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Canongate Classics
Tormenta de primavera
Los elementos que reúne esta novela publicada en 1933: Un padre ensimismado y severo, pastor protestante de una pequeña congregación campesina; una madre ingenua y bondadosa que vive conforme a su fe; sus tres hijas, en su camino a la vida adulta; la sirvienta de toda la vida, que atesora una sabiduría consoladora, todo ello enmarcado en la naturaleza abrupta de la exuberante Escocia? podrían darle al lector de hoy la impresión de que estamos ante una novela de corte tradicional. Sin embargo, Nancy Brysson Morrison, dibujando en toda su complejidad a sus protagonistas, las tres hermanas Lockhart, las presenta alejadas de los roles arquetípicos que se les suele atribuir a las mujeres en las novelas de la época. Ni Julia, ni Emmy, ni Lisbet, la narradora, son mujeres aletargadas, ahogadas en el desempeño de unas funciones tradicionales (la rebelde, la abnegada, la romántica). Todas poseen una interesante personalidad, se apoyan y se llevan bien entre ellas; todas le plantan cara, en la medida de sus posibilidades, a las imposiciones de un mundo que, en ocasiones, todavía es una camisa de fuerza que las aprisiona entre lo que se espera de ellas y sus propios deseos. Tormenta de primavera es, amén de un bello y lírico recorrido por los paisajes de la Escocia rural de principios del siglo xx, un retrato valiente de lo que supone la lucha por la libertad y por el reconocimiento de un lugar propio en un mundo plagado de normas que no siempre tienen sentido.
224 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1933
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263 people want to read
About the author
Nancy Brysson Morrison
14 books6 followersAgnes Morrison or Agnes Brysson Inglis Morrison; Nancy Morrison was a Scottish writer. She wrote biographies, novels and some romantic fiction. Known for writing about Scottish history and for focusing on those usually lost to history. She also wrote under the pseudonym Christine Strathern.
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Displaying 1 - 22 of 22 reviews
May 20, 2019
While reading Mimi's review of this book (the first time I’d heard of this author), I was reminded of The Three Sisters by May Sinclair, another writer influenced by the lives of the Bronte sisters. By the time my copy of The Gowk Storm arrived, I’d forgotten about Sinclair; by the novel’s end, I’d remembered her.
Morrison’s prose style is gentler than Sinclair’s, but I was left with the same feeling at the end of both novels, likely due to their themes more than to the depictions of the lives of three sisters of an authoritarian father who’s a minister. (One dramatic scene reminded me of Adam Bede as well, though it happens for a different reason than in the Eliot.)
As to a shared theme with the Sinclair: at one point, the middle sister—forthright, moral and mildly rebellious in being true to herself—comes into possession of a bird in a cage. Presumably she keeps it though it’s not mentioned again. Nevertheless, the reader will remember it at a later juncture: we know what a caged bird symbolizes.
Morrison’s prose is flowing, evocative and literally full of shadows. The first-person, youngest-sister narrator sees with a perceptive, loving eye. Her observations of the minutiae of Nature are especially astute.
When I finished the book, I reread the definition of “gowk-storm” that’s provided on its title page. My understanding of the secondary definition is now deeper.
Morrison’s prose style is gentler than Sinclair’s, but I was left with the same feeling at the end of both novels, likely due to their themes more than to the depictions of the lives of three sisters of an authoritarian father who’s a minister. (One dramatic scene reminded me of Adam Bede as well, though it happens for a different reason than in the Eliot.)
As to a shared theme with the Sinclair: at one point, the middle sister—forthright, moral and mildly rebellious in being true to herself—comes into possession of a bird in a cage. Presumably she keeps it though it’s not mentioned again. Nevertheless, the reader will remember it at a later juncture: we know what a caged bird symbolizes.
Morrison’s prose is flowing, evocative and literally full of shadows. The first-person, youngest-sister narrator sees with a perceptive, loving eye. Her observations of the minutiae of Nature are especially astute.
When I finished the book, I reread the definition of “gowk-storm” that’s provided on its title page. My understanding of the secondary definition is now deeper.
August 5, 2017
A Scottish classic...
This is the tale of three sisters, daughters of the minister in a parish in the Highlands of Scotland. Our narrator is the youngest of the three, Lisbet, who over the course of the couple of years of the book's story grows from a girl only half comprehending her elder sisters' early forays into the world of romantic love, into a young woman on whom the two older girls come to depend for support. The date is unspecified, I believe, but the book was published in 1933 and it reads as if the story is set somewhere in the decade or two before that, at a time when young girls had more freedom than Austen's heroines, for example, but were still confined by lack of opportunity and girded round by social restrictions, breaches of which would inevitably lead to scandal and ruin.
