Long ago in the first half of the 20th century, John P.Marquand began his literary career writing stories for the old-time "slicks" like The Saturday Evening Post becoming most popular for his Mr. Moto series; he then progressed to a successful career as a best-selling novelist, winning a Pulitzer for The Late George Apley. I had read his 1946 novel B.F.'s Daughter as a teenager after finding a nice copy with it's original dust jacket at a library book sale. It was quite a good book and the basis of a minor Barbara Stanwyck film, but I didn't feel compelled to rush out and read his other works. In fact the copy of Wickford Point I own was one I picked up along with a few others that were part of the old Time Readers Program, the chief appeals being their cover art and low price. So the quality of this novel came as a surprise.
Marquand's semi-autobiographical story is told in the first-person by Jim Calder, a successful magazine writer from an old literary New England family who is thinking of beginning a novel. Prompted by the pompous and adulatory novel in progress of a former classmate, Harvard professor Allen Southby, he feels he should tell the tale of his famous Brill kin and their home, Wickford Point, rather than allowing them to be preempted by the miscomprehending Southby.
The book is beautifully constructed, alternating between Jim's life in 1939 and his reminiscences; starting with his early years when as an orphaned boy he first came to live at Wickford Point with his Great Aunt Sarah and Cousin Sue, the narrative moves seamlessly through school, college, service in WWI and his ex-pat years in China before Jim returns home to try his hand at writing.
Marquand strikes just the right balance between sharp satire and loving nostalgia as he acquaints us with Calder's progenitors and extended family. The admirably self sufficient, well ordered life of tough, old Aunt Sarah and the long-suffering life of service endured by Cousin Sue are the antithesis of the family's younger members. The portraits of these clannish, indolent relatives, crippled with inertia, trapped by small trust incomes and snobbism based on the past intellectual glories of their ancestors are both comic and tragic. Cousin Clothilde forever borrowing cigarettes while lamenting about how everyone depends on her and yet clinging tightly to her four children lest they should develop lives apart from her; her largely absent second husband, the blowhard artist Archie Wright; oldest son Tom forever changing jobs; hypochondriacal brother Sid; emotional and frustrated sister Mary and lastly, baby sister, Bella. Bella, the beautiful,self absorbed, schemer whose actions will drive much of Marquand's subtle and insightful plot. And yet Jim loves them, is drawn to them and even more loves and is drawn back to Wickford Point, the crumbling farm that is a kind of timeless, enchanting netherworld whose living denizens are affected by it's ghosts in much the same way as the lotus-eaters were by the lotus plants.
Since the protagonist is a writer, we hear his ideas about writing including many observations doubtlessly felt by the author himself. The descriptions of his encounters with his literary agent as well as his thoughts on the challenges of writing, the debilitating effects of setting out to write a "masterpiece" and the necessity of natural talent are very interesting, particularly in light of Marquand's place in literary history.
It's strange how literary reputations work, much as some authors are undeservedly popular at a given time, others are undeservedly forgotten as time passes. I would argue, based on this novel, that perhaps Marquand is one of these. Seeking out a bio after completing this book I learned that although Marquand, who died in 1960, received a Pulitzer and was appreciated by some contemporary critics; he was generally disparaged by most of literary academia and later ignored.
The reasons most sighted for this were: firstly, that he was too admiring of the upper classes and despite his satirizing them he apparently enjoyed consorting with and emulating them too much in his private life; secondly, he was too commercial - starting in the "slicks" which were read by the masses and being frequently optioned and adapted in Hollywood; and lastly, that he didn't have a modern enough style - Hemingwayesque, Faulknerian, stream of consciousness etc.
Fortunately as the years roll on, personalities, literary juvenilia, commercial success and the vagaries of style are less important but I couldn't help wondering what Marquand's standing would be if he had been British instead of American. Although his subject matter and faded reputation may bring Galsworthy immediately to mind, I would suggest Waugh's life and work as a more apt comparison. And while Marquand is perhaps not quite on Waugh's level, his tendency to both satirize and admire his upper crust subjects, as Waugh did, is integrated within each work rather than evolving from early career satire to late career admiration. Either way, Galsworthy or Waugh, if Marquand was an Englishman you can bet the BBC would still be making new miniseries. And indubitably, Americans would be reading and watching right alongside them.