Books – derrickjknight

Britannia: A History Of Roman Britain

Today I finished reading

This work involves an enormous amount of detailed research from a period where is very little writing by a number of Roman authors and no real consensus because the tools available to the historian from the earliest years are based upon what can be gleaned from coins, medals, archaeology, excavations, gravestones, and bones and other finds. The frontispiece above, for example, is an over life-size bronze head of Hadrian found in the Thames near London Bridge.

The book is profusely illustrated by colour plates, black and white photographs, and helpful maps. Apart from the colour photographs I have merely featured a selection

Aerial photography now supports earlier excavations which, even before and since the publication of this book will be considered a work in progress for many years to come. Metal detectors are now a widely available modern aid that has aided discovery of numerous hoards. “The burial coin hoards in unusual numbers is often a good indication of crisis, and there is a sudden steep increase in hoards belonging to [the period 268-82 when the threat of Saxon sea raiders first became acute] “

Frere writes very detailed consummate prose complete with dates that can be deciphered, while making clear that much is speculation and intuition. Speaking of the early years he says “The political history of the period is largely to be inferred from a study of the coins.” Similarly “the ear of barley [appearing on the coin of the first Catuvellaunian king] not only advertises the agricultural wealth on which the kingdom’s prosperity rested but also, perhaps, opposes the idea of British beer to the luxurious imports of wine suggested by Verica’s vine leaf.

The earlier chapters in the book, introduced by the Iron Age, describe the conquest chronologically while the last two detail the end of Roman Britain; the large middle section treats the period of four centuries more thematically.

UK Children grew up with the optimistic claim of Julius Caesar that in 55 BC “veni, vidi, vinci” (I came, I saw, I conquered). He did come, he saw, but he was never, on account of what happened to him in Rome, to return after a delay. That pleasure fell to Claudius.

We still enjoy the network of roads built by the military while engaged in the conquest. For defensive purposes they placed forts spaced at a day’s march all along the way. Hadrian’s wall, as shown in black and white above, was originally built to separate Scotland from England. Later it developed as a trade centre and a place of relaxation for holidaying soldiers, many of whom would eventually retire on either side and remain there.

Apart from Scotland there was long resistance in N. Wales, aided by its difficult terrain.

“Industry is attested by the working of bronze and iron, and by the manufacture of pottery. Trade is indicated by the large quantities of imported amphorae once containing wine and oil”.

“the main body of the peasantry seem to have been poor and backward, but … finds of rich and decorated metalwork show that the aristocracy and priesthood were wealthy”.

The administration of Roman Britain was carried out by an hierarchical system under a local governor not unlike our Civil Service. “The headquarters of the financial administration was soon established at London, perhaps even before 60”. They were based on productivity land or a poll tax. “The total number of Roman officials [as time went on]… was not unduly large. This was made possible by the encouragement of local self government and responsibility of the conquered people. At first…by the device of client-kingship, whereby friendly tribes were left under the rule of their own royalty, with whom treaties were made.”

“From the first the Romans sought to encourage the growth of towns.” “They were needed not only as centres of local government but also to aid the spread of education and Roman civilisation.”

In the countryside there was much agricultural production by tenants or owners with allotments, for example corn, fruit trees, and bee-keeping; and breeding of cattle, farm horses, and sheep.

Trade and industry was served by gold, lead, pewter, tin, iron and bronze artefacts such as cauldrons; timber and stone, e.g. Purbeck Marble; pottery, vines and wine. Window glass was imported. Hides, furs, and wool came from Scotland and coal from the north.

Earlier timbered buildings were fairly regularly burnt down by fires. The use of masonry gradually superseded these. Forums, basilicas, theatres amphitheatres and public baths were introduced. The latter structures required aqueduct and drains with “stone built sewers”.

“Romano-British culture arose from the impact of the civilisation of Rome upon the Celtic people of Britain; the result, however, was not a replacement of cultures, but rather what can broadly be described as a synthesis.”

By the end of the first century wooden and mosaic floors, and frescoed walls had been introduced.

As the Latin language spread Celtic survived. “Most educated Romano-Britons were no doubt bilingual”.