I mention Austen in my little introduction because the comparison was running in my head throughout most of my reading of the book. Like Austen, this is fundamentally a book about young women seeking the men they will eventually marry but, also like her, it's much more than that. It portrays the society of a particular place at a moment in time and does so brilliantly, showing the subtle social stratifications that limit the lives and suitable marriage prospects of these moderately privileged girls still further. Since this is Scotland, the book also shows the stranglehold of Protestant intolerance that has blighted the country since Knox, and the anti-Catholic discrimination that goes hand-in-hand with that.
The writing is superb and, to continue the Austen comparison a little further, the characterisation of these young girls is beautifully done. None of them is perfect – each has her flaws and idiosyncrasies. The two eldest, Julia and Emmy, are a little like Elinor and Marianne from Sense and Sensibility – Julia's strong feelings masked by her outward calm, and with the intellect and strength of character to overcome the slings and arrows of her fortune; Emmy driven by emotion, unwilling, perhaps unable, to accept society's restrictions. Lisbet is clear-sighted about her sisters, and about herself. Although she is young during the events of the book, it is written as if by her older self looking back, giving her narration a feeling of more maturity and insight than her younger self may have had at the time. Lisbet is also profoundly affected by her physical surroundings, describing the landscape and weather in lush passages of great beauty, full of colour and a sense almost of mysticism.
But despite all my comparisons, there are elements that make the book very different in tone from Austen. Although there are plenty of moments where we see the touching love and loyalty among the sisters, there is little of the wit and humour displayed in most of Austen's works. This book is darker, with a tone of pathos and impending tragedy created by the subtlest hints of foreshadowing. I don't want to tell any of the story because its gradual unfolding is one of the book's great strengths. But there isn't that feeling of certainty that all misunderstandings and obstacles will be cleared away in time for a happy ending for all of these girls. And, dare I say, the eventual outcomes have something more of the ring of truth about them as a result.
The vast majority of the book is written in standard English, with just some Scottish dialect in the dialogue of one or two characters. However there is a sprinkling of Scottish words throughout, some of which have faded into complete obscurity now, but many of which are still used by older Scots. The meanings of most of them are clear by their context, but I was a little disappointed that my Canongate Classics edition has neither a glossary nor footnotes – not that they are essential, but to add to the interest for non-Scots and younger Scots alike. I would also warn forcibly not to read the introduction by Edwin Morgan before reading the book – he gives away the entire plot (and frankly adds little depth to the understanding of the book).
I was not, however, disappointed in any way by the book itself. In my opinion, it's easily of the quality of Lewis Grassic Gibbon's much better known Sunset Song and, in fact, I think I enjoyed it even more. I am sorry it seems to have sunk into relative obscurity. The quality of the writing and characterisation; the beautiful descriptions of the wild landscape and weather of the Highlands; the delicately nuanced portrayal of the position of women within this small, rather isolated society; the story that manages tragedy without melodrama and hope without implausibility – all of these mean it richly merits its status as a Scottish classic, and deserves a much wider readership than it has.
www.fictionfanblog.wordpress.com
This is the tale of three sisters, daughters of the minister in a parish in the Highlands of Scotland. Our narrator is the youngest of the three, Lisbet, who over the course of the couple of years of the book's story grows from a girl only half comprehending her elder sisters' early forays into the world of romantic love, into a young woman on whom the two older girls come to depend for support. The date is unspecified, I believe, but the book was published in 1933 and it reads as if the story is set somewhere in the decade or two before that, at a time when young girls had more freedom than Austen's heroines, for example, but were still confined by lack of opportunity and girded round by social restrictions, breaches of which would inevitably lead to scandal and ruin.
I mention Austen in my little introduction because the comparison was running in my head throughout most of my reading of the book. Like Austen, this is fundamentally a book about young women seeking the men they will eventually marry but, also like her, it's much more than that. It portrays the society of a particular place at a moment in time and does so brilliantly, showing the subtle social stratifications that limit the lives and suitable marriage prospects of these moderately privileged girls still further. Since this is Scotland, the book also shows the stranglehold of Protestant intolerance that has blighted the country since Knox, and the anti-Catholic discrimination that goes hand-in-hand with that.
The dominie could read from a snail on a blade of grass or the flight of a bird every whim of the weather. He would tell us it was not going to thunder because he had noticed a trout jumping in the loch or that we must expect rain for he had seen a craikie heron 'take to the hill'. There were other things he told us of as he helped us over dykes or went in front to guide us through boggy places: how death and the eddying fairies came from the pale west, and the white chancy south brought summer and long life, giants and ill-luck strode from the black north, and only good could come out of the sacred east.
