a gallimaufry

Salem Chapel, by Margaret Oliphant

Well, my cunning plan for monthly reading round-ups has obviously failed, so it’s back to traditional reviews for me for now. The main problem is that at the end of each month I’d forgotten what I’d read and anything interesting I might have thought about it. Make notes, Helen? Perhaps I will. Perhaps that can be my new year’s resolution.

I only finished Salem Chapel a few days ago so I can at least vaguely remember it... It’s a slightly odd novel, imagine if Barchester Towers was walking down the street and was suddenly assailed by East Lynne and you might have an idea. Peopled with the kind of full-blooded characters, from Mr Tozer, the dependable butterman and deacon, to Adelaide Tufton, the acerbic and relentlessly curious invalid, that I delight in a Victorian novel, it does become a page-turner when the melodramatic subplot gets going and I stayed up late anxious to find out what happened...

Fresh from theological college, John Vincent arrives in Carlingford as the new Dissenting minister for Salem Chapel. Brimful of idealism, he sees himself tending to the destitute and delivering sermons so inspiring he will soon be mixing with the town’s highest echelons of society. Alas! The poor, though poor, are not quite as needy as he had anticipated and his congregation is drawn not from the upper classes but from trade. Not only are they smug about their wretchedly middle-class ways, but they expect him to participate in their endless tea meetings and pay them social calls as well. Vincent pleases them by preaching so vigorously that pew subscriptions soar, but then promptly falls in love with the young dowager Lady Western, who is of the Anglican persuasion. Mrs Tozer, Mrs Pigeon and Mrs Brown all heartily disapprove of young men chasing ladies above their station (especially when there are unmarried Tozer and Pigeon daughters around) and so Vincent quickly loses his bloom and finds himself struggling to retain the confidence of his congregation – who pay his wages and therefore call the shots. Respectability and value for money are both highly prized in Salem Chapel, and mooning after Lady Western casts doubt on whether the new minister represents either of those ideals. Vincent, certain of his superiority to the cheesemongers and greengrocers of his flock, is blind to his danger.

An anomaly among the Salem Chapel worshippers is Mrs Hilyard, a thin, sardonic woman with a secret past and an endless pile of sewing. And far away in Lonsdale, a mysterious gentleman begins to court Susan, Vincent’s beautiful sister. Could there be a connection here? Reader, there most assuredly is – and thus the sensation part of the novel bursts in.

According to Penelope Fitzgerald, who wrote the excellent introduction to the Virago Modern Classics edition, Margaret Oliphant (a widow with three children to feed) seems to have introduced the sensation plot in order to increase sales, but was herself unsure of it. Beside the acute observations of Carlingford life, and the wonderfully drawn characters – the Tozers, Mrs Vincent, Lady Western – the sensation plot does come over as histrionic peopled with cardboard figures. Nevertheless, its unnaturalness does reflect the feeling, when something so terrible happens, that it is all a nightmare, unreal, discombobulating. And although it might be artistically weaker than the realist novel into which it irrupts, it does raise the stakes and make for compulsive reading, while testing Vincent and the chapel-goers and finding them, in their different ways, wanting.

The very extremity of the crisis somehow points up the ridiculous binaries that govern everyday life. It excites the prurience of Carlingford but, conveyed to them principally through the newspapers, does not belong to everyday life and fails to awaken their empathy. Far from rallying to their embattled minister, they chafe at his absences and failure to place them above his own family.

Oliphant uses the drama to point up the hypocrisies of Victorian society in general and the cruel double standards that existed against women. And yet,while the men have power and freedom and so delightfully prefer death to dishonour for their womenfolk, the female characters are not without resource. They wield the soft power within their community and, when the chips are down, avenge and escape without male assistance. Even the self-deprecating Phoebe has her eye on the main chance. As Tozer, endlessly politicking but outmanoeuvred by Mrs Pigeon, says, ‘it’s all along of the women, sir – it’s them as is at the bottom of all the mischief in a flock.’

(Portrait of Margaret Oliphant by Frederick Sandys, 1881, thus almost twenty years after she wrote Salem Chapel; National Portrait Gallery; found here)

On governesses in adult & children's fiction

I was thinking about fictional governesses, as I’ve just read two gothicky novels of the 1960s featuring them as heroes: Joan Aiken’s The Silence of Herondale and Mary Stewart’s Nine Coaches Waiting. Although it was serendipitous that I read one after the other, there are striking similarities between them. Both play on the reader’s knowledge of the ur-governess novel, Jane Eyre, and feature resourceful heroines, madness, secrets and romance – plus the addition of sinister accidents which keep befalling the child for whom they’re responsible.