“The Roman Empire was very tolerant of religious variety…. merely demanding observance of official religion,” otherwise allowing people to worship where they chose. “the only cults liable to suppression or persecution were those such as Druidism which involved practices ““(like human sacrifice) offensive to civilised thought, or those, such as Judaism or Christianity which…. could be thought of as endangering the safety of the empire.”

During the fourteenth century increased Saxon raids and incursions by Picts, Scots, and Irish bands ravaged the land defended by a weakened army that had been transferred to serve in Europe.

“But though the struggle was long drawn out, two facts are clear. The official connection of Britain with the Roman Empire ended in 410 and was not renewed; but the Roman framework and civilisation of the province were in some sense maintained until 442.”

This evening we dined on Jackie’s ultra thick and tasty chicken and vegetable stewp with fresh crusty bread rolls.

After The Funeral

Today, again in warm sunshine, I finished reading

published in 1958.

This consummately crafted detective story with all the usual skills of this timeless writer is engaging throughout, complete with plentiful clues, one of which I am kicking myself for missing, the final revelation only divulged at the very end.

Devices employed begin with thoughts in reminiscence of an old retainer and those of appraisal by the family solicitor and continue with those of the main protagonists as they contemplate events; resuming with questions and answers in insightfully controlled dialogue; stream of consciousness and disturbing dreams.

The author’s descriptive prose depicts people and places in ways that give us perfect pen pictures. “The mouth was irresolute, the chin very slightly receding, the eyes less deep-set [than his brother’s]. Lines of peevish irritability showed on his forehead”. A perfect description of the straight lines and lack of curves in the Art Deco nature of Poirot’s room sums up his precise disposition.

Here is a stream of consciousness : “It was a mercy really. To die in his sleep like that. Quietly …. in his sleep…. If only she could sleep. It was so stupid lying awake hour after hour … hearing the furniture creak, and the rustling of trees and bushes outside the window and the occasional queer melancholy hoot – an owl, she supposed. How sinister the country was, somehow. So different from the big noisy indifferent town. One felt so safe there – surrounded by people – never alone. Whereas here…..” Such thoughts dominating a sleepless night include the sense of sound; sight, smell, e.g., of paint; taste, touch and hearing are all employed in telling the story.

Dialogue includes non-verbal communication, for example ‘And Poirot twirled his moustaches with enormous energy. Tone of voice is telling: ” “Oh, no. No, I’m sure she didn’t.” The second “no,”…. had sounded suddenly doubtful.”

Scenes can be set with brief, complete, statements: “It was over. They came out again into the daylight. Half a dozen cameras clicked”. Alliteration flows quite naturally as in “flickering firelight”, “feverish feminine friendship”, “the tea-tray stood ready and the kettle was just gently rattling its lid.”

Christie’s humour is generally dry, but a six page sequence involving a character who cannot look directly at his interlocutor, rather wavering to ”fireplace curb” …… ” “electric plug socket” ……. “lampshade”, etc, etc., and eventually “eyes swivelled right round the room and he murmured looking expectantly at the door that there were ways…..” takes on the role of a dramatic clown.

An example of her use of metaphor is “He waited — and above his head a spider in its web waited for a fly”.

Later I culled from iPhotos all but one of the pictures in

It is not the header.

This evening we dined on Ferndene Farm Shop’s pork and garlic sausages; boiled baby potatoes; crunchy carrots; succulent spinach; firm broccoli; tender runner beans, and meaty gravy, with which I drank Editión Limited 2022 Guerra Del Vino Chilean Merlot.

Richard III

I have two histories of the life, times, and death of the mediaeval king of England who reigned for just twenty six months from 1485. I chose

this study from Eyre Methuen Ltd, published for their series English Monarchs in 1981.

Prompted by my post

I decided to read

in order to present my readers with background to England’s greatest murder mystery which would now be called a cold case.

Because of the paucity of reliable contemporary detail of this period of history, there is not much knowledge about the man considered by Ross to be ‘no more than a junior cadet of a great aristocratic family.” In his introduction the author tells us that “The second half of the fifteenth century in England is a period of disquieting hiatus between the traditions of historical writing of earlier centuries and the still developing forms of Renaissance history.”

Charles Ross makes it clear that Richard has both his supporters and his detractors, echoing the influence of William Shakespeare and Sir Thomas More in the opinions that have come through more that six centuries.

