Showing posts with label Jane Eyre. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jane Eyre. Show all posts

Monday, 22 September 2014

My Cousin Rachel by Daphne Du Maurier


I've never read Daphne du Maurier before. In fact, I've hardly ever read psychological/ Gothic thrillers before - with the exception of Jane Eyre (and Northanger Abbey, if you count a satire of the Gothic romance - it didn't work for me, because obviously you need to be familiar with what the author is satirizing). This is really not my cup of tea - I suppose I could occasionally read, even enjoy psychological thrillers, but the Gothic romance is not for me. It always, for me, conjures up images of howling wind and rain, and gloomy marshes (or moors). Not for me. I prefer to laugh.

My Cousin Rachel reminded me constantly of Jane Eyre. I read later that Jane Eyre and the Bröntes were a great influence on du Maurier - it certainly shows. The evocation of atmosphere, the friendless, dependent woman, the unequal romance (age and otherwise), all bring to mind Jane Eyre. But My Cousin Rachel is a very different book from Jane Eyre.

Others have said that du Maurier has a way with words. I was too engrossed to particularly notice, which means she certainly does. The brilliance of My Cousin Rachel is neither plot nor suspense - it is atmosphere, even more than character. In fact, I'd say the atmosphere was a character in itself, playing strongly in shaping the reader's feelings and mindset. The amazing ability to conjure up mood is what makes My Cousin Rachel more harrowing than the plot might suggest.

I would say that the plot is not extraordinary or very suspenseful. With the heavy doses of foreshadowing, and Ambrose's letters, it becomes rather obvious what has probably happened, and is happening. The narrator, Philip, is an orphan adopted by his older cousin Ambrose (he is also a stupid, obtuse dolt). Philip is Ambrose's heir. Ambrose, who suffers from bad health in the winter, travels to warmer climes every winter. This winter, he travels to Italy, where he meets the titular 'Cousin Rachel', who is constantly referred to as such, and is half-Italian. He enjoys her company, and, as you can probably guess, he falls in love with her and they marry. Rachel is the widow of Count Sangaletti, who, on his death left a large number of debts behind. She is quite impoverished when she meets, although not too impoverished to be able to reside in a large villa, in the best English fashion, where impoverished means that they live in a large house instead of a mansion, and employ only a few servants instead of an entire retinue. Anyway, the only one surprised (and unhappy) at the marriage is Philip, the poor dolt. The reason that I keep referring to him as such will become obvious as I progress.

Now, I did not start out hating Philip. He is sympathetic enough in the beginning. Even when he failed to foresee Ambrose and Rachel's marriage, I was still sympathetic. After all, we are sometimes most blind about those closest to us. I didn't even hate him when he is extremely jealous of Rachel, because it makes perfect sense for the orphaned, unsociable person with only one true friend and relative in all the world to be jealous of someone who could potentially take that one friend away. And of course, there is the new uncertainty about his rights, and whether he will still inherit the estate. Philip hates Rachel, and with good reason. This hatred grows stronger when Ambrose dies in Italy, before he can return home. Ambrose has sent home ambiguous, mysterious letters hinting at something dark and terrible. "She watches me constantly." - he writes in one letter. And in his last - "She has done for me at last, Rachel my torment." Now anyone with half a brain would infer that there is a high probability that Rachel either killed Ambrose or caused his death somehow. At this point, still possessing half a brain, this is exactly what he believes (actually not exactly - the character don't yet know that Ambrose is dead here, but Philip is extremely worried), despite the strong opposition and disapprobation of his godfather, who believe that these are the delusions of a sick man (they say he died of a brain tumour). On receipt of this letter, he leaves immediately to see Ambrose. I was still with him. Of course Rachel killed Ambrose. It seems obvious.

