Showing posts with label Allen (Grant). Show all posts
Showing posts with label Allen (Grant). Show all posts

02 January 2026

The Woman Who Didn't (and the Man Who Very Much Wanted To)



The Woman Who Didn't
Victoria Cross [Annie Sophie Cory]
London: Lane, 1909
159 pages

The narrator is a British soldier who is returning home on leave having served six years in India. He reclines in the aft of a large boat one dark Aden evening, smoking and listening with bemusement to his fellow countrymen squabble with local boatmen as to when payment should be made for services. 


"I should pay now; if you mean to at all," says someone from the stern. The voice is that of a woman. After further squabbling, she adds: "Well, I am going to pay mine, and I strongly advise you to, or we may lose our ship. What can it matter to you whether you pay now or afterwards."

Untitled engraving of Aden in 1885 credited to T. Taylor.
Slowly, the other passengers open their wallets. The boatmen bring them to the awaiting vessel and its long ladder. Our narrator stays back because he's curious about the woman who stood so resolute.

Eventually, she appears out of the darkness. Petite, fetching, and young, her name is Eurydice: 
"It’s an awfully pretty name!"
   "Not with the surname,’ she answered, laughing. "Eurydice Williamson! Isn't it a frightful combination!"
   "I don’t think so," I maintained unblushingly, though the seven syllables in conjunction positively set my teeth on edge.
Together, they enjoy a stroll around the deck, made all the more pleasant through conversation. All in all, the beginning of what? A friendship? A romance? Both seem possible until our soldier narrator leans in for a kiss outside her cabin door. Eurydice avoids his lips, hitting the back of her head in the process. She strikes his chest, then shuts him outside.

Evelyn – the soldier's name is Evelyn 
– makes his very best apology the following day and is taken aback by Eurydice's forgiveness. The remaining days of the voyage toward England's green and pleasant shores are spent in conversation. The soldier is smitten. On the final day, just as he begins to lay bare his soul, Evelyn is met with an unwelcome discovery: Eurydice is a married woman!"

In grand Victorian tradition, the reader is met with a misunderstanding. Eurydice had lost her wedding ring during an unfortunate handwashing incident. Did Evelyn not read the ship's passenger list! Eurydice shares that she is wed to a man who is is unfaithful. Her husband's dalliances began the month after their marriage, and yet she maintains her vows.  

The news strikes hard. Despite his many faults, Evelyn has drawn a line at pursuing married women. He and faithful Eurydice – again, did he not read the passenger list? – choose to never see one another again.

Being somewhat familiar with Victorian  literature, I was fairly certain where this would land. Evelyn would keep his distance until Eurydice's degenerate husband's lifestyle did him in. It wouldn't be long.

I was wrong. 

The Woman Who Didn't is a simple, commonplace story with an unconventional ending that I promise not to spoil.


From the beginning, The Woman Who Didn't (1895) has been paired with our own Grant Allen's The Woman Who Did (also 1895). It is most certainly not an offspring; title aside, I would argue that it is of no relation at all. 

Much has been made about the two these past few decades. In The Cambridge Guide to Women's Writing in English (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1999), Lorna Sage describes The Woman Who Didn't as "a deliberate response to The Woman Who Did." Kathryn G. Lamontagne goes further in Reconsidering Catholic Lay Womanhood (New York: Routledge, 2024): "Victoria Cross's The Woman Who Didn't (1895) was written in angered response [emphasis mine] to Allen's work which scandalized contemporary society."

Was it? 

Contemporary accounts suggest otherwise. In the mid-July 1895, two months before 
The Woman Who Didn't was published, Arthur Waugh submitted this to The Critic:


I suggest that the title The Woman Who Didn't has everything to do with publisher John Lane seizing an opportunity to cash in even further on The Woman Who Did, his firm's new succès de scandale

The Woman Who Did is the story of Herminia Barton, a young, educated clergyman's daughter who falls in love with successful lawyer Allan Merrick. Despite the depth of this love, Herminia rejects his proposal because she does not believe in marriage. She convinces her lover that they should simply live together, outside the "unholy sacrifices" matrimony has sustained. But then Allan dies, leaving behind a pregnant Herminia.

What Herminia "did" 
 what she dares do  is raise the child, a daughter, at a time when she would have been expected to give her up for adoption. You see, the title is not nearly as titillating as it would seem.

The Woman Who Didn't concerns a woman who very much believes in marriage, so much so that she is willing to endure an unfaithful husband. And so, Eurydice and Evelyn face separate futures, each made more unhappy for having ever met.

