My thoughts on this book: first, I read through the other reviews and found that most other readers like myself, found the protagonist disagreeable, and I suppose the problem is that Jane is not the conventional narrator or indeed heroine. I think the plot could be adequately summoned up as a dissection of an affair. This in-depth analysis cutting through all the shams, delusions and accoutrements of a character in love, is the problem. Only the first 45 pages of a 239 page read are devoted to high-romance, and its conventions of passion and sex and it certainly is a powerful, exhilarating, and steamy first 45 pages.
And then as the narrator stipulates:
It won't of course do: as an account, I mean, of what took place. I tried, I tried for so long to reconcile, to find a style that would express it, to find a system that would excuse me, but I love couldn't do it, so here I am, resorting to that old broken medium. Don't let me deceive myself, I see no virtue in confusion, in honesty. Or is that too no longer true? Do I stand judged by that sentence? I cannot judge myself, I cannot condemn myself, so what can I make that will admit me and encompass me? Nothing, it seems, but a broken and fragmented piece: an event seen from angles, where there used to be one event, and one way only of enduring it.
And there dear readers you have the departure point for the rest of the novel. The narrator's voice flicks between first and third person view points; both are dense with analysis and psychological dissection. There are story elements as the affair progresses and eventually other primary characters are involved, namely the partners of the adulterous pair, and children and grandparents, and eventually a terrible denouement, an accident which brings everything into the open and all parties concerned are forced to examine the mess of disconnection.
The author named her character Jane Gray and undoubtedly there is an association with the historical Lady Jane Grey, who was queen for 9 days; accused of treason, and 7 months later beheaded. It seems an entirely appropriate reference - as our narrator Jane Gray, poetess and mother of two embarks on her affair with the husband, of her friend and cousin Lucy. Her pleasure and enjoyment last a similar short space and then she is overwhelmed with the threat of her punishment as surely there must be - most of the book is concerned with her sense of exposure and the inevitable pain she will cause to the others.
As we progress through the book, the narrator endlessly poses arguments or theories for her behaviour. She blames herself, she is responsible for her selfish and reproachable desires; she cannot justify her needs over the others. Her position is irresolvable, but she writhes and turns with increasing despair to find some means of justification for herself and James.
I felt split between the anxious intelligent woman, and the healthy and efficient mother - or perhaps less split than divided. I felt that I lived on two levels, simultaneously, and that there was no contact , no interaction between them...
And here is an example of the narrative in third person:
She felt she was taking part in some elaborate delicate ritual, and that if she broke some small unknown rule of it, by a false word or touch, by a treacherous mention of Lucy or Malcolm, by a murmur of indignation at his leaving, by a too willing acceptance of that same leaving, then he would be taken from her, she would forfeit him for her unwitting transgression.
Hmmm, 'unwitting' - she constantly undermines her own narrative by recapitulating; she says I was lying, or I deliberately missed that out. Basically she tortures herself and yet is unable to stop participating in the illicit connection.
Many times as I was reading this I felt confused. Why such a horrid protagonist, not even a truthful one? Was Drabble aiming to show how women are neglected and misunderstood, ill matched with a marriage partner and then trapped by children and convention into staying in a miserable situation, and of course no job, or resources of their own? Was this Drabble's theme?
Here is an example of the narrator trying to explain Jane's submersion in the throes of love, as if an outsider might be able to apply reason:
At times something in her would attempt to defy this entire subjugation; she would hear within her a mute and reasonable voice, another woman's voice, raised in protestation, asking him what he was up to, why on earth he wasn't at work like everyone else, whatever did he think he wanted her for, what did he intend to do with her now that he had got her; but these crude questions never reached the air, she silenced and suppressed them, afraid to disturb love by doubt.
A woman silenced by her need to have her love reciprocated - the need for love - how can we blame her?
I read all the way through to the end and found myself rooting for her every time she allowed love to dominate - yes it will work out, good things could arrive out of this mess etcetera, and then equally as she tipped the balance in the other direction I felt convinced she must withdraw, renounce her passion.
And then as we progress, her love is very sorely tried. No disclosures, but I started to feel the depth of her connection with James, and normally I hate any kind of sentimentality - oh we were so deeeeply in love, but Drabble neatly steers us through any mushy grounds with yes her cold analytical, clinical style, but it occurred to me that Jane's behaviour besotted and unreasonable and mad in many parts was actually genuine. She cares so little for her own comfort; she conceals incidents that are painful to herself; she despairs of ever finding a way to keep her love and yet she accepts all.
We are given hardly anything from James's perspective, just the odd bit of conversation, the odd description of his kindness and devotion to her, so it's hard to assess it if really, truly is love, from both sides.
However at the point where she confesses: "it would have been easier and neater if he had died"; this confession seems such an exposure that we start to see the strength of Jane Gray.
To conclude - a harsh format for love, but then a deliberate choice by the writer, with the aim I suppose of looking at affairs of the heart in a new light - a 20th century female perspective of falling in love.
By the end, I liked it - because of the stripping of mush - because of the unadulterated look at the bleakness of romantic love. It takes a writer who is not focussed on her sales digits to write in this manner. Drabble was only 29 when she wrote "The Waterfall", but there is nothing immature; there is no sense of experimentation, finding her voice, etc. Here is a writer in all of her power right from the start of her career.