Agostino by Alberto Moravia (1944)

This is a short novel of growing up. There are many of those, but this is special, for one main reason: the author's capacity for seeing into, and representing, emotional states. We start with thirteen year old Agostino on the beach in Italy with his mother, to whom he is very attached. His father is dead. His mother is still young and attractive, and she garners the attention of a young man who wants to take her out on his raft. She uses Agostino as an insurance policy, requiring that he come along too. The reader feels the hot Italian sun baking down on them and somehow sees the historical epoch easily as well; the thirties' era of burgeoning fascism, emerging public sensuality and painted stylishness is present without being overtly delineated. Agostino's mind is changing, and he becomes fascinated by his mother's difference of behaviour with this young man, and senses the heat and excitement under her politeness. But he also resents the young man for his intrusion. Eventually, more and more disturbed by it, he invents excuses not to be around them and wanders off down the beach to a more populated area where boats are hired out. He falls in with a gang of young ruffians who help with the boats, and it becomes clear for the first time that he is a wealthy boy who is somewhat sheltered, someone the gang can rib mercilessly. Their knowledge of the sexual parts of life and their references to his mother and the young man in relation to them leave Agostino nonplussed. They act out the act for him in explanation! Agostino tries hard to fit in with this new group, feeling left out and low, and way behind the eight ball. Over several days his eyes are opened; he comes again to the beach - they're all away playing at a nearby estuary, so the older fellow who seems vaguely in charge offers to sail Agostino round the bay to join them. On the way there he makes Agostino lie in the bottom of the boat with him, holding him tight, asking him to recite poetry, which is presumably a kind of clumsy beginning to sexual advances. When the gang see the two of them arrive, they're awake immediately to the implications of spending time with Saro in his boat, and again Agostino learns something about the world he never knew before, in muted and uncertain tones, with their incessant ribbing which he only partly understands. On the last day one of the older boys points out a brothel. Agostino, feeling that he must prove himself to himself and to the gang, and also put a stop to his disturbed relationship with his mother (he has been looking at her with new eyes and not liking what he sees), decides that he must take the opportunity the brothel offers to sever himself from his old life altogether. Wangling money from his mother, he presents the eldest boy with it, saying that he can pay for them both. As the two of them enter the brothel the eldest boy is allowed in but Agostino is treated like a child and chased out. We leave him at that point, disgusted, upset, and still blindly wondering how he'll put up with what seems like years of frustration ahead. Moravia has an unerring ear for the stages of emotional attachment and psychological development and their circuitous courses, and makes this slim piece ring with truth.

The Pimlico Murder by Kate Clarke (2011)

Ever had a friend or workplace colleague who didn't quite fit? Perhaps they spoke another language or had another culture as their first, or responded coolly when others would be warm? Then imagine how that difference works when they're associated with a murder, particularly how people who know them less well than you do might react to their unexpected reactions. I guess someone who will know well what I'm talking about is Joanne Lees, the cool-minded girlfriend of Peter Falconio, who went missing in the Australian outback. Simply by being a cool-tempered one, and admitting they were possibly going to break up, whole extra oceans of suspicion were cast upon her. I think the subject of this book might well have known the same feeling. The case is a celebrated one, whereby a youngish woman, Adelaide Bartlett, was accused of the chloroform murder of her husband in 1886. There were loads of elements against a clear vision of them from the start: she was partly French and spoke with a strong accent; they were devotees of "unusual practices" seen from the Victorian standpoint, and owned books covering abortion, birth control and advanced (some might say cultish) marital psychology; these advanced ideas had led to advanced practices - she was entertaining another man with her husband's blessing; he was a secretly intense, hypochondriacal and overemotional man with a suave and ordinary outer self; and, critically, she had a very cool manner. Seeing this crux of circumstances, one would have to hope and pray that nothing untoward happened, because all hell could break loose! And of course, that's exactly what happened. This case, though, to do the author of this book justice, has more to it than that. Adelaide was aware to some extent of how things looked, and tried in some ways to cover up some of the more outre aspects of the case. There was definitely cause, at the very least, to investigate her thoroughly, as things looked bad from some angles. But the interesting thing to do is to apply psychology to all the facts, particularly as presented not in this book, which has made its mind up from the start, given the title, but in Sir John Hall's excellent trial edit from 1927, Trial of Adelaide Bartlett. If the reader of that keeps all the facts ticking over in their head, and then figuratively throws them up into the air to see where they naturally land, and has a modicum of what might be called psychological acuity, some very interesting conclusions can be reached. So many things that Adelaide said herself, and admitted to when questioned, she needn't have - they served to further incriminate her. If she was a criminal mastermind, it must have been a very intermittent quality. And, unfortunately, that is exactly what the author of this book contends - and is forced to some quite strange comments by the weight of that contention. A number of times she is puzzled as to why Adelaide would have mentioned such-and-such, and is forced back onto the criminal genius conclusion, or to speculate wildly about her motivations. I am with Clarke in a few of her musings - looking at the case without a preordained conclusion about Adelaide's guilt or innocence, I feel a number of scenarios are possible, including some level of involvement by Adelaide in her husband's 'assisted' suicide, or some accident of administration of the chloroform, either by Adelaide or Edwin himself, her husband. The ramifications and inherent interest of this case had me when I first read Hall's book a few years ago and remain strong with me; this doesn't add a lot to them, and is hampered by its conclusion-in-advance, though I respect Clarke for putting her cards on the table if that's how she sees it. Adelaide was found not guilty, but the jury made a point of saying that grave suspicion attached itself to her. I don't think the suspicion is so much grave, as circumstantial, and, at this distance in time, unsolvable.

