Mr. Beluncle

by V.S. Pritchett

“Like most great comedy,” writes Darin Strauss in his Introduction, “ Mr . Beluncle makes sport of the Stuffed Shirt, the Hypocritical Pious Gentleman, and the Tyrant, as well as the Big Spender–and all these descriptions fit a single Mr. Beluncle himself.” One of V. S. Pritchett’s most enduring characters, Mr. Beluncle is narcissistic, sanctimonious, and self-indulgent, yet despite these flaws he is undeniably compelling. Readers who follow this quirky British furniture salesman on his seemingly ordinary escapades–shopping for ridiculously expensive houses, attending services at his peculiar church, presiding over a tumultuous family meal–are in for a delightful and disquieting ride. Poignant, hilarious, and utterly unforgettable Mr. Beluncle is an ideal introduction to one of the English language’s most gifted authors.

Genres: 20th Century, Fiction, British Literature

336 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1951

About the author

Victor Sawdon Pritchett was the first of four children of Walter Sawdon Pritchett and Beatrice Helena (née Martin). His father, a London businessman in financial difficulties, had come to Ipswich to start a shop selling newspapers and stationery. The business was struggling and the couple were lodging over a toyshop at 41 St Nicholas Street where Pritchett was born on 16 December 1900. Beatrice had expected a girl, whom she planned to name after the Queen. Pritchett never liked his first name, which is why he always styled himself with his initials; even close friends would call him VSP.

Pritchett's father was a steady Christian Scientist and unsteady in all else. Walter and Beatrice had come to Ipswich to be near her sister who had married money and lived in Warrington Road. Within a year Walter was declared bankrupt, the family moved to Woodford, Essex, then to Derby, and he began selling women's clothing and accessories as a travelling salesman. Pritchett was soon sent with his brother Cyril to live with their paternal grandparents in Sedbergh, where the boys attended their first school. Walter's business failures, his casual attitude to credit, and his easy deceit obliged the family to move frequently. The family was reunited but life was always precarious; they tended to live in London suburbs with members of Beatrice's family. They returned to Ipswich in 1910, living for a year near Cauldwell Hall Road, trying to evade Walter's creditors. At this time Pritchett attended St. John's School. Subsequently Pritchett attended Alleyn's School, Dulwich, and Dulwich College but he stayed nowhere for very long. When his father went to fight in World War I, Pritchett left school. Later in the war Walter turned his hand to aircraft design, of which he knew nothing, and his later ventures included art needlework, property speculation, and faith healing.

Pritchett was a leather buyer from 1916 to 1920, when he moved to Paris, where he worked as a shop assistant. In 1923 he started writing for the Christian Science Monitor, which sent him to Ireland and Spain. From 1926 he wrote reviews for the paper and for the New Statesman, which later appointed him literary editor.

Pritchett's first book described his journey across Spain (Marching Spain 1928) and Clare Drummer (1929) was about his experiences in Ireland. Whilst in Ireland he met his first wife, Evelyn Vigors, but it was not to be a happy marriage.

Pritchett published five novels but he claimed not to enjoy their creation. His reputation was established by a collection of short stories (The Spanish Virgin and Other Stories (1932)).

In 1936 he divorced his first wife, and married Dorothy Rudge Roberts; they had two children. The marriage lasted until Pritchett's death, although they both had other relationships. His son is the journalist Oliver Pritchett and his grandson (son of Oliver) is the cartoonist Matt Pritchett.

During World War II Pritchett worked for the BBC and the Ministry of Information whilst continuing to submit a weekly essay to the New Statesman. After the war he wrote widely and he started taking teaching positions at universities in the United States: Princeton (1953), the University of California (1962), Columbia University and Smith College. He was fluent in German, Spanish, and French, and published successful biographies of Honoré de Balzac (1973), Ivan Turgenev (1977) and Anton Chekhov (1988), although he did not know Russian and had never visited the Soviet Union.

Pritchett was knighted in 1975 for his services to literature and became Companion of Honour in 1993. His awards include Heinemann Award (1969), PEN Award (1974), W.H. Smith Literary Award (1990), and Golden Pen Award (1993). He died of a stroke in London on 20 March 1997.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/V._S._Pr...

Reviews

[Ryan · Rating 4 out of 5]

To my mind the best of Pritchett's novels: a sardonic yet affectionate character study of an overbearing tosspot. Shares more than a few similarities with his short story 'The Fly in the Ointment.'

