Harriet Devine's Blog

Diaghilev and His Friends

This book, which was sent to me to review, has come out to mark the centenary of the foundation of Sergei Diaghilev's celebrated Ballets Russes. I was rather pleased to get it as I've been fascinated by that amazing and innovative ballet company since I was a teenager, when I read a biography of the great dancer Nijinsky, written by his wife. It's some years since any biography of Diaghilev has appeared, though evidently another is planned to come out later this year.

Born in 1872 into a rather unremarkable, though very musical,  family in the Russian provinces, Diaghilev was not particularly academic. His chief passions as a young man were classical music and European travel, something he loved all his life and indulged in frequently with whoever was his latest lover. Introduced in his twenties to theatre, he quickly became fascinated, and soon was arranging to stage an opera, Moussorgsky's Boris Gudunov, in Paris. Back in St Petersburg, he made friends with the composer Stravinsky and the choreographer Michel Fokine. He was also introduced to Nijinsky, then a very young but already hugely celebrated dancer, with whom Diaghilev became increasingly obsessed. Not long afterwards, having become rather disillusioned with Russian classical ballet, he "began wondering whether it would not be possible to create a number of short, new ballets, which...would link the three main factors, music, decorative design, and choreography far more". That initial idea, first put into practice in Paris in 1909, became the foundation of the Ballets Russes. The company, which played exclusively in Europe, quickly became enormously admired, at least by the artists, intelligentsia and avant garde of the day, and remained so for the twenty years of its existence. The list of those who were involved at various times is breathtaking: composers included Delibes, Debussy, Ravel, Satie, Prokoviev and Poulenc in addition to Stravinsky; there were designs by Bakst, Picasso, Matisse, and many others; as well as Fokine, Diaghilev started the careers of the choreographers Massine, Lifar and Balanchine; and his dancers included Nijinsky, Tamara Karsavina, Anna Pavlova, and the young dancers Marie Rambert and Ninette de Valois. Despite its fame, the company frequently found itself in financial difficulties -- Diaghilev seems not to have been good at handling money, and in later years apparently siphoned off its earnings to increase his collection of rare antiquarian books. But the company managed to keep going into the 1920s, though Diaghilev's health began to fail badly -- he had diabetes, but refused to take it seriously. His death, in Venice, in 1929, put an end to the company he had so boldly and successfully created.

Joy Melville's biography aims to tell the story not only of Diaghilev's own life and career but also to describe the milieu in which he moved. There is some fascinating material here on homosexuality in Russia at the period -- known as "gentleman's mischief" and quite common, apparently. Diaghilev had affairs with several of his own dancers, including Nijinsky, Massine and Lifar, although as many of his partners went on to marry, it seems likely they were only involving themselves with him to further their careers. The saddest story in the book is that of Nijinsky, possibly the greatest dancer of all time -- he was capable of leaping into the air and apparently pausing there before coming down again -- who, though he married and had two children, gradually descended into mental illness from which he never recovered.

There are lots of good illustrations -- several of Bakst's wonderful costume and set designs, and numerous paintings and photographs of the people involved with Diaghilev. I was a bit disappointed that the decor of the later productions was not reproduced -- I'd love to have seen Picasso's and Matisse's original designs, or at least photographs of them. But I learned a lot and enjoyed the book.

