'Pollyanna of the Orange Blossoms' by Harriet Lummis Smith

MY THOUGHTS: 

Tragically, the beloved original author Eleanor H. Porter died of tuberculosis five years after the publication of Pollyanna Grows Up in 1915. Her two Pollyanna books had been selling so wonderfully well, the publishers knew when they were onto a good thing. They enlisted the help of Harriet Lummis Smith to take up the slack and keep the stories coming where Porter had left off. Smith made such a smooth transition of this one in 1924 that I love it as much as Porter's books, if not more. 

It starts with a wedding and move to a tiny apartment in New York City. Jimmy gets a job with an engineering firm there, and he and Pollyanna are excited to be living in the Big Apple of the pre-WW1 era (not that they realise at the start that this is their point in history, of course). Young and inexperienced, they are winging it a bit, but course correction always sets in because they have what it takes to go the distance; genuine love and devotion for each other. Indeed, Smith makes this fabulous pair easy to cheer on. We are told, 'the rapture of their first nest making was one that could never be duplicated.' 

Male dominance was rife in the early twentieth century. Pollyanna and her new neighbour, Judith, introduce themselves to each other as, 'Mrs James Pendleton' and 'Mrs Russell Thayer.' You can't get much more patriarchal than that. Women generally didn't aspire to work outside the home, and if they did it wasn't by choice, as we see through the plight of poor Lizzie, the single mother who did a spot of domestic cleaning to make ends meet. Although Judith sometimes bristles about being a drudge, Pollyanna loves the lifestyle. For her, their apartment is her creative canvas and being free to shape it all day is the gladdest thing ever. 

I don't feel inclined to hiss and boo at the blokes though. They didn't have it easy, no doubt about that. Jimmy works 5.5 days a week! I was astonished to see him head off to the office on Saturday mornings to work half days and it set me googling. It seems the 40 hour work week with its two day weekend wasn't introduced until the 1940s, although forward-thinking Henry Ford had inaugurated it in his own factories way earlier. I feel our boy Jimmy was hard done by, although he and Pollyanna certainly never complained. They were delighted that he got to knock off at 1pm on Saturdays and have a free afternoon for city excursions. It's a lesson in perspective for me.  

The story introduces the catastrophising, negatively-skewed Judith as a fun foil and contrast to Pollyanna. She makes mountains out of molehills, stores up grievances, sulks over supposed insults and slips into perpetual black moods. The big question is whether or not Judith can make a go of Pollyanna's glad game when she hears about it. It's fun seeing her put it to the test, because I've admittedly had my share of Judith moments. She comes to understand that a decisive attitude to enjoy life is ninety percent of the battle won.

I'm sure Porter would have been more than happy with the direction in which Smith took the characters she invented. Smith obviously immersed herself in Porter's two books and stays true to every single character. Aunt Polly is as imperious and austere as ever, and Jamie Carew, now an author, is still his touchy, high maintenance self. One of my favourite incidents in this novel occurs when Jamie and Sadie are expected for afternoon tea and Pollyanna and Jimmy must defuse a few household catastrophes in the lead-up.

World War One breaks into Jimmy and Pollyanna's domestic bliss, and I noticed just a touch of foreshadowing. Now I'm going to get a bit plot-spoilerish because it raises an interesting question. Read on if you dare. 

Was it commendable for Pollyanna not to tell Jimmy she was pregnant before he answered the call of duty and sailed off to serve in France? The story leaves no doubt that we're supposed to take secrecy as a heroic sacrifice on her part, to make it easier for him to do his patriotic duty. Yet arguably, especially from a more modern perspective, he should have been told anyway! Pollyanna's spur-of-the-moment decision to keep her pregnancy secret from Jimmy is controlling and manipulative, however well-intended, because she denies him the possibility of response. They are co-parents and just because she carries the baby, he deserves not to be kept in the dark. I see both points of view, and I guess that because patriotic readers of 1924 who had recently come through the war were the target audience, we're being coerced to verge to their side and consider Pollyanna a great heroine for her silence. 

Okay, spoiler over.

I feel we are in capable hands with Harriet Lummis Smith, and look forward to more Pollyanna tales from her. Next up will be Pollyanna's Jewels.