[Sam]

A deep character study of a cartoon. An oblique investigation of dysfunction. A send-up of religious fads and the communities that surround them. Above all, a tragic story wrapped in the robes of a comedy. I was moved more by the effects (the Beluncle family) rather than the cause (Mr. Beluncle himself). To see his quiet (and sometimes very not-quiet) influence working upon everyone, their simultaneous recognition of his impotence and acceptance of his reign. All are trapped in a world without chance for self-awareness, there is too much stress and strife for that. Mr. Beluncle is a terrifyingly magnetic black hole. No one can resist his pull, not even himself. The book is worth it enough for the numerous displays of his cognitive dissonance: the desire to be free of all the annoyances of his family and live against the deep-set conviction that everything he does is for the good of his family and the glory of God/mind. This conflict drives his entire being and as long as it goes unexamined (which it does) and unchallenged (which it also does, for the most part), it will be the story of his dissolution. Haven't read Pritchett's short stories, but I like the messiness of this novel.

[John · Rating 2 out of 5]

My disappointment with this book may be a case of wrong-headed expectations, as I'd thought it might be similar to the late Victorian farce The Diary of a Nobody, where I found the satirical episodes of Pooter hilarious. Poor Beluncle came off as more dysfunctional than anything else; moreover, he has the anti-Midas touch of creating dysfunction in the lives of all he encounters. His wife, children and business partner yearn to escape from the mad schemes of this narcissistic nut, and I don't blame them! Add to that an air of unreliable narration, and I was pretty much lost often.
I've enjoyed Pritchett's nonfiction, but as a novelist he was too subtle for me. If you're not "getting it" by the first couple of chapters, there's no "payoff" worth waiting for, if anything the story becomes more confusing. Not particularly recommended.

[Mike · Rating 5 out of 5]

Very funny. Beluncle’s greed, self-delusions and scheming are aggravating.

Notes:
My 2005 Modern Library paperback has 298 pages, not 336.
14 Had come down to earth. He was a man tortured, enslaved, by his own family.
18 inclined to indulge himself with a day-dream about Mrs. Truslove, imagining that he was married to her instead of his lamentable wife.
22 He saw himself driving a car between two fits of female clearing-up and sulking.
29 “When are you moving in? … You have to pay me back before you buy this house.”
33 a romantic love of strikes … joined societies in order to annoy them
59 sons pompous and rash in their opinions … like three callow lunatics they were trying to get out
79 When Ethel B wished to be outrageous she ruined a meal. But this did not often happen.
98 B liked to look at his car and touch it. He would have liked to have it in his house. It horrified him that his family should get inside it, mark it, scratch it.
106 Mr Martin was plagued by anxiety, one hand generally under the back of his tail coat to convey an illusion of backbone or an attempt at authority. [Prince Harry]
126 B hid valuables in various places. If the worst came to the worst he could go and squat ruminatively on his hoards.
133 Talking was a way of turning realities into unrealities.
148 Scheming girl, sleepy and self-protectively quarrelsome.
161 the sexual instinct interfered with the acquisitive
186 it was distasteful to be so unattractive
192 B made an imaginary estimate of his debts and his income; that was horrifying
212 Were there any misers among her relations? I admire misers.
230 A successful evasion made him feel as efficient as an unavoidable facing of facts did.
246 Mrs B enjoyed making his room untidy and liked to sit naked in it in order to annoy him.
281 The manageress thought B was one of those dangerous men, “a good sport”. He was not. She sighed.
285 At her age, her eyes clearly said, one does not shilly-shally.

Punctuation oddity: The book cover, title and contents pages, intro and notes all have a period after “Mr”, but the text and page headings are period-less.

Kurp’s instigating post
https://evidenceanecdotal.blogspot.co...

[Neale · Rating 4 out of 5]

It has taken me more than one reading to come around to the qualities of ‘Mr Beluncle’. I read it many years ago, having become familiar with Pritchett’s poised and erudite non-fiction, and being aware of his reputation as a writer of elegantly-turned Chekhovian short stories. Expecting similar virtues in ‘Mr Beluncle’ I was rather taken aback, for the book’s virtues, such as they are, are quite the opposite. It is a deeply messy and idiosyncratic book, occasionally heavy-handed. It is reminiscent of the satiric lower-middle class H. G. Wells of ‘Mr Polly’ and ‘Tono Bungay’ but much quirkier in its linguistic choices – very far from the tradition of Turgenev and Chekhov with which Pritchett was associated, and squarely in the tradition of British 'vulgar' suburban comedy.

My first reading was wrong-footed by my expectations, although I continued with it. I’ve looked into the book a number of times since, but last night decided to re-read it more seriously and am finding it a great and somewhat surprising pleasure, with its trains ‘squirting’ through little gardens, its parks as ‘fresh as lettuce’, and its gallery of eccentrics presided over by the appalling but indomitable Mr Beluncle, with his gods and removal vans...

[Patti · Rating 2 out of 5]

I spent most the book wondering what was happening and looking for the comedy.