The writing is superb and, to continue the Austen comparison a little further, the characterisation of these young girls is beautifully done. None of them is perfect – each has her flaws and idiosyncrasies. The two eldest, Julia and Emmy, are a little like Elinor and Marianne from Sense and Sensibility – Julia's strong feelings masked by her outward calm, and with the intellect and strength of character to overcome the slings and arrows of her fortune; Emmy driven by emotion, unwilling, perhaps unable, to accept society's restrictions. Lisbet is clear-sighted about her sisters, and about herself. Although she is young during the events of the book, it is written as if by her older self looking back, giving her narration a feeling of more maturity and insight than her younger self may have had at the time. Lisbet is also profoundly affected by her physical surroundings, describing the landscape and weather in lush passages of great beauty, full of colour and a sense almost of mysticism.
A pale green light poured down from the wintry sky, as though this earth were lit by chance rays from some other world. Grey sheep silently ate split turnips in the brown fields. The snow had melted in the low lands, leaving everything sad dun shades, and only streaked the mountains, where it lay like the skeletons of huge, prehistoric animals. The shouldering outline of the mountains cut against the horizon, their detail of burn, crag and ravine lost in the immensity of their shadowed bulk. It was as though, in those transient windless seconds between dawn and daylight, the world had resolved itself again into the contours and substances that composed it before man trod on its earth and drank in its air.
But despite all my comparisons, there are elements that make the book very different in tone from Austen. Although there are plenty of moments where we see the touching love and loyalty among the sisters, there is little of the wit and humour displayed in most of Austen's works. This book is darker, with a tone of pathos and impending tragedy created by the subtlest hints of foreshadowing. I don't want to tell any of the story because its gradual unfolding is one of the book's great strengths. But there isn't that feeling of certainty that all misunderstandings and obstacles will be cleared away in time for a happy ending for all of these girls. And, dare I say, the eventual outcomes have something more of the ring of truth about them as a result.
'There's plenty of time for my breakfast and your wedding,' he informed her, 'as I'm sure Drake would tell you. You know, our whole lives consist of this kind of thing – seeing things out of proportion. Think of the furore and fever we worked ourselves into last year over something that now leaves us quite cold.'
'I hope it will take more than a year for my marriage to leave me cold,' Julia rejoined.
'You never know,' he replied lugubriously, 'for after all love is merely seeing the loved one hopelessly out of proportion. Then, you'll find, you'll both waken up one day to the fact that the other is quite ordinary and is peopling the world in hundreds. That's why I never married,' he added complacently, ' I always knew I would be the first to waken up.'
The vast majority of the book is written in standard English, with just some Scottish dialect in the dialogue of one or two characters. However there is a sprinkling of Scottish words throughout, some of which have faded into complete obscurity now, but many of which are still used by older Scots. The meanings of most of them are clear by their context, but I was a little disappointed that my Canongate Classics edition has neither a glossary nor footnotes – not that they are essential, but to add to the interest for non-Scots and younger Scots alike. I would also warn forcibly not to read the introduction by Edwin Morgan before reading the book – he gives away the entire plot (and frankly adds little depth to the understanding of the book).
I was not, however, disappointed in any way by the book itself. In my opinion, it's easily of the quality of Lewis Grassic Gibbon's much better known Sunset Song and, in fact, I think I enjoyed it even more. I am sorry it seems to have sunk into relative obscurity. The quality of the writing and characterisation; the beautiful descriptions of the wild landscape and weather of the Highlands; the delicately nuanced portrayal of the position of women within this small, rather isolated society; the story that manages tragedy without melodrama and hope without implausibility – all of these mean it richly merits its status as a Scottish classic, and deserves a much wider readership than it has.
The carriage moved forward. We turned the bend in the road where we used to stand to see if any one were coming. I heard the immeasurable murmur of the loch, like a far-away wave that never breaks upon the shore, and the cry of a curlew. All the world's sorrow, all the world's pain, and none of its regret, lay throbbing in that cry.
www.fictionfanblog.wordpress.com
May 14, 2019
"The leaping flames in the well of a fireplace lit the room, casting grotesque shadows on the raftered roof and walls, exaggerating Nannie's hooked nose and the peaks of her cap. Her brow was so deeply furrowed it looked cut, but the rest of her face was unlined. As she sat at the fireplace, a ball of wool stuck with knitting-pins on her lap, she looked as though at any moment she might go up the chimney in a whiff of smoke, leaving behind only two wrinkled boots with their laces out."
There's something about a sister- story. I don't know what it is. This one is a bit like "Little Women" with a bit of the spectral feel of "Wuthering Heights" thrown in. Nancy Bryson Morrison has a peculiar style of writing - she writes things that she leaves - like this,
"He did not contradict her but I was aware that he had withdrawn himself from us. He was taller than she and had to gaze down into her eyes which were darkened by the brim of her tilted hat. He was not cadaverous, but his features were those that threw shades on his face. I noticed there were shadows in the pits where his eyes were, in the dent of his chin and the concaves of his nostrils."