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'Oliver Twist' by Charles Dickens

The story of Oliver Twist - orphaned, and set upon by evil and adversity from his first breath - shocked readers when it was published. After running away from the workhouse and pompous beadle Mr Bumble, Oliver finds himself lured into a den of thieves peopled by vivid and memorable characters - the Artful Dodger, vicious burglar Bill Sikes, his dog Bull's Eye, and prostitute Nancy, all watched over by cunning master-thief Fagin. Combining elements of Gothic Romance, the Newgate Novel and popular melodrama, Dickens created an entirely new kind of fiction, scathing in its indictment of a cruel society, and pervaded by an unforgettable sense of threat and mystery.

MY THOUGHTS:

I was left so gloomy and irritated by my recent reading of Dombey and Son that I didn't dare choose another of Dickens' less renowned books yet. I wanted to follow that facepalm with something certain to hit my sweet spot. What better than a scathing indictment of society that delighted the public enough to be taken on stage with a stellar musical score all of its own? Even my Year 7 class put on a great production of 'Oliver!' based on the 1968 film. I wasn't in it because I joined the school after the cast had already been chosen. That made me really sad, but I have strong memories of those days and decided it was high time I actually read the book. 

Poor little Oliver's anonymous mother gives birth to him in a workhouse and dies. He's assigned a random name by Mr Bumble the Beadle (who is up to T for Twist) and thrown upon the hypocritical mercy of charity. Behind the scenes, Oliver's parents were, of course, real people with complex histories. But since nobody knows, he's treated like the dregs of society in an institution where inmates are exploited and starved. 

Severely punished for his unprecedented nerve to ask for more gruel, Oliver is apprenticed to Mr Sowerberry the undertaker where he's bullied by cowardly fellow-apprentice, Noah Claypole. Finally Oliver trudges his own way to London, and becomes the oblivious target of creepy old Fagin and the gang of little boys he's training to become criminals. What's more, a vindictive face from Oliver's past (or rather, his parents' pasts) is out to get him. What chance does an innocent boy have with sneaky undesirables hemming him in from multiple directions?  

Charles Dickens wasn't an old guy when he wrote this book. I think an image of the bearded, mature author of classics gets stuck in our heads. This was only his second book and he was 25 years old, surely still in touch with how young boys think. His wistful and sensitive Oliver, forever coming head on with the seamier side of society, is captivating and convincing. But so is the street-smart and super-precocious 'Artful Dodger' who carries off the slick mannerisms of a grown man in his too-big clothes; and his sidekick, the easily amused Charley (aka Master Bates!) The obnoxious, tough-talking Noah with the heart of a chicken is pretty memorable too.

But it impresses me even more that such a youthful Dickens conjured up with his pen such unforgettably shady characters from the underworld, including the villainous Monks, who would've been of a similar age to himself. And don't get me started on the infamous Bill Sikes with his serious anger management issues. 

The sticky problem of Fagin became awkward for Dickens. Even though the young author was not writing for such a reactive woke culture as ours, he still faced shouts of 'Anti-Semitism' which apparently surprised him. But it's no wonder! I didn't count them, but it's clear that the rascal is referred to as 'the Jew' far more than his actual name. (My Google search reveals that in the first 38 chapters alone, Fagin is referred to as 'the Jew' 257 times, as opposed to a mere 42 for 'Fagin' and 'the old man' combined.) I believe Dickens re-issued a later edition where he weeded some out, but it was a case of too little, too late. That designation (the Jew) is bandied around so often it does merge with the villainy and repulsiveness of Fagin's character, which is sometimes likened to Satan himself. Especially how he creeps around like some hideous lizard from the gutter calling everyone, 'My dear.' And if you've seen the musical, do you remember him crooning to his young protėgės that they've 'got to pick a pocket or two'? The guy is so abhorrent, he's a legend.  

About 25 years down the track when Dickens wrote Our Mutual Friend, he created Mr Riah, a noble-hearted hero of the Jewish faith. If that was an olive branch to make up for Fagin, I wonder if it worked. 

Here, I believe, is the power that drives this story. Dickens reveals two parallel universes within one geographical location, Victorian London. There is the gentle, lovely respectable world inhabited by the likes of Mr Brownlow and the Maylies. This is heaven itself to Oliver, 'after the noise and turbulence in the midst of which he had always lived.' Juxtaposed against this is the harsh and sordid abyss of iniquity which is anathema to Oliver, but a trap for all who dip their toes in, however unwittingly. Dickens makes it clear that nobody can hope to hop over in an upward direction. Oliver, aged 11, is swallowed by the dark side, who refuse to relinquish him.