Ross’s first chapter chronicles the conflicts, fluctuating loyalties, treacherous and murderous behaviour dominating the norms of Richard III’s childhood and adolescence.

Edward IV was Richard’s eldest brother, “who offered him a prime example of the ruthless and unlawful elimination of political opponents….” ; Elizabeth Woodville was Edward’s second wife.

“Richard had been born into an age of extreme political ruthlessness. He was a man of his times…” which contributed to the general belief that he had murdered the princes in the tower.

First, as Protector appointed by Edward IV, he had captured the twelve year old rightful Edward V and placed him in the Tower of London

with two other of his nephews about whose subsequent deaths speculation has raged for centuries.

“In the final analysis Richard III remains the most likely candidate by far to have murdered his own nephews. It is scarcely possible to doubt, by violence during the summer of 1483. He had by far the strongest motive, as well as the most obvious opportunity. Nothing we know of his character in general and the conditions of his upbringing in particular, makes his having committed such an act at all unlikely.”

After the suppression of the rebellion of 1483 Richard lost the support of the Southern shires and strengthened that of the North, many by means of his lucrative patronage.

As king he seems believed to have been genuinely pious and loyal to friends.

He was interested in luxury, display, and architecture. There was no evidence of “crook back” although he was small and short, one side being higher than the other. He was strong and adept in warfare.

“Richard’s apparently genuine concern with law and justice had its clearly defined limits [when it suited him]. It was never allowed to override the demands of practical politics.” Yet he “proved himself an energetic and efficient king.’

Although he only had two surviving illegitimate children from his bachelor days before marriage to Queen Anne, they only produced

one boy who died at the age of ten.

Some believed it possible that the king murdered his wife, Anne, in order to marry his niece Elizabeth.

“*”

“Richard’s seizure of the throne brought to power a king with a title which was dubious at best [creating] …danger.. that any one of England’s principle foreign neighbours [i.e. Scotland and France] might wish to lend aid to a pretender”

And so it was. “Frenchmen, Bretons, Scots [with Henry Tudor]…set sail from Harfleur on 31st July or 1st August 1485” and the matter was

settled at Bosworth on 22nd August.

For me the mystery remains a cold case, while, although there is one other possible contender for the mnemonic helping schoolchildren remember the colours of the rainbow, I like to think of the alleged wicked uncle’s story being definitive: Richard Of York Gave Battle In Vain.

This evening we dined on Bird’s Eye oven and chips, peas, sweetcorn, and baked beans; Mrs Elswood’s pickled gherkins and Garner’s pickled onions, with which I finished the Rioja.

The Cunning Man

There are elements in the sharp glint and shady eyes in the portrait of Robertson Davies, the author of this insightful novel, first published in U.K. in 1995, portraying ‘The Cunning Man’ – “cunning in concealing what his true nature might be” – demonstrating the balance between the humour, both dry and fruity, and the deep psychological understanding of humanity that flows through his most readable prose.

The book tells the story of a medical man who takes a psychoanalytical approach to presenting physical ailments and is credited with more wisdom than he would claim. Perhaps we will never know “his true nature”, yet are aware of his benefit to mankind.

The various devices for narrating his path through life consist of material for the feature of a journalist who is his niece by marriage; his relationships with school friends and their differing families; his journey through medical training; his wartime doctoring; his discussions about comparative religions; a parallel exchange of letters between different characters; his Case Book, and his notes for “The Anatomy of Fiction”.

One aspect of the letters which I found confusing was his use of notes about “vignettes”, which I understand to be small illustrations often found finishing the sections in question. Various numbers which I thought must refer to explanatory notes that I would find at the end of the book or the relevant chapters appeared in the text, after which we were given brief verbal descriptions of non-existent drawings, possibly because the correspondent was an artist – I began to skip those.

Observation of different families and their child rearing methods aid his insights into the contribution of upbringing to character building, sometimes delivered with humour. “As for the invalidism of Mrs Gilmartin it was a complexity of ailments………not unconnected with habitual overeating.”; sometimes delivered with underlying opprobrium: “…they took no heed whatever of the baby who lingers in us all, so long as we live and whose demands must sometimes be met”, yet “A happy home doesn’t prepare you for the rough and tumble of life” or “the malaise of one family member can infect a whole household and rob it of its spirit”.