In what way is that an "angered response" to The Woman Who Did? How is it a response at all?

Annie Sophie Cory [Victoria Cross]
1868 - 1952
RIP
The claim is made all the more absurd when one considers the author's other works. In January of the same year, 'Theodora: A Fragment,' her first published work of fiction, was published in The Yellow Book.


As the title suggests, it was written as part of a longer work. Though complete, it wouldn't be published until 1903 under the title Six Chapters of a Man's Life. It revolves around an unmarried couple, Cecil and Theodora. Well matched, they share interests in art, literature, spiritualism and sex. It is more than hinted that Cecil has had homosexual encounters in the past. His attraction to Theodora has much to do with her "hermaphroditism of looks."

Annie Sophie Cory's twenty-six novels and short story collections are replete with positive depictions of 
extramarital sex, so what exactly would have provoked a response, angry or otherwise, to Allen's novel? If anything Cory, who never married, is more likely to have agreed with Herminia Barton:
"I know what marriage is, from what vile slavery it has sprung; on what unseen horrors for my sister women it is reared and buttressed; by what unholy sacrifices it is sustained, and made possible. I know it has a history. I know its past, I know its present, and I can't embrace it; I can't be untrue to my most sacred beliefs."
The Woman Who Didn't ends just that way with 
Eurydice caring for her absent, philandering husband's mother, sacrificing the possibility of a better life with a man she loves, but found too late.

That said, I'm not convinced Evelyn is such a catch.

Trivia: Aboard ship, Evelyn hears a young woman singing "She told me her age was five-and-twenty!" It comes from 'At Trinity Church I Met My Doom':


Fun fact: The author's third novel, A Girl of the Klondike (1899), is set in and around Dawson at the time of the Gold Rush.

New York: Macauley, 1925
Object and Access: First published in the autumn of 1895 by John Lane. My 1909 edition, 
one the earliest paperbacks in my collection, was purchased in 2024 from a German bookseller. Price: €10.35.
When published it cost one shilling.


The front cover illustration depicts a scene that does not feature in the novel. It is almost certainly inspired by Evelyn's unwelcome attempt at a kiss the night he met Eurydice. This of course, should have taken place outside her cabin, not in it.

The back cover features adverts for three other John Lane books:


As I write, I see nothing but print on demand dreck being offered online.

I don't see that any Canadian library has a copy.


Related post:

09 December 2024

The Ten Best Book Buys of 2024... and many gifts!


What a year! On day two, while returning from a grocery run in nearby Brockville, I stopped at a thrift store and found first editions of Gilbert Parker's The Judgement House and Pardon My Parka by Joan Walker. They set me back all of four dollars.

The Judgement House had been on my radar only two months, but I'd been looking for Pardon My Parka well before my 2022 tear through Walker's East of Temple Bar, Murder By AccidentRepent at Leisure, and the condensed Repent at Leisure. It completes my collection of her works. 

I arrived home from Brockville to find this gift from my friend James Calhoun my mailbox:


More on that below.

The strangest book buying experience occurred during a May visit from our daughter. She'd just moved to her first flat and was looking for inexpensive pots and pans, so the family set out for a favourite thrift store in Smiths Falls. During the drive I began talking about Jan Hilliard whose novel Miranda I'd set down to make the trip. I went on about her background, her rascal of a father, her art school education, what a good writer she was, and how unfair it is that she's so forgotten. When we got to the store, mother and daughter went off hunting kitchenware. I made for the books, where I found – within seconds – a first edition of Hilliard's The Salt-Box. I'd never before seen any of her books in a store. The copy doesn't have a dust jacket and is a library discard, but at 66 cents I shan't complain. It completes my collection of her works. 

That Judgement House, Pardon My Parka, and The Salt-Box didn't make this year's list gives some idea as to how good 2024 was in terms of book purchases.

This years top ten were bought from booksellers in Canada, Austria, England, Scotland, and the United States:

A Fair Affair

Paul Champagne
Winnipeg: Greywood, 1967

"A chilling mystery with a James Bond-Simon Templar flavour, and devilish spoof on Canadian politicians," says the cover copy.

We'll see.

Set around Expo '67, this was purchased after reading the disappointing So Long at the Fair.

The Woman Who Didn't

Victoria Cross
   [Annie Sophie Cory]
London: Lane, 1909

An 1895 novel written in response to Grant Allen's scandalous The Woman Who Did. I like Allen's novel, but understand that Victoria Cross was highly critical. 