That is where the awesome Nancy, former girl pupil of Fagin's, steps in. There are strong hints that she's a prostitute, although Dickens never states it outright. This young woman feels that her own case is too far gone, but resolves to be a bridge for Oliver, whatever it may take. Whoa, she's earned herself the right to be the first heroine who springs to our collective minds whenever anyone mentions this book. Dickens loved the sweet and principled Rose Maylie. She was believed to be modeled on his own beloved sister-in-law Mary Hogarth, who passed away while he was writing it. Yet I'll bet the general public embrace the conflicted character of Nancy, that bad girl with her tragic brand of thief's honour. 

I do love this book. It's up among my favourite Victorian novels, and only just slips in to the early end of that era too. It was first published in monthly installments between February 1837, the year Victoria ascended the throne, and April 1839. The cops who pound on the derelict warehouse door toward the end of the story demand the gang to, 'Open up, in the name of the King.' They're evidently referring to King William IV, who died in 1837. So although Oliver the book squeezes into the Victorian era, Oliver the story pre-dates it just a little. 

I guess it set a high bar for all Victorian novels yet to come. It's so satisfying when Oliver finally gets a break. How much horror can one young boy take? The astounding coincidences we're bombarded with at the end are all part of the fun. Dickens could probably get away with them then because the magazine subscribers he was writing for relished that neat sense of loose ends being tied up. And he gets away with them now because he's Dickens and that's his trademark.

 If I'd been a reader from that time period, I would've echoed right back at Dickens the iconic words of his title character. 'Please sir, I want some more.' 

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'The Grapes of Wrath' by John Steinbeck (Chapters 16 - 30)

 Warning: Spoilers. We're discussing Part 2.

'Okie used to mean you was from Oklahoma. Now it means you're a dirty son-of-a-bitch.'

Whew, this second half of the novel is the disillusioning section in which the Joad family realise that they, among thousands of others, are victims of callous, widespread exploitation. Fobbed off in their home state to seek work in California, they discover their golden destination is an inhospitable zone where they are taken advantage of by greedy landowners and despised by the general population, who resent their willingness to work for a pittance. Employers collude with police and bank sharks to keep workers from the Dust Bowl destitute and ripped off.

The gut-wrenching quality of Steinbeck's writing is that we all know but for being born in a different place and time, we could be the Joads. Which of us has never been shunted from one government department to another, seeking resolution of our issues from people who don't really care? Here we have the most extreme example, leading to wholesale homelessness and starvation for thousands. The nation of America has let down its precious citizens, and Steinbeck aims to make sure everyone knows it. 

I feel we can't help but appreciate his main character Tom, that master of straight-talk. He's rough around the edges, to say the least, but his refusal to sugarcoat his insights is good for those at the receiving end. Tom zooms directly in on people's blind spots and tells them pointed home truths they'd be wise to take on board. Whether it's the one-eyed chap at the used car yard (clean up your act, make the best of things and move on) or his own spiky, defensive younger brother ('Goddamn it Al, don't keep your guard up when nobody ain't sparrin' with ya'), Tom gets to the crux. His social conscience is fired up by the end of the novel to do his utmost for downtrodden victims of a corrupt system. Even his mother recognises that he's different from the others, in his burgeoning passion for social justice. 'Everythin' you do is more'n you.' 

Tom's dilemma may well form the heart of the novel. He knows he's breaking his parole conditions by moving out of Oklahoma but figures that if he keeps his nose clean and doesn't get into trouble with the law, nobody will ever be any the wiser. Yet alas, it's not that simple. Tom never anticipates the possibility that the agents of law themselves may be upholding something that's rotten to the core. It turns out holding his peace will be incompatible with holding his head high as a decent man. To avoid his own soul being tainted by the corruption at large, Tom must risk his personal safety by making waves.   

I'm touched by the spiritual hunger in the collective human heart. That other concerned humanitarian soul, Jim Casy, keeps reminding people that he's no longer a preacher, yet they still keep requesting words of prayer, benedictions and blessings. And Casy realises that providing what they ask for is neither hypocritical nor pretentious as he feared, but the humane thing to do. Saying a brief, heartfelt prayer is benevolent balm for those who crave comfort and meaning for their plight, which is almost everyone they come across. And arguably, that craving wouldn't be in the human heart if there was no means of fulfilling it.  