The Luck of the Vails by EF Benson (1901)

What a lovely thing. This book is your classic Christmas confection, or two-part BBC number on consecutive Sunday nights. I had it cast within the first few chapters and it played out brilliantly. Harry Vail starts out as a serious young man, in his early twenties, and newly master of Vail, his sizeable country house somewhere between Marlborough and Bath by the way Benson describes it. His only other near blood relative is his aged Uncle Francis, who is living there in some reclusion, as much earlier in the century he was involved in an accidental shooting, from any culpability in which he was absolved, but socially suspicion has lingered. Harry also has his very good friend Geoffrey, his own age and a schoolchum of long standing, who knocks around with him. As Harry is deciding what he'll do with Vail, he comes up to London on occasion and sees an old family friend, Lady Oxted. Soon from overseas she also welcomes Evie, the young and just out daughter of a good friend, to stay. The problem is that Evie's mother is the sister of the young man who was shot in Uncle Francis' accident all those years ago, and her mother is one of those who believes insistently in Uncle Francis' guilt. Needless to say, at Lady Oxted's Harry and Evie meet and fall in love. But the idea of anyone in Evie's family being even friendly to a Vail is horrifying. However, the worldly Lady Oxted manages very carefully and strategically to calm the waters, and, with reservations by Evie's mother, their marriage date is set. Meanwhile, in organising and tidying at Vail, Harry discovers, tucked away in an attic in a disused part of the house, an extraordinary kind of large jewelled cup. His Uncle Francis perks up enormously and takes him to a portrait of a forebear, explaining that he has found The Luck, as it has been known, which had been assumed lost. There is a legend that goes with it, which gives the warning that the owner shall go through three ordeals, by fire, rain and frost. They clean up the piece, and are amazed by its beauty - it is made of glowing gold, and elegantly encrusted with jewels of extraordinary value. Their attention is grasped by it and it begins to sit on the table every time they dine. To cut a long story short, Harry goes through three accidents at Vail very soon after, associated with those three same elements, but he and Geoffrey scoff at the idea of the legend and regard it firmly as a coincidence, or at least Geoffrey does. After this, Harry and Evie's marriage is announced, and she and Lady Oxted come down to Vail for a visit. While out on a walk with Uncle Francis, Evie thinks she sees Harry canoodling with a local lass, and Uncle Francis, instead of pooh-poohing the idea, asks her to be forgiving toward Harry. It turns out that it isn't Harry, but a groom who looks a lot like him, and it is our first proper uneasiness about Uncle Francis, who seems, despite all his wide-eyed bonhomie, to be angling for the marriage not to take place. Soon all are swept up into a melee of suspicion and disbelief, involving the visits of a suspicious doctor and the possible truth of the old accusations against Uncle Francis, who would inherit the estate and, very importantly, The Luck, if Harry were out of the way. Other 'accidents' take place, each more worrying than the last, in each of which Uncle Francis is obliquely involved, or, as Geoffrey soon believes, not so obliquely. Finally, after much manoeuvring, the scene is set with the sun setting and a heavy mist drifting over the estate all round the house; our fingers are crossed that the now co-opted and believed doctor is who he says he is, and will do what he says he'll do, to prevent Uncle Francis, whom he claims is mad and trying to kill Harry and secrete away The Luck. Will he be successful in his complicated plan, with the help of Geoffrey and the groom? Well, I can say the payoff is good. This is a classically managed tale of great entertainment value, and Benson, when he's on form, is the equal of many a writer with a better reputation.

Commonplace Book

'...two of them said: "We'll show him what they do," and gave a demonstration on the hot sand, jerking and writhing in each other's arms. Sandro, satisfied with his success, went off alone to finish his cigar.

"Do you understand now?" asked Saro, as soon as the din had died down.