- and that's the end of the chapter. Maybe this doesn't raise your eyebrows, but it stopped me cold. I thought, "That's weird. She noticed...?". Maybe that's part of what I liked about the novel, the whole thing was a lot about people noticing or "seeing" things that are hidden, or leading somewhere. Sometimes they know what these things mean, and sometimes not. "There are some wha have their doors and windows opened wider than ithers." as old lady Wands tells the girls. That could be the heart of the story. And this comment by the girls' mother, "Strange, the mistakes you make, and if you had your life to live all over again, you would make them just the same."
A remarkable book. It pains me that a book so good should remain so obscure.
There's something about a sister- story. I don't know what it is. This one is a bit like "Little Women" with a bit of the spectral feel of "Wuthering Heights" thrown in. Nancy Bryson Morrison has a peculiar style of writing - she writes things that she leaves - like this,
"He did not contradict her but I was aware that he had withdrawn himself from us. He was taller than she and had to gaze down into her eyes which were darkened by the brim of her tilted hat. He was not cadaverous, but his features were those that threw shades on his face. I noticed there were shadows in the pits where his eyes were, in the dent of his chin and the concaves of his nostrils."
- and that's the end of the chapter. Maybe this doesn't raise your eyebrows, but it stopped me cold. I thought, "That's weird. She noticed...?". Maybe that's part of what I liked about the novel, the whole thing was a lot about people noticing or "seeing" things that are hidden, or leading somewhere. Sometimes they know what these things mean, and sometimes not. "There are some wha have their doors and windows opened wider than ithers." as old lady Wands tells the girls. That could be the heart of the story. And this comment by the girls' mother, "Strange, the mistakes you make, and if you had your life to live all over again, you would make them just the same."
A remarkable book. It pains me that a book so good should remain so obscure.
October 29, 2014
What a wonderful book.
This book is haunting, passionate, lyrical and beautifully written.
A real page turner with such a tragic ending.
It was a radio 4 drama.
Highly recommended.
This book is haunting, passionate, lyrical and beautifully written.
A real page turner with such a tragic ending.
It was a radio 4 drama.
Highly recommended.
January 5, 2016
My first Scottish woman writer of the year - this short novel is a delight - a bit Bronteish, a bit Austen, but set in Scotland. Threaded through with sly observations, the supernatural, and girlish contemplation of life and the universe. Smart, atmospheric, short, beautiful.
April 26, 2025
En “Tormenta de primavera” las tres hermanas Lockhart son hijas de un pastor protestante que viven cerca de un pueblo en el campo escocés. Las tres hermanas en su día a día tienen que enfrentarse a la inflexibilidad y la supersticiosa ignorancia del mundo que las rodea, perpetuamente ahogadas por las exigencias de su credo y sus costumbres, acentuado por un padre, que sin ser necesariamente mala persona, aprieta aún más ese ahogamiento con su incapacidad de ver más allá de lo que le dicta su fe, las creencias y costumbres del pueblo “de toda la vida” y su propia soberbia de guía espiritual de la comunidad. En esta ceguera antepone su deber de ser moralmente superior y un ejemplo para sus vecinos a la felicidad de sus propias hijas derivando en una inconsciencia casi cruel que alejará a sus hijas de su lado y destruirá la unión familiar.
Sin embargo su padre aún es digno de compasión ya que, al menos, se comprende que no tiene malas intenciones. Pero para que el lector aprenda esa lección junto con ese padre, tendrá que llegar un personaje casi igual, pero completamente diferente.
“Tormenta de primavera” deja un regusto amargo en el lector. Rezuma una melancolía algo húmeda, como de respirar un mar muy lejano en mitad de un campo inmenso y desolado. Como la sensación de haber perdido algo muy valioso y no saber exactamente qué. En ocasiones me recordaba a escenas o incluso al fatalismo de “La casa de Bernarda Alba” salvo que las Lockhart no viven encerradas entre los muros de un patio andaluz, pero los bellos e infinitos paisajes escoceses pueden ser igualmente crueles, ya que nadie se aventura a cruzarlos solos a pie y, quien lo hace, arriesga su vida. Las figura vigilantes de Bernarda y Poncia en este caso son los padres y vecinos de las hermanas Lockhart que, al igual que las hermanas Alba, solo quieren ser libres.