“She was not a raving beauty, but she had fine eyes and a Pre-Raphaelite air of being too good for this world while at the same time exhibiting much of what this world desires in a woman, and I suppose I gaped at her and behaved clownishly.” displays self-deprecating incisive dry wit. “The wit’s desire is to be funny; the ironist is only funny as a secondary achievement”.

He introduces references to his knowledge of the theatre and a wide range of other writers, such as Shakespeare, Chaucer, Proust, and Dostoevsky. “….the praise that is given to a great Hamlet or a great Othello, or the infinitely rarer great Lear, is always diminished by the feeling that the chap simply goes on the stage and says what Shakespeare has written for him and draws his sword when the director tells him to.” Are any of us, perhaps the writer wonders, our own men or women?

Throughout, the author displays sensitivity and empathy. It was as an army doctor that “I first understood that the physician is the priest of our modern, secular world.” Priests, however, struggle to find their place.

Perhaps aided by sentence lengths and by a journalistic rather than a poetic style, the prose carries us along at a steady rate with good control of conversation. This is not to say that Robertson is short on descriptive ability, as when picturing rooms, environment, or clothing to symbolise the nature of his well developed characters; not that he has no liking for alliteration, such as “weary, wincing, winsome”; “faintly fregiferous”; “essentially similar specimens of some subspecies of humanity”; or for metaphor and simile, such as “The modern pieces [of furniture]… are pleasant but not personal, like the staff in a good hotel”.

The broad ranging themes stated by the Observer reviewer beneath that back cover photograph are woven into the story of the author’s and his protagonists’ lifetime that culminates in a final surprise linking us back to the beginning.

The Leopard

My copy of Giuseppe di Lampedusa’s acclaimed historical novel, first published by Giangiacomo Feltrinelli Editore, Milan in 1958, is The Folio Society Limited’s 1988 edition using William Collins Sons & Co., translated version of 1960.

These are the boards and the spine.

The book is considered one of Italy’s greatest masterpieces.

Set in the Risorgimento period of 1861 when Garibaldi and his redshirts had provided the military power to unite the several kingdoms of Italy, including toppling the two of Sicily, the story concerns the struggles of Don Fabrizio, the charismatic Prince of Salina to accept the forces of change consequent on the new order, as many of the European nation states were created during the centre of the nineteenth century.

The seven months of the year spent in stifling, energy sapping, heat; the freedom from labouring themselves; and the expanses of rough terrain contributed to the decadence of the dying aristocracy represented by the Prince, nevertheless a kind, albeit flawed, gentleman.

The story is packed throughout with poetic prose engaging all the senses, as in “heavy [note the adjective] scents of the garden”; “…silence, emphasised rather than disturbed by the distant barking of Bendicò baiting……”; “dull rhythmic beat of a cook’s knife…”. There are numerous examples of simile, metaphor, and alliteration, such as “decaying boats bobbed up and down , desolate as mangy dogs.”

Di Lampedusa enjoys humour – dry as in “eight shotguns of uncertain damaging power” or ribald as in the bath scene when Father Pirrone disturbs Don Fabrizio, his first ever naked man, while failing to cover himself with a bathrobe.

The description of the fountain of Amphitrite is lusciously erotic. Also “The food seemed so delicious because sensuality was circulating in the house” says our author, subtly going on to suggest it.

Many sections of the book are symbolic of more than they tell, for example the exploration by the young lovers, as yet innocent of consummation, of a vast many-roomed house not previously experienced by themselves or others. Don’t we all think no-one has ever been so blessed before?

The troubles of Don Fabrizio include, and are symbolic of, the politics of revolution.

The chapter on The Ball, closing with the exhaustion of guests finally realising that the party is over, is surely a metaphor for the end of the aristocratic dominance of the country.

This is the story of a man’s life and death; as such it gives deep insight into his last thoughts as he thinks over his years and his failings. Again his last journey in his weakened condition symbolises the loss of this physically and socially powerful giant of a man’s position in society.

Raleigh Trevelyan in his helpful translation observes that one of the book’s central messages is “that every generation as it grows older feels a sense of loss, perhaps a loss of values.”

Not knowing Italian I cannot compare the translation with the original, but it must be self-evident that in his work Archibald Colquhoun has captured the beauty of the author’s language.

