By the flow of the inland river,
Whence the fleets of iron have fled,
Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver,
Asleep are the ranks of the dead:
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment-day;
Under the one, the Blue,
Under the other, the Gray
One of the hardest wars to understand, for me, is the American Civil War. Perhaps it was unavoidable, but it never seems that way. It is so easy to stand outside of it and condemn the South, but the South was a collection of people, and each one held his own beliefs and motivations and emerged with his own scars, and many were swept up in it by geography, without choosing.
I have stood at the grave of Varina Davis, the wife of Jefferson Davis, the President of the Confederate States of America, in Hollywood Cemetery and admit to not giving her more than a passing thought. She was never quoted, or more than mentioned, in Ken Burns’ epic Civil War series and she has been confined to obscurity over the years. Charles Frazier did a marvelous job of lifting her out of that obscurity and giving her flesh again.
One forgets sometimes that historical figures were men and women, who ached and suffered and made huge mistakes that they came to rue or lucked into being heroes because they were positioned at just the right place in just the right moment. Another aspect that escapes us is how very young some of these people were. J.E.B. Stuart was 31 when he died. For me, that puts his strutting heroics in an entirely different light. But, I have wandered off subject, it is Varina’s youth that I meant to address. A seventeen year old married to a man twenty years her senior, who did not entirely agree with his position but shared his station. I find it amazing that she ever found a voice of her own.
There were parts of this novel that pulled at me and wrapped me up in the narrative and parts where I drifted away. It is written in a unique voice, beginning as a conversation between Varina and James Blake, a black man who had been rescued as a boy by Varina and who spent much of his early years in her home as if one of her children. It progresses from that to a more narrative style, which I admit to liking much better, but then bounces back and forth. Perhaps this is the only way to tell the story as he wishes to, because Varina is looking back and she already knows the lessons she has learned and the price that has been paid.
There are moments during the narrative when the genius of Frazier emerges. I felt myself fleeing the burning South and traveling through the devastation that Sherman had left in his wake. One cannot help wondering how anyone managed to survive and rebuild their lives when so little was left intact.
Frazier understands his material, and Varina is a three-dimensional character. If you cut her, she bleeds. Having endured the destruction of her world, Varina also sees the slow erosion of her family as well. A mother to six, with only one alive at the time of her own death. I hope the real Varina Davis was as strong and resilient as he has painted her to be, and I hope she felt the remorse as well.
then one morning the world resembles the wake of Noah’s flood, stretching unrecognizable to the horizon, and you wonder how you got there. One thing for sure, it wasn’t from a bad throw of the dice or runes or an unfavorable turn of cards. Not luck or chance. Blame falls hard and can’t be dodged by the guilty.
He understands life itself, as well, and that much of what we know or feel is in aftermath.
How everyone grew up then, one way or the other, whichever side of the skin line you chanced to be born on. Children don’t judge their own lives. Normal for them is what’s laid before them day by day. Judgment comes later.
I believe this is so, and couldn’t help wondering myself at what age a child stops taking what comes as what is and starts recognizing the abject injustice of the life he leads, or recognizing the unearned privilege that has been gifted to him.
And, all things end up in the past, but a circumstance, such as this war produced, makes the past seem a visible door that is closing in your face.
Don’t ever forget me? Don’t leave me? The instant passed so fast, and when that happens, it goes for good and all you have is a slow lifetime to speculate on revisions. Except time flows one way and drags us with it no matter how hard we paddle upstream.
Imagine all the memories that you carry with you when you realize you have witnessed evil, perhaps witnessed it for a lifetime, and just turned the other way. The main reason I find history so compelling and so important is that sometimes we have to look the worst headon to keep it from happening again.
I’ve never forgotten that girl, and I wouldn’t want to. Remembering doesn’t change anything--it will always have happened. But forgetting won’t erase it either.
I think this is the best thing Charles Frazier has written since Cold Mountain. I suppose that will always remain his masterpiece (and what wouldn’t any of us give to have ONE masterpiece inside us?), but this is another worthy, well-researched effort. Frazier has an emotional connection to the Civil War era that breathes life into his writing. I’m glad he decided to revisit it.