Como lectora puedo dibujar perfectamente una línea divisoria dentro de este libro dividiendolo entre dos o tres primeras partes en las que no conseguía empatizar con los personajes y una segunda tanda de dos partes y un epílogo en los que empatizaba demasiado. En mi opinion esto tiene que ver con que no sentí un hilo de conexión demasiado fuerte entre los diferentes capítulos del principio, meramente episódicos y sin nexo de unión narrativo y luego, más tarde, la autora decide centrarse en un solo tema, abandonando las historias entrecortadas y añadiendo continuidad entre capítulos. La diferencia entre desconexión y conexión es tan evidente que lleva a ese desequilibrio de sentimientos en el lector. Así pues la primera parte del libro por si misma no me ha impresionado demasiado y la segunda me va dejar poso durante algún tiempo. No es sencillo explicar si este libro me ha gustado o no, la respuesta es a la vez sí y no.
Sin embargo su padre aún es digno de compasión ya que, al menos, se comprende que no tiene malas intenciones. Pero para que el lector aprenda esa lección junto con ese padre, tendrá que llegar un personaje casi igual, pero completamente diferente.
“Tormenta de primavera” deja un regusto amargo en el lector. Rezuma una melancolía algo húmeda, como de respirar un mar muy lejano en mitad de un campo inmenso y desolado. Como la sensación de haber perdido algo muy valioso y no saber exactamente qué. En ocasiones me recordaba a escenas o incluso al fatalismo de “La casa de Bernarda Alba” salvo que las Lockhart no viven encerradas entre los muros de un patio andaluz, pero los bellos e infinitos paisajes escoceses pueden ser igualmente crueles, ya que nadie se aventura a cruzarlos solos a pie y, quien lo hace, arriesga su vida. Las figura vigilantes de Bernarda y Poncia en este caso son los padres y vecinos de las hermanas Lockhart que, al igual que las hermanas Alba, solo quieren ser libres.
Como lectora puedo dibujar perfectamente una línea divisoria dentro de este libro dividiendolo entre dos o tres primeras partes en las que no conseguía empatizar con los personajes y una segunda tanda de dos partes y un epílogo en los que empatizaba demasiado. En mi opinion esto tiene que ver con que no sentí un hilo de conexión demasiado fuerte entre los diferentes capítulos del principio, meramente episódicos y sin nexo de unión narrativo y luego, más tarde, la autora decide centrarse en un solo tema, abandonando las historias entrecortadas y añadiendo continuidad entre capítulos. La diferencia entre desconexión y conexión es tan evidente que lleva a ese desequilibrio de sentimientos en el lector. Así pues la primera parte del libro por si misma no me ha impresionado demasiado y la segunda me va dejar poso durante algún tiempo. No es sencillo explicar si este libro me ha gustado o no, la respuesta es a la vez sí y no.
April 24, 2024
Gonna need my early 20th century Scottish authors to stop boring me to death for the first three quarters of their books and then cramming a trilogy’s worth of soap opera level drama into the last five chapters
January 14, 2016
Lovely language and a sad tale of strict, rigid moral/social codes.
June 10, 2025
JESUS CHRISTTTT
actually cannot cope with the amount of relatability this book has with my life right now
please tell me the unhappy ending does not translateeeee
what is it with scottish fiction so bloody depressing we are all so dour and presbyterianism has killed us
1) julia what happened
2) emmy lord protect you're the realest
3) mr boyd you need to be put down
'Nannie was like most Scotch people, a lordly giver and a most ungracious taker.' (p. 120)
some quotes that tore my heart out:
''Do you think it's wrong to want something you know you can't have?' Emmy asked me one day as we sat in a small enclosed place she had discovered, high on the bank of the burn.
'Nannie would say it was,' I replied dubiously, feeling the question was too weighty to answer on my own authority.
'Oh, Nannie - Nannie's idea of life is to want nothing and you'll never tempt Providence to send you nothing. But what happens when you can't help yourself from wanting something although you don't want yourself to want it? After all, I never asked, I never wanted to fall in love with him.'
I had been watching, strung on a thorn bush, a spider's web with petals of flowers and pollen caught up in it, but her words startled me so I forgot everything else as I jerked my head up to gaze at her.
'I was far happier before,' she continued, digging up with one hand the spongy moss at her side, 'far happier. How more tolerably we would get on without our emotions. What, in heaven's name, are they given us for, except to waste and bewilder us? I can't think of anything now but I am thinking of him at the same time; it's as though he had stolen my mind. I don't want to go to stay with Julia; I know so well what that's going to be like. Why is heaven always so near the brink of hell? I tell you, I know to the moment when he is going to enter the room and if I am to see him or not. Even when there are miles between us, it's still the same. What can you do with yourself when you are tuned like a harp to some one else's emotions and you feel his thoughts beat through to you?' (p. 113)
''But, Emmy,' I said faintly, 'if you know he cares for you, isn't that all that matters? I would have thought that would mean everything in the world to you.'