My Cousin Rachel

This is a wonderful book, and how happy I am to be able to say so. Somehow I have been a little disappointed by some recent reads, but not this time. Honestly, I cannot fault it. I know that Rebecca is always said to be Du Maurier's masterpiece, but this one comes pretty close, I think. The strange thing is that I thought I had read it before -- as I had a bit of a Daphne-fest many years ago -- but clearly I had not as I would have remembered.
So -- what's it about? Like Rebecca it is told in the first person, but this time the narrator is Philip Ashley, a young Cornishman. Orphaned as a baby, he has been brought up by his cousin Ambrose on Ambrose's great Cornish estate (based, I believe, on Daphne's own Menabilly, as of course Manderley also was). The two cousins have lived a contented life in their fine but shabby house, surrounded by dogs, waited on by faithful servants, taking good care of the tenants. But, before the story begins, Ambrose's health has begun to fail and he has travelled to Florence to find better winter weather. There, much to Philip's shock, he has met and married a widowed contessa, Rachel Sangatelli, and moved into her Florentine villa. Already resentful and anxious, Philip is profoundly worried by a letter he receives -- "For God's sake come to me quickly. She has done for me at last, Rachel my torment. If you delay, it may be too late. Ambrose."  --  and sets off for Florence. It was only at this point that I realised that this novel is set in the past -- when, exactly, is never stated, but probably the early 19th century, and certainly before the coming of the railways, as the journey to Italy takes three weeks. And by the time he gets there, and finds his way to the villa, terrible news greets him -- Ambrose has died, and Rachel has left the villa and gone, no one knows where. Philip, miserable and disturbed, returns to Cornwall, his head full of anger and resentment against this unknown woman who, from Ambrose's letter, he suspects of having possibly harmed his cousin. But when Rachel unexpectedly turns up in Cornwall, everything changes. At 24, Philip has never even considered the possibility of falling in love, but this beautiful, charming, seemingly sweet-natured woman quickly draws him in and soon he is completely infatuated with her. Discovering that Ambrose made, but never signed, a will leaving the house to Rachel for her lifetime, Philip decides to honour his cousin's wishes and draws up a document transferring the property to her on his 25th birthday. But a number of discoveries -- letters which turn up unexpectedly, certain aspects of Rachel's behaviour -- begin to suggest that all is not quite as it seems with Rachel, though Philip determinedly puts all suspicion out of his mind and lives for some time in a kind of mindless euphoria. At last, though, events take a sinister turn and the outcome is, finally, tragic.
The greatness of this novel, for me, was in the skill of the narrative voice. Philip is absolutely convincing -- likeable, well-meaning, human, but desperately naive and ultimately self-deceived. Or is he? Of course that is the question on which this novel finally turns. Are the suspicions of Rachel he finally, and in great mental torment, allows himself to acknowledge based on reality, or are they a product of his own confused and fevered imaginings? We will never know. And, it seems, Daphne herself did not know. And, while I was grousing about lack of closure in my post on The Suspicions of Mr Whicher, here it is the very same thing that lifts this novel into the top rank.
If you have never read this, you really must do so forthwith. And thank you, thank you, Sourcebooks, for sending me this lovely new edition and giving me hours of pure enjoyment.

Woman Reading

This lovely painting, dating from 1922, is by Felix Valloton: "La Liseuse" (the reader). I love her dressing gown, and as for the wall hanging -- wow. All in all a wonderful combination of colours and patterns and shapes.

The Suspicions of Mr Whicher

You'd be amazed (or maybe not) at the number of times I have picked this up in a bookstore, had a flick through, hummed, haahed, muttered to myself, and then put it back on the shelf. Yes, I just couldn't make up my mind. Then, t'other day, I was meeting someone at the airport and the plane was delayed. Unable to stand the idea of sitting around for ages with nothing to read I dashed into WH Smith and finally bought it. Did I enjoy it? Well yes, I did. But maybe I am becoming a bit jaded and cynical -- as I am not as wildly enthusiastic as many other bloggers and reviewers have been. It is, of course, a fascinating story. If you really haven't read it yet (which seems a bit unlikely as everyone I know seems to have) it tells the true story of a very tragic murder which took place in the 1860s. A small boy, Saville Kent, was taken from his cot during the night, and his mutilated body was later discovered in the garden privy. This was a classic country house murder, as it soon became clear that no-one from outside the house could possibly have done it. Various people came under suspicion -- the nursemaid, who shared the child's room, the child's father, suspected by many of having an affair with the nursemaid, the child's half-sister and half-brother. Jack Whicher, one of the new breed of Scotland Yard detectives, was assigned to the crime and came to a number of conclusions which were, however, unprovable. It was to be many years before the case was finally solved, and even then many unanswered questions remained, and still remain to this day.
The bald facts of the case are relatively few, but Kaye Summerscale has made a fair-sized book by incorporating a great deal of extremely interesting background information. So we learn not only about the background of the family -- in itself quite a complex one, with marriages, deaths, births, second marriages and love affairs -- but also about the history of the newly formed police force, the reaction of the press and the public to the Road House murder, the influence of the case on the sensation novels of Wilkie Collins and Mary Braddon, and much more besides. Jack Whicher is an interesting and complex character, and seems to have influenced many novelists in creating their own fictional detectives. All in all this is a fascinating historical document. So why am I a bit lukewarm about it? I think it may be a matter of personal taste. I am a massive fan of detective fiction and probably read more of it than any other genre, so you might think this would be right up my street. But fiction is the operative word here. I like crime novels precisely because they offer such neat solutions to seemingly insoluble problems. And here, of course, there never will be a neat solution because of the nature of the case and the known facts. This makes the book much more trendily post-modern, I suppose -- refusing closure and all that -- and in theory I have no objection to that kind of thing. But here I was left feeling a bit unsatisfied. However please don't let that put you off -- this is a great read and you will probably join the millions who have adored it.