Where things start to change is when Rachel arrives at the estate. Almost overnight Philip's attitude towards Rachel changes. He throws caution to the winds and allows himself to like her. Even here things made sense. I was surprised myself at how likeable Rachel turned out to be. But of course, she cannot be a complete shrew if Ambrose fell in love with her. The genius of du Maurier here is that we are not shocked at Philips 180 degrees change in attitude, because we experience the same thing. I was conscious of wanting her to turn out to be completely innocent. du Maurier even succeeded in convincing me, along with Philip, that those letters truly were delusions.

SPOILERS ahead. Read at your own risk.

When, however, Philip, discovers further letters (and letter fragments) from Ambrose insinuating the same (and more) things about Rachel, I was bought back to Earth with a jolt. At around the halfway point of the book, Philip finds a coherent, logical, fully conscious letter from Ambrose explaining that Rachel is an extravagant spendthrift who does not seem to have quite the same moral outlook as they do. He writes that she is constantly with Rainaldi (an Italian who is Rachel's man of business), and they seem to have secrets from him. Oh, also, he thinks that he is being slowly poisoned by Rachel. Surely this is explicit enough to make anyone suspicious.

Not Philip, though. He buries the letter. He dismisses it out of hand. He denies it. You'd think the love and care and respect of decades of affection would outweigh a recent infatuation. Yes, Philip, who is twenty-four to Rachel's thirty-five, is totally besotted. He plans to make over the estate to Rachel when he turns twenty five, when it comes fully into his possession from his godfather. He plans to continue to reside on the estate as Rachel's man of business. Yes, he is that foolish and besotted. He continuously ignores every scrap of evidence that Rachel is not what she seems, as well as the good-natured, sound advice of his godfather and his daughter Louise, who is Philip's childhood friend. He grows angry at her when she talks sense. Again, you'd think long-term ties would outweigh short-term infatuations, but no. Not so, my friends. The world is a traitorous place. Expect a lifelong friend to choose the older, sophisticated vampire over you.

When Philip begins to show doltish signs, you hope he will snap out of it, because he was quite promising in the beginning. He even had a semblance of intelligence and sense. This hope is steadily defeated, with Philip's moronic-ness just growing with the passing of the pages. It is not just that Philip ignores caution about the woman he loves. That makes sense. It is that he outright ignores and defies strong evidence that Rachel is a manipulative witch who murdered Ambrose. Loyalty to the friend who bought him up with such affection and love does not trump infatuation, when it should. That is what made me hate him more than anything else. This betrayal of the father figure in his life, after his death.

My annoyance with Philip fought with my liking of du Maurier's writing and hampered my enjoyment of the book. I do not know if he was meant to be exceedingly unlikeable. I looked it up on Goodreads, and it looks like I'm not the only person who thought Philip was an ass. I do know that I spent a majority of the book wanting to hit Philip, or throw something at him. I'm lucky I was able to rein in these violent impulses, because my book is from the library.

Anyway, towards the end of the book, when Philip finally realizes that he cannot deny Rachel's villainy any longer (after he finds poison seeds in her belongings - she begins poisoning him as well, after he leaves the estate to her - that is what it takes), he still has Louise (his childhood friend) to rely on, despite his egregious mistreatment of her (I might have left him to suffer the consequences of his actions). Surprisingly, though, Philip, after discovering that Rachel is a murderess (although he cannot find concrete evidence), deliberately allows her to walk on what he knows is a dangerously unstable bridge, and she dies. This amounts to manslaughter. This surprising violent tendency actually makes an appearance earlier in the book, when Rachel refuses to marry Philip after leading him on, and his fingers close around her throat. That is the first indication that Philip is not quite a reliable narrator, and that he, also, might not be what he seems. Although (again from Goodreads) most people seem to believe that Rachel did murder Ambrose and was about to murder Philip (including me), the ending is supposed to be ambiguous. Philip himself is unsure about her guilt, and is therefore racked with guilt at his retribution. The question we are supposed to ask ourselves is: was Rachel guilty, or was she the victim of the suspicions of two jealous and possessive men?