More examples of the prose are shown on this page above the drawing by Ian Ribbons at the close of one of the chapters.

There are a few more such illustrations which don’t add as much as his

free flowing colour pages reflecting the action and the perspective of the scenes.

On this day in 1968 Jackie and I were first married, so we celebrated this evening with a meal at Rokali’s, where I enjoyed prawn Jaipur and special rice, while Mrs Knight relished Rokali’s special meal with a little of my rice. We shared an excellent paratha; she drank Diet Coke and I drank Kingfisher beer.

Devices And Desires

“The Whistler’s fourth victim was his youngest, Valerie Mitchell, aged fifteen years, eight months and four day, and she died because she missed the nine-forty bus from Easthaven to Cobb’s Marsh. As always she had left it until the last minute to leave the disco and the floor was still a packed, gyrating mass of bodies under the makeshift strobe light when she broke free of Wayne’s clutching hands, shouted instructions to Shirl about their plans for next week above the raucous beat of the music and left the dance floor. Her last glimpse of Wayne was of his serious, bobbing face, bizarrely striped with red, yellow and blue under the turning lights. Without waiting to change her shoes, she snatched up her jacket from the cloakroom peg and raced up the road past the darkened shops towards the bus station, her cumbersome shoulder bag flapping against her ribs. But when she turned the corner into the station she saw with horror that the lights on their high poles shone down on a bleached and silent emptiness and dashing to the corner was in time to see the bus already half-way up the hill. There was still a chance if the lights were against it and she began desperately chasing after it, hampered by her fragile, high-heeled shoes. But the lights were still green and she watched helplessly, gasping and bent double with a sudden cramp, as it lumbered over the brow of a hill and like a brightly lit ship dank out of sight. ‘Oh no!’ she screamed after it, ‘Oh God! Oh no!’ and felt the tears of anger and dismay smarting her eyes.”

Thus P.D. James immediately engages our attention as she announces that we are reading a murder mystery involving a serial killer. There will be many more examples of her ability to build tension; to describe action scenes; to engage all the senses – sight, hearing, and touch in this passage, while smell features in many more, including, later in the first chapter that of “drink and sweat and a terror matching her own”. We also have here glimpses of her taste for alliteration and simile, and her ability to convey varying emotions.

This story is much more than a detective novel. It is also about the politics of publishing, protest, nuclear power and a remote rural location; of the people who live there and their interrelationships, of their back stories, of secrets, of deception; of grief, guilt, sexual faithfulness and promiscuity, physical and emotional pain.

The power station, perched above the “sea-scoured coast” of the headland, viewed from everywhere in the village, and lit by the skies according to the time of day or night and the weather becomes a brooding presence reflected in the character of its manager.

Particularly in the interview sections, much of the narrative involves conversation, of which James is a master. She understands the complexity of human emotions, the importance of tone, of silence, and of non-verbal communication. Careful questioning and listening will give an investigator more truth than any amount of force and bluster.

The tale is full of surprises, some of which change the focus of the reader. Given the number of characters in the story and their different recollections and presentations, true and false, the precision of the author’s prose is exemplary, enabling her to tie up all the threads in her concluding chapters, the details of which we were not expecting.

Irene von Treskow’s illustration to the book jacket of my Faber and Faber first edition of 1989 conveys the sight of the power station seen through the ruined abbey against a moonlit night sky as the silent protagonist of the book.

Whilst I was drafting this review, Nathan of Norman’s Heating was servicing our oil fuelled boiler which, despite various visits in the last two years had not received a full service.

This evening we dined on cod and parsley fish cakes; boiled new potatoes; crunchy carrots; firm broccoli and cauliflower with chopped leaves; tender mange-touts; and moist ratatouille, with which I drank Reserva Privado Chilean Malbec 2023.

The Brontës

Given her conviction that the members of this multi-talented family were so tightly knit Juliet Barker wrote her life as of the family rather than of individual members.

She makes the point that for the best part of a century and a half until her 1994 publication we had relied on Mrs Gaskell’s biased and misleading depiction of the Haworth parsonage; the father Patrick Brontë; and the brother, Branwell, which, with compelling evidence, she largely debunks.

