly -- to understand the moral of the story of Lancelot and Guinevere -- Francesca misdirects her love and is condemned on both accounts.

That's not the way Francesca experienced what happened to her, which could call into question Dante's assumptions. Why should we think he knows what he's talking about, or telling the truth, when we know he had an agenda in writing the Commedia?

Francesca sees love as an external force that can take control of a person. Maybe Dante-the-pilgrim's guide at this point, the Roman poet Virgil, a pagan, should explain the role of Cupid to him.

"Love, who [an external entity] which so fast brings flames to human hearts, seized him [Paolo who first kissed her] with feeling for the lovely form, now torn from me [she's just a "shade" now with no substance]. The harm of how [she was murdered] still rankles.

"Love, who no loved one pardons love's requite, seized me for him so strong in delight that, as you see, he does no leave me yet."

The message here is that Francesca had no control over what happened, and my guess is it's a feeling shared by any number of readers, and especially with respect to the first time they fell in love.

As we know from the previous post, Francesca and Paolo were alone, reading the story of Lancelot and Guinevere "for pure joy" and "we knew no suspicion." But when they read "the longed for smile of Guinevere -- at last her lover kissed," they were swept away in passion for each other. 

While Dante-the-poet is scornful of this outcome, his chief protagonist, Dante-the-pilgrim, can't imagine how such love can result in Francesca's fate, and he faints. (And not for the last time. One can't help thinking the pilgrim is a bit of a beta-male, but that's another topic.)

So who is correct about the nature of the human condition when it comes to love: Dante-the-poet, or Francesca, and if Francesca is correct, she most certainly does not deserve to be in the Inferno.

Did We Get the Full Story?

As we know from scholarly commentary on the "Commedia" if not from our own reading, there are a host of characters in the poem, few of whom are fleshed out in much detail.  Rather, the poet seems to think his readers will already know enough about them (despite the fact that many are fictional) that he can use an aspect or two of their lives to make a certain point.

Such is the case with Francesca. How exactly did that political marriage come about? Was Francesca complicit initially, or perhaps just a dutiful daughter going along with whatever her father (and mother?) thought best?  It would seem to be important to know in view of what happened to her.

In 1370, about 50 years after the Commedia appeared, the Florentine writer Giovanni Boccaccio, author of the Decameron and an admirer of Dante Alighieri. decided to flesh out the story and in a fashion arguably very sympathetic to Francesca. 

You can read a full account of Boccaccio's version as well as much, much more about Francesca on the website Dante Poliglotta, but in short, Boccaccio claims she was tricked into it. He says she was married by proxy, thinking she was wedding the attractive Paulo, and only on the morning after, discovered that her husband was instead his unattractive, lame older brother.

If that was the case, there is ample reason Francesca shouldn't be in the Inferno.

Well, one could go on and on because as you can see from Wikipedia's account of Francesca, her story inspired numerous plays, operas and other works of art. Which is another reason for knowing all about her.

I don't know about you, but I don't think she's really in the Inferno. Let's just mark it down to artistic license on the part of Dante. 

 

Mansfield and Woolf: Illumination Through Ordinary Lives

There is an interesting passage in Katherine Mansfield's short story "At the Bay" in which Stanley Burnell returns from a routine day at work, in a state of some angst because he left home that morning without saying good-by to his wife, Linda. As readers know, the omission was deliberate: he wanted to punish Linda for perceived indifference to his patriarchal privileges.

But now remorseful -- Stanley is fundamentally insecure and badly needs the support of his wife -- he pretends it was at least in part an oversight.

"Forgive me, darling, forgive me," Stanley says, leaping across a flower bed and taking Linda into his arms.

"Forgive you?" smiled Linda. "But whatever for?"

"Good God! You can't have forgotten," cried Stanley Burnell. "I've thought of nothing else all day. I've had a hell of a day.  I made up my mind to dash out and telegraph, and then I thought the wire mightn't reach you before I did.  I've been in tortures, Linda."

"But, Stanley," said Linda, "what must I forgive you for?"

"Linda!" -- Stanley was very hurt -- "didn't you realize -- you must have realized -- I went away without saying goodby to you this morning?  I can't imagine how I can have done such a thing. My confounded temper, of course,  But -- well" -- and he sighed and took her in his arms again -- "I've suffered enough for it today."

Just after that, Linda notices that Stanley has a pair of new gloves and pulls one on her hand, smiling as she does so -- turning her hand this way and that.

Stanley wanted to say, 'I was thinking of you the whole time I bought them.'  It was true, but for some reason he couldn't say it. "Let's go in," he said.

Stanley, for all his flaws -- one can easily view him as a pompous ass -- wants to tell the wife of his four children, a wife upon whom he is utterly emotionally dependent, that he loves her, but somehow he can't get it out, even indirectly. And when I read it, I was immediately reminded of a similar series of events in Virginia Woolf's book "Mrs. Dalloway."

