Ruminations of Mr. B: III

Corresponding to Letters XXII-XXIV of Pamela
The servants began to question why Pamela was leaving. In truth, it was my fault. I ran into Pamela in the front hall and asked her why she hadn't finished my waistcoat yet.

"I have worked early and late upon it," she said with a scowl.

"You spend more time with your pen than your needle," I said. "I don't want such idle slackers in my house."

The butler overheard us. And that was that: Pamela would have to leave, or I would look a fool. I followed Pamela upstairs to Mrs. Jervis's parlor.

"How much longer is she going to be here?" I said, pointing at Pamela.

"I would have taken the waistcoat with me," Pamela said, "and removed this hated poor Pamela from this house and your sight forever."

"Listen to her," I said to Mrs. Jervis who was watching both us with wide eyes and pursed lips. "She has the power of witchcraft. She makes even you, who should know better, think she is an angel of light."

Mrs. Jervis looked skeptical, but I was admittedly fairly annoyed with myself at this point. Pamela tried to retreat, and I grabbed her hand. I wanted to tell her she was being an idiot: being my mistress was no hardship; she would have money to send back to her parents and plenty of books to read. Her supposed principles were only hampering her.

But that speech was too blunt even for Mrs. Jervis. I let Pamela go, and she bolted.

"I ticked her off in front of Mr. Jonathan," I told Mrs. Jervis, and she clucked.

Once Mr. Jonathan knew I was displeased with Pamela, my steward Longman learned of it, and after that, the entire countryside. I held a dinner the next evening, and the guests teased me about my pretty maid servant. I tried to play it down, but the ladies insisted on trooping upstairs to check out Pamela—to comfort themselves she wasn't a temptation to their husbands, I guess. Lady Brooks dropped numerous hints about my and Pamela's "relationship" on her way to the carriages, but Lady Towers stopped beside me to say quietly, "She's got a roguish air. Has she resisted you?"

"She wants to be Lucretia," I said, and Lady Towers laughed.

Pamela didn't want to leave—I knew that—but I found out she was preparing to return to her parents. I stopped by Mrs. Jervis' parlour to tell her my travel plans to Lincolnshire. She was interviewing a farmer's daughter, so I went to the back-parlor and rang for her.

She laughed when I asked if her visitor was Farmer Nichols or Farmer Brady's daughter. "If your honor won't be angry, I will introduce her for I think she outdoes our Pamela."

And she came back with Pamela dressed in plain muslin with a black silk kerchief and a straw hat on her head. A country miss, in fact. Pamela is no fool; she knows clothes are the station. She was getting ready for poverty.

She wouldn't look at me. I got up and came around the desk.

"You are far prettier than your sister Pamela," I said.

"I am Pamela," she told me.

"Impossible," I said, "you are much lovelier, and I can be free with you," and I kissed her lightly.

She bolted out of the room. Mrs. Jervis clucked.

"What's she up to?" I said.

"It's part of her new wardrobe. She's been collecting odds and ends over the last week or so."

Damn Pamela and her literalness.

"Get in here," I yelled towards the door, and Pamela sidled in, scowling.

"This is pure hypocrisy," I said, waving my hand at the dress. Pamela didn't want the life that dress represented.

"I've been in disguise ever since my good lady, your mother, took me from my poor parents. I have bought what will be more suitable to my degree when I get home."

I was leaning against the desk, so my face was almost level with hers. We studied each other, and I noted her set lips and dark, unhappy eyes.

"Oh, Pamela," I said and drew her into my arms.

She didn't struggle—not this time. "You have to leave," I said to her hair, "but I don't want that," and instantly, she tensed, but I strengthened my hold, and she relaxed again. Poor Pamela sent off in disgrace to a life that would sap her dry.

I let her go and looked at Mrs. Jervis. "I'll submit myself to this hussy for a fortnight and then send her to my sister. Do you hear what I say, statue?"

And then Pamela muttered, "I might be in danger from her ladyship's nephew."

Never imagine that Pamela's memory is bad.

"Damned impertinence," I said.

"What have I done that I must be used worse than if I robbed you?"

I almost laughed because whatever was between me and Pamela was very much like being robbed—of sense or self-preservation, I'm not sure which.

She wasn't done. "Why should you demean yourself to take notice of me? Why should I suffer more than others?"

"You have distinguished yourself above the common servant," I said. She couldn’t have it both ways—she couldn't write and read and befriend Mrs. Jervis and then argue want me to treat her like a scullery maid. "Didn't my good mother desire I take care of you?"

She muttered at the carpet. I took her chin and forced it up, and she said, nearly spitting, "My good lady did not desire your care to extend to the summer-house and dressing-room."

I nearly smacked her. She darted backwards and out of the room.

"Be careful, sir," Mrs. Jervis said, but I turned my back.

"By God, I'll have her," I said.


Corresponding to Letters XXV-XXXI of Pamela
I made the attempt that night. I will be the first to say, it went badly. I was not, shall we say, as suave as a gentleman of my station is supposed to be. I went into Mrs. Jervis' room while the servants were at dinner and hid in her closet. I had to wait awhile, so I read Robinson Crusoe—the ingenuity of the independent man, a very appropriate topic.