As is my wont, I will attempt to avoid spoilers, by not revealing too many details, although I do show many of the chapter headings from my Weidenfeld & Nicholson paperback edition of 1995, complete with the author’s prose beneath them. It is most significant that the eldest two of the six siblings did not reach adulthood, and why and how they did not. The four who did were all competent artists as well as exceptional writers.

After the early death of his wife and mother of the children, Patrick did his best to bring up the siblings with the help of their maternal aunt. Barker contends that he was a far more caring parent than the one described by Gaskell.

Our author bases her work on letters, publications, and reported conversations of friends, relatives, and witnesses contemporary with the family members. She balances differing views and claims, whereas she contends that Mrs Gaskell’s informants are largely biased or untrue.

Juliet Barker sets the scenes that would have been familiar to the Brontës themselves and compares them to locations in the 1990s. Thus, “the fell hand of the twentieth century has destroyed most of the Dewsbury that Patrick Brontë knew. Its once proud and separate identity has been lost, swallowed up in the vast and characterless urban sprawl which oozes southwards from Bradford and Leeds. Today, its most dominant feature is the road system – a Gordian knot of flyovers, dual carriageways and underpasses apparently designed to prevent anyone either entering or leaving the town. The shabby remains of late Victorian municipal splendour are dwarfed by the concrete stanchions of modern bridges. Semi-derelict mills, empty warehouses and demolition sites are a depressing foretaste of the town centre. Dewsbury is a town which has lost its way; having obliterated its past it gives the impression it has no confidence in its future. Yet in December 1809, when Patrick arrived, Dewsbury was a distinct entity, a town with a venerable history and a prosperous future in the boom years of the late nineteenth-century wool trade.”

The historical context is also pinpointed by such as the Luddites battle against machines in 1812, the Battle of Waterloo in 1815, the coming of the railway in the 1840s, and the Great Exhibition of 1851.

The three surviving sisters and their brother Branwell spent their childhood years writing what Barker terms juvenilia in which they played out their own relationships in their creations of characters which continued into their young adulthoods, and “the attraction of such piquantly shocking characteristics in their creations was that they were so alien to the conventionality of life at the parsonage.” The Duke of Wellington’s victory at Waterloo made him a hero in these works given the fictitious character name.

Barker presents many balanced extracts from her source materials, including their groundbreaking novels, interpreting how the juvenile fantasies and the lives of the three major writers influence their mature works. In particular she considers the many contemporary attempts to identify the originals of many of the characters.

Relationships with publishers and reviewers are explored. In particular how they affect individual family members and how such relationships ebb and flow over the years, especially in an age when communication was mostly by long distance letter writing and subject to misinterpretation. People could not make an appointment by telephone, text, or e-mail; rather they may travel miles to turn up on a doorstep where they may or may not be welcome – indeed they may be too late to attend a deathbed or may not have known someone was even ill.

These are the front and back covers of my copy of the book. The portrait of the three sisters is by Branwell who erased himself from the central space.

The title page illustration is by Emily;

these selected chapter headings. The gallery, where the individual artists are named, can be accessed by clicking on any one of the images.

I closed my posting of this review before we dined on Jackie’s wholesome shepherds pie, parsnips, mushrooms, carrots, broccoli, mange touts, garden peas, and spinach, with which she drank Diet Coke and I finished the Malbec.

Cover Her Face

In the very first sentences of her novel P.D. James engages her readership of this Inspector Dalgleish novel: “Exactly three months before the killing at Martingale Mrs Maxie gave a dinner-party. Years later, when the trial was a half-forgotten scandal and the headlines were yellowing on the newspaper lining of cupboard drawers, Eleanor Maxie looked back on that spring evenings the opening scene of a tragedy. Memory, selective and perverse, invested what had been a perfectly ordinary dinner-party with an aura of foreboding an unease……” Just a few well-chosen words convey the passing of time, a sense of history, and reflections on memory.

The precision of her carefully descriptive prose Is further exemplified by “…. The window gave a view of the main hospital entrance farther along the street. In the distance she could discern the shining curve of the river and the towers of Westminster. The ceaseless rumble of traffic was muted, an unobtrusive background to the occasional noises of the hospital, the clang of the lift gates, the ringing of telephone bell, the passing of brisk feet along the corridor….. “

It is in the reflection of this patient precision in the character of her sleuth that, for me, the story had begun to pall as we were presented with a series of interviews by the unflappable and unemotional Detective Chief Inspector’s gradual peeling away of the inconsistencies in the statements of the various members of the house party; indeed I was becoming bored. Perhaps that was Dalgleish’s essential skill. His technique is to calm rather than threaten.