I quite firmly believe that Rachel is guilty. However, when I think about Philip's unreliability as a narrator, I begin to feel a little doubtful. I would personally have preferred an ending where Philip took her to court after finding evidence that she is guilty. I would have liked to see the interaction between the two in a drawn out court battle, and I would have liked to see how Rachel changed. What would Philip's feelings be at having to accuse the only woman he ever loved of murder? At the end of the book, strangely enough, Philip still loves her in a twisted way, even having murdered her.

Part of what is amazing about this book, apart from the atmospheric detail, is how du Maurier changes our mind two, three times about Rachel. I was quite as firmly convinced as Philip at one point of her innocence. I liked Rachel. I wanted her to be innocent.

At the same time, while Rachel is the subject of the books, and of Philip's obsession, by the end, we still don't really know her. We don't know anything of her past, of how she was with Sangaletti, her first husband. We don't know how she became the way she was. We don't know who she is - murderess, or twisted victim of circumstances, or person with fatal flaw, like a Shakespearean protagonist. There are inconsistencies in her character - kindnesses, nice touches that don't fit in with what we know and believe. But then Captain Hook liked flowers and wanted a mother.

On the whole, I enjoyed reading My Cousin Rachel. When I was done, I thought that I hadn't really been frightened by it, or shaken by it. But I woke up three times yesterday night, and each time I was thinking about Rachel and Philip. Obviously I was more affected than I realized. A story that does not leave you is the mark of a master storyteller. While I still don't think that Gothic romances are my cup of tea, I do want to read more of du Maurier, particularly her famous Rebecca.

I read My Cousin Rachel for an online book club at https://theoldfashionedgirls.squarespace.com/ and https://theoldfashionedgirls.squarespace.com/the-ofg-book-club/2014/9/14/my-cousin-rachel-the-first-half.
Do check it out.

Sunday, 20 October 2013

Hello again!

It has been too long. Way too long. Unintentionally long.

I'm sorry, faithful readers (if any, apart from my wonderful friends). My brilliant organizational skills combined with being in a new country, having to take care of my own laundry, and understanding college life have kept me occupied, although I have thought so many times of ideas that would make good blog posts that I have enough material for a while now, whether or not I get the time to read a lot.

Sorry for that painfully long sentence. I have really missed blogging.

I have had a number of experiences, wonderful and a little less wonderful, in the past one and a half months. I've seen the Niagara Falls twice, attended a fabulous play on Kasturba Gandhi, heard a magnificent concert on Romeo and Juliet by the Buffalo Philharmonic Orchestra, been late to class when I tried to cook upma, appalled my mom with the condition of my room when she visited, attended a garba event for Dussehra...


Having started this post yesterday, and twice before that, I think I now have an idea why I have been failing at this the past two months. I have always been terrible in writing on my life or thoughts in general - I go rambling on and on and never get anywhere. I need a focus - a particular incident or topic - and then words will just pour from me effortlessly. They usually need editing, but I can work with them. 

So for this post...

Lately, one of my earlier posts on this blog (one of the earliest) has been haunting me. I compared Charlotte Bronte unfavourably to Jane Austen, saying Bronte could never match up to Austen in my estimation. I feel now that I was unfair and rather hypocritical. What bought on this reflection? Recently, I came across a Jane Eyre vlog on Youtube in the style of the immensely popular Lizzie Bennet Diaries, and today I watched the 1996 movie version of Jane Eyre. This got me thinking about my post, and about the first few times I had read Jane Eyre (I rarely read a book only once). The book had me completely engrossed, and there was a time when I re-read certain passages in the book numerous times. My opinion of the book could, of course, have changed; but I went back to the book and re-read those same passages, and I realized that it hasn't, really. I really like Jane Eyre.



I love stills where the lighting is perfect and everybody looks beautiful because they're shown from the right angles.