'How can it mean anything but unhappiness whether I know he cares or not? How can there ever be anything but insecurity and conflict between us? On his side he is willing, "I love, but I cannot say I love, so I shall pretend indifference," and on mine I am saying, "Nothing can ever come of this, so let us kill this thing between us." And I cannot kill it, it is more alive than I am. If I died to-morrow, it would still live on. If he went to the other end of the world, he would still be bound to me and I to him, his thought stepping on my thoughts and mine on his.' (p. 114)
'Suddenly I wondered what she really thought within herself, what ships sailed into her harbour when she sat alone.' (p. 115)
'If you only knew - and it's not what people say and feel and make you feel, it's what your own - But you can't go on like this, there must be an end to this feeling.' (p. 151)
'Julia and Edwin had left for Glasgow that morning, an my thoughts dwelt on how grief-struck Edwin was, how powerless we were to mitigate his suffering, how bitterly Julia reproached herself for this and that, and how Emmy's upbraiding heart would not let her be. I felt like a harp whose strings have been strung to sing too many sad tunes and began to cry silently.' (p. 153)
''Nannie,' I said, and found I was shivering, 'who do you think was to blame about - about her death?'
'Na one was to blame,' she answered. 'She wasna strong enow to thole things and so ended them.'
'What should she have done, Nannie?'
'Dreed her ain dree like many a one afore her. If she had bided it would have passed like everything else. It a' passes if ye only bide lang enow.' She shook the bolster and a wan winged moth flew out.' (p. 154)
actually cannot cope with the amount of relatability this book has with my life right now
please tell me the unhappy ending does not translateeeee
what is it with scottish fiction so bloody depressing we are all so dour and presbyterianism has killed us
1) julia what happened
2) emmy lord protect you're the realest
3) mr boyd you need to be put down
'Nannie was like most Scotch people, a lordly giver and a most ungracious taker.' (p. 120)
some quotes that tore my heart out:
''Do you think it's wrong to want something you know you can't have?' Emmy asked me one day as we sat in a small enclosed place she had discovered, high on the bank of the burn.
'Nannie would say it was,' I replied dubiously, feeling the question was too weighty to answer on my own authority.
'Oh, Nannie - Nannie's idea of life is to want nothing and you'll never tempt Providence to send you nothing. But what happens when you can't help yourself from wanting something although you don't want yourself to want it? After all, I never asked, I never wanted to fall in love with him.'
I had been watching, strung on a thorn bush, a spider's web with petals of flowers and pollen caught up in it, but her words startled me so I forgot everything else as I jerked my head up to gaze at her.
'I was far happier before,' she continued, digging up with one hand the spongy moss at her side, 'far happier. How more tolerably we would get on without our emotions. What, in heaven's name, are they given us for, except to waste and bewilder us? I can't think of anything now but I am thinking of him at the same time; it's as though he had stolen my mind. I don't want to go to stay with Julia; I know so well what that's going to be like. Why is heaven always so near the brink of hell? I tell you, I know to the moment when he is going to enter the room and if I am to see him or not. Even when there are miles between us, it's still the same. What can you do with yourself when you are tuned like a harp to some one else's emotions and you feel his thoughts beat through to you?' (p. 113)
''But, Emmy,' I said faintly, 'if you know he cares for you, isn't that all that matters? I would have thought that would mean everything in the world to you.'
'How can it mean anything but unhappiness whether I know he cares or not? How can there ever be anything but insecurity and conflict between us? On his side he is willing, "I love, but I cannot say I love, so I shall pretend indifference," and on mine I am saying, "Nothing can ever come of this, so let us kill this thing between us." And I cannot kill it, it is more alive than I am. If I died to-morrow, it would still live on. If he went to the other end of the world, he would still be bound to me and I to him, his thought stepping on my thoughts and mine on his.' (p. 114)
'Suddenly I wondered what she really thought within herself, what ships sailed into her harbour when she sat alone.' (p. 115)
'If you only knew - and it's not what people say and feel and make you feel, it's what your own - But you can't go on like this, there must be an end to this feeling.' (p. 151)
'Julia and Edwin had left for Glasgow that morning, an my thoughts dwelt on how grief-struck Edwin was, how powerless we were to mitigate his suffering, how bitterly Julia reproached herself for this and that, and how Emmy's upbraiding heart would not let her be. I felt like a harp whose strings have been strung to sing too many sad tunes and began to cry silently.' (p. 153)
''Nannie,' I said, and found I was shivering, 'who do you think was to blame about - about her death?'
'Na one was to blame,' she answered. 'She wasna strong enow to thole things and so ended them.'
'What should she have done, Nannie?'
'Dreed her ain dree like many a one afore her. If she had bided it would have passed like everything else. It a' passes if ye only bide lang enow.' She shook the bolster and a wan winged moth flew out.' (p. 154)
February 1, 2022
Exquisite writing; this Scottish classic deserves to be more widely known and read. So glad my blog friend Fiction Fan recommended this.
