And she made me believe that she loved me. Without every quitting her tone of badinage and playful superiority, she intoxicated me with the sense that I was necessary to her, that she was never at ease, unless I was near to her, submitting to her playful tyranny. It costs a woman so little effort to besot us in this way!
George Eliot’s (born Mary Anne Evans) imagination cannot be faulted at all throughout this gem of a novella. It is a tour de force captured in a mere seventy-five pages.
There’s something about nineteenth century novelists. There’s a crispness in their writing style in combination with the correctness of the language, in fact to the point of perfection, which isn’t so apparent in twentieth and twenty-first century authors.
This book was published at the same time as Adam Bede but it has nevertheless been overlooked for a long time. It is also distinct from her other books in that she used a first-person narrator here.
The need for Evans to resort to a pseudonym makes me wonder if she thought that her book would not be equally appreciated as she was a female writer in the Victorian age?
The plot is indeed rather unusual and opens with Latimer, the narrator, realizing that the end of his life is approaching as he’s been having problems with angina; his physician does not believe either that his life will be protracted. Thus Latimer decides to tell the strange story of his own experiences.
Deprived of a public school education, as it was a fact that he was too sensitive and shy to put up with the rough experience of a public school, the only avenue left open to him was to have private tutors. His father didn’t appear to be too fond of him and his preference was for the older boy, Alfred, his successor, who went to Eton and Oxford.
But then Latimer’s life changed remarkably when he went to Geneva at the age of sixteen. However, he became ill there and his father decided to take him back to England. At this stage of his life our narrator was beginning to have visions and very odd things were happening to him. This was a gift that put him into a state of great excitement but before returning to England he met Bertha Grant and upon sight of her he fainted (I thought only women did that?]. Latimer then began to wonder if he had a mysterious disease.
Bertha was to marry Alfred and our narrator then had a passion for this woman and the downward spiral began with a most unfortunate occurrence. He found that he could see into people’s souls, which showed him plainly that what people appeared to be on the outside were not that necessarily that way inside. Then he had foreseen an event that involved Bertha which proved to be true. For a young man who had never believed in evil, he had now reached the nadir of despair.
The metaphysical and supernatural aspects of this novella are exquisitely described. Eliot’s mastery of suspense is maintained up until the penultimate page, when the secret was finally revealed.
And then the curse of insight – of my double consciousness, came again, and has never left me. I know all their narrow thoughts, their feeble regard, their half-wearied pity.
Something that I never knew, as was explained on the dust jacket about this series by Melville House was that:
Too short to be a novel, too long to be a short story, the novella is generally unrecognized by academics and publishers. Nevertheless, it is a form beloved and practiced by literature’s greatest writers. In the Art of the Novella Series here, Melville House celebrates this renegade art form and its practitioners with titles that are, in many instances, presented in book form for the first time.
I’ll definitely read more of this author’s works.