Pamela and Mrs. Jervis came in; Pamela was sleeping with Mrs. Jervis by then. They were arguing. Apparently, Pamela hadn't wanted me to see her in her peasant clothes. She thought Mrs. Jervis had set me up. The motherly woman was trying to soothe Pamela's feelings. Pamela wouldn't listen. So much wrath and self-pity over so much ordinary human fallibility: Pamela was quite young at the time.

"There's something in the closet," she said, and Mrs. Jervis said, "Perhaps the cat," but Pamela would have none of that and the next thing I knew, we were face to face.

My plan had been to corner Pamela when Mrs. Jervis went upstairs to check on the maids. As it was, Pamela ran for the bed in her petticoat and huddled under the covers while Mrs. Jervis lectured me until I got fed up.

"I can always dismiss you," I told her which was unworthy of me. She's a good housekeeper, Mrs. Jervis. She wasn't terribly impressed by my threats and told me to go to the other side of the room.

"She's fainted," Mrs. Jervis said then.

"Hell's bells," I said.

"The maids might come down," she pointed out. "You'd better go."

I went, feeling a fool.

I went hunting the next morning with Hargraves; I desperately wanted to shoot something. When I returned home, I found my entire household engaged in the conflict between Pamela and myself. It was intolerable. You cannot have servants marking bets over a maid's virtue. I threatened to turn Mrs. Jervis out, this time for real, but she seemed truly appalled at my behavior—so much for being a realist.

"I'm considering a match suitable to my position," I told Pamela, which was something of an exaggeration although my sister suggests matches to me all the time. It was a handy way to distance myself. "Let's say goodbye."

I took her hand; she wouldn’t look at me. Lucretia, indeed. My house had been turned into melodramatic theater. The sooner Pamela departed the better.
I didn't see Pamela again until I tried on my court dress and wanted her opinion. She came in hunched and shrinking, which annoyed me. I wasn't an ogre. I had done nothing to merit such coy victimhood.

"You're a fool to take my last freedom so much to heart," I told her. "You and Mrs. Jervis frightened me as much as I frightened you."

"Your honor ought to be more afraid of God Almighty," she said.

I grinned at her. "Well urged, my pretty preacher! When my Lincolnshire chaplain dies, I'll put thee in a gown and cassock and thou'lt make a good figure in his place."

She glowered. I shrugged and straightened my silver-laced waistcoat. She studied it, head tilted.

"You're free to stay," I said finally.

"I shall rejoice when I out of the house."

"You are an ungrateful baggage, but I'm thinking it would be a pity you should return again to hard work. Mrs. Jervis should take lodgings in London and fill it with such pretty daughters as yourself."

Yes, I was implying prostitution. I was tired of Pamela's missish ways. She seemed to stand in complete opposition to the world's faults and fallibilities, and she couldn't escape them. Poverty or wealth would do Pamela in. She might as well accept reality.

"Consider the tales you would write about." I said.

"I would stoop to scullery work sooner than bear such ungentlemanly imputations."

I looked straight at her, and her eyes flickered. She meant it; she just didn't want to test her words.

"You should put off your dismal grave looks," I told her, "or people will think you are sad to be leaving me."

"Then I will endeavor to be more cheerful."

"I'll make a note," I said. "This is the first time my advice had any weight with you."

"You should add it is the first advice that was fit to follow."

I laughed. "I wish you would get into my bed as quickly as you answer me back."

She blushed and bolted. Naturally.

The ructions continued. Longman got wind of my threat to let Mrs. Jervis go and cornered me with homages to her housekeeping. This led to another meeting between myself, Mrs. Jervis and Pamela, this time with Longman hovering in the background. I never intended to let Mrs. Jervis go, but I made a point of telling her she could stay. Pamela was doing her demure routine, and Longman, who is a bit of an old fool about girls, praised her delicate behavior. So I goaded Pamela until she snapped at me, sending Longman into a dither. Pamela instantly put on a performance worthy of the most honest of Roman matrons, declaiming her unworthiness: she had been "faulty and ungrateful to the very best of masters."

I seemed to be the only one who heard the sarcasm.

What a day.

"It's a hard thing you're doing," Mrs. Jervis told me when I stopped by her parlor afterwards. "The girl tried scouring a pewter plate this morning and made a mess of it. She's not made for hard-labor."

"She was never taught it," I said. "Pamela is quick. She'll learn."

But Mrs. Jervis hoped to soften my heart towards Pamela. She invited me to sit in her closet with some snacks while she and Pamela went over Pamela's wardrobe. Pamela planned to leave behind not only my gifts to her but my mother's gifts. She was also worried about the four guineas I gave her when my mother died. She had already sent them to her parents who had spent them. Pamela pointed out that she'd had no wages and although she couldn't repay my mother's kindness, the education she'd received from my mother would do her little good where she was going.

I put my head in my hands and listened to Pamela arguing, mostly with herself, that her work was worth four guineas, she shouldn't need to repay it, but perhaps . . . and I came up with a new plan.

The next day, I asked Pamela to come to my closet, which is also my library.

"I admire you," I said, "as well as your writing." She looked surprised; I suppose she honestly thought John wouldn't show me her letters. I sighed.

"Stay a fortnight longer while John carries word to your father that I wish to see him."

