‘Sometimes I think you’re a little mad. Perhaps you should come upstairs,' he had said furiously. ‘I don’t seem to be able to make you understand anything when you’re on your feet.’
Ooh, so rapey. Uh, I mean romantic. Not your best, Eva.
This novel is problematic. (Yes, I can hear you sharpening your pitchforks.) To anyone poised to attack me with the specious argument that the novel reflects the moral orthodoxy of the time in which it is set, written or received and can therefore be exempt from any criticism in this department: beware, your efforts to enlighten me will be in vain.
I have an increasingly complicated relationship with Eva Ibbotson. My opinion of her has been swinging like a pendulum for some months now. Once in a while, she bowls me over with a real gem. A Song for Summer and The Secret Countess are well worth your time. They are warming, wholesome tales thronging with wonderful characters, and certainly not without their share of gravitas. But then she hits me with something like The Morning Gift, or A Company of Swans. And this is where my confidence falters.
I’m relatively well-versed in her works now, so believe me when I say that Ibbotson’s novels are formulaic. There’s a young, prettily plain virtuous heroine who, against all odds, turns the head of an older, brooding and sexually experienced man 10+ years her senior. Not necessarily an issue - look, I love Jane Eyre - but it’s examples like this one that make me exceptionally uncomfortable.
Age gaps don’t agitate me as a rule. I have no problem with them, on the condition that a) neither are minors and b) they are of the same emotional maturity. The latter does not necessarily equate to life experience, but emotional intelligence. Otherwise this is where a power dynamic emerges. Harriet, the heroine, is a rather drippy Mary Sue – certainly not an example of the courageous women of integrity that Ibbotson can write. Once again, she captures the attention of an older, exotic man (invariably rich from colonial misadventures) with a dark past and plenty of notches in the bedpost. The slippery relationship that emerges is bizarrely paternal (Rom explicitly refers to her on multiple occasions as ‘a child’ and also calls her ‘my dear’) and explicitly controlling. His fascination with her is only contingent to her virginal status. I don’t understand how this could be deemed romantic, I’m sorry.
This is the main offence of the novel, but A Company of Swans is not up to scratch with Ibbotson’s other novels in other facets. Whereas others are full of wonderful side characters with flamboyant idiosyncrasies, the supporting cast here falls flat. I had little sense of the setting, and the drama from the ridiculous misunderstandings could have been averted with simple communication - a crucial element, unsurprisingly, normally exhibited in healthy, functioning relationships.
I cannot attest to the accuracy of the ballet, but it was certainly immersive to me.
Should I bother with Magic Flutes? Please let me know!