I'm ready to hear her out.

Harsh Evidence

Pamela Fry
London: Wingate, 1953

Reviewed here in July, Fry's debut did not disappoint; I'd read The Watching Cat (1960), her second and last novel, so expectations were low.

This one is a murder mystery set amongst well-paid people working in Toronto's lucrative magazine industry. Different times. I grew jealous.

The Conquering Hero
John Murray Gibbon
New York: Grosset & Dunlap, [c. 1921]

Judging a book by its cover, I'm not sure this is for me. Still, Gibbon wrote Pagan Love (1922), which is easily the most unconventional and challenging Canadian novel of last century's 'twenties.

When I found this Gibbon book – signed – I leapt.

Three Weeks

Elinor Glyn
New York: Macaulay,
   [c. 1924]

A novel that would've appealed as a very young man. Don't know why I didn't buy it then, but I have it now... and in a photoplay edition!

It says everything about my reaction that I bought two other Glyns after reading it.

A View of the Town

Jan Hilliard
Toronto: Nelson, Foster &
   Scott, 1954

It's difficult to pace oneself with Jan Hilliard; she wrote only five novels. I'm saving A View of the Town, the only one I've not read, for next year. Seventy-year-old reviews suggest it is her funniest. By now, I feel I know Hilliard; much of that humour will be black.

Miranda

Jan Hilliard
New York: Abelard-
   Schuman, 1960

My favourite read of 2024!

Given that I read two other Hilliard novels this year it was not an easy choice.



Morgan's Castle

Jan Hilliard
New York: Abelard-
   Schulman, 1964

The author's biggest selling novel – there was a Dell paperback edition – and I can see why. Where previous novels could get very dark indeed, Morgan's Castle is the only in which murder figures.

And more than one! 


Chipmunk

Len Peterson
Toronto: McClelland &
   Stewart, 1949

I once read a very enthusiastic review of this novel, but where?

I have no idea who wrote it or what was said, but it was so positive that I've kept an eye out ever since.


In the Village of Viger
Duncan Campbell Scott
Toronto: Ryerson, 1945

A controversial choice, perhaps, given the author, this is a more attractive edition than the very rare 1896 American first. The Ryerson edition didn't do a whole lot better, but this hasn't prevented certain critics from holding the collection aloft as highly influential. John Metcalf has proven otherwise.


This year saw a good many gifts to the Dusty Bookcase, beginning with the book that arrived on the second day in January:

The Winter of Time
Raymond Holmes
   [Raymond Souster]
Toronto: News Stand
   Library, 1949

Raymond Souster's third book and first novel, the poet drew something from his wartime experience in the writing, but it is no way autobiographical.

Thank God.

A gift from James Calhoun.

Late Spring

Peter Donovan
Toronto: Macmillan, 1930


A novel set in the Toronto art world by a Montrealer better known as "P O'D." Robertson Davies was an admirer, describing Donovan as "knowingly and intentionally and pointedly funny."

Another gift from James Calhoun, this is sure to be read in 2025.

Michelle Remembers
Michelle Smith and
   Lawrence Pazder
New York: Pocket, 1981

After I'd expressed frustration in being unable to find an affordable copy copy of this Satanic Panic classic, Brad Middleton of My Bloody Obsession sent two copies my way. This one is a first printing of the July 1981 first Pocket books edition.

The Gorilla's Daughter

Thomas P. Kelley
Toronto: News Stand
   Library, 1950

A book I will likely never own, but a book I've now read thanks to bowdler of Fly-by-Night who kindly sent scans and photocopies my way.

A tragic love story.



Finally, I received two large boxes of books from the West Coast sent by my friend Karyn Huenemann containing books by L. Adams Beck, Frances Brooke, Ralph Connor, Muriel Denison, Norman Duncan, Sara Jeanette Duncan, Muriel Elwood, F.T. Flahiff, Grey Owl, Nellie McClung, Frederick Niven, Frank L. Packard, George L. Parker, Gilbert Parker, Charles G.D. Roberts, and Duncan Campbell Scott.

Again, what a year! 

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25 October 2024

Grant Allen: 125 Years



Charles Grant Blairfindie Allen departed this mortal coil 125 year ago today, rising a metre then stepping aside at his home in Hindhead, Haslemere, Surrey. He wrote many of the very best novels in nineteenth-century Canadian literature. Were I to make a list of the top ten titles, Allen would dominate. That he also wrote some of the very worst is a mystery easily solved. Like fellow Ontarian Arthur Stringer, Allen looked to make a good living from his writing. For every British Barbarians (1895) there is A Splendid Sin (1899).