My idea was to employ her father or at least settle money on him to show Pamela the benefits of my patronage.

Pamela shook her head. "Please let me go tomorrow."

"I intend no injury," I told her. This was mostly true. Kindness was a better weapon with Pamela than harassment, and a promise to mitigate her worst fears would go a long way towards overcoming her scruples. I even promised to marry her to a clergyman.

I suppose it is no shock to you that she still turned me down.

NOTE: 18th century "closets" were not "closets" as we understand them. They were back rooms, studies, dens, offices (Mr. B has a library in one of his "closets"); any of those words would have worked fine as a substitute, but none of them would have been just right, so I kept the original term.

Why Pamela? Fiction and the Passive Heroine

The passive heroine has made a come-back! This is good and bad.

Fiction is filled with passive heroines. Arguably, there is reason for this; until the last 200 years or so, women in history have had very few rights. But then, for the last 200 years or so, most men also have had very few rights. This didn't stop authors from creating powerful, realistic characters, including women (legalities aside, women throughout history have lived to the fullness of their personalities and situations, not to the fullness of their lives compared to our lives).

Still, I think it is safe to say that just as the 19th century saw a preponderance of "good child" fiction where sweetly children overcame their faults and got a pat on the head, much of history has seen a preponderance of passive fictional heroines.

Until contemporary feminism made this a big no-no. All heroines were supposed to be tough and heroic and outspoken, etc. etc. Romances of the 70's and 80's got criticized for making their heroines too ready to fall at the feet of domineering men.

And I have to admit that 80's romances can be rather grating, partly for this reason and partly because they are so darn humorless.

On the other hand, the "fix"--to create unrelentingly aggressive and "I must be assertive in all circumstances" heroines--was just as grating. I've read romances where my main response was to yell, "Run! Run for your life!" at the hero. Nobody, man or woman, wants to spend an entire marriage being called on his or her slightest remarks for the sake of one-upmanship. Even Elizabeth learns to temper her cutting remarks; she can hurt Darcy a great deal more than he can hurt her.

Now, I believe, we have entered a time when it's possible to understand and respect this: not all couples MUST be the alpha working man paired with the alpha working woman! In general, fictional heroines seem more varied in character--and much funnier. It's as if Jane Austen finally won.

Really won! A great many fictional heroines these days are not interested in jobs or education or self-knowledge (for its own sake); like good 18th/19th century heroines, they are focused on marriage. To justify this, modern writers trap heroines in situations beyond their control:  historical time frames, relationships with vampires, situations where they are unable to change their circumstances. The plot is about survival, not social progress. 

I think there is something fundamentally honest about this. To an extent, possibly due to social role-playing, women still feel somewhat trapped by biology. And possibly men do to, but this post is about women. When Camille Paglia points to modern medicine as the ultimate instrument of equality, she is absolutely right. There's a reason my grandmother told my mother that "birth control is a gift from God." However, Phyllis Schlafly was also absolutely right that telling women to cut out aspects of their biology (such as child-bearing) is a fairly unrealistic solution to the problems of patriarchy and paternalism.

Between these two perspectives (don't be held back by biology; embrace your biology), women have to maneuver cleverly and carefully. I'm all in favor of this. And if it means adopting passive roles now and again, I'm okay with that too.

The downside, from my perspective, is that now that women are allowed to say that they want to be taken care of, the passive heroine has flooded the market. On the one hand, I think passivity is a natural female fantasy: to have someone else do the laundry and raise the kids and initiate relationships. It isn't that they want to be controlled; they just get tired of the work. (I think it is fair to say that women do feel not more of a desire to be responsible--which desire is human and individual--but more of an obligation to be involved. Which is why they get married, so they can say, "I'm sorry, but my husband doesn't want us to go.")

On the other hand, with the surge of passive heroines, you get stuff like Twilight where the heroine is more passive than toast and consequently, more boring than spam.

I've pondered where the line lies between the interesting passive heroine and the boring-as-dirt passive heroine. The first I admire; the second I detest.

To me, Pamela contains a great passive heroine/narrator. Even at the time of publication, critics argued that Richardson's heroine could just remove herself from Mr. B's house (although the critics weren't upset about her staying for feminist reasons; they were upset because Pamela didn't behave like a "good" servant). However, what even Fielding failed to appreciate was how limited Pamela's options truly are. In the 18th century, female servants were supposed to be servile and impoverished or sluts (and impoverished). Pamela doesn't want to be servile, impoverished, or a slut. Her constant calculation of expenses and belongings isn't manipulative; it is desperate. This is the age of no credit cards, no welfare, and no sexual harassment laws where debts could land you in jail.

But the thing that makes Pamela great is not the heroine's lack of options. Her lack of options is a given. What makes Pamela great is the heroine's wit and willingness to defend what she perceives as her core personality.

One of the difficulties with Pamela is how much of the wit is lost in the lecturing. But Richardson was a truly masterful writer. However much he loves to preach, he can't keep Pamela's character from creeping through--and what creeps through is consistent. Behind all the verbiage is a powerful voice that will not be shut up, NOT because Pamela is particularly aggressive (although she is far more assertive than she paints herself) but because her voice comes across as genuine and presents an intelligent, interesting, and passionately held point-of-view.

