Tag Archives: 1913

Metaphor for England: The Shooting Party

28 Monday Sep 2020

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Review: The Shooting Party, by Isabel Colegate
Viking, 1980. 195 pp.

As he does every October, in 1913, Sir Randolph Nettleby, Bart., invites some of the best shots in England to his Oxfordshire estate to shoot pheasant. The activity has a particular meaning here, for we don’t expect tweed-coated gentlemen to trample through the underbrush in their wellingtons, bagging a few birds for supper. Rather, we have the spectacle of “beaters,” local men and boys recruited to flush the pheasant so that the frightened birds take brief flight — the only type they are capable of — toward the tweed-coated gentlemen, waiting with their loaders and dogs. Not that the participants would agree, but this is more mechanized killing than sport. The shooters take hundreds of birds, and the loaders are there to make sure the gentlemen never even have to turn their heads to receive a ready weapon, restocked with cartridges.

Snowden Slights, a Yorkshire huntsman, sometime between 1900 and 1912, by Sydney Harold Smith (or collaborators). A very different picture from the organized shoots on estates at the time. (courtesy Yorkshire Museum, York, via Wikimedia Commons; public domain)

The novel’s opening paragraph notes that an infamous incident will take place, “an error of judgment which resulted in a death.” And since the timing is the autumn before the Great War, Colegate intends The Shooting Party as a metaphor for England on the eve of that tragic struggle.

What a metaphor it is, slaughter for its own sake, by the so-called best people in the country, no less. That the death referred to is a mistake, and that the author reveals it up front, properly removes any sense of whodunit, though the narrative does build suspense as to who will be the victim, how, and why. Instead, Colegate focuses on the characters, who represent various social classes and attitudes.

In lesser hands, this premise and approach could have devolved into a talky, theme-driven tract, populated by two-dimensional ideas rather than characters. But Colegate writes well-drawn people whose private concerns merge beautifully in a single, cohesive picture, and whose opinions often seem contradictory, which makes them more human.

For example, Sir Randolph, courteous to all despite his oft-injured sensibilities, worries that the stewards of the land, as he views himself, are a vanishing breed. Outwardly almost diffident, he nevertheless carries himself as the aristocrat born to rule, and his confusion as to how the world has changed lends him depth. Stolid Bob Lilburn, who believes in form above all, astonishes his gorgeous wife, Olivia, by doubting that there could exist in England any people worth knowing whom he doesn’t already know. Lionel Stephens, a lawyer who seems perfect to everyone, believes he’s passionately in love with Olivia and would be willing to die for her if the fraught international situation brought war. A footman repeats this sentiment to the young parlor maid he fancies, who has the sense to think it’s twaddle.

Throughout, Colegate’s description of the shoot evokes the future conflict, often involving the manner in which the birds, fed and catered to before their destruction, are driven toward the guns. Again, a lesser author might have overplayed the symbolism, but Colegate’s hand remains deft. That’s because she’s careful to keep her descriptions active as well as physically and visually precise. Consider, for instance, how she portrays a poacher waiting to enter the woods once the gentry have finished their initial shoot of the weekend:

Tom waited until they were nearly all out of sight, and until the gold of the late afternoon had been succeeded by the soft pinkish-grey of the early dusk before he moved. The mist was now rising much more noticeably from the ground, still low but thickening, beginning to spread a layer of damp haze which in the morning would linger on the lower ground like spilt milk, while the sky above it became the pale clear blue of another late October day.

Though published forty years ago, The Shooting Party still keeps its edge. It’s one of those elegant novels I admire, in which the central action is itself an arresting metaphor. I must warn you that other than from a library (or sources in the UK), the book may be hard to find. But it is well worth your time and effort, a classic tale.

Disclaimer: I pulled this book off my shelf because it deserves a revisit, as does the feeling these days of holding printed pages in my hands.