If you've not seen Allen's Hindhead, Haslemere home, here it is:


Allen's early writing dealt primarily with with science and nature Physiological Esthetics (1877) was his first book. The Colour-Sense: Its Origin and Development (1879), Evolutionist at Large (1881), Vignettes from Nature (1881), The Colours of Flowers (1882), Colin Clout's Calendar (1883), and Flowers and Their Pedigrees (1883) followed. Credit goes to publisher Andrew Chatto for suggesting the author try his hand at novel writing. Allen's first attempt, Philistia (1884), is well worth a read, but I recommend beginning with The Devil's Die (1888). After that, move on to The Woman Who Did (1895), his most notorious novel. Those drawn to black comedy will enjoy For Maimie's Sake (1886) and Michael's Crag (1893).


Allen died at age fifty-one. His thirty-three novels were written in his last fifteen years. Hilda Wade, novel number thirty-four, was being serialized in The Strand at the time of his death, It was completed by friend Arthur Conan Doyle, who followed Allen's outline of the final two chapters. The last is titled 'The Episode of the Dead Man Who Spoke' (February 1900).

Allen's death inspired tributes, Richard Le Gallienne's being the longest. It begins:
Our fears for Grant Allen were too true. He is dead. He died on Wednesday, the 24th, after a long and painful and obscure illness, to which the doctors are still unable to give a name, England thus loses a rarer sprit than she had yet realized the possession of.  
Le Gallienne is off by a day in that Allen died on the 25th. The "long and painful and obscure illness" was determined to have been liver cancer.

Le Gallienne continues:
England is apt to take some time in recognition of its rarer spirits, She throughly stones them first, to try their mettle, and then when they are happily beyond hearing of their funeral orations – usually spoken by respectable gentlemen fit to provoke the dead to disturb with kindly laughter their own obsequies – she grudgingly erects bad statues in their honour. It is comforting at least to think that it is a long while yet before a statue is erected to Grant Allen. It took nearly a hundred years for men to think of a statue to Shelley. 
Well over a century later, there is no statue to Allen, but there is something better. Erected in 2008, it takes the form of a metal arch designed by Lucy Quinnell spanning Allen Court in Dorking, the closest town to the author's Surrey home. Look closely at its base and you'll see the author in the midst of composition. 


I have fellow plaque enthusiast Nick Harrison to thank for these images:


England may be apt to take some time in recognition of its rarer sprits, but here in Canada they are seldom recognized at all. This country has no statue, no arch, no court to the memory of Grant Allen; there is not so much as a plaque. In this one way, Grant Allen, the most remarkable Canadian writer of the nineteenth century, is anything but unique.

Charles Grant Blairfindie Allen
24 February 1848, Wolfe Island, Canada West - 
25 October 1899, Hindhead, Haslemere, Surrey

RIP

29 April 2024

Of Cannibals and Christians



The Great Taboo
Grant Allen
New York: Harper & Brothers, 1891
271 pages

Reviewing Gilbert Parker's The Right of Way a while back, I expressed my opposition to the idea of starting a novel with dialogue. "'Not guilty, your Honor!'"   italics and all – is its first line.

The first line in The Great Taboo is "'Man overboard!'"

Better than "Splash!" I suppose.

The man who has gone overboard is, in fact, a woman. No one knows this better than English civil servant Felix Thurston. An instant earlier he'd grasped Miss Muriel Ellis' slender waist as a wall of water struck the deck of the Austalasian:

The wave had knocked him down, and dashed him against the bulwark on the leeward side. As he picked himself up, wet, bruised, and shaken, he looked about for Muriel. A terrible dread seized upon his soul at once. Impossible! Impossible! she couldn't have been washed overboard!