We don't even know what becomes of the Joads at the end. The desperate travel saga involves members of the family being picked off one by one for whatever reason, whether death, choice or necessity. Ma Joad is determined to be the glue that holds the family together, but her will is no match for eroding circumstances. They leave Oklahoma with 13 people on the truck, which is whittled down to just six by the end. Those they lose include Tom and Al, the only two drivers. The weather is turning wintry, which means nobody will hire workers at all for the next six months or so. So what happens to the half dozen left (not to mention those who have gone) is anyone's guess. 

All power to the Joad kids. Let's hope Noah settles down to make a simple but satisfactory life for himself by the Colorado River. And that Tom will dig into latent leadership genius to make an effective difference for his people. And that Rose of Sharon will continue to muster the heart of maternal compassion she uses in the final scene of the story to nurture those who need it. (My heart goes out to this girl. I don't think she was 'whinin' around candyin' herself', as Ma expresses, considering she was pregnant, nauseous, transient, starving, and her husband had just taken off and left her.) 

Let's hope that Al settles down to become a solid and reliable family head himself, and realises he has nothing to prove. And that the day will come when Winfield decides he's had a gutful of Ruthie using him as her prop to big-note herself into believing she's cool and cocky. Also that Ruthie herself realises a gentler, more generous approach may see her better through life. These two youngest Joads are an interesting little pair.

Above all, let's hope a day will come when the family needn't wonder where their next bite of food is coming from. 

Have I changed my opinion about this book from the time I loathed it as a school text? Heck yes! This is clearly a fantastic epic that served a noble purpose and deserves nothing less than five stars. Ma tells both Al and Rose of Sharon on separate occasions that they're too young to really 'get it.' I think the same thing applied to me as a 17-year-old English student. This far down the track, the whole thing moves my middle-aged heart. The image that remains with me is that of Uncle John launching Rose of Sharon's stillborn baby down the flooded river in an apple crate, to speak powerfully and silently for his people like a little dead Moses.  

See here for Part 1 (Chapters 1-15)

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Agatha Christie Mysteries

 Sad Cypress (Hercule Poirot mystery 1933)

It seems such a clear case against the accused, the court is only going through the motions of a hearing. Twenty-something Elinor Carlisle is accused of murdering golden-haired, angelic Mary Gerrard. Apparently she did it in the guise of hospitality with a plate of poisoned fish paste sandwiches. Elinor was known to have been bitterly jealous of Mary. Not only was Mary supposedly 'sucking up' to Elinor's invalid Aunt Laura with the intent to steal Elinor's inheritance, but she attracted the love of Roddy Welman, Elinor's own adored fiancē. 

Mary comes across as so beautiful and well-liked, it seems impossible that anyone else could have either a motive for murder or access to that plate of sandwiches. That is, until Hercule Poirot gets involved in the case. 

This is one of those mysteries that goes back years before either Elinor or Mary were born. But on the surface, poor Elinor appears outside windows like a vulture, overhearing Mary's vulnerable moments. 

Poirot, being his usual smug self, brags how everyone he interviews helps him out by telling lies, some well-intended. And the lies people tell are sometimes more revealing to him than the truth. I like how the little Belgian detective is described as 'Londonified' after one trip to the big city. 

Some of my favourite lines include Dr. Peter Lord, Elinor's admirer, telling Poirot, 'She has the bad taste to prefer a long-nosed, supercilious ass with a face like a melancholy horse,' and Poirot solemnly acknowledging who he means. 

Poirot can get philosophical at times. 

Roddy: Why should these things happen to one? It's not as though one wished them to happen! It is contrary to all - to all one's ordered expectations of life.

Poirot: Ah, but life is like that. It does not permit you to arrange and order it as you will. It will not permit you to escape emotion, to live by the intellect and by reason. You cannot say, "I will feel so much, and no more." Life, Mr. Welman, whatever else it is, is not reasonable.

Roddy: So it seems.

I'm glad the rat who did it didn't escape justice. But how terrible that such an audacious murder happened at all, to someone innocent of all the undercurrents, with her whole life ahead of her. 

