This is the fourth novel by Gissing I have read in the past few years (after New Grub Street, The Odd Women, and Born in Exile). I think that probably qualifies me as a superfan, as I don’t think anyone really reads him these days. At the moment of writing, The Whirpool has only seven text reviews on this site, and fewer than a hundred ratings, which seems astonishingly few for a major work by a writer of this caliber and historical interest.
Gissing is an “issue” novelist par excellence, tackling questions of his day such as the “woman question” (The Odd Women); the corrosive effect of Darwinism on religious belief (Born in Exile); and the similarly corrosive effect on literature of the rise of cheap, instant-gratification journalism and fiction (New Grub Street). The Whirpool, which is the latest and most ambitious of the Gissing novels I have read (1897, where the other three are early 1890s), focuses on modern marriage in an age of growing demands for women’s emancipation, and when men’s roles are increasingly unclear.
One thing that has impressed me, reading these four works in (relatively) close succession is how much range Gissing has as a novelist. If he is remembered at all now, it is as a chronicler of the world of the London poor and the “just managing” lower middle classes, seen not from the charitable perspective of a visitor from another world, such as the Elizabeth Gaskell of Mary Barton or North and South, but through the searing eyes of one who has experienced poverty himself. It was in that guise, as explorer of a “nether world” of which the majority of Victorian novelists had no personal access, that Gissing won the admiration of his most acute twentieth-century critic, George Orwell. In an essay of 1943, Orwell summarized Gissing’s major theme as a novelist in three words: “not enough money”.
The Whirlpool’s setting is quite different from the other works by Gissing I have read. It is practically a drawing-room novel, set among the middle to upper-middle classes, although Gissing retains his customary, flinty eye for money and the ways in which it conditions people’s lives. The main characters of the novel are a couple, Harvey Rolfe, and Alma Frothingham, who come together bonded by a shared desire to set the showy, stultifying social ambitions of their own class behind them and to adopt a life of rational simplicity and equality, living within their (comfortable) income, far from the “whirlpool” of London and all it represents. It should not be too much of a spoiler to reveal that all does not exactly go to plan; the pull of the vortex is too strong, especially for the restless, mercurial Alma—over than a decade younger than her more settled husband—and various forms of mayhem and tragedy result.
The Whirlpool is a rich and ambitious novel, which succeeds in representing a whole culture, caught at an important, transitional moment, while at the same time doing justice to the complexity of the human individuals whose trajectory it follows. Alma has the makings of a fictional monster in her, if you simply look at the way she acts (I found myself wondering whether she was the template for Waugh’s coruscating portrait of Brenda Last in A Handful of Dust). Gissing doesn’t allow us to judge her too easily, though. She serves as focalizer in the novel, along with her husband; and both are treated with a sympathy and nuance I wasn’t entirely expecting from Gissing (his earlier representation of a car-crash marriage, that of Edward and Amy Reardon in New Grub Street, is far harsher and less humane in its tone). This is all the more impressive in that, from what I gather from the introduction to the Penguin edition of The Whirlpool, there is a strong autobiographical element in Gissing’s portrayal of the Rolfe marriage; he wrote it during the very messy and ugly breakdown of his second marriage, to Edith Underwood, and Harvey Rolfe is clearly some kind of fictional alter ego, for example in his feelings for his young son.
Of the Gissing novels that I have read to date, I would say that The Whirlpool is the finest (although I would probably recommend the engaging The Odd Women as a starting-point for anyone approaching him from scratch). This review only just begins to engage with the themes of the novel, which are too complex and intertwined to do justice to in a short notice like this. Gissing has important and prescient things to say, for example, about British imperial jingoism, and where it is likely to lead.
I’ll leave you with a passage from one of Orwell’s essays on Gissing, written about another of his novels, but of great relevance to The Whirpool, and to Gissing’s vision more generally (“rage and querulousness” nails the tone of the earlier novels, in particular):
Gissing's novels are a protest against the form of self-torture that goes by the name of respectability. Gissing was a bookish, perhaps over-civilised man, in love with classical antiquity, who found himself trapped in a cold, smoky, Protestant country where it was impossible to be comfortable without a thick padding of money between yourself and the outer world. Behind his rage and querulousness there lay a perception that the horrors of life in late-Victorian England were largely unnecessary. The grime, the stupidity, the ugliness, the sex-starvation, the furtive debauchery, the vulgarity, the bad manners, the censoriousness — these things were unnecessary, since the puritanism of which they were a relic no longer upheld the structure of society. People who might … have been reasonably happy chose instead to be miserable, inventing senseless taboos with which to terrify themselves.