Thurston dives into the "fierce black water" – I should've mentioned it is nighttime – intent on rescue. Lifebelts are flung in their general direction and a boat is lowered, its light playing upon the waves, but to no avail. After an exhaustive search, the crewmen return to the ship. Their captain is philosophical:

"I knew there wasn't a chance; but in common humanity one was bound to make some show of trying to save 'em. He was a brave fellow to go after her, though it was no good, of course. He couldn't even find her, at night, and with such a sea as that running."
In fact, Mr Thurston did find Miss Owen; Felix and Muriel cling to each other even as the captain speaks. Buoyed by lifebelts, the pair drifts toward a reef that bounds Boupari, "one of those rare remote islets where the very rumor of our European civilization has hardly yet penetrated." As the new day dawns, Felix begins to make out signs of habitation. He's well aware that the Polynesian islands are home to "the fiercest and most bloodthirsty cannibals known to travellers." And so, he is on his guard as smiling, friendly souls paddle to transport the two castaways from reef to islet.

Felix and Muriel are not eaten, rather they're made the King of Rain and Queen of Clouds. The two are considered gods, subservient only to the high god Tu-Kila-Kila. They are also deemed "Korong," a word the civil servant, who is otherwise conversant in Polynesian languages, knows not.


Here the reader has an advantage in that the word was chanted repeatedly during the roasting of two Boupari inhabitants mere hours before Felix and Muriel's arrival. Still, it is surprising that the King of Rain and Queen of Clouds, who seem fairly sharp, need be told its meaning... and by a parrot, no less!

Grant Allen was all too dismissive of his novels, but I'm not. The best part of worthwhile nineteenth-century Canadian fiction was written by Allen. That said, I have been dismissive of his adventure novels, Wednesday the Tenth (aka The Cruise of the Albatross) included. Published the same year The Great Taboo, it too features cannibals.*

But I wonder, could it be that The Great Taboo is something more than an adventure novel? Allen's preface is by turns intriguing and amusing:


This reviewer is aware of Frazier's The Golden Bough (1890-1915), but has not read it. I'm familiar with Andrew Lang, but not his Myth, Ritual, and Religion (1887). Henry Ogg Forbes's A Naturalist's Wanderings in the Eastern Archipelago (1885) and Julian Thomas's Cannibals and Convicts (1886) are both new to me, as they would have been to Allen in the years preceding The Great Taboo.

I haven't had time to read those books, but have read Mary Beard's review of Robert Fraser's 1990 The Making of ‘The Golden Bough’: The Origin and Growth of an Argument (London Review of Books, 26 June 1990), in which she writes that The Great Taboo "turned Frazer’s metaphorical journey into a literal tale of travel and adventure." It is, in her words, "a crude and simplified retelling of The Golden Bough," and "important for our understanding of the immediate popular reception of Frazer’s work."

In the end, Felix and Muriel are not consumed by cannibals. As the genre dictates, they escape Boupari, marry, and return to England. The final scene is also the best. It takes place in the London drawing room of the Mrs Ellis, Muriel's aunt by marriage, in which the newlyweds are confronted with the taboos of their own island.

The last sentence is much better than the first.

* Five years ago, I posted a Grant Allen top ten in which The Cruise of the Albatross takes the final spot. At the time, I'd read all of twelve Allen novels. I've now read eighteen. The Cruise of the Albatross has fallen to fourteenth position.
Trivia: Being of a certain age, I couldn't read the title without thinking of the Great Gazoo. The name Felix Thurston reminded me of this more famous fictional castaway:

Object and Access: My first American edition was purchased four or five years ago. I cannot remember how much I paid, but it couldn't have been fifty dollars. The true first is the British first. Published in 1890 by Chatto & Windus, I see evidence of a second printing the following year.

No copies of either is listed for sale online today. It would appear that there have been no other editions.

The Harper & Bros edition can be read online here courtesy of the Internet Archive.

Related posts:

05 February 2024

Gilbert Parker's Savage Novel



The Translation of a Savage
Gilbert Parker
London: Methuen, [c.1897]
240 pages

I'm writing this after having spent several hours shovelling heavy slushy snow and stacking firewood. It may not be the best time – the mind is less than sharp and the body is tired – but I can't put off sharing my discovery of The Translation of a Savage, which is by far the most unpleasant and problematic novel I've ever read.

The Camden Democrat
6 October 1894
I mean discovery in a personal sense, of course; The Translation of a Savage was a bestseller in Canada, Great Britain, and the United States. Lippincott's Monthly Magazine devoted much of its June 1893 edition to publishing the novel in full. It was serialized in newspapers throughout the United States, and was thrice adapted by Hollywood. In the introduction provided for his 24-volume Works, Parker remarks on the novel's "many friends – sufficiently established by the very large sale it has had in cheap editions."