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The Moving Finger (Miss Marple mystery 1942)

A young man named Jerry Burton is ordered by his doctor to recuperate in the country after a light plane crash. His sister Joanna is going with him and they've rented a cottage called Little Furze in an idyllic village named Lymstock. Little do Jerry and Joanna realise the town is being plagued by an anonymous letter writer with some axe to grind. Before long they receive their own vicious epistle, with loads of venom but no substance. 

The letters are merely a nuisance to most, and initially a joke to the Burtons. But when a poor local woman commits suicide after reading what's arrived in the post, everyone decides 'Poison Pen' has gone too far. It's become a matter for the police. 

Technically, this is a Jane Marple mystery, although our spinster sleuth is more of a bit player, only present in the last 40 pages. What she does is awesome just the same. She even trumps Inspector Graves, the expert in anonymous letter cases called in from London. Miss Marple's modest rationale for her brilliance is, 'One sees a good deal of human nature in a village.' 

This novel is quite a psychological study. The letter writer comes across as one disgruntled, cheesed off individual who wants to lash out at the whole human race, for whatever reason. They've been called, 'dangerous as a rattle-snake, a cobra and a black mamba rolled into one.' Then there's the first victim's frame of mind to consider. Did she find the letter's content struck too close to home? The vicar's wife suggests, 'If suicide is your idea of escape from trouble, then it doesn't very much matter what the trouble is.' 

My other observations deviate from the mystery to the time period. Jerry and Joanna's elderly landlord, Miss Emily Barton, decides to take her tenants' heavy smoking in her stride, because 'everyone does it.' She says, 'I'm afraid I haven't moved with the times... The only thing is there are no ashtrays in the house.' Joanna cheerfully offers to bring lots of their own, and promises, 'We won't put cigarette ends down on your nice furniture. Even I can't stand that.' 

Oh, poor Miss Emily, the smoking would be a deal-breaker for me. Imagine the atmosphere in her home once their lease expires.

Then there's the interesting introduction of Jerry's favourite work of art, 'Old Man enjoying the pleasures of idleness.' He fetches it to show the doctor's sister, Aimee Griffith, who breezes around urging others to be industrious. Jerry points out that we owe lots of famous inventions to idleness. Our boy turns out to be a great spokesman for the limitations of the Protestant Work Ethic at its extreme. 

Oh, and romance is rife, even in a poky town with lots of unpleasant crime. By the end, both Jerry and Joanna have found the loves of their lives. I read this one in just a few sittings. Couldn't help it. There are so many possible suspects, each with interesting back-stories that just might push them over the edge.  

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Mini Reviews

Kingfishers Catch Fire by Rumer Godden

This old Rumer Godden title from the 50s was a secondhand shop discovery. It's about a single mother named Sophie who takes her two young kids to live in Kashmir, India. Sophie is idealistic and rosy eyed about living like peasants. She glorifies being poor and has a heavy-handed approach, assuming she can just lob there and fling on another culture like a change of clothes. Her young caretaker, Nabir Dar, often bears the brunt of her naivety.

Sophie reminds me of some hardcore fellow homeschooling parents I met over the years. She thinks she's providing her children an awesome, hands-on unit lesson lifestyle, but she's a source of stress to her young daughter, Teresa, who is a practical little worry-wort.

Sophie sees herself as sparing and aesthetic while her neighbors think she's lavish and fancy. And she falls into the error of assuming her western ways are superior and trying to foist them on everyone else. She even unwittingly becomes a quack, setting up her own herbal distillery. I couldn't help but imagine her speaking in an annoying, know-it-all voice.

The action builds up to a climax, possibly inevitable with two clashing outlooks. Godden herself lived in India for many years from her childhood and understood both sides if anyone could. Her bottom line is that some people can't bend out of their shape and trying to do so for the sake of pleasing other people to fit in never does anyone any good.

'Be true to yourself,' may sound like a trite, overused theme, but Godden really threshes it out and makes us think.

Are you a fan of this 20th century British author? Have you come across this title? I never had. She was a prolific author. Not one of her best known, but I doubt she wrote anything bad.

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To Say Nothing of the Dog by Connie Willis

Who's for some sci-fi time travel set in the Victorian era?