So what bought on that post? One of the book bloggers I really admire, Claire from the thecaptivereader.wordpress.com, dislikes Jane Eyre. At the time I decided to blog regularly, I was reading rather a lot of The Captive Reader, and she puts things so well that I suppose I convinced myself about the deep flaws in the book. I do this sometimes when I really admire someone, and I don't do it consciously. I imbibe their opinions and convince myself that they're mine.

What was wrong with my post? First and foremost, Austen and Bronte simply cannot be compared. They were different people who wrote in different contexts in utterly different styles about very different things. An Austen romance is worlds away from a Bronte romance, which of course does not necessarily make one better than the other. 

Second, I was unjustified both in my evaluation of Rochester and in saying there is no humour in Jane Eyre. 

Mr. Rochester is the male protagonist that every wannabe dark romance has been trying to imitate for a while now. Wounded, cynical, witty, impolite in a very attention-grabbing way, and in need of love from a wonderful female creature who is whole, good and innocent enough to recover his faith in humanity, reform him and temper his cynicism all at once. This female creature manages to be sympathetic and relatable and not quite a paragon of virtue because of her passion. While I might find Rochester a tad intimidating in real life, he is somehow very magnetic in the book.  Maybe this is because, despite his occasional despotism and dominance, he comes across as capable of loving very deeply. When Rochester explains things to Jane after she has found out he is already married, I forgive him as immediately as Jane. I find it impossible to think of him as manipulative, scheming and deceitful. With his own twisted, desperate logic, Rochester sincerely believes that he would do no wrong in marrying Jane. The second time I read this book (when I was actually old enough to understand it, this time) I actually found myself wondering whether Rochester was right. What harm would it do to anybody if Jane stayed with him? She has no one to judge her and he cannot be with Bertha anyway.

However, he had no right to keep Jane in the dark and expect her to break the law.

I'm getting sidetracked. I'll keep the psychoanalysis for another post. What I meant to say is that Rochester is a suitably likable and attractive male lead. While reading the book I did not find it repulsive that they are so far apart in age (although when I consider it objectively I do)!

As for humour, Jane Eyre is not a humorous book, but it has dialogue between Jane and Rochester that is witty and entertaining. I said that 'Mr. Rochester and Jane don't ever seem to converse without undertones of something.' Don't conversations between any romantic pair have undertones? Besides, Jane Eyre is one of those rare romantic books where you can actually see the characters falling in love. Their whole relationship is built on good conversation (since neither has any sort of good looks, or so we're told). Finally, it was hypocritical of me to pretend that I read Jane Eyre in a dispassionate way, liking it just 'well enough'. I read it like I read every other book, head over heels. And surely there was something in the book that warranted this liking? 

I'm not saying Jane Eyre is completely wonderful and flawless. But it deserves admiration for a number of things, including an absorbing story (except for when Jane is with the Rivers, and it seems to drag on interminably till she meets Rochester again), very unique protagonists, and the simple fact that it generally has a large impact on the reader (I know it did on me). 

I also realize now that that post was a little bit from indignation at the things Bronte said about Austen. It was a lot easier to disparage an author who had the impertinence and bad taste to dislike Austen. Kidding. About the bad taste. But it certainly coloured my opinion.

And with this I shall stop for now, and I promise I will never bring this up again. 

Thursday, 23 May 2013

Charlotte Bronte on Jane Austen

Addendum 11th June 2015: I later changed my opinion - refer to this blog post - Hello again!

Hello everyone who does me the favour of reading this blog (if there is anyone),

I have decided on a project to fill my summer vacation days. Inspired by this beautiful blog: http://thecaptivereader.wordpress.com/, I have decided to review a book a day. However, they shan't be new books; they will all be from my bookcase. There are many tragically unopened books on my shelves, and I intend to get cracking. I also intend to review many favourites (or, if 'reviewing' some classic greats seems too presumptuous, I shall merely write my reflections on them).