Sadly, those friends are long dead, and there is precious little evidence the novel is being read today.*

The Translation of a Savage begins in uninteresting fashion as yet another tale of the Canadian North. Frank Armour is a son of English privilege come to "Hudson Bay country" to further his fortune through mining. In doing so, he leaves behind his betrothed, beautiful Miss Julia Sherwood. The Armour parents aren't terribly keen on favourite son Frank's fiancée because she doesn't come from money; they'd much rather he marry Lady Agnes Martling, who "had long cared for him, and was most happily endowed with wealth and good looks." In their son's absence, mama and papa conspire to prevent the union.

Easily done! They invite Miss Sherwood to Greyhope, their Herefordshire home, then bring in young Lord Haldwell, and Bob's your uncle!

It's quite a blow to Frank, who receives his "Dear John" letter after reading about Julia and Hopewell's wedding in the society pages. He knows to blame his parents for the broken engagement, though as I've suggested, they didn't put in much effort. Nevertheless, brandy in his belly and revenge in his heart, he looks to "bring down the pride of his family" by marrying Lali, daughter of Chief Eye-of-the-Moon. After a brief honeymoon, the bride is dispatched to Greyhope in buckskin dress.

Lali, as portrayed by Mabel Julienne Scott, in Behold My Wife!, the 1920 Hollywood adaptation of The Translation of a Savage.

Lali's arrival in England is preceded by a well-crafted letter in which Frank acknowledges his parents' anxiousness that he wed "acceptably." He takes pains to note that Lali is of "the oldest aristocracy, in America." Because they'd wished him to marry wealth, he has sent them a wife rich in virtues, "native, unspoiled virtues." Frank trusts that they will take his bride to their hearts and cherish her, ever aware of their firm principles of honour. They will be kind to Lali until his return, "to share the affection which he was sure would be given to her."

The letter lands in the second of the novel's fifteen chapters. Twenty-first-century readers familiar with Victorian literature and mores will anticipate the reaction. I did, but was taken aback by a racial epithet entirely new to me. As I'm not one for censorship, I present it here. If you want to read it, click on the image below.

Richard Armour is the hero of this story. Frank's younger older-looking bookish brother, "not strong on his pins," has devoted his life to helping pensioners, the poor, and the infirm. Lali's acceptance at Hopewell is all Richard's doing. He is her defender. With gentle touch, he manipulates his family to her side, and provides the guidance she needs in navigating English society. 

Lali is the heroine. A young bride – her age is never disclosed – she wed Frank for love. Because that love is not blind, Lali quickly comes to recognize the awful truth behind her marriage.

Frank is the villain. After marrying Lali, he remains in Canada, and never so much as writes. His ventures are unsuccessful, in large part because his wife's people come to question what has become of Lali. Frank's people – by which I mean his family – do not trust his judgement. By the time Lali gives birth to a son, seven or so months after arriving at Hopewell, she has won over the Armour family. They recognize how badly she has been treated, and so respect her wishes that they keep the child's existence a secret.

Four years pass before Frank's return, during which Lali has adapted to her new surroundings. The woman he encounters in the halls of Greyhope is very different than the "heathen" he married.

Lali (Mabel Julienne Scott) and Frank (Milton Sills) are reunited in
Behold My Wife! (1920).

That word – "heathen" – is the used by Lali at the novel's climax, in which she is pushed to confront her husband:

Years of indignation were at work in her. “I have had a home,” she said, in a low, thrilling voice, — “a good home; but what did that cost you? Not one honest sentiment of pity, kindness, or solicitude. You clothed me, fed me, abandoned me, as — how can one say it? Do I not know, if coming back you had found me as you expected to find me, what the result would have been? Do I not know? You would have endured me if I did not thrust myself upon you, for you have after all a sense of legal duty, a kind of stubborn honour. But you would have made my life such that some day one or both of us would have died suddenly. For” — she looked him with a hot clearness in the eyes — “for there is just so much that a woman can bear. I wish this talk had not come now, but, since it has come, it is better to speak plainly. You see, you misunderstand. A heathen has a heart as another — has a life to be spoiled or made happy as another. Had there been one honest passion in your treatment of me — in your marrying me — there would be something on which to base mutual respect, which is more or less necessary when one is expected to love. But — but I will not speak more of it, for it chokes me, the insult to me, not as I was, but as I am. Then it would probably have driven me mad, if I had known; now it eats into my life like rust!"