March 18, 2011
I so enjoyed the language of Morrison. I was sucked into the story and swept along! Beautiful read!
June 18, 2025
Antes de empezar con esta reseña, quiero darle las gracias a la chica de la editorial que le recomendó este libro a la señora que tenía delante en la Feria del Libro de Madrid. Si no la hubiera escuchado recomendándole este libro porque, como yo, era fan de Jane Austen, probablemente no hubiera reparado en él.
Dicho lo cual, acabo de terminar de leerlo y solo tengo palabras bonitas hacia «Tormenta de primavera». Los personajes principales, los secundarios, las escenas, las descripciones, la trama, el ritmo... Todo te invita a sumergirte en la historia escrita por Nancy Brysson Morrison.
La familia Lockhart está compuesta por tres hermanas (Julie, Emmy y Lisbet), su madre (ama de casa, como era norma a principios del siglo XX) y su padre (pastor protestante de un pequeño pueblo escocés). Con ellas, vive Nannie: «doncella, cocinera y niñera al mismo tiempo». Es difícil quedarse solo con una de las hermanas porque cada una es distinta del resto. Mientras que Julia, la mayor, es dicharachera y es capaz de sacar conversación durante las quedadas para tomar el té, Emmy tiene claro que no tiene que agradar a nadie y si no le interesa abrir la boca, no se escapará sonido alguno. En cuanto a Lisbet, la pequeña de las tres, es muy observadora y solo interviene cuando la interpelan directamente. Ella es la gran narradora de esta historia.
La trama de la novela es sencilla, en un principio. Como dice la propia Lisbet, «la vida oscilaba entre salir a pasear por los páramos, coser, leer y preguntarse qué nos depararía el día siguiente». Sin embargo, con el paso del tiempo, se suceden una serie de situaciones que van enredando el futuro de cada uno de los personajes: desde la relación entre las propias hermanas hasta con sus vecinos y amigos, pasando por sus posibles pretendientes. Ni que decir tiene que, por supuesto, tenía que aparecer en escena un personaje al que le cogieras manía, al más puro estilo Sr. Collins.
Todos los personajes secundarios tienen peso en la novela, no aparecen porque sí, y tienen sus caracteres muy diferenciados unos de otros. Sin duda, me quedo con algunas de las enseñanzas de Nannie: «Todo pasa si esperamos lo suficiente».
En cuanto al estilo de narrar de Nancy Brysson Morrison, es rico en detalles y descripciones, con un estilo tan lírico que roza lo poético. No se apresura a la hora de escribir las escenas o los capítulos y solo detalla las situaciones que merecen la pena para que avance la trama.
No conocía a la autora pero, sin duda, investigaré más sobre ella e intentaré leer más de sus novelas, aunque creo que esta es la primera que se traduce al español.
En cuanto a los temas que se tratan, lógicamente están la familia y los amigos, las convenciones sociales y cómo lograr escapar de ellas, el peso de la religión en los pueblos pequeños y cómo se puede unir una población en contra del "diferente", las reflexiones sobre qué es importante en la vida y el amor, tanto correspondido como no y si se debe continuar con algunos tipos de relación.
Si también te gustan las novelas pausadas que suceden en pueblos pequeños ingleses en donde no pasa "nada", pero la sola aparición de un personaje ya alborota a todo el pueblo, y te gustan los enredos, esta es tu novela.
Dicho lo cual, acabo de terminar de leerlo y solo tengo palabras bonitas hacia «Tormenta de primavera». Los personajes principales, los secundarios, las escenas, las descripciones, la trama, el ritmo... Todo te invita a sumergirte en la historia escrita por Nancy Brysson Morrison.
La familia Lockhart está compuesta por tres hermanas (Julie, Emmy y Lisbet), su madre (ama de casa, como era norma a principios del siglo XX) y su padre (pastor protestante de un pequeño pueblo escocés). Con ellas, vive Nannie: «doncella, cocinera y niñera al mismo tiempo». Es difícil quedarse solo con una de las hermanas porque cada una es distinta del resto. Mientras que Julia, la mayor, es dicharachera y es capaz de sacar conversación durante las quedadas para tomar el té, Emmy tiene claro que no tiene que agradar a nadie y si no le interesa abrir la boca, no se escapará sonido alguno. En cuanto a Lisbet, la pequeña de las tres, es muy observadora y solo interviene cuando la interpelan directamente. Ella es la gran narradora de esta historia.
