So this is how those fabled 1 AM dorm talks would have gone in the nineteenth century (except it's late afternoon and you're in a tree-lined avenue)! Most of the appeal here for me came down to these simulations, which, I'm willing to bet on the strength of Newman's background, came minutely close to their originals. So, you'd get a passage like this -
"Well, sir, but think of this," said Charles, "scents are complete in themselves, yet do not consist of parts. Think how very distinct the smell of a rose is from a pink, a pink from a sweet-pea, a sweet-pea from a stock, a stock from lilac, lilac from lavender, lavender from jasmine, jasmine from honeysuckle, honeysuckle from hawthorn, hawthorn from hyacinth, hyacinth"——
"Spare us," interrupted Mr. Malcolm; "you are going through the index of Loudon!"
"And these are only the scents of flowers; how different flowers smell from fruits, fruits from spices, spices from roast-beef or pork-cutlets, and so on. Now, what I was coming to is this—these scents are perfectly distinct from each other, and sui generis; they never can be confused; yet each is communicated to the apprehension in an instant. Sights take up a great space, a tune is a succession of sounds; but scents are at once specific and complete, yet indivisible. Who can halve a scent? they need neither time nor space; thus they are immaterial or spiritual."
- which is so fun! Call me out to that dorm room, I'm there.
There was quite a lot of dialogue in this novel, predictably, and this was perhaps the focal point of the book anyway, its smoky antiquarian attraction aside, insofar as Loss and Gain tracks the progress of religious idea(l)s. I had already read Newman's Apologia, and not only: basically, anything of Newman's I'll read, so long as it doesn't go entirely over my head by dint of complex theology. There were passages in this book I didn't know enough (or care!) to fully appreciate, ones that carried too heavily their mantle of either historical relevance or ecclesiastical meaning. I think it's safe to assume you'll find this book boring without an interest in Newman, Tractarianism, or the representation of religion in Victorian literature. It's a fictionalization of the Apologia, in essence, that doesn't have much going for it in the way of character or plot development, from a literary-aesthetic perspective.
This is not to say that one doesn't feel for Charles Reding, Newman's proxy, acutely at the time of his conversion. It's understating things to say that was a big deal: it was unequivocal how much Reding, qua Newman, sacrificed in the name of faith - the livelihood he had been educated for, a claim to that education, and practically all of his native community, including friends and associates, mentors, and even family. To all intents and purposes, there was a cancel culture around going over to Rome. Take this passage, for instance, eminently poignant:
"... wherever I go, whomever I talk with, I feel him to be another sort of person from what I am. I can't convey it to you; you won't understand me; but the words of the Psalm, 'I am a stranger upon earth,' describe what I always feel. No one thinks or feels like me. I hear sermons, I talk on religious subjects with friends, and every one seems to bear witness against me. ..."
The supreme solitude of Reding’s experience of conversion, moreover, was one part of a greater ordeal of sticking out. In a passage following the one above, where Reding continues to try to explain himself to his sister, he indicts the lifestyle of senior divines in Oxford and abroad as confounding the essence of their preaching. He goes the length of distinguishing, and sparing, individuals from that ever-incorrigible entity, “the system,” but ultimately the critical defect isn’t even a susceptibility to hypocrisy or extravagance cultivated by the Church: it’s that “‘there is a worldly air about everything, as unlike as possible the spirit of the Gospel’.” If we are warranted in taking Reding for Newman, as I think pretty safe, then such a statement not only identifies a want he was able to fill, a failing he could rectify, in adopting the greater orthodoxy of Catholicism – it sets Newman apart from his contemporary peers not only in the Christian context, that is to say, but also in a cultural one, as seeking a depth of spirituality his age did not afford. I’m reading this counterculturalism, of sorts, into Reding’s observation to a degree, marshalling it on the strength of my knowledge of Newman, but that doesn’t compromise its significance in the scheme of this conversion narrative. It seems to me that Reding, like Newman, is a quite fundamentally alienated figure. The result of this, in the latter’s case, was a body of intellectual labor with a profound historical and enduring impact, beyond a “loss and gain” of religious affiliation.
I have abiding esteem for the magnitude of Newman’s feat, for his vigorous fortitude, among other qualities exemplified in his writing. He represents for me a seminal Victorian, a monumental thinker, and by all accounts an incredible person. Perhaps this novel isn’t the first of his works I’d recommend, but it certainly isn’t the last I’ll consult for their intelligence, their wisdom, their penetration, their humanity, and their allowance of comfort, too.