Ultimately, of course, "heathen" is Parker's word, as is the measure of what a woman can bear. Lali existed only in his imagination, and remains with us today solely through the printed page.**

Frank tries to make amends, though His motivation is unclear. Is it, as Lali suggests, a sense of duty and a stubborn kind of honour? Might it have something to do with her "translation" to a woman who has been accepted by Society? Or is it simply because the two have a son? I have no answer, though will direct the curious to an associated theological question (below).

The very definition of a forgotten novel; The Canadian Encyclopedia, The Encyclopedia of Canadian LiteratureThe Oxford Companion to Canadian Literature, and The Cambridge Companion to Canadian Literature don't so much as mention The Translation of a Savage. This old Canadian Studies, English, and History major always saw it as just another of the dozens of Parker titles. I knew nothing about the novel, but feel I should have been made aware.

The Translation of a Savage begins as a story of the Canadian North. Aforementioned racial epithet aside, its attitudes and depictions of First Nations people are typical of Victorian literature; Lali's father, for example, is the very example of the "noble savage." What sets the novel apart is Lali and her translation.

She receives love in the Old World, in the main from the Amour family, making life sufferable, but her story is terrible. The entire story is terrible. Lali would like to return to Hudson Bay country, but feels she is too much changed. The novel's final sentences hint at reconciliation with Frank, but it is in no way a happy ending.

After all the time that has passed since reading those final words – some of it spent shovelling snow and stacking firewood – I'm still not sure what to think. What I can say, without hesitation, is that The Translation of a Savage should be read, studied, and discussed.

* Highly unscientific I know, but I do note that Goodreads features one lone readers' rating (one star), whereas Parker's The Right of Way has fourteen (3.36 stars average).

** I acknowledge that variations of Lali have appeared throughout the years on the silver screen – 1913, 1920, and 1934, to be precise – but Parker had no input in those depictions.

The subject of a future post.

Trivia: Frank receives news of Julia's marriage at Fort Charles – twice "Fort St. Charles" – a Hudson Bay Company outpost not far from the Kimash Hills and the White Valley. All exist only in Parker's fiction, most notably Pierre and His People (1894) and A Romany of the Snows (1898).

Interestingly, in 1907 poet Harmony Twichwell submitted an outline of an opera titled 'Kimash Hills' to her future husband Charles Ives.

Not trivia: In The Works of Gilbert Parker the author writes that the story "had a basis of fact; the main incident was true. It happened, however, in Michigan rather than in Canada; but I placed the incident in Canada where it was just as true to the life."

A theological question (spoiler): The novel ends suddenly with a contrived crise, after which we learn that Lali accepts "without demur her husband's tale of love for her." The suggestion is that this brings the couple together. Then come the last two ssentences:

Yet, as if to remind him of the wrong he had done. Heaven never granted Frank Armour another child.
If this is God's punishment is He not also punishing Lali?

Criticism: In his Works introduction, Parker notes that the novel was well-received. Despite the author's misgivings, Sir Clement Konloch-Cooke was eager to publish it in The English Illustrated Magazine. This was followed by enthusiasm from an unexpected source:  

The judgment of the press was favourable, – highly so – and I was as much surprised as pleased when Mr. George Moore, in the Hogarth Club one night, in 1894, said to me: “There is a really remarkable play in that book of yours, The Translation of a Savage.” I had not thought up to that time that my work was of the kind which would appeal to George Moore, but he was always making discoveries.

Object and Access: The novel made its debut in the June 1893 edition of Lippincott's Monthly Magazine. My copy was purchased online late last year from a French bookseller. Price: US$14.65. It was advertised as the 1894 first British edition; indeed the title page suggests as much, but the novel itself is followed by a 40-page catalogue of Methuen titles dated March 1897. Included are seven Parker novels and Robert Barr's disappointing In the Midst of Alarms.

Je ne regrette rien.


This copy, the copy that now rests in my Upper Canadian home, once belonged to Parker's fellow Tory Sir Henry Drummond Wolff, who from 1892 to 1900 was British Ambassador to Spain.


Sir Henry was also the father of prolific novelist Anne Cleeve, author of The Woman Who Wouldn't (1895), written in response to Grant Allen's The Woman Who Did (1895).

In its first three decades, The Translation of a Savage went through plenty of editions from plenty of publishers. I'm betting most used booksellers can't be bothered listing them for sale online. Of those who have, the least expensive – an undated Nelson at £2.80 – is offered by a UK bookseller. The most expensive is a cocked copy of Appleton's 1893 American first edition at US$75.00.

Those with an aversion to previously-owned books – I knew one such person – will see that both Indigo and Amazon sell this Esprios World Classics print on demand edition. 