I hadn't heard of Hugo and Nebula Award winning author Connie Willis before. But my friend and fellow creative writing student Brian lent me this book, and it was compelling and hilarious.

The hero Ned Henry is a time-travelling Oxford student who's part of a team attempting to reconstruct the Coventry Cathedral, which was blitzed in WW2. He's sent to track down a crucial artifact from the Victorian era, and suffers the age-old time travel dilemma of potentially stuffing up circumstances to create major incongruities.

I love it that two animal character, Cyril the bulldog and Princess Arjumand the cat, have pivotal roles. And woven through is a comforting notion that circumstances have a way of veering back on track themselves, despite clueless blunders by visitors from the future.

Ned has a fun encounter with Jerome K Jerome and Co. while they're actually living their adventures later recorded in The Men in a Boat. Connie Willis is full of historical detail and must have an almanac for a mind.

Unlike many other readers, I think the hideous Bishop's Bird Stump, at the heart of the tale, sounds quite cool. Call me tacky but there you have it. Those over-detailed, mawkish Victorian relics from the past are quite endearing. The monstrosities to which it's compared (Prince Albert Memorial and St Pancras Station) are fine, come on!

Lucky for Ned, the idyllic Victorian era he finds himself in is not that which is represented in Dickens poverty ridden sections of seamy London. It includes, 'long dreamy afternoons boating on the Thames and playing croquet on Emerald lawns with girls in white frocks and fluttering hair ribbons. And tea served under willow trees by bowing butlers anxious to cater to one's every whim.'

Have you read any Connie Willis? Are you fascinated by the Victorian era as I am?

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How Green Was My Valley by Richard Llewellyn

'To have pens and pencils, and the tools of writing all your own, to see and feel them in your fingers ready to do anything you tell them, such is pleasure indeed. God bless the craftsmen who give their fellow men such feelings, even out of pieces of wood.'

I found this old book at a secondhand shop. It was published in 1939 and became the bestselling fiction tile of 1940 throughout America and probably the rest of the world. People just couldn't get enough of it. Having now read it, it is a pretty special story.

It's a tale of coal miners living in a remote Welsh community, narrated by a smart boy named Huw Morgan (pronounced Hugh). He says so many appreciative, philosophical nerdy comments without ever once feeling ashamed or apologetic before his peers. ('A good friend of mine is a cup of tea indeed.') And he never big-notes himself, yet his personal narrative still has the effect of making us cheer him on, 'Yeah, you go, boy.' 

His was a background of unrest, union strikes, and harsh local justice delivered at the hands of Mr Gruffyd, the pastor, with his 'eye for an eye' logic. And it's worth reading just for the hilarious discussion about the birds and the bees between Gruffyd and Huw, who genuinely has no idea. It's so cringeworthy and hilarious. (And he figures it out on his own soon enough.)

All through, the singing seems to soar out of the pages as the gift from God it probably was.

Here's one more reflection from Huw, after unfair corporal punishment at school. 'Pain is a good cleanser of the mind and therefore of the sight. Matters which seem to mean the world in health are found to be of no import when pain is hard upon you.'

Have you read, How Green was my Valley?

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The Rosemary Tree by Elizabeth Goudge

'A room takes the stamp of its owner as helplessly and surely as soft wax.'

Although ours is more of a rosemary pot and nothing as lavish as a tree, it's lovely and fragrant ☺️

I've just finished this next Elizabeth Goudge novel from my shelf. This one is a post-war village tale set in the 1950s and featuring many characters. They include Michael, a former bestselling author of horror stories who has served a jail term; John, the self-deprecating pastor and Daphne, his restless wife who hardly knows what she's seeking.

Goudge writes weirdly, and I mean that in the most complimentary way. She has introspection in the strangest places, info-dumps of backstory galore, head-hopping like rabbits and meditations that come across as gross overreactions. I doubt anybody would write like this anymore because it upsets too many literary conventions, aka sacred cows. Yet there's just something special about it.

Hers are sacramental, mystical sorts of novels and I'll keep reading them even though they're surely not everyone's cup of tea, or even mine in the wrong mood.

However, if you have a commonplace book to fill with quotes, her novels are just the thing to fill them thick and fast. I expected more thoughts to ponder and she didn't let me down.

Have you a favourite Elizabeth Goudge novel? I think mine is still The White Witch so far.

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