The genuineness of the voice, to me, is what makes the difference between good passive heroine fiction and bad passive heroine fiction. It isn't about telling people off (which too many romance writers, unfortunately, assume). It's about letting the reader into the heroine's head, letting the heroine speak, letting us see her internal conflicts. And if she is witty about it--all the better.

Here is a list of novels where the heroine, is unable to control her circumstances due to conditions and/or personality (i.e. for all or part of the book, she is a victim), yet still manages to endear herself to the reader and make a life for herself:

Celine by Brock Cole
Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
Persuasion by Jane Austen
Wyrms by Orson Scott Card
Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett
Beauty by Robin McKinley
Deerskin by Robin McKinley
Book of a Thousand Days by Shannon Hale

Ruminations of Mr. B: II

Corresponding to Letters IX-XXI of Pamela
I did protect Pamela. My sister, Lady Davers, wanted her, but her husband's nephew, who stays with them often, is a boar and a bore, and Pamela wouldn't have been safe. I suppose you'll say she wasn't safe with me—that's what my sister thought—but there are degrees and qualities of interference. If you're going to seduce a girl, you might as well do it intelligently.

I tracked Pamela down in the summer-house at the end of the garden.

"Don't run off," I said; she'd been skittish as a cat the last few days, and it was becoming tiresome. Servants should stand and submit when you walk into a room.

"My sister would have you live with her," I said. "But she would not do for you what I am resolved to do. Wouldn't you rather stay with me?"

She eyed me between half-closed lids and said carefully, "Your honor will forgive me, but you have no lady for me to wait upon. I had rather, if it will not displease you, wait upon Lady Davers because—"

"Because you are a little fool," I said, "and don't know what's good for yourself. I will make a gentlewoman of you."

Mistress, I meant. And, honestly, what else could Pamela do? She wasn't fit for hard housework; it would bore her to tears. It wouldn't be kind to throw her back into poverty—even genteel poverty. But to be a mistress—books to read and occasions to show off her figure—was immensely suitable. I would settle money on her; if she were wise, she would save enough to last until she found a new protector. Though there was no reason to suppose I would tire of her.

I kissed her there in the garden-house. And Pamela responded curiously—the faintest curling of her lips against mine—and then panicked. She would have bolted if I hadn't shut the door.

"I won't harm you," I said.

"I won't stay," she said and glared at me.

"You forget to whom you speak," I said.

"Yes, sir," she snapped. "Well, may I forget I am your servant when you forget how a master should act," which annoyed me, but she then started crying, which was a trifle disconcerting. Between sobs, she said, "You have taught me to forget myself. I am honest though poor; and if you were a prince, I would not be otherwise."

I rolled my eyes. All that "virtuous woman is above rubies" stuff is so much balderdash. People do what they need to do to survive.

At that point, I needed to look after my reputation. If Pamela had gone back to the house with a tale of humiliation and ripped bodices, I would have been a laughing stock. I told her to take a walk in the garden until she stopped blubbering and to keep the matter to herself. I did offer her money—why not?—which she refused. I watched her go into the garden and finally into the house. When I followed her a few minutes later, she was in my mother's sitting room, scribbling a letter.

I stole it. It wasn't hard to find Pamela's hiding place. She'd hid it behind the vanity in my mother's sitting room. The letter could not have been more ashamed or alarmed or abashed or contemptuous of my good self. Pamela can be quite incredibly articulate. I couldn’t allow the letter to leave the house—her parents could do nothing, but there was no reason my private affairs should be recounted across the countryside. I told Mrs. Jervis to give her something to do to keep her hands busy and instructed John Arnold, who delivered Pamela's letters on his errands, to show me Pamela's letters first.

I was still annoyed by Pamela's hysteria when I returned from visiting my sister and my estates. I questioned Mrs. Jervis about letting Pamela go. It was clear from our conversation that Pamela had told Mrs. Jervis about our encounter in the summer-house, painting herself in the light of victim. Artful, I called her to Mrs. Jervis, and artful I believed her. Pamela would never settle for a simple, country-life. When she married, if she married, she would use her wiles to marry up: a butler or steward.

I walked in on her scribbling again. She folded the letter up and tucked it in her dress. She didn't say anything or curtsy; she just watched me, remote and guarded. I accused her of making common talk of what happen in the garden-house.

"I have nobody to talk to, hardly," she said.

"You little equivocator," I said. "What do you mean by 'hardly'?" Mrs. Jervis was a great deal of very.

"Why should your honor be so angry what I tell Mrs. Jervis—if you intended no harm?"

Pamela could be a lawyer.

She continued: "I did tell her for my heart was almost broken, but I didn't open my mouth to anyone else."

"You wrote a letter, Pamela," I said.

"Did you take it?" 

"Am I supposed to let you expose me?"

"It isn't exposure if I say nothing but the truth. Who should I ask advice from except my mother and father?"

At that point, I realized I was exchanging extremely heated words with my mother's companion in the middle of the sitting room.

"Insolence," I said. "Am I to be questioned by such a one as you?"

Instant retreat. It's what Pamela does when she panics. She assumed the demure attitude she mistakenly thinks she adopts all the time. She pled for her job and when I pointed out that following my commands was part of her job, asked what she should do when my commands were contrary to her principles.