The photograph used on the cover was taken in 1902 at the Warm Springs Indian Reservation, Wasco County, Oregon, adding further insult.

Related posts:

04 December 2023

The Ten Best Book Buys of 2023!



With sadness, I report that 2023 was another year in which all my favourite acquisitions were purchased online. This is not to suggest that every transaction was a good one. In March, I won a lot of twelve Marilyn Ross Dark Shadows books, three of which bear the signature of their true author, New Brunswick's W.E.D. Ross. 

My lengthy victory dance came to an abrupt end when they arrived loose in a recycled Amazon box. Most were in poor condition, some featured stamps from used bookstores, and one had a previous owner's name written on its cover. Added to all this was the shipping charge, which far exceeded the amount paid for the books themselves, and was several times greater than what Canada Post had charged the seller.

Had all gone well, this copy of Barnabas, Quentin and the Frightened Bride (New York: Paperback Library, 1970) would've surely made the cut.

Enough negativity! It was a good year!

What follows is 2023's top ten:

In Nature's Workshop

Grant Allen
London: Newnes, 1901


I bought three Grant Allen books this year – the novels This Mortal Coil (1888) and At Market Value (1895) being the others – but this is the one I like the most. The posthumously published second edition, it features over one hundred illustrations by English naturalist Frederick Enock (1845-1916).


Hot Freeze

Martin Brett [Douglas
   Sanderson]
London: Reinhardt, 1954

For years I've been going on about Hot Freeze being the very best of post-war Canadian noir; it was one of the first novels reissued as a Ricochet Book. I was aware that there had been a UK edition, but couldn't find a copy with dust jacket.

Found it!
Hilary Randall: The Story
   of The Town
Horace Brown
Toronto: Voyageur, [n.d.]

While working to return Brown's 1947 novel Whispering City to print, I learned that Saturday Night editor B.K. Sandwell had thought Hilary Randall just might be the great Canadian novel. Self-published roughly four decades after its composition, my copy is inscribed!

Wedded for a Week; or, The
   Unseen Bridegroom
May Agnes Fleming
London: Milner, [n.d.]

As with Grant Allen, I can't let a year go by without adding more Fleming to my collection. The Actress' Daughter was the first, but I much prefer this 1881 novel, if only for its two titles.

Writing this I realize that I haven't read a Fleming in 2023. 

A Self-Made Thief

Hulbert Footner
London: Literary Press,
   [n.d.]

As my old review of 1930's The Mystery of the Folded Paper suggests, I'm not much of a Footner fan, Still, at £4, this last-minute addition to a large order placed with a UK bookseller seemed a bargain. The dust jacket illustration, which I hadn't seen, is unique to this edition.

Pagan Love
John Murray Gibbon
Toronto: McClelland &
   Stewart, 1922

Had I not read this novel, it's unlikely this wouldn't have made the list. Pagan Love entertained at every turn as a take-down of the burgeoning self-help industry and corporate propaganda. Odd for a man who spent most of his working life writing copy for the CPR.

Dove Cottage
Jan Hilliard [Hilda Kay
   Grant]
London: Abelard-Schulman,
   1958

There are books that grow on you. Reviewing Dove Cottage this past March I likened it to an enjoyable afternoon of community theatre, but it has remained with me in a way that the local real estate agent's performance as George Gibbs has not.

Three Dozen Sonnets &
   Fast Drawings
Bob McGee
Montreal: Véhicule, 1973

This year marked the fiftieth anniversary of Véhicule Press. Three Dozen Sonnets & Fast Drawings was the press's very first book. A pristine copy with errata slip, it appeared to have been unread.

No longer.

Awful Disclosures of Maria
   Monk
Maria Monk
New York: Howe & Bates,
   1836

A first edition copy of the text that launched an industry. Not in the best condition, but after 187 years, much of it being pawed over by anti-papist zealots, what can one expect.

My work on the Maria Monk hoax continues. 


Crimes: or, I'm Sorry Sir,
   But We Do Not Sell
   Handguns to Junkies
Vicar Vicars [Ted Mann]
Vancouver: Pulp, 1973

As far as I know, Crimes is Ted Mann's only book. When published, he was an editor at National Lampoon. The Bombardier Guide to Canadian Authors was in his future, as were NYPD Blue, Deadwood. and Homeland.


What to expect next year? More Allen and Fleming, I'm betting.  Basil King seems likely.