Just in time we are presented with some surprise witnesses and faster moving action sequences which enliven the previously soporific pace.

The author has a deep knowledge of human nature with its ambivalences and contradictions which are often reflected in her well-presented dialogue with emphasis on tone and body language.

In the highly original perspective of his well drawn illustrations Jonathan Burton collaborates with the author in leaving misleading clues, some of which tricked me.

Here we have the front board and spine; the title page and frontispiece of my Folio Society edition.

Gentian Hill

This novel by Elizabeth Goudge is a story on many levels based largely in Devon during the time of Nelson and Bonaparte. It is a tale of instinctive romantic love; of consistent unselfish giving of oneself; of loyal adoption; and of genetic recognition; of intuitive identification; of generosity of spirit; of friendship formed in adversity; and of complete lack of empathy and extreme cruelty.

So well crafted is the work that it is not at first apparent that the backdrop is the earlier period of The Terror of the French Revolution and the part it played in the lives of the main protagonists. The overall triumph of survival in challenging circumstances is an underlying theme.

Contrasts between gentle bucolic country life and the harsh disciplined life of sailors on the open sea form a key part of the narrative, as do those concerning class and breeding, and of different spheres of Christianity.

Goudge’s elegant descriptive prose engaging all the senses is at its best, whether featuring inland or coastline scenes or the various action sequences. “[dawn] came quite soon, with its inevitable quickening and reassurance, and the interpenetration of light an sound and scent by each other that one seems to notice only in moments of deep piece. The crying of the awakening gulls, the soft slap of the sea against the harbour wall, the running of the stream, the sound of an opening door and a voice singing, a church clock striking the hour, made a music that was a part of the growing pearly light. There was a faint scent if seaweed, of baking bread, and that indescribable fresh smell of the dawn compounded of dew-drenched flowers, wood-smoke and wet fields…..” is an example of this scenic range. “…..he was enduring the punishment meted out to midshipmen who sleep on watch. He was lashed in the weather rigging, his arms and legs widely stretched, his head burning, his body shivering from the bucketful of cold water that had been emptied over him, every nerve in him stretched to what felt like breaking point, and in his heart black rebellion, fury and despair. For he had been treated with the most shocking injustice…..” demonstrates the cruelty; “….Hour after hour it went on, the work and discipline of the wounded ships functioning all the while with order and purpose. Men toiled at the guns, in the magazines, in the rigging, carrying the wounded, flinging the dead and dying overboard, running messages, repairing under-water timbers….” the toil of battle.

There is good use of simile and metaphor, as in “He could disappear with the ease of a shadow when the sun goes in”; “he had been like a tortoise on its back, immovable but vulnerable and inviting prodding”; “that nauseating smell of unwashed bodies and filthy clothes that is the very breath of poverty”.

With intimate knowledge, our author closely observes her human characters and their animals with equal accuracy. “His eyes were his father’s, tawny and somewhat stern, but there was great sweetness of expression about the mouth. He had a character of the utmost nobility; he was wise, brave, loving, loyal, patient, chivalrous, and fastidious in his personal habits.” Which would this be?

She has good command of dialogue and natural accents.

She weaves in her usual references to Shakespeare and ancient myth and legend

My copy is a 1949 first edition published by Hodder and Stoughton inscribed to ‘Morag from Noel Jan 1950’.

Although the book jacket by J. Morton Sale was in raggedy unconnected bits it somehow managed to protect the front and back

boards for three quarters of a century. Note the preservation of blue in the gentian on the front.

These are the endpapers both front and back.

Having spent many hours watching Christopher Shaw restoring books on The Repair Shop, Jackie took great pleasure in applying his

techniques to repairing this jacket. You will see that she has pasted the parts onto a base sheet and created a spine. Study of the darkened spine in the first picture above shows by contrast how well the boards have been protected until now. Maybe, with the jacket wrapped in cellophane, they will continue for many more years to come.

This evening we dined on tasty baked gammon; piquant cheddar cheese and mustard sauce; boiled new potatoes; firm carrots and cauliflower with its chopped leaves; tender runner beans; and moist spinach, with which I drank more of the Malbec.