I grant her that point. But Pamela's idealism was false—I still believe that, mostly. Let us say, Pamela was unrealistic.

"You might as well have real cause against me," I said and took her on my knee. She sat like a statue, eyes slewed towards me.

"Be easy," I said. "Let the worst happen. You will have the merit, and I the blame, and then you can write a very interesting letter."

I swear I saw her lip twitch.

"Nobody blamed Lucretia," I pointed out and kissed her neck.

She turned and frowned at me, and I kissed her lips.

"Should I kill myself like Lucretia?" she said. Trust Pamela to start a literary argument in the middle of a seduction.

"We could create as pretty a romance," I said and cupped her breast.

She bolted, and this time, I wasn't in a state to do more than grab the tail of her dress. She got away.

I sat there awhile, considering the half-smile, and then I considered that Pamela was fairly young and given to hyperbole and could be imagining herself Lucretia at that moment; English woman supposedly know better than to commit suicide in the house of their employers, but Pamela is absurdly literal.

I told Mrs. Jervis to check on her but to ignore any hysterics, and for both of them to see me the next day. I then went riding.

They came up together after dinner. Pamela hung back by the door until I frowned at her. Mrs. Jervis stood before the desk, her honest face puzzled. She isn't used to so much drama.

I questioned Mrs. Jervis on what Pamela had told her.

"Only that you pulled her on your knee and kissed her," she said uneasily.

"Only!" Pamela said, stepping further into the room. "Was that not enough to show me what I had to fear? And your honor went further, so you did, and talked of Lucretia and her hard fate."

In retrospect, referencing Juliet might have been wiser.

Maybe not.

Mrs. Jervis began to make excuses for me and for Pamela.

We were getting nowhere. The gentlemanly thing to do was to smooth the matter over: "To be sure," I said, "I have demeaned myself to take notice of such a one as she, but I was bewitched. I had no intention of carrying the jest further," which, you'll grant, is a good piece of diplomacy, placing no blame and bringing the matter to a close.

Except Pamela hasn't a diplomatic bone in her body.

She said, "It is not an appropriate jest between a master and servant."

I gave Mrs. Jervis a "do you see what I put up with" look, and she appeared embarrassed.

"She is truly unnerved," she told me.

I groaned. So much for diplomacy. This was getting out of hand.

"Pamela should return home," I said.

Let Pamela say what she wants, that didn't please her. Home was distress and poverty—why should she wish to return there? But I couldn't have a servant spreading rumors, no matter how true, about my conduct.

I'll give Pamela this though: she has poise. She took a deep breath, then thanked me for my decision as well as for the opportunities and favors she'd received in my household.

"What is the parents' situation?" I asked Mrs. Jervis when Pamela left the room.

"They have a small cottage. He labors for the Mumfords. Her mother spins though her eyesight is failing."

"Pamela will be a burden to them."

She sighed. "She could do needlework," she said.

"She's an odd girl," I said, and Mrs. Jervis went away.

I knew that sending Pamela home was a death sentence. She would fade into one of those tired women who sat on their stoops, plaiting wool. She could hardly have arguments about Lucretia with the local goatherder.

But she couldn't stay. I was aware of her, sensitive to her every movement. And yet. I told Mrs. Jervis she should stay until she finished my waistcoat. It was a fairly hideous garment, but there was nothing else of mine Pamela was working on.

"You care for her, sir?" Mrs. Jervis said, and I shrugged agreement.

"She's fearfully religious," Mrs. Jervis added.

"People usually are until they want something," I said, and she clucked her tongue. But she didn't disagree.
Mrs. Jervis is a realist.

NOTE: I have used the American, rather than British spelling. I like British spelling, but my English Composition side prizes consistency over appeal. It is easier for me to stay consistent with American spelling.

Thoughts on Agatha Christie and Literature

Agatha Christie was amazingly insightful when it came to human nature; unfortunately, people who don't read her consistently fail to recognize this and see only cliches. What Christie did was paint brief, extremely astute portraits of types recognizable to many readers. Classical and classic literature has been doing this for thousands of years. It is only ridiculous modern literary culture that insists that characterizations be 3 billion words long and contain a psychological breakdown of everything from the character's potty years to the character's angst-ridden three marriages.

By the way, the above is why YA literature still produces, on average, better novels than adult literature: less space.

One type of character Christie did extremely well was the heart-broken female protagonist. She understood unrequited love like nobody's business, and she understood that love (for women) doesn't have to be physically sexual to be all-consuming.

For example, the main character of Sad Cypress is terribly in love with a man who, I think, was consciously or unconsciously based on Christie's first husband, Archie: a fastidious, aloof person who fell out of love the moment it inconvenienced him.

Granted, Christie slept with Archie, but her devastation when he left was psychological to the nth degree. It wasn't that he was sleeping with someone else (he actually wasn't; he was engaged, but he was very British and proper about the whole thing) and it wasn't (necessarily) his physical abandonment that overwhelmed her. It was the loss of an emotional connection; Christie was enthralled by Archie, not because he was her type but because he was her first love and that was the kind of connection she'd made with him. It was almost imaginary, not in the "fake" sense but in the sense that it was almost entirely in her head. Archie wasn't that romantic a guy. When he left, Christie lost her sense of reality. I think that's why she disappeared. I don't think she had amnesia. I think she just couldn't handle the pain anymore.