Which Side Are You on, Boys?: The Women of the Copper Country

11 Monday Nov 2019

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Review: The Women of the Copper Country, by Mary Doria Russell
Atria, 2019. 339 pp. $27

In June 1913, a man dies inside the Calumet and Hecla copper mine in Calumet, Michigan, the world’s largest. The fatality is neither remarkable nor surprising, for everyone in Calumet knows and dreads the sight of the dark-suited underling sent to inform the bereaved family — and, perhaps, repossess the house they rent from the company. Further, few people liked the dead man, stern and ill-tempered, even for a copper miner hardened by years of back-breaking, life-threatening toil for little more than pennies a day.

Nevertheless, this particular death fans the flame that has been smoldering within Annie Clements for years. What follows earns her the nickname “America’s Joan of Arc.” At first, the tale carries a whiff of Hollywood feel-good, because Annie’s efforts to unionize Calumet copper miners begin with great success and fanfare, even gain national attention. Meanwhile, James MacNaughton, the mine’s general manager, is so thoroughly despicable that even an opera librettist would hesitate to put a character like him on stage.

Anna Klobuchar Clemenc (pronounced “Clements”), as Jane Whitaker saw her in February 1914 (courtesy The Day Book, Chicago, via Wikimedia Commons)

But consider the source. Russell hews closely to biographical facts in her historical fiction, as she did with Doc, for instance; here, her afterword argues that the historical record justifies MacNaughton’s portrayal. As for Annie Clements, her miracle working meets immovable obstacles soon enough. Despite sympathy from a progressive governor, a National Guard commander who mistrusts hired strikebreakers, and even the White House–an alignment of constellations perhaps unique in the American labor firmament–MacNaughton will not be moved. He’s the definition of brutality and ruthlessness, and the company owns the town.

Russell begins every chapter with a brief quotation from Romeo and Juliet, which compares this struggle to that of Montague versus Capulet. But since nobody’s reading much Shakespeare in copper country, the device feels authorial and intrusive; and the quotations announce the mood and substance of what you’re about to read, which steals a march on the storytelling.

It also contributes to the sense of earnestness that mars the novel on occasion, visible partly in the exclamation points that pepper the pages. I agree wholeheartedly with Russell’s message, especially its resonance with today’s politics. Yet, for example, an early interior narrative from MacNaughton’s point of view feels cloying, historically accurate or not; let the man’s actions speak rather than his thoughts.

Still, there’s a lot to like about The Women of the Copper Country. Russell’s fans, of whom I’m one, shouldn’t expect the lyrical prose that drove Doc, and I’m glad she didn’t employ that style here. Annie’s trials are too hard-edged for that, and Calumet’s no place to indulge fancy. What you do get, though, is Russell’s trademark description, which can only come from a writer who knows a place or person from the inside:

You clock in and climb down flight after flight of slippery cut-stone stairs before a hike through miles of tunnels — just to start the day’s work. It’s cold underground. It’s wet. It smells of rock. Beyond that dim little funnel of light from your headlamp, there’s a hellish nothing, and Christ, the noise! After a few weeks, you’re half-deaf from the pounding of the drills. So you listen hard all the time to the crunch and scrape of shoveling, the squeal of train wheels grating on rusty rails, because a few seconds can make all the difference when a wall starts to come down.

This comes from Joe Clements, Annie’s rough, hard-drinking husband, one of the minor characters who help drive the novel. Annie’s a strong person, a gifted organizer, good soul, utterly courageous and self-sacrificing, feminist without knowing the word. But she’s also a little too good to be true, I think. You can see this especially when Mother Jones, the famously profane, tireless labor advocate, makes an appearance and steals the scene; her edges contrast with Annie’s smoothness. I also like Eva Savicki, a teenager who begins the novel besotted with a boy intent on ignoring her, only to come under Annie’s spell and grow into a committed, capable activist. That transition, one of Annie’s great accomplishments, echoes another theme, the belief that by helping one person, you help the whole world.

