| This blog explores social attitudes in Jane Austen's time, discusses her novels, reviews forgotten 18th century novels, and throws some occasional shade at the modern academy. The introductory post is here. My "six simple questions for academics" post is here. Spoilers abound in my discussion of these forgotten novels, and I discuss 18th-century attitudes which I do not necessarily endorse. |
CMP#249 Laura DeLaunie, the rather typical heroine--except that she's a love child
Fleeing heroine. ChatGPT I was happy to crack open another novel by Mary Charlton because, of all the novelists of this era that I’ve read so far, her style most resembles Jane Austen. That is, some Austenesque free indirect narration and a wry sense of humour is on display in her gothic satire, Rosella, which I’ve reviewed here.
Because The Wife and the Mistress (1802) is not a satire, Charlton does not get to deploy her wit as well as she did in Rosella. There is some dark, slashing satire aimed at the decadent noblemen and women at the heart of the story. The heroine of The Wife and the Mistress is neither the wife nor the mistress; Laura Delaunie is the daughter of the Mistress, who is discarded and paid off by Lord Bellingham when he is captivated by the young daughter of Lady Melville, a scheming society woman. I was surprised at how sympathetically the mistress was portrayed. She does not go off to die of misery and remorse. She withdraws to a quiet village, starts her life over, gets married, and is even accepted by her husband’s family because she gently curbs his financial irresponsibility. She brings up her daughter Laura in the path of virtue and gives her a good education as well. So the Mistress is treated gently by the author while mother-in-law Lady Melville is the villain of the piece. Laura's childhood takes up much of the first volume.
Because The Wife and the Mistress (1802) is not a satire, Charlton does not get to deploy her wit as well as she did in Rosella. There is some dark, slashing satire aimed at the decadent noblemen and women at the heart of the story. The heroine of The Wife and the Mistress is neither the wife nor the mistress; Laura Delaunie is the daughter of the Mistress, who is discarded and paid off by Lord Bellingham when he is captivated by the young daughter of Lady Melville, a scheming society woman. I was surprised at how sympathetically the mistress was portrayed. She does not go off to die of misery and remorse. She withdraws to a quiet village, starts her life over, gets married, and is even accepted by her husband’s family because she gently curbs his financial irresponsibility. She brings up her daughter Laura in the path of virtue and gives her a good education as well. So the Mistress is treated gently by the author while mother-in-law Lady Melville is the villain of the piece. Laura's childhood takes up much of the first volume.
A brief synopsis of four volumes
Lord Bellingham and his bride are soon unhappy, in the usual way married couples living in London are unhappy in these novels. Vortex of dissipation, losing money at cards, casual infidelity, that sort of thing.
Lord Bellingham, also known as the Marquis, takes an interest in his illegitimate daughter when she blossoms into a beauty. So we have the classic displaced heroine coming to live with her rich and snotty relatives, but again, I thought it was interesting that Laura actually is illegitimate, not a foundling who turns out to be a countess or something. Laura's inclusion into the household creates the usual havoc that heroines cause; all the women are jealous of her, especially the Marchioness, because she is drawing the attention of her own lover, Mr. Averne, away from her. The Marchioness runs away and throws herself at Mr. Averne, just as Maria Bertram compromised Henry Crawford in Mansfield Park. The household explodes. The Marquis takes off in pursuit, with his own mistress in tow. Our heroine Laura falls into the clutches of the scheming Lady Melville, who tries to force her into marriage with some randy old nobleman. I didn’t believe this part; I think the randy old nobleman would just want to take her for his mistress, not offer her honourable marriage.
Laura spends two out of the four volumes being helpless and accidentally cut off from any of her friends who can help her, including her maternal aunt, the friendly local clergyman, and that handsome young nobleman she met at the home of the friendly local clergyman. She creates more havoc through no fault of her own and she falls ill as well, which as I've said before, is a good reason for never taking a heroine into your household--you're bound to have to deal with high fevers arising from shock, apothecary's bills, etc. We have the familiar trope of the heroine's virtue being called into question because appearances are against her.
Laura finally summons up the gumption to escape from the wicked old Lady Melville with the help of her loyal but garrulous maid. Another attempt by a different noble relative to force her into marriage with a preening clergyman helps to stretch out the fourth volume.
As I mentioned, the Mistress does not die of remorse. But the runaway Wife does. Deserted by her lover and financially ruined, Lord Bellingham's wife takes her own life. Finally, our heroine and her big crush, Lord Cecil St. Orme, sort things out. We see some letters from him, but we don’t see her reply. As with Austen, there is no big payoff in terms of a marriage proposal scene.
Lord Bellingham and his bride are soon unhappy, in the usual way married couples living in London are unhappy in these novels. Vortex of dissipation, losing money at cards, casual infidelity, that sort of thing.