Therein, Richard Dalloway, a member of Parliament, accepts an invitation to lunch with Lady Bruton, to which Clarissa isn't invited, leaving his emotionally fragile wife, on the eve of her big party, in a state of distress. At one point during the early afternoon, resting in a tiny bed, Clarissa has the urge to call out to her husband only to recall where he was lunching.

"He has left me; I am alone forever, she thought, folding her hands upon her knee."

To his credit, the ever-thoughtful Richard [readers see that characteristic a number of times in the story] is worried about his wife and and at the conclusion of the lunch [at which, as it turned out, his attendance was not really required], he wants to bring a significant present home to Clarissa, which he finds difficult to do because a bracelet he had once given her had not been a success. So he settles for a large bouquet of roses, and, of course, readers know Clarissa is first and foremost a lover of flowers.

For the next three pages of the book, readers follow along as Richard walks home, thinking of his happy, fulfilled life with Clarissa, and determined to tell her he loves her,  in so many words.

"... here he was, in the prime of life, walking to Westminster to tell Clarissa that he loved her.  Happiness is this, he thought."

But as he surprised her with the bouquet, he couldn't say it. "He could not bring himself to say he loved her; not in so many words."

As was the case with Stanley and Linda Burnell, in a sense it didn't matter. Taking the flowers from Richard, "she understood; she understood without him speaking; his Clarissa."

The inability of husbands to tell their wives, in so many words, that they love them is, I suspect, not at all uncommon, probably because it makes men feel vulnerable. And vulnerability, so common a sensation for women, is probably the last emotion a man wants to experience.

Virginia Woolf and Katherine Mansfield were both friends and rivals from 1917 to Mansfield's death in 1923 -- despite very considerable differences in background and social status. "At the Bay" was published in 1922 and then "Mrs. Dalloway" in 1925.  Both stories are set within one day as is James Joyce's massive novel "Ulysses," serialized from 1918 to 1920 and first published in full in 1922.

Earlier, in 1918, Mansfield's story "Prelude" (one of her three stories about the Burnell family) had been completed at Virginia Woolf's urging and published by Virginia and Leonard Woolf. It was the second release from their hand-operated printing press, the first, entitled "Two Stories," contained Leonard's "Three Jews" and Virginia's "The Mark on the Wall." Such were the beginnings of the "The Hogarth Press."

Virginia Woolf was a strong believer in the notion that quotidian events should be the first and foremost concern of a writer -- and such is the focus of Katherine Mansfield's series of stories. It's a series one can view as a cycle on the state of women during the times in which she lived.

"Examine for a moment an ordinary mind on an ordinary day," Woolf said in her essay "Modern Fiction," which can be found in a book of her writing entitled "The Common Reader." 

"Let us record the atoms as they fall upon the mind in the order in which they fall, let us trace the pattern, however disconnected and incoherent in appearance, which each sight or incidence scores upon the consciousness. Let us not take it for granted that life exists more fully in what is commonly thought big than what is commonly thought small."

And in such fashion readers learn of Stanley Burnell and Richard Dalloway struggling to relate to their wives what is in their hearts  -- in the most ordinary of circumstances.  Such is life.

All You Need is Love, or How to Tanscend a Happy Marriage

In 1967, the Beatles released what was arguably their sappiest song: "All You Need Is Love." It became an anthem of the hippie era -- encapsulating the sentiment of the San Francisco Summer of Love -- much the way "We Shall Overcome" became an anthem of the slightly earlier civil rights movement.

The notion that love can conquer all is back, in the form of a play by Sarah Rhul called "How to transcend a happy marriage" that is currently playing in New York at Lincoln Center.

When Love Fails to Heal, See a Psychiatrist

We often hear or read about the healing power of love. But it doesn't always work -- it can't overcome all obstacles -- and when that happens, perhaps one should consult a psychiatrist.

That appears to one message of "Sleep," a short story by Colm Toibin in the March 23, 2015, edition of "The New Yorker."

I know what you will do when morning comes. I wake before you do and I lie still. Sometimes I doze, but usually I am alert, with my eyes open. I don’t move. I don’t want to disturb you. I can hear your soft, calm breathing and I like that. And then at a certain point you turn toward me without opening your eyes; your hand reaches over, and you touch my shoulder or my back. And then all of you comes close to me. It is as though you were still sleeping—there is no sound from you, just a need, almost urgent but unconscious, to be close to someone. This is how the day begins when you are with me.

That's the opening paragraph of "Sleep." It's a very fine and powerful piece of writing that drew me in. Unfortunately, however, it isn't stylistically equaled by anything that follows, but that is beside the point here.