Love and loss on an intimate scale against the expansive backdrop of war, and the inner life of characters, is a particular interest of mine, especially when combined with exceptional writing. Although I haven't read Corelli's Mandolin, I was predisposed toward this book by the description of its contents. At first, the whimsical style bothered me, as the narrative dizzyingly described the death of Queen Victoria and the coronation of Edward VII, and jumped to the McCosh family. But, I stuck with it and saw that the waggish, declarative sentences were deliberately disproportionate to the more serious and tragic events they described. The style was a rather Dickensian approach, although the focus is on a privileged family that, for the most part, is sympathetic to the social inequality wrought by the devastation of WW I. In fact, except for the matriarch, I think it bordered on the (too) politically correct, with Mrs McCosh being the stereotypical class-conscious snob, a counterpoint to the rest of the family, who too easily adjusted to the changes in custom between the classes after the war. It was the servants who were reluctant to accept this change, thereby attributing eclectic manners to the once sheltered and posh McCosh's.
The central McCosh family in Eltham is joined by the two families living on either side of them, an American family, the Pendennises, as well as another British family, the Pitts (well, half-British and half French). The kids become "the Pals," starting in childhood. The McCosh's only have daughters, four of them, and the other families only have sons, and the young men's enlistment in the war allows for the adventures and tragedies of the times to personally affect all three families. The reflection of the women on their embattled men is often funereally fine-grained. "And let's face it, he's an aviator. They don't last much longer than a meteorite, do they? That's what they are, meteorites waiting to hit the ground. Aviators are born to be a beautiful memory, like a poppy whose petals are ripped away in a storm."
The pivotal theme here is loss--the loss of loved ones and the loss of an era. Amidst a rich and well-defined landscape, the key character that emerges becomes obdurate with grief. This grief becomes all-consuming, developing into a defense mechanism, and even a weapon against living in the present. Although I am utterly sympathetic to the shattering consequences of death to the living, this character cultivated mourning with a stubborn religious adherence. I suppose the reader was intended to be frustrated, but at a certain point, it felt idle and cloying. What surprised me more was how it was dealt with so cannily toward the end of the book, a facile convenience that undermined all that preceded it, despite or because of the former attention that was given this character.
Suspending disbelief was problematic for me at several turns. Certain hot-button topics that are controversial today--class war, racial issues, same-sex pairing, and gender bias, were mollified to the point of contrivance. The author chose safe and inoffensive sentiments, dodging a landmine of polemic views by either avoiding them or selecting the ones at a remove from the 21st century. For instance, Mrs. McCosh made derogatory statements regarding the French, but the prejudice towards Muslims and Indians were mitigated throughout the novel. The erstwhile concerns that extend to the problems we face today were inorganically diluted, in my opinion. This weakened the overall effect of the text.
However, some exquisite, heart-breaking passages touched me to the core. Often, de Bernières humanized the German soldiers, and I think this was his most nuanced touch in the narrative. For example, trying to bury a fellow Allied soldier while in the trenches: "Already five graves there, soldiers planted like vegetables, against the day of harvest...Private who'd been ordained, recited burial service...very loud and clear, so Huns would hear us. Boche tenor with beautiful voice responded, sang Brahm's Lullaby again.... Will haunt me/make me think thoughts almost too large...laid to rest by his brothers, sung to rest by a Hun." The laments of death are universal, and the juxtaposition of mutual grief and mortar shells was horribly beautiful.
The domestic battles felt feigned, but the combat in the air and in the trenches, and the crushing endurance of the men, was harrowing and credible. But there were chapters, such as flying "aces" and their planes, that went into such detail that only a WW I plane-hobbyist would stay captivated. These digressions fatigued me and distanced me from the drama at hand, which, in my opinion, needed way more fortification than the blow-by-blow bits about aeroplanes.
The author's blend of the serious and witty was often sly. For example, an Anglican young woman hides her rosary and Madonna that give her comfort, and reaches for them in her inconsolable grief: "She stared into the face of her plaster Madonna, and then into the eyes of the somewhat adult-looking baby Jesus. She put the statuette down, and bowed her head." In a few sentences, the author shows how these idols console the forlorn, and yet pokes a little fun at these symbols of comfort and faith.
After the war, the author lost me several times, the discursive prose distancing me. De Bernières was poignant with the nature of death, but the characters that remained appeared in and out of focus at various times, and parts of the sprawling cast and subplots often got dropped or handily managed. De Bernières can craft a beautiful passage, and there were some characters that touched me at the start, but I felt unsatisfied at the end. The aspects that bothered me may not bother other readers, and if you were a fan of Corelli's Mandolin, I suspect you may be drawn to the author's rich landscape and his story of redemption during difficult times.