Before I get started, however, I want to talk about something I came across quite recently. I learnt that Charlotte Bronte disliked Jane Austen - in fact she was very vehement in her criticism :

"Anything like warmth or enthusiasm, anything energetic, poignant, heartfelt, is utterly out of place in commending these works: all such demonstrations the authoress would have met with a well-bred sneer, would have calmly scorned as outrĂ© or extravagant. She does her business of delineating the surface of the lives of genteel English people curiously well. There is a Chinese fidelity, a miniature delicacy, in the painting. She ruffles her reader by nothing vehement, disturbs him with nothing profound. The passions are perfectly unknown to her: she rejects even a speaking acquaintance with that stormy sisterhood ... What sees keenly, speaks aptly, moves flexibly, it suits her to study: but what throbs fast and full, though hidden, what the blood rushes through, what is the unseen seat of life and the sentient target of death--this Miss Austen ignores....Jane Austen was a complete and most sensible lady, but a very incomplete and rather insensible (not senseless - woman), if this is heresy--I cannot help it."

I was absolutely astonished and a little bemused when I came across this. I have never thought of Charlotte Bronte and Jane Austen in the same train of thought - they are so radically different in style that it never occurred to me to compare them. Had it, however, occurred to me do so, I have no doubt that I would have, without hesitation, concluded that Austen is far and away the superior. Austen's wit, humour, beautiful prose and  her 'normal,' yet so remarkably memorable characters - are unrivalled, in my opinion, not just by Bronte, but by any other author I have read. I have to admit that I have read only Jane Eyre by Bronte. But if this is indicative of her style and talent, why, then, they are, simply, not on the same plane. This is not to say that I dislike Jane Eyre; I like it well enough. But it has never been one of my favourites, and it has never filled me with awe at its mastery, or delight at the wit that I missed when I was younger. While reading Jane Eyre, one is quite carried away by the passion and emotion of it all. But, when one stops to reflect – what is there in Jane Eyre? I suppose Jane Eyre is very likeable; and for some mysterious reason Mr.Rochester captures the imagination of many girls, too – despite being rough, unprincipled (don’t tell me that you can justify his trying to marry Jane despite his already being married, because I think his reasoning there is twisted – ‘eccentric,’ Jane would say – and quite unsupported) and quite heavy-handed in his pursuit of Jane. But the plot, I think, is quite unremarkable, despite all the drama. And, while it is supposed to defy many conventions, it espouses many others. There is hardly any humour in Jane Eyre – or if there is, I have missed it – and when you actually think about it, this wild passion between two people of such different ages (Mr. Rochester is actually old enough to be her father) is slightly disturbing. Emma and Mr. Knightley are of different ages too, but there hardly seems to be anything ‘wild’ about their love, and I find their affection a lot more palatable. Mr.Rochester and Jane don’t ever seem to converse without undertones of something.  And when they disagree, it is on an issue of great moment, and Jane is about to be very heroic and sacrifice her love for principle and duty. Despite Bronte’s evident opinion that Austen’s works are bloodless, Austen’s characters seem somehow so much more real. They aren’t heavily dramatized or heroic – Mr. Knightley is noble, as is Mr. Darcy, but not so noble as to be un-relatable or unlikeable. And I heavily disagree with the opinion that there is no passion or poignancy in Austen’s works. These elements are simply far more subtle and understated in her books. Who could possibly say that Knightley or Darcy have no passion for their respective lady-loves? It is also incomprehensible to me that Bronte could fail so thoroughly to see the beauty of Austen’s seeming un-sentimentality, and the uniqueness and humour this lends her writing. Bronte’s characters take themselves so very seriously. Bronte’s tragic situations are unrelieved by any sensible, objective viewpoint. I can be engrossed in Bronte, but never delighted or surprised. Austen, to me, is an artist beyond compare; Bronte is a wonderful writer, but flawed, overly emotional (it seems to me) and definitely without the wit to match Austen’s genius.