The main character of Sad Cypress is this type of woman. But the movie writers didn't know how to show this, so they used the old "oh, I was sleeping with him, but he left me" ploy. To me, this completely misses the essence of the character. She's not upset because her lover leaves her; she's crushed, devastated, psychically thrown into deep depression because the man she invested so much imaginary importance in turned out to not be worth it. There is a sexual element, but it starts in the woman's emotional investment. It's way more Basic Instinct than it is some dumb Melrose Place-type drama.

Christie's books are, in fact, much darker and psychologically astute than people credit them with. I think Christie gets labeled "cozy" by people who don't read her. (See the haunting Ordeal by Innocence with Donald Sutherland for a dark Christie book rendered almost perfectly on film; also, see Endless Night.)

Some critic--I think it was Edmund Wilson--criticized Christie's books for always restoring the status quo of her middle-class characters. He argued that her perfect, middle-class village settings create a feeling of security for Christie's readers because, after the murder, things always return to how-they-were-before. Making readers feel secure is, according to Wilson, bad.

I remember the first time I read this criticism, I thought, "Has he read any of her books?"

Personally, I don't see what's wrong with writing books that restore the middle-class status quo, but then, I don't think the purpose of literature is REVOLUTION! and RESISTANCE! If I did think there was a purpose to literature (and I am willing to say there isn't), I would say it was to reflect back to us the human condition, and the human condition includes cozy perfection and the desire for security plus the middle-class. (Frankly, I think REVOLUTION and RESISTANCE are utterly tiresome purposes for art; I tried to read Walden by Thoreau and got so tired of him, I almost threw the library book in the trash. I read Kerouac who actually I quite enjoyed, but then I tried to read about Kerouac and got so tired of his friends, I gave up. They may be fascinating to themselves but I personally find navel-gazing mind-numbing. By the way, this is the same reason the book Julia & Julia is extremely tiresome. If you want to read about Julia Child, read Julia Child.)

Setting aside the purpose of literature and whether or not it is okay to write "cozies," the fact is that change--due to time, biology, and circumstances (you know, World War II)--is woven through all of Christie's books. Although individuals achieve security in her books, life rarely continues as-it-was-before. Even Poirot and Miss Marple get old and suffer the strangeness of a world that has changed fundamentally (but not personally) from the one they remember.

What Miss Marple, for one, does point out continually is that human nature in a village is NOT fundamentally different from human nature anywhere else. And I think this is what made and makes Christie great: she has the ability to accept change while still seeing clearly basic human needs, feelings, and desires.

As Poirot says in One, Two, Buckle My Shoe, "You talk of the continued peace of the nation. Oh, yes, that is right, but Poirot is not concerned with nations. Poirot is always concerned with private individuals who have the right not to have taken from them their lives."

Which is why Christie will last when so much "relevant" literary garbage goes into . . . the garbage.

Poirot Films: An Overview

I'm a big fan of David Suchet. I think he is THE definitive Poirot, and I very much enjoy the Poirot series episodes.

I have more mixed feelings about the movies. In my opinion, a movie made from a book can and should make changes. However, I think the movie should (1) keep the same overall plot points; (2) demonstrate an appreciation of the author's genius/creativity; and (3) demonstrate an appreciation of the overall sense/feel of the book. If not, I don't see the point in using the book to begin with.

With Agatha Christie mysteries, this means the writers should realize that Christie's books are popular for a reason. She was a superb craftswoman. Although she would occasionally change the identity of a murderer between her books and plays, other writers should not. They are never as good at mystery writing as they think they are. (I discuss Agatha Christie more in my post "Thoughts on Agatha Christie and Literature".)

This is one reason I cannot bear to watch the Geraldine McEwan Miss Marples. Geez, people, if you disrespect Christie that much, have the guts to write your own stuff without stealing Christie's titles. (These are the same people who massacred the superb non-Miss Marple book The Sittaford Mystery.)

On the other hand, I thought the 1997 Pale Horse, despite various changes, was extremely well-done. It kept the order of events, the identity of the murderer (more or less) plus the aura and theme of the book. All the changes were consistent and intelligent.

Out of the Poirot (David Suchet) movies, some do an excellent job meeting my criteria and some . . . do not.

There are some spoilers in the following list:

Peril At End House: The first Poirot/Suchet movie keeps the order of events and the identity of the murderer. It also retains the aura and theme. It isn't the best out of the first set but worth watching.

Mysterious Affair at Styles: This is one of the few movies that actually makes more sense than the book. Mysterious Affair was Christie's first book, and it is rather difficult to follow. In general, although Christie throws out lots of red herrings, her explanations are always crystal-clear. If you have difficulty following the clues in the book, check out the movie: it helps.

The ABC Murders: The best of the first set, really excellent. It demonstrates a great appreciation for the book--everything is spot on.

Death in the Clouds: Okay, but surprisingly boring. Well, its setting revolves about tennis, so what do you expect? Doesn't play havoc with the book at least.

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe: Pretty good, but then it has the amazing Eccleston and the amazing Peter Blythe. It also has one of Christie's better double-identity tricks; even if you figure out the double-identity, you won't be sure what it is being used for immediately.

