Recently I've read: The Small House at Allington (1864) by Anthony Trollope, which is the basic victorian novel, with such stunning gems of victorian maleness as assertions that a woman could never be convinced to marry after being jilted by her fiance because in the moment she accepted that first proposal she gave up herself to that man's life, and she simply couldn't get herself back. I paraphrase, but only just barely. If you've never heard of Anthony Trollope, it's no surprise. Like many 19th-century authors, Trollope was outrageously popular in his day, but suffered from the aesthetic revolution of the early 20th century, and today is rarely found on syllabi (though this is also due, perhaps, to the fact that his novels are all, like, 10,000 pages long). But I feel a certain rumbling beneath the academic ramparts to re-examine these passed-over authors. Contemporary critics are typically interested in Trollope's treatment of women, which, despite my earlier characterization, is often nuanced and interesting. And often not. But, you know.
Right now I'm reading the (in)famous Pamela (1740) by Samuel Richardson. The basic story of this epistolary novel is as follows: Pamela, whose parents were well-educated school teachers fallen on bad luck, is sent out to service to good Madam B who notices her fine sensibilities and educates her "above her station" by teaching her to play the part of a genteel young lady (playing cards, fine embroidery, carving chickens, writing a fine hand, reading things other than novels, etc.) Upon Madam B's death, her son, Mr. B, begins to take notice of the alluring Pamela. He begins to give her gifts of fine clothes and to ask her to embroider him special vests! But the plot thickens as his attraction to her becomes more ... lascivious. He begins to make advances, but being a virtuous wench, Pamela refuses them. So, naturally, he has her kidnapped and imprisoned in his country house where his other servants are more amenable to his plans to rape her, or, ruin her "by force," as they say. After about a month of imprisonment, Mr. B comes to the country house to do the deed, except Pamela's consistent virtue, and her impressively written letters and journal, all convince him that he can't stand to be without her, and will marry her in spite of the shame and dishonor it will bring on his family. And, of course, despite herself, Pamela totally loves him because he's totally handsome and rich and they get married and, you might think the book would be over there, but it's not, because it continues for another 200-300 pages explaining how hard it is for a woman to go from servant to mistress in the 18th century.
You might be saying to yourself, gee, thanks! You just gave away the whole thing! To which I would reply, the plot is not the point! Which is one of the most stunning changes when you become a graduate student. While many of us still enjoy the first reading because of the plot - I will probably never become one of those people who can read the footnotes on the first go around because they always give things away (seriously, don't read them. Oxford is the worst!), the rest of the time I'm reading for far more.
The plot of Pamela is well-known, and in no way surprising or page-turning. The frustration many readers feel with epistolary novels is that the plot doesn't seem to have much of a role. They're far more concerned with the inner-workings of the characters, and their ability to express themselves to each other.
There are all sorts of class dimensions going on in this book which fascinate me. Richardson was not a member of the English Aristocracy, being rather a member of the mercantile class, and it's fascinating to see Pamela stand up for herself as an autonomous British citizen with rights in the face of her tyrannical Master, Mr. B. A good introduction will take you through the class implications of the story, but what I'm most interested in are the ways that Pamela is able to make sense of her situation because she's been so well-educated and encouraged to read. Again and again she refers to books to explain her position to herself and others, using them as analogies for her situation. Without her extended education, would Pamela have had the tools to hold off Mr. B for so long?
I don't think so, which makes the cover page of the book make perfect sense. By reading, women were reinforcing their virtue, not endangering it, as many contemporaries would contend.
One last word, in favor of 18th-century novels:
Are you under the impression that the earlier centuries were far more prude than ours? That they didn't talk about sex, or show their ankles, and other Victorian-inspired niceties? Allow me to disabuse you of this impression (and to encourage you to revisit your notes from that Shakespeare seminar while I'm at it). 18th-century British literature* is bawdy and raucous and salacious and outrageous - you just have to know enough about their vocabulary and culture to catch on. When Pamela, post-wedding night, declares herself "thrice-happy," you're not the only one who thinks she's giving away some rather intimate information. And what's the big deal with the women always falling down? Oh, right, 18th-century ladies didn't wear underwear. And skirts ... falling ... you get the idea.
I'm just saying, give it a try. I recommend beginning with Tom Jones and working your way up to Tristram Shandy, which is neither 18th, 19th, or 20th-century standard, but is its own unique little lovable morsel (just like Uncle Toby.)
I remain Your humble servant,
-A
* And if you've ever wondered how best to continue having sex with your dear departed lover, you have only to ask the French (hint: it involves embalming, wax, and some fancy hidden springs. And the linked book, by the way, is to die for.)
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