Lord Bellingham, also known as the Marquis, takes an interest in his illegitimate daughter when she blossoms into a beauty. So we have the classic displaced heroine coming to live with her rich and snotty relatives, but again, I thought it was interesting that Laura actually is illegitimate, not a foundling who turns out to be a countess or something. Laura's inclusion into the household creates the usual havoc that heroines cause; all the women are jealous of her, especially the Marchioness, because she is drawing the attention of her own lover, Mr. Averne, away from her. The Marchioness runs away and throws herself at Mr. Averne, just as Maria Bertram compromised Henry Crawford in Mansfield Park. The household explodes. The Marquis takes off in pursuit, with his own mistress in tow. Our heroine Laura falls into the clutches of the scheming Lady Melville, who tries to force her into marriage with some randy old nobleman. I didn’t believe this part; I think the randy old nobleman would just want to take her for his mistress, not offer her honourable marriage.
Laura spends two out of the four volumes being helpless and accidentally cut off from any of her friends who can help her, including her maternal aunt, the friendly local clergyman, and that handsome young nobleman she met at the home of the friendly local clergyman. She creates more havoc through no fault of her own and she falls ill as well, which as I've said before, is a good reason for never taking a heroine into your household--you're bound to have to deal with high fevers arising from shock, apothecary's bills, etc. We have the familiar trope of the heroine's virtue being called into question because appearances are against her.
Laura finally summons up the gumption to escape from the wicked old Lady Melville with the help of her loyal but garrulous maid. Another attempt by a different noble relative to force her into marriage with a preening clergyman helps to stretch out the fourth volume.
As I mentioned, the Mistress does not die of remorse. But the runaway Wife does. Deserted by her lover and financially ruined, Lord Bellingham's wife takes her own life. Finally, our heroine and her big crush, Lord Cecil St. Orme, sort things out. We see some letters from him, but we don’t see her reply. As with Austen, there is no big payoff in terms of a marriage proposal scene.
A little music, or the delights of harmony (detail), Gillray My review
Charlton’s language in this novel most resembles the balanced formality of Sense and Sensibility, but even more so. Charlton is not nearly as good at idiolects as Austen—that is, making every character sound different and sound like themselves. Just about every character, except for the lower-class ones, expresses themselves in the same ornate and polished style. Here for example is the hero apologizing to the heroine for doubting her virtue and complimenting her at the same time: “yet I might perhaps from the recollection of repeated experience, seek a partial exculpation; for I have been hitherto actually weary of eternally beholding the hypocritical semblance of the varied and amiable qualifications I have never yet found assembled but in that mind I again acknowledge with extreme compunction, to have outraged by injurious suspicions.” Perhaps this way of speaking and writing was something aspirational for the average folk who read these novels.
A minor character, Fanny Meedon, reinforces my contention that in Austen's time the name “Fanny” was more likely to denote someone sweet, gentle, and virtuous, rather than the infamous Fanny Hill. Fanny is the only sane person Laura encounters when she is briefly an inmate of an upscale boarding-house kept by Fanny's mother. The other boarders are hypocritical, superficial, backbiting, competitive society chits who of course are miserable to our heroine because of her beauty and her illegitimacy. Charlton also introduces a character named Horace Nevarc, a whimsical, silly young man. His affected antics might have been comic to her first readers, perhaps even representative of foolish young men of the era, but I think modern readers would find his behaviour both tedious and bewildering.
I've encountered plenty of clergymen while reading these forgotten novels, but never have I met anyone like Austen's creation, Mr. Collins. Mr. Davison and his son, introduced in the fourth volume, come the closest, with their obsequious fawning on their noble patroness, and the son's complacent assurance that of course Laura wants to marry him.
Although Charlton is a talented writer, I think the payoff in this novel is not worth the four volumes of sentimental suffering you must plow through to get there. The cruel treatment and death of the Marquis’s little son seems especially gratuitous. Charlton was better able to unleash her sarcastic wit in Rosella, poking fun of novel tropes, instead of here, where she adheres to them.
Despite going in to a second edition, The Wife and the Mistress received no contemporary reviews.
Charlton’s language in this novel most resembles the balanced formality of Sense and Sensibility, but even more so. Charlton is not nearly as good at idiolects as Austen—that is, making every character sound different and sound like themselves. Just about every character, except for the lower-class ones, expresses themselves in the same ornate and polished style. Here for example is the hero apologizing to the heroine for doubting her virtue and complimenting her at the same time: “yet I might perhaps from the recollection of repeated experience, seek a partial exculpation; for I have been hitherto actually weary of eternally beholding the hypocritical semblance of the varied and amiable qualifications I have never yet found assembled but in that mind I again acknowledge with extreme compunction, to have outraged by injurious suspicions.” Perhaps this way of speaking and writing was something aspirational for the average folk who read these novels.
A minor character, Fanny Meedon, reinforces my contention that in Austen's time the name “Fanny” was more likely to denote someone sweet, gentle, and virtuous, rather than the infamous Fanny Hill. Fanny is the only sane person Laura encounters when she is briefly an inmate of an upscale boarding-house kept by Fanny's mother. The other boarders are hypocritical, superficial, backbiting, competitive society chits who of course are miserable to our heroine because of her beauty and her illegitimacy. Charlton also introduces a character named Horace Nevarc, a whimsical, silly young man. His affected antics might have been comic to her first readers, perhaps even representative of foolish young men of the era, but I think modern readers would find his behaviour both tedious and bewildering.