Hercule Poirot's Christmas: Okay, but something of a disappointment for me. This is one of my favorite books, and although the murderer's identity is kept, a missing character changes the overall aura of the piece.

Hickory Dickory Dock: One of the few movies I think is more interesting than the book. It does an excellent job retaining the aura of student life from the book plus it uses Miss Lemon absolutely correctly. Colin Firth's brother, Jonathan, stars. Yeah, that's right, the brother who WASN'T Darcy. Still, he's managed to have a fairly successful career, and there's something to be said for NOT being the typed-cast brother. For Life fans, Damian Lewis also stars and does a great job.

Murder on the Links: Well-done if a little dull. Retains both the plot and aura of the original.

Dumb Witness: Well-done if a little dull. The dog is cute.

This concludes what I think of as the first set although I believe the above movies are sold in two sets. There is a four years difference between Dumb Witness and the next movie; also, the feel of the movies changes, hence the separation here between "early" films and "later" films.

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd: Not bad. Narration changes are made for obvious reasons. It kind of works. Basic plot points are retained. All in all, an okay production.

Lord Edgware Dies: Extremely well-done. Helen Grace as Jane Wilkinson does a superb job. Plot, murderer, and aura are all retained. The best movie since The ABC Murders.

Evil Under the Sun: Okay movie, but the femme fatale isn't done correctly. I'm not sure the writers understood Christie's character. She's supposed to be THE woman women-love-to-hate, the bad girl who breaks up marriages except . . . strip away the glamour, and she's actually rather pitiable. For a good rendering of this character type, check out "Triangle at Rhodes."

Murder in Mesopotamia: I think I would like this movie more if it wasn't one of my favorite books. The book is told entirely from the nurse's point of view; the nurse has a very distinct voice and perspective. She makes the book live. The movie, however, is told all from Poirot's point of view. I understand this on one level; the writers have to use the guy who is being show-cased. But it is still a disappointment. That said, the movie is worth watching. It keeps the main plot points and the aura.

Five Little Pigs: This is one of the best of the later movies. It is the most artistic of the films and effectively captures a nostalgic aura that works well with the plot. It keeps the plotting of the book as Poirot questions each "pig" in turn. There is a subtle change regarding the Philip Blake character (played by the superb Toby Stephens). However, the change actually makes sense and doesn't play havoc with Christie's text at all. The actor who plays Amyas Crale isn't at all how I see Amyas Crale physically, but he captures the character.

Sad Cypress: Overall, the plot is well-rendered. However, a major change between the book and movie tells me the writers missed the point. I discuss that change more in my post "Thoughts on Agatha Christie and Literature".

Death on the Nile: Better than the 1978 version. Plus the 2004 version has JJ Feild! It's such a sad movie, I rarely rewatch it. Plus none of the movies has my favorite line. When Jacqueline is speaking to Poirot at the end of the book, she says, "I followed a bad star," and then she mocks a line given earlier in the book: "That bad star, that bad star fall down." When I read Death on the Nile as a teenager, that line encapsulated for me the essence of Jacqueline's character.

The Hollow: Pretty good. Like with Death on the Nile, it is missing some good lines from the book. Otherwise, the characters and plot are skillfully handled. It is also very sad. But then, so is the book!

The Mystery of the Blue Train: Not bad although I'm not as familiar with this book as the others. A romance change is made that I dislike (this becomes more common in the later movies).

Cards on the Table: Great book. So-so movie. A number of fundamentals are needlessly changed (this becomes more common in the later movies). The motive for the murder is changed but not the murderer. It kind of works.

Actually, I think the movie would be a dud if it wasn't for the awesome Zoe Wannamaker. She plays Mrs. Oliver; she doesn't look like Mrs. Oliver, but she captures her character exactly (and it's Zoe Wannamaker!). Alexander Siddig makes an appearance as Mr. Shaitana and does a great job (he also reminds you how tall he is; in Deep Space Nine, he is one over-6-feet man amongst many over-6-feet people--except for Nana Visitor).

After the Funeral: One of my favorite movies though substantial changes are made to Susannah and George's characters. I like the changes, and I don't think they undermine anything. The clever motive and clever murderer are retained, and the clever murderer is absolutely fantastic.

Taken at the Flood: Surprisingly well-rendered. This is Christie's scary psycho piece, and Elliot Cowan as David Hunter, the psycho, is very good. By the way, this movie captures the idea of emotional (and sexual) enthrallment (see my comments about Sad Cypress). A romance change is made that I regret, but I can understand why the writers did it.

Mrs. McGinty's Dead: Well-rendered. This movie also retains very funny dialog from the book. One is the argument between Mrs. Oliver and Robin about the adaptation of her books to plays (Agatha Christie used Mrs. Oliver to spout off about writing); the other is Poirot's line to a suspect: "It is amazing to me that you could be hanged because who do not pay enough attention to the things people say to you!"

Cat Among the Pigeons: I admit this is one book I would be tempted to play with if I were the writers. I have this entire subplot involving Adam and Julia. However . . . by the criteria I established above, the movie is pretty good. The plot and murderer's identity are retained but not, I think, the aura. The removal of one character kind of destroys the original feel. Also, although Harriet Walter does a magnificent job as Miss Bulstrode, I'm not sure she is the Miss Bulstrode of the book, and this kind of matters.