Joan Aiken’s approach is playful. In The Silence of Herondale, Deborah Lindsey finds herself in an isolated house on the snowy Yorkshire moors with a child prodigy to care for, a dark and stormy young man and ‘the Slipper Killer’ on the loose from Broadmoor. Mary Stewart’s heroine, Linda, refers overtly to Jane Eyre as she takes up her position in the Château Valmy – as well as drawing on other literary references such as Macbeth and The Duchess of Malfi. Nine Coaches Waiting hews much more closely to Jane Eyre than does the Aiken novel. The Rochester figure – darker and more troubling than Aiken’s Jeremy – is actually split between Léon, Raoul and Philippe. There is a party with a beautiful blonde, a mad woman, a flight through the countryside. It is all very cleverly done and it is one of my favourites of Stewart’s novels.

Both Linda and Deborah are young, brave, practical and kind. What about other fictional governesses? I hypothesised that governesses in adult fiction are generally sympathetically portrayed, and those in children’s fiction are not, and this is because of the power differential. For adults, the governess is a vulnerable figure, caught between two layers of society. For children, the governess is a symbol of unwanted authority. But how true is that? Bearing in mind this is only drawing on novels that I’ve read and can remember reading...

The first governess in fiction I can think of is Miss Taylor, in Emma, who becomes Mrs Weston. She is sympathetically portrayed, kind and sensible. Then there is Anne Brontë’s Agnes Grey, and Charles Dickens’s Ruth Pecksniff from Martin Chuzzlewit. Again, we warm to them and sympathise with their plight, poorly treated and exploited by their employers.

But complications with my thesis now set in. Being a governess to her own children, who do not know her, is the punishment endured by Lady Isabel Vane in East Lynne (Mrs Henry Wood) for her adultery – she has slid down the social scale. Miss Wade’s treatment in Little Dorrit contributes to souring her. Not every governess will have a happy ending or survive her work unscathed. Further: she may pose a threat, stepping outside her class and failing to know her place. Becky Sharp (Vanity Fair; William Makepeace Thackaray) and Lucy Graham (Lady Audley’s Secret; Mary Elizabeth Braddon) turn the tables, using their somewhat liminal social position to marry up and improve their status, and this is portrayed as threatening. Worst of all must be witchy Madame de la Rougierre, the murderous governess in Uncle Silas (Sheridan Le Fanu). Not only does she have the dubious social position of being a governess, but she’s French.

The last governess I can think of in adult fiction is the narrator of The Turn of the Screw. Here the character’s uncertain social status is reflected in her experience of an uncertain reality – whether it is her own disintegrating mental health or the supernatural intruding grotesquely into her charges’ lives.

Disappointingly, I am very limited when it comes to governesses in children’s literature. This makes my hypothesis – even thinner. The two magnificent villainesses who spring to mind are Sylvia Daisy Pouncer (The Midnight Folk by John Masefield) and Miss Slighcarp (The Wolves of Willoughby Chase by Joan Aiken). Miss Pouncer is literally a broomstick-flying witch, who looks both old and young, confiscates toys and forces poor Kay to learn Latin declensions. She returns in The Box of Delights as the wife of wicked Abner Brown. Miss Slighcarp, tall and bony, cannot practise magic but is similarly cruel – wolflike, even – and intends to deprive Bonnie of her inheritance. These ladies are perhaps heirs to Madame de la Rougierre.

They are counterbalanced by the lovely Miss Heliotrope, Maria’s kind and elderly governess in The Little White Horse (Elizabeth Goudge). Unfortunately, I have an unusual copy of The Little White Horse: I often notice it – and even think, ah, there it is! – but when I actually want to find it, it vanishes. So I cannot refresh my memory of Miss Heliotrope at the moment, except that I think she has forget-me-not blue eyes, mild ill health and a large nose, and finds happiness marrying the Old Parson.

Thus, I can only find three examples of governesses of children’s literature and one of these apparently disproves my hypothesis that they are always portrayed unsympathetically. However, I would argue that Miss Heliotrope bucks the trend because she is very clearly without much power, thus closer to the governesses in adult fiction than the domineering figures in children’s literature. And my brief survey of adult literature suggests that while some novels treat governesses with sympathy, alert to their ambiguous position in the household, others perceive them as disturbing or even threatening the established order because of this position.

So – do you agree? Can you think of some more fictional governesses? What happens if we add lady companions to the mix, I wonder?

(Illustration from Jane Eyre by Edward A. Wilson; Illustrated Modern Library, 1944; illustration of Becky Sharp up to no good from Vanity Fair by Lewis Baumer; Hodder & Stoughton, 1913; illustration from The Wolves of Willoughby Chase by Pat Marriott; Jonathan Cape, 1962)