I've encountered plenty of clergymen while reading these forgotten novels, but never have I met anyone like Austen's creation, Mr. Collins. Mr. Davison and his son, introduced in the fourth volume, come the closest, with their obsequious fawning on their noble patroness, and the son's complacent assurance that of course Laura wants to marry him.
Although Charlton is a talented writer, I think the payoff in this novel is not worth the four volumes of sentimental suffering you must plow through to get there. The cruel treatment and death of the Marquis’s little son seems especially gratuitous. Charlton was better able to unleash her sarcastic wit in Rosella, poking fun of novel tropes, instead of here, where she adheres to them.
Despite going in to a second edition, The Wife and the Mistress received no contemporary reviews.
About the author
History knows nothing about Mary Charlton. I don't know if she had any first-hand exposure to the lifestyles of the titled and decadent. From the evidence of the language she deploys in her novels, she was a highly intelligent woman with an impressive command of English. Yet from the titles alone, you can tell she’s writing melodramatic slop. Andronica, or the Fugitive Bride? Ammorvin and Zallida? And she wrote for Minerva, the low-brow publisher. She was capable of so much more! I suspect she was writing to put bread on the table. Franco Moretti points to an opening passage which employs free indirect narration to give the scheming thoughts of Lady Melville. The narrator switches from giving the thoughts of the villainess to passing judgment on them, and Moretti suspects Charlton felt she had to do that, so her readers wouldn't think she approved of Lady Melville's point of view: "Ideological clarity trumps stylistic elegance."
As Gillian Dow states, Charlton's works were “popular in the period in which they published but [her] works have left no legacy, and [she is] obscure even within the academy.” And the scant online information about The Wife and the Mistress is incorrect.
History knows nothing about Mary Charlton. I don't know if she had any first-hand exposure to the lifestyles of the titled and decadent. From the evidence of the language she deploys in her novels, she was a highly intelligent woman with an impressive command of English. Yet from the titles alone, you can tell she’s writing melodramatic slop. Andronica, or the Fugitive Bride? Ammorvin and Zallida? And she wrote for Minerva, the low-brow publisher. She was capable of so much more! I suspect she was writing to put bread on the table. Franco Moretti points to an opening passage which employs free indirect narration to give the scheming thoughts of Lady Melville. The narrator switches from giving the thoughts of the villainess to passing judgment on them, and Moretti suspects Charlton felt she had to do that, so her readers wouldn't think she approved of Lady Melville's point of view: "Ideological clarity trumps stylistic elegance."
As Gillian Dow states, Charlton's works were “popular in the period in which they published but [her] works have left no legacy, and [she is] obscure even within the academy.” And the scant online information about The Wife and the Mistress is incorrect.
Emma, Lady Hamilton, (1765-1815) Scholarly wrong turns
Sometimes today’s scholars glance into an old novel and make an erroneous assumption, and the error is repeated by others. No biggie, but just for the record, this novel is not a thinly-disguised "account of Horatio Nelson’s affair with the notorious Emma Hamilton.” The error apparently arose with a biographer of Emma Hamilton who thought that the comic sidekick Horace Nevarc (not Nevare, as she has it) was the leading man who courts the heroine. He isn’t. Nevarc marries Laura’s friend, Lord Cecil’s sister. “Nevarc” is “Craven” backwards, so I think Horace Nevarc may well be a satirical portrait of somebody, just not a satire of the hero of Trafalgar. And there is no resemblance to Horatio Nelson. Nor does the Mistress or her daughter resemble Emma, Lady Hamilton's.
However, anyone can make an error. I took a wrong research turn, too. My plan is to read novels which discuss Mary Wollstonecraft. I thought I was looking for a novel titled The Mistress and the Wife, But I got mixed up and read Charlton's The Wife and the Mistress, all four volumes of it. Nothing about Wollstonecraft in this novel, nothing even about the pernicious ideas of the "new philosophers." So, onward with the next four-volume novel.
Sometimes today’s scholars glance into an old novel and make an erroneous assumption, and the error is repeated by others. No biggie, but just for the record, this novel is not a thinly-disguised "account of Horatio Nelson’s affair with the notorious Emma Hamilton.” The error apparently arose with a biographer of Emma Hamilton who thought that the comic sidekick Horace Nevarc (not Nevare, as she has it) was the leading man who courts the heroine. He isn’t. Nevarc marries Laura’s friend, Lord Cecil’s sister. “Nevarc” is “Craven” backwards, so I think Horace Nevarc may well be a satirical portrait of somebody, just not a satire of the hero of Trafalgar. And there is no resemblance to Horatio Nelson. Nor does the Mistress or her daughter resemble Emma, Lady Hamilton's.
However, anyone can make an error. I took a wrong research turn, too. My plan is to read novels which discuss Mary Wollstonecraft. I thought I was looking for a novel titled The Mistress and the Wife, But I got mixed up and read Charlton's The Wife and the Mistress, all four volumes of it. Nothing about Wollstonecraft in this novel, nothing even about the pernicious ideas of the "new philosophers." So, onward with the next four-volume novel.
Previous post: "By the author of two popular novels" Next post: Scenes of Life book review
|
RSS Feed