La trama de la novela es sencilla, en un principio. Como dice la propia Lisbet, «la vida oscilaba entre salir a pasear por los páramos, coser, leer y preguntarse qué nos depararía el día siguiente». Sin embargo, con el paso del tiempo, se suceden una serie de situaciones que van enredando el futuro de cada uno de los personajes: desde la relación entre las propias hermanas hasta con sus vecinos y amigos, pasando por sus posibles pretendientes. Ni que decir tiene que, por supuesto, tenía que aparecer en escena un personaje al que le cogieras manía, al más puro estilo Sr. Collins.
Todos los personajes secundarios tienen peso en la novela, no aparecen porque sí, y tienen sus caracteres muy diferenciados unos de otros. Sin duda, me quedo con algunas de las enseñanzas de Nannie: «Todo pasa si esperamos lo suficiente».
En cuanto al estilo de narrar de Nancy Brysson Morrison, es rico en detalles y descripciones, con un estilo tan lírico que roza lo poético. No se apresura a la hora de escribir las escenas o los capítulos y solo detalla las situaciones que merecen la pena para que avance la trama.
No conocía a la autora pero, sin duda, investigaré más sobre ella e intentaré leer más de sus novelas, aunque creo que esta es la primera que se traduce al español.
En cuanto a los temas que se tratan, lógicamente están la familia y los amigos, las convenciones sociales y cómo lograr escapar de ellas, el peso de la religión en los pueblos pequeños y cómo se puede unir una población en contra del "diferente", las reflexiones sobre qué es importante en la vida y el amor, tanto correspondido como no y si se debe continuar con algunos tipos de relación.
Si también te gustan las novelas pausadas que suceden en pueblos pequeños ingleses en donde no pasa "nada", pero la sola aparición de un personaje ya alborota a todo el pueblo, y te gustan los enredos, esta es tu novela.
July 29, 2025
Un libro publicado en 1933, con aires de Jane Austen y una profundidad psicológica loable en sus tres protagonistas femeninas.
La narradora es la pequeña de tres hermanas. Introvertida, tranquila y fantasiosa, es la confidente perfecta para las mayores a las que observa, cuida y aprecia más que a nadie. Sus reflexiones y la forma en que introduce el paisaje y el clima, como un personaje más de la novela, son lo más brillante de la historia.
Una historia hermosa y triste, reflejo de una época y un estilo de vida casi inexistente.
La narradora es la pequeña de tres hermanas. Introvertida, tranquila y fantasiosa, es la confidente perfecta para las mayores a las que observa, cuida y aprecia más que a nadie. Sus reflexiones y la forma en que introduce el paisaje y el clima, como un personaje más de la novela, son lo más brillante de la historia.
Una historia hermosa y triste, reflejo de una época y un estilo de vida casi inexistente.
May 25, 2025
Novela romántica de época.
Al principio no me engancho y me pareció soporífera: No pasaba nada.
Tras más del primer cuarto, empezó sutilmente a cambiar y me enganchó un poco más y de ahí, hasta el final.
Bella literatura.
Al principio no me engancho y me pareció soporífera: No pasaba nada.
Tras más del primer cuarto, empezó sutilmente a cambiar y me enganchó un poco más y de ahí, hasta el final.
Bella literatura.
August 29, 2025
sería entretenido si me hubiese interesado al menos 1 personaje pero sin embargo....eso no ha pasado (no se leen más novelas de formación este verano, esta me ha quitado las ganas)
November 21, 2025
Reconforta saber que la vida de 3 hijas de un pastor protestante a principios del siglo pasado en ocasiones no era tan claustrofóbica como la imaginamos.
September 4, 2011
Another book that reminds me of Wuthering Heights. The story of three sisters living in 19th century Scotland, narrated by the youngest, it is the story of the two elder sisters, Julia and Emmy. Julia is responsible, sensitive and capable, and Emmy is quick tempered, wilful and intelligent. There are in fact two gowk (unexpected, often in Spring) storms; one where Julia is forced to seek shelter in an abandoned cottage with the Catholic schoolmaster, with consequences for him; the other has terrible consequences for Emmy. The beautiful prose somehow makes the inevitable outcomes of flouting the conventions of a remote and judgemental community even more dreadful.
November 10, 2013
Strange, lovely little book. Not perfect, by any means - Lisbet isn't much of a protagonist, but her sisters are lively and well-drawn, and the novel as a whole is wonderfully atmospheric and haunting.
July 28, 2015
This was written in the 1930s, and is one of the most atmospheric, claustrophobic novels ever written (up there, in some ways, with Woman in the Dunes). The setting acts as a metaphor for the restrictions society places on strong, intelligent and articulate young women.
November 12, 2022
cold, bleak and religious ! feels just like home ❤️ I enjoyed this lots thank you Nancy
On reread: nancy you were even better this time round
On reread: nancy you were even better this time round
February 28, 2011
Beautifully written, absolutely heartbreaking.
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