But what stays with me most from The Women of the Copper Country is the story. It may not seem memorable right way, because, unlike just about any novel you’ll ever read, in this one, things go well for our heroes at the start. But stay with it, for it’s hard to anticipate the manner in which so many setbacks take place, and how the characters struggle to overcome them or point out the injustice they suffer. Flawed though it is, The Women of the Copper Country makes a riveting tale that forces you to think about your own life.

Disclaimer: I obtained my reading copy of this book from the public library.

Seekers: The Wanderers

09 Monday Jul 2018

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Review: The Wanderers, by Tim Pears
Bloomsbury, 2018. 366 pp. $28

In this beguiling, gorgeous, yet frustrating novel, we first meet Leo Sercombe in 1912. The young teenager is on the run through the Devon countryside, bearing the wounds of a severe beating, and near faint with hunger.

The boy stumbled in the night over dark earth. The land was silver. His steps were heavy. At first light in the waters of a stream he cleaned the charred red mud off his boots, and limped on in a kind of crouch that seemed best to allay the pain that racked many parts of his body. He saw where the sun rose and headed in the opposite direction, hunched over like someone with secrets from the light.

Gypsies take him in, but he receives little kindness, and not only because he’s an outsider, what they call a gentile. They sense his weakness, his ache for friendship, and, with few exceptions, treat him cruelly because they can, even after he shows his usefulness. Leo has a way with horses, a valuable skill, and he’s curious, quick to learn, eager to please. Theirs is a hard existence, however, with little room for sentiment, and Leo’s reminded at every turn that he owes them his life and had better not try to run away.

North Devon, near Croyde, 2018

Meanwhile, Charlotte (Lottie) Prideaux has just lost her mother, and she too is rootless, without friends, though in a very different, coddled context. She’s a lord’s daughter, and her father lets her do more or less what she pleases, with one crucial exception. The narrative hints that because Leo and Lottie became too friendly, the boy and most of his family were banished from the estate, which also presumably explains the beating he took. (Since The Wanderers is the second book of a planned trilogy, these events may be more explicit in the first volume, The Horseman.) In protest, for months, Lottie refuses to say anything to her father except, “Yes, Papa,” or, “No, Papa,” and tells him he did wrong to punish the Sercombes.

With great subtlety, Pears shows that Lottie and Leo care deeply about one another, though neither spends much time thinking about it, and both outwardly pretend no connection exists. This understatement makes you want all the more for the two to find one another again. But that’s not how the real world or this novel works, and Lottie and Leo have learning to do.

They’re both empathic, lonely, see beyond surfaces, and love the natural world, about which they have an abiding curiosity. But where Lottie dissects animals to study them and borrows anatomy textbooks from the local veterinarian, Leo helps butcher animals for food and assists a ewe through a breech birth because that’s his job, for which he receives neither thanks nor payment. Pears never underlines the comparison; he doesn’t have to. You only need to watch Leo make his way, suffering physically and emotionally, whereas there’s always someone looking out for the daughter of the manor. Nevertheless, you see Leo gain knowledge that Lottie may never have. I love this juxtaposition, simple and elegant like the prose, which creates a coming-of-age story unlike any other I’ve read.

Yet The Wanderers, though superbly written with brilliant characterizations, lacks a plot to speak of, a climax, or resolution. Having recently torn apart Charles Frazier’s Varina for that failing and others, it’s only fair to ask what Pears does to overcome this deficit, and to what extent he succeeds. He does ask implied, powerful questions, and though nothing happens in the usual way of novels, everything also happens, because it all matters. Partly that’s because Pears offers a view of life on the margins that few writers attempt, but it’s not just the content. Here, the episodic chapters open the characters to the reader, and the small moments establish a constant emotional connection.

Even so, I still feel cheated at the end. I don’t want to wait for the third volume to know what happens, and I’m especially worried that the First World War, to which the novel metaphorically refers as the year 1914 approaches, will deny Leo and Lottie any chance of happiness. Leo in particular is just the type of person to be destroyed in the conflict, and one theme of The Wanderers is how people who embrace violence and dishonesty have a tremendous advantage over everyone else.