The Heart Of The Family

Gerard Manley Hopkins, a Jesuit priest now considered one of the greatest poets of the Victorian era, who produced beautifully descriptive philosophical sonnets inspired by his love of nature and his Christian faith; moving on to the so-called “terrible sonnets” of desolation, two of which, for example “No worst, there is none ….. speaking of “world-sorrow…….” from which comfort and even joy may ultimately be sought, as “all/ Life death does end and each day dies with sleep.”

Undoubtedly Elizabeth Goudge in her “The Heart of the Family” from 1953 was deeply influenced by Manley Hopkins as is reflected in her beautiful bucolic prose descriptions and her philosophical approach to the lives of her characters.

Shakespeare, too, is woven into her narrative with references to such as madness in Lear, jealousy in Othello, and joyful Midsummer Night’s Dream to name but a few. Just as the bard makes use of woodland in many of his plays so does Goudge in this book. Even the plant rue, commonly known as the Herb-of-Grace, is quoted in Hamlet; rue meaning remorse or regret, and The Herb of Grace being the hostelry so significant in our current work.

“The warm sun of the stormy August day was out again and beat down upon them. Here in the sheltered drive, with the rampart of the oak-trees between them and the marshes, they did not feel the wind from the sea. Through the wrought-iron gate in the wall the man could see the golden and orange glow of autumn flowers, the tall and gracious trees of an old and matured garden, and, beyond, the irregular roof of the house. ……. To the right the marshes had been splashed with colour like a painter’s palette; to the left, just at the corner of the lane that led down from the high-road, there had been cornfield bending beneath the wind. On the horizon he had seen the silver line of the sea and the estuary, with the cliffs of the Island beyond, at one moment hidden by the mists of driving rain, remote and far away, at the next leaping out under the sun in such clear distinctness that they looked like the longed-for Celestial Mountain at the end of the unending way. Then he had reached the harbour, with wild sea-asters growing beside the harbour wall and fishing-boats and yachts rocking peacefully at anchor. …… A swan had flown overhead, the rhythmic beating of its wings adding to the note of strength, and everywhere, in the wind and sun and rain, the gulls had been flying and calling……..” “The house smelled of flowers, furniture polish, baked apples, dog and tobacco” are just a few sections from the many elegantly descriptive prose paragraphs that display the author’s love of nature; her attention to the weather, to senses of sight, hearing, touch, and smell; her use of metaphor, simile, adjective and adverb, to draw the reader into her scene.

Her characters of all ages, especially young children, as in “The sheer ecstasy with which her booted feet came down in each puddle told of the depth of her capacity for happiness. …….” or older members of the household in “A door opened at the back of the hall, letting in light, and a woman came through it, a country body of immense size and immense charm. She advanced with a stately swaying motion, shifting her great weight from one foot to the other with a patient humorous determination that did not quite mask her fatigue…….” are touchingly presented with a deep knowledge of human nature and its complexities.

Each member of the family, for their different reasons and because of their varied experiences, including those of wartime, in the decade following the Second World War is suffering burning regret, remorse, and disappointment, yet hoping for joy and maybe happiness. Some carry unexpressed shame. Each is seeking truth and ultimately settling for contentment. Their deep Christian convictions affect how they manage powerful contrary desires. Clearly not all are identical in their struggles but I do not wish to publish spoilers, especially as a shared secret unknown to each of two participants emerges as an ultimate cathartic surprise.

A pivotal section of the book involves a pause at Knyghtwood forest en route to the group walking to The Herb of Grace. This is where Elizabeth Goudge adapts Shakespeare’s device of a significant woodland feature. Different couples and individuals make use of their own special places among the trees to relate and reflect.

I heartily recommend this insightful, heartwarming, and thought-provoking work.

Perhaps it is appropriate that the jacket of my Book Club Selection of 1955 has seen better days, yet still serves some protection to the browned pages within.

The storm still raged as we drove the short distance to Rokali’s for dinner this evening; when we returned the winds had dropped but the rain continued. I enjoyed my duck dhansak and two purees; Jackie chose chicken biriani. I drank Kingfisher and she drank Diet Coke. Well cooked food, friendly service, and welcome ambience were as good as always.