Agostino nodded. In reality he hadn't so much understood as absorbed the notion, rather as one absorbs a medicine or poison, the effect of which is not immediately felt but will be sure to manifest itself later on. The idea was not in his empty, bewildered and anguished mind, but in some other part of his being; in his embittered heart, or deep in his breast, which received it with amazement. It was like some bright, dazzling object, which one cannot look at for the radiance it emits, so that one can only guess its real shape. He felt it was something he had always possessed but only now experienced in his blood.'

from Agostino by Alberto Moravia (second section)

The Red Lily by Anatole France (1894)

I started out wondering if this was a very elaborate joke - the 'typical' France would have been likely to tell one of this nature, and many of his subsidiary characters here have comic undersides and satiric overtones. But it turns out that this is a tragedy told from within this nest of humour. Countess Therese Martin-Belleme is a standard privileged Parisienne of her period, married to a politician, interested in the arts, with a lover in tow. And France has her be a very beautiful coquette: the moment her lover doesn't quite come up to the mark in terms of minute attention, she ditches him capriciously and seeks another. This other is sculptor Jacques Dechartres, and he's smitten. Her former lover, Le Menil, is lost and nonplussed at being so unceremoniously thrown over and dips into depression. Around all this secretive angling, their world swings on. Their immediate set is constructed of largely subtle comic personalities: Choulette, a big, blowzy, original thinker, who feels all sorts of brotherhood toward the poor and yet is a confirmed monarchist; Madame Marmet, a nervous, ferret-like woman who talks too much; Vivian Bell, an Englishwoman of great exclamative energy, who is in love with Tuscany and the mood of Italy as a panacea for the world's ills, based on the writer Vernon Lee I think, and likened to her openly by France; and her friend Prince Albertinelli, a slightly bitchy and effeminate type who is apparently in love with Miss Bell (a sideglancing reference to Vernon Lee's lesbianism and the possibility of a mariage de convenance?). To get away from the reawakening attempts at reconciliation by Le Menil, Therese decides to go to Florence to stay with Miss Bell and the others, and Dechartres 'just happens' to head there too. It is here that things change for Therese: her feelings grow more and more intense for Jacques as they meet in a hired room which they decorate themselves to create their idyll. He is overwhelmed by her, and this feeds his jealousy. He sees her send a letter to Le Menil; Le Menil then turns up in Florence and he catches Therese talking to him at the station. Therese has not been completely honest with him about her relation to Le Menil, but doesn't think it matters as her attention is fully taken now by the growing realisation of her love for Dechartres; she is simply dismissing Le Menil insistently from her life. Jacques is troubled by jealousy but she manages to 'convince' him that all is as it seems. Back in Paris, at the opera, Le Menil corners her in her box, saying that he will wait for her in their old trysting place, still gamely hoping. Unfortunately Jacques is just behind the inner door, hears the exchange, and is devastated at her dishonesty. She seeks him out, and desperately tries to reassure him one more time, this time by telling the truth, emphasising how much his love has changed things for her since her time with Le Menil, but it's too late: all he can say is 'I don't believe you!' in agonized and agitated tones. The trust in their connection is gone. This reads almost like it was France's attempt to emulate the more typical French novelists of his day, like Flaubert, Daudet and Maupassant, in a wide sweep of fateful tragic love. He's a fine enough writer that it's sadly convincing, and he retains enough counterbalancing humour in the supporting cast to ballast the portrait.

Commonplace Book

'There were times when she felt like someone who had chosen to pander to the whims of a despotic interior decorator. The propriety of taking part in the performance struck her as dubious. Minds operate on so many levels at once: there was a limit beyond which he might not go without destroying her feelings for him. Since she had somehow placed her life in him, the danger was great indeed. He approached her at night, but the essential grievance, he himself, remained under lock and key. She might have been a handsome woman whose geography he had grown used to in a brothel.

Across the table she glanced at him. Where had he gone, that lover, that loved one? She sat with Stephen's effigy. He was the tomb of them both. Like a wraith, she visited the stone images. Eating, they continued to skirmish, silently sustaining thorny scratches, haemorrhages, and blows of extreme subtlety and variety. Last night - reconciliation, now these calculating looks, and in each chest Zoe saw the grinding stones turn again, and the sharpening-up proceed. The stakes were so high, although occasionally they both forgot what they were, as generals in the midst of battle must have trouble recalling the philosophy on which the carnage rests.'

from In Certain Circles by Elizabeth Harrower (Part Three)

Commonplace Book

'"...I know you think Lily's no judge of character. But it isn't the only capacity worth anything in life."

But Zoe looked down dully. "She's not alone in that. But it is the only capacity worth anything." Almost desperately, she looked up. "It is. It is. It's sanity. It's being sane. There may be better things than seeing dead straight, but not many from where I stand. Because if you don't, you're dangerous."

"Or in danger, or both."'

from In Certain Circles by Elizabeth Harrower (Part Three)