The Book of Love

Sarah Bower's first novel, The Needle in the Blood, had everybody absolutely raving. I certainly enjoyed it, though to be completely honest I didn't reach the level of raving of many fellow bloggers. I was thinking about that novel a lot last week, because I went for the first time ever to Bayeux and saw the tapestry in all its original glory -- and, of course, the making of it was part of the theme of the novel. So when my friend proved to be reading this, Sarah Bower's latest, I just had to borrow it. It is another huge, and hugely impressive, piece of historical research, with a most gripping story interwoven within it. Set in Renaissance Italy, it tells the story of a young Jewish woman, Esther, who is converted to Christianity and becomes a lady in waiting to the great Lucrezia Borgia. Very soon she finds herself irresistibly drawn to Lucrezia's brother, the beautiful, amoral Cesare, and, after a brief and rather unsatisfactory liaison, finds herself pregnant with his child. I can't even begin to tell you what happens -- this is an extraordinarily event-filled novel, and its twists and turns are quite breath-taking. But if you feel like immersing yourself in something that evokes with the most incredible skill the richness, the luxury, the immorality, and the dangers of that amazing and terrifying period of history, you can't go wrong with this. I have to say that I very early on guessed the terrible secret that seemed to elude our heroine for rather a long time, but I do have the advantage of knowing quite a bit about the Borgias, and it's easy to guess things in hindsight. I was also a little annoyed by Sarah Bower's grammar! Sorry, Sarah -- but there is a particular sentence construction that crops up a great deal and is just plain wrong. I haven't got the book in front of me, but it would be something like this: "She gave it to Cesare and I' -- or "He spoke to Lucrezia and I". No. It's just not right. If you take away the "Cesare and.." or "Lucrezia and.." you end up with "She gave it to I", "He spoke to I". You can see how this is not right. Yes, OK, this is the English teacher speaking. But an editor really should have picked this up. Anyway, it's still an really absorbing read, so don't let my quibbles put you off.

April 18, 2009

The Literary Note Meme

Thanks to litlove for this meme, which I have done very fast and without much deep thought.

1) What author do you own the most books by?

Almost certainly Dickens.

2) What book do you own the most copies of?

I don' have many multiples but I do have two of most of Jane Austen's novels.

3) Did it bother you that both those questions ended with prepositions?

Not in the least.

4) What fictional character are you secretly in love with?

Henry Crawford from Mansfield Park. I always hope I will get to the end and find that Fanny has decided to marry him.

5) What book have you read the most times in your life (excluding picture books read to children)?

 Probably Jane Austen's Emma, partly for teaching purposes.

6) What was your favourite book when you were ten years old?

Hard to say. I really loved E. Nesbit's The House of Arden around that time, so maybe that was it.

7) What is the worst book you’ve read in the past year? 

A book by Dan Brown called Angels and Demons, which I picked up on holiday.

8 ) What is the best book you’ve read in the past year?

This is really tough. One of the best was A Long Long Way by Sebastian Barry.

9) If you could force everyone you tagged to read one book, what would it be?

This is hard! I usually suggest books to people according to what I think they would like -- I don't much like the idea of a blanket forcing. I've put a lot of people onto Sebastian Barry's Secret Scripture, which has gone down very well. 

10) Who deserves to win the next Nobel Prize for Literature?

 I cannot say, I'm afraid.

11) What book would you most like to see made into a movie?

I've just finished Sarah Bower's Book of Love, set in Renaissance Italy. It would be nice to see all those Borgias disporting themselves about the place, and the locations would be gorgeous.

12) What book would you least like to see made into a movie?

Anything by Dan Brown.

 13) Describe your weirdest dream involving a writer, book, or literary character.

 I honestly do not think I've ever had one of these. Sounds like fun -- wish I had.

14) What is the most lowbrow book you’ve read as an adult?

 See (7) and (12)

15) What is the most difficult book you’ve ever read?

 That would certainly be any of the French feminist theory I tried to read in the 1980s. I just couldn't hack it. 

16) What is the most obscure Shakespeare play you’ve seen?

 I've seen practically all Shakespeare's plays. Obscure? How about Pericles?

17) Do you prefer the French or the Russians?