So does it matter how many questions Pears leaves hanging? Yes and no. If you’re the type of reader who prefers to have everything wrapped up, then this book may not be for you. If that uncertainty doesn’t faze you, the narrative offers a breathtaking ride.

Disclaimer: I obtained my reading copy of this book from the public library.

“A Promising Future”: Jack of Spies, by David Downing

29 Thursday Jan 2015

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Review: Jack of Spies, by David Downing
Soho, 2014. 338 pp. $28

“The automobile business,” muses Jack McColl, the engaging British protagonist of this excellent thriller, “was not what it had been even two years before. . . . Spying, on the other hand, seemed an occupation with a promising future.”

If nothing else, Jack is prescient, for the year is 1913, and the infant secret services of Britain and Germany are gearing up for a war of which most Europeans have no inkling. It will be a global war, he senses, and indeed, his first assignment is to track German warships that have put in at Tsingtau, a German colony in China with its requisite population of spies. Jack’s being watched more carefully than he knows.

The harbor at Tsingtau, 1912. (Courtesy Bundesarchiv, Bild 116-424-127 / CC-BY-SA)

The harbor at Tsingtau, 1912. (Courtesy Bundesarchiv, Bild 116-424-127 / CC-BY-SA)

But he enjoys a dash of danger. Further, he realizes that selling luxury automobiles, his main job, will soon go the way of the dodo, thanks to Henry Ford and his Model T. Jack wants–or thinks he wants–a full-time position with his espionage organization, vaguely connected to the British Admiralty. But he goes back and forth, because his work to protect the empire challenges his political and moral beliefs in the rights of the poor and disenfranchised.

Already, this feels like new ground: a would-be spy who reflects on the bodies that fall in his wake. He tries to reconcile what he’s seen and done with the more abstract threat from German militarism and its leaders’ disrespect for the rights of others, and sometimes, he comes up empty. Even better, Jack’s work conflicts with his passion for the exquisite Caitlin Hanley, an American journalist he meets in China; among other tasks, he’s assigned to investigate links between German agents and Irish separatists whom Caitlin’s family supports. Her combination of progressive politics, will to change the world, and career ambition have smitten him, but for once, this is a spy novel in which the hero worries that the woman of his dreams doesn’t love him. She likely won’t if she learns who he really is.

Then there’s the spy stuff, which Jack has to learn on the job. He’s a quick study, but his opponents sometimes outwit him, and he has several narrow escapes. His social gifts and ability to speak nine languages let him assume false identities with relative ease. But he also feels out of his depth, which makes him human, a refreshingly anti-James Bond. Like the prototypical spy, Jack trots the world, from China to San Francisco to New York and beyond, but Downing’s grasp of history keeps the travel suitably difficult and the connections unreliable.

A few critics have taken the author to task, saying that he should concentrate on Jack’s on-the-job training and damp down the history. Fie, say I, and not just because I’m a historian of that era and love that stuff. Jack and Caitlin read newspapers avidly because they care deeply about politics, also the hub of their respective professions. I never felt as if they were batting headlines back and forth to dump information on the reader or paint a backdrop.

As for historical accuracy, it’s impressive, especially considering the wealth of detail. The narrative does suggest that conscription existed in Britain then, which isn’t true (not until 1916), and Jack’s surveillance of a German agent in New York would have been hampered by having to crank his Model T to start the engine.

But these nits are worth mentioning only because of discussions I’ve seen recently in the blogosphere that even one petty detail got wrong can ruin a book. Really? There isn’t a historian writing today who doesn’t accept the chances of error, so why should novelists be held to a higher standard? Imagination trumps pedantry, any day.

Sorry for my digression. Read Jack of Spies. You won’t be disappointed.

Disclaimer: I borrowed my reading copy of this book from the public library.