Third Girl: Tremendous disappointment, and the reason, really, that I wrote this post. The movie destroys the book. The book is extremely well-plotted and very clever; the resulting movie mess is just that: a mess. Things happen for no good reason. The new motives are slender and convoluted. The double-identity (a Christie special) is disregarded. Mrs. Oliver is misused. Doctor Stillingfleet, a very important character, is discarded. The entire ambiance as well as the book's time period have been thrown out. Jemima Rooper, who I quite like, is completely wrong for the part of Norma. The movie is a huge wreck.

I can only assume the recent Miss Marple people took over. Please, if you don't admire Christie enough to reread her books several times, savoring her plots and characters and recognizing her for the incredible craftswoman she was . . . if you are arrogant and blind enough to think you can "improve" on her plots, stop writing for Christie movies!

I haven't viewed the remaining Poirot films yet. Appointment with Death is on my Netflix list. It has Tim Curry, who is worth watching, but I've pretty much lost hope. I see on IMDB that Halloween Party aired this year. Yeah, well, I bet they completely messed that up too.

An era has ended. I'll just have to wait about 20 years for someone else to decide to redo all the Christies . . . and redo them right.

The Ruminations of Mr. B: I

I have begun a "from Mr. B's viewpoint" of Samuel Richardson's Pamela. After some thought, I decided to present it in first person. However, since Mr. B is not a writerly kind of guy, it takes the form of a long interview.

My Pamela is not the shameless manipulator of Shamela, but she isn't the coy, demure miss of Richardson either. Without taking undue license (as with Pride & Prejudice, I am writing with the text directly in front of me), I have created, I hope, a woman who wants more from life than country poverty, is terrified of that poverty, but honestly doesn't want to be a gentleman's mistress.

My Mr. B, though an alpha like Darcy, is far more extroverted and domineering. However, unlike the writers of too many romances, I didn't want to excuse his domineering behavior; just because he has the hots for Pamela doesn't mean he should be an overbearing jerk. I have hopefully created a voice that indicates a wry, even cynical individual who has no compunction about seducing a young, bored woman but must undergo a necessary change of heart before he can win her for real. (The double problem is that he has to be someone Pamela could reasonably go from fearing to loving: we'll see if I succeed!)

As with A Man of Few Words, I will be publishing individual sections before creating one final complete document.

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Introduction
The rangy, dark-haired man lounging in the parlor raised a brow at the grad student.

"Do you know how many of you come through here for every reading?" he said. "Wanting to understand the social-geopolitical matrix of Richardson's work? It would be so much easier if the poor man wasn't dead."

"His work lives on," the grad student pointed out.

"I know, and the marvels of science have made us characters live his stories over and over. I'm not bitter, you understand. I just don't understand what you expect me to say. Why not just decide that I'm a callous, chauvinistic ass and let it go?"

"Because your story isn't the one being told."

The dark-haired man laughed. "My wife doesn't consider me a callous, chauvinistic ass," he pointed out. "Not any more, at least."

"But her perception of your actions is still a limited one--"

"I know, I know. The woman wrote for posterity, not the bedroom."

"Can I quote you?" the grad student asked, and the dark-haired man laughed again but held up his hand.

"I'm not afraid of bedroom scenes," he said. "If you really want the story unvarnished—"

"—your perspective would be enough—"

"Very well," Mr. B said. "Let's start by clarifying one thing: I seduced Pamela because she was bored."





Corresponding to Letters I-VIII of Pamela
I met Pamela several time when visiting my mother. Pamela would sit beside my mother's chair or bed, reading mostly or doing needlework. She would stop and watch us like a detached little animal. I suppose later she wrote about us. I didn't know about her writing then.

"Be good," my mother said to me when she saw me eying Pamela, and I suppose I would have been if she hadn't died and left Pamela to my care. I put Pamela in charge of my linen. She wasn't really a maid; she wasn't trained, you understand, just a favorite of my mother's. But she didn't want to go home. Believe me. She would have perished of ennui in a fortnight.

I got my first taste of Pamela's writing about then. I walked in on her finishing a letter to her parents. She twitched—she was as wary as a cat—but I got a look at the letter which was high-spirited plus full of references to me. I warned her to be careful about what she wrote, and she agreed. All good cats agree to leave the cream alone. Until you're out of the room.

I gave her access to my late mother's books. Did I mention she was bored? She got along well with the servants, especially Mrs. Jervis, but she was less busy than they as well as a cut above. At the time, I considered my mother had been careless, training Pamela to be a person of leisurely activities. Nothing absorbs Pamela more than reading and writing. Nothing bores her more than housework. She'll object to that statement, but it's the truth. She'd rather read to entertain Mrs. Jervis than sew a button.

She does like nice clothes. I suppose all women do but with Pamela it's the security they confer as much as the beauty and comfort. She would object to that statement as well, I daresay, and I'm not being entirely fair. Pamela really thought she loved her parents and wanted a simple life. She really thought she was demure and undemanding. She was never, you understand, a greedy girl—not in the sense the preachers use the term. But I don't think anything scared her more than poverty. And ultimately, she was more honest about it than most.