 I suppose it would have to be the French.

18 ) Roth or Updike?

Not mad about either.

19) David Sedaris or Dave Eggers?

Never read either.

20) Shakespeare, Milton, or Chaucer?

 All amazing -- but it would have to be Shakespeare.

21) Austen or Eliot?

 Austen, as you will have guessed.

22) What is the biggest or most embarrassing gap in your reading?

 Despite being quite a poetry buff, I've never got any kind of grip on Yeats, Pound or T S Eliot.

23) What is your favorite novel?

Possibly Bleak House.

24) Play?

Possibly King Lear.

25) Poem?

I think it must be Wordsworth's The Prelude.

26) Essay?

Pass.

27) Short story?

 James Joyce's The Dead, I think.

28) Work of nonfiction?

 Pass.

29) Who is your favourite writer?

Sorry, but I think it's Austen again.

30) Who is the most overrated writer alive today?

See (7), (12) and (14)

31) What is your desert island book?

 I'd like to take the Oxford Book of English Verse. I think there'd be more for me to get stuck into and return to again and again.

32) And… what are you reading right now?

I've just started The Suspicions of Mr Whicher. I've also started Olivia Manning's Balkan trilogy, Daphne Du Maurier's Frenchman's Creek, and Michael Cox's The Meaning of Night. Rather too many, really.

Want to have a go? Feel free.

Mrs Lincoln

I'd never heard of this when I happened upon it on the ferry on the way to France, and despite having brought a pile of books, I still felt I had to have it. I'm glad it did get it as I found it totally absorbing. I knew nothing of Mary Todd Lincoln before I read it, though I have learned a little more since reading this fine novel. Told in the first person, it is Mary's life story, supposedly written while she was incarcerated in a 'Sanatorium' (aka lunatic asylum) by her oldest, and only surviving, son. Mary is a lively, intelligent, passionate woman, who loves her often difficult husband and has a tremendously important influence on his gaining the presidency, coaching him in his speech and gestures and making sure he dresses with suitable dignity. She is a loving mother, though tragically three of her sons die before her, two of them in childhood and the third barely having reached adulthood. She continues to adore Robert, her oldest, though he is a cold, hard, man, embarrassed by his mother's free and open nature -- only at the end of her life does she fully realise how much he has been acting against her. The tragedy of Lincoln's assassination is almost too much for her to bear, but she somehow survives it, even though the lawyers drag their feet so much that she is compelled to live for more than a year in abject poverty in a cheap boarding house before she is able to use the money from Lincoln's will. Her only real friend, the black seamstress Lizzie Keckly, turns against her and publishes a book of memoirs describing incidents in the President's House which Mary knows to be false. Mary turns to spiritualists to try to make contact with her beloved lost boys, and goes on spending sprees to try to make herself feel safer by surrounding herself with imperishable objects. Her life in the asylum is described with fascinating and often chilling detail -- the treatment of the patients is unbelievably harsh, and her attempts to prove her sanity initially are met with little sympathy.
I gather that Mary herself was treated with little sympathy by her early biographers, who argued that she may have suffered from schizophrenia. I haven't read any biographies, but I think I'll have to seek some more recent ones out. Evidently there is now an attempt to revise that harsh view -- this is an interesting review of a biography that came out earlier this year. Having recently read both Sebastian Barry's The Secret Scripture and Maggie O'Farrell's The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox, I am becoming quite an expert on books about women wrongly imprisoned in mental hospitals. I strongly recommend this one, which I found at times harrowing but quite unputdownable.

 

Woman Reading, rather under-dressed

Jean-Jaques Henner, La Liseuse (The Reader), painted sometime in the 1880s. Nice.

Michael Cox

Sorry to hear about the death of Michael Cox. I blogged a couple of weeks ago about his Victorian thriller The Glass of Time, and I have the The Meaning of Night, which preceded it, in a bag that I am taking away with me to France for my Easter hols. So if I am a bit silent for a while, think of me immersed in that mighty tome. If you want to read a bit more about this fine writer, who has died much too young, you can do so here.

Another Woman Not Reading

Ramón Casas i Carbó (1866 – 1932), a Catalan artist, painted this. It's called Jove Decadent, a title I do not understand -- perhaps it is Spanish -- oh, maybe it means 'A decadent day'? That makes sense. I love it -- the composition, the pose, the lovely colour of the sofa -- heaven. Was this a boring book? Has she got something more important on her mind? I think she's feeling just too lazy to read.