I’ve been putting off writing about this, for some reason. It’s not at all like most of Cather’s other work: not set in the US West, not much landscape description, considerably shorter (from what I can tell, given that my editions of her other works are from a different publisher), and a novel set in a further historical period than even her other historical novels, like Death Comes For the Archbishop. It was the last novel she wrote before she died, and has distinct autobiographical elements. Set in Back Creek Valley, southwestern Virginia, where Cather was born and lived til the age of nine, it also has characters with names that were, she explains, familiar to her from her parents’ talk about the old place, and features a child character in its final chapter who is clearly a Cather-analogue.
But the two primary characters are the ones in the title: Sapphira Dodderidge Colbert, a white woman from more respectable parts of Virginia who married a mill owner considerably below her in social station, and Nancy, her enslaved maid and the daughter of her enslaved housekeeper. Sapphira, middle-aged, has become severely physically disabled, suffering from dropsy (oedema) that makes her feet and legs swell painfully. Nancy, nineteen, is a light-skinned beauty, and also has a gentleness and sensitivity about her that has made her the favourite of her mistress—until now. Sapphira’s jealousy is aroused by rumours about Nancy’s paternity and about her husband’s obvious fondness for the girl, and as the novel opens, she has “taken against” her for several months. The book’s overarching plot is to do with Sapphira’s increasingly horrifying complicity in Nancy’s persecution by her rakish nephew Martin, and the rescue that is achieved by the Colberts’ adult daughter, Rachel, with her father’s knowledge and passive assistance.
Rachel is a reader extension, in a way; she recognises the things about the way her family lives that the other characters cannot. She is an abolitionist at heart and secretly receives radical newspapers from the like-minded postmistress, which she burns after reading. Her position in the novel is technically a white saviour one: Nancy’s salvation is entirely down to her activity. And yet she also sees the nasty complexity of the social situation, the way most of her mother’s enslaved servants believe in the system just as her mother does. (The Colberts are unusual for being slaveowners; southwestern Virginia has long been, and still is, a poor, remote and mountainous area, where white people tended to have enough difficulty farming smallholdings, lacking the resources or the status-seeking desire to purchase or keep enslaved people.) The oldest of the enslaved people on the Colbert property, Old Jezebel, remembers her capture in west Africa and the Middle Passage, and her difficulties in learning to speak English, but she dies partway through the book: the physical brutalities of the trade are mentioned but not dwelt upon. Rachel disapproves of her mother’s slaveholding, and rescues Nancy because she knows it’s the right thing to do, but she never openly challenges the status quo.
And yet, within the moral universe of the novel, the warping effect of slaveholding is made very clear. Sapphira, without ever acknowledging to herself or anyone else what she is doing, attempts to orchestrate the rape of a teenager whom she owns. More than once, she puts Nancy, alone, in Martin Colbert’s path, sometimes in a geographically isolated location such as the woods, knowing that he has a history of “dishonouring” young women. All of the little kindnesses we have seen her show to dying Jezebel, her affection for the old houseman Washington and her beloved housekeeper, Nancy’s mother, Till, evaporate when the reader is faced with that understanding. It reminded me strongly of Valerie Martin’s Property, a much later exploration (by a white woman) of the corruption of a white woman’s soul by the institution of slavery. Nancy herself is not deeply characterised and lacks agency—she is young, sweet, thoughtful, profoundly un-flirtatious, a “good girl”—but when she returns at the novel’s end, post-emancipation, dressed in silks and furs and with a well-paying job as a housekeeper in Montreal, she has a dignity and authority that implies greater complexity. In 1940 and from a white author, Sapphira and the Slave Girl is probably as explicit an acknowledgment of the material and moral devastation of race-based slavery as we were ever going to get.
This is my final American Classics book—I’ve done it, I’ve read one a month for a whole year! Stay tuned for a roundup and reflections post later this month.