GOETHE’S FIRST DRAFT OF HIS ‘FAUST’ STORY, CALLED THE ‘URFAUST’ (THE ORIGINAL ‘FAUST’)

This forms a lively drama.  The work of a man in his twenties, like Christopher Marlowe, in relation to his Faustus.  There are scenes of comedy and of love and seriousness.  There are scenes in verse and scenes in prose.  There are songs – some comic, others poignant.

The language moves the action on rapidly and evokes the feelings of the participants vividly.

The core of the story is Faust’s relationship with Gretchen.  Unfortunately, she and her family members suffer the consequences, and Gretchen herself ends up in prison – awaiting execution?  Gretchen refuses to be rescued by Faust and Mephistopheles.  The woman pays! (Bring on feminism!)  Faust and Mephistopheles get away scot-free.  There is no tragedy for them.

Mephistopheles’s role is that of an avuncular pandar.  No pact between Faust and Mephistopheles is shown in this early version (contrast the later Part One).

Here, Faust is not demonstrably at theological fault (contrast Marlowe) but at moral fault.

The later Faust Part One follows this version fairly closely and elaborates upon it and sophisticates it.  Gretchen is pronounced “saved” at the end.  Part Two forms in effect, a totally different, complex work, with hundreds of characters.  (Is it actable?)  Faust avoids damnation (forgiven by Gretchen), and so never suffers a personal tragedy.

MARLOWE

Goethe’s play commences in a similar place to Marlowe’s Faustus, with references to the protagonist’s mastery of philosophy, medicine, law and theology – and magic.  (See below, Appendix 1.)  From then on, the two diverge.

In comparison with Faust and the Urfaust, Marlowe’s version has the merits of being blunt and honest, with a suitable climax and ending.

 

 

Appendix 1. The opening lines of Goethe’s Urfaust.

The play commences with a soliloquy by Faust:

Hab nun ach die Philosophey

Medizin und Juristey,

Und leider auch die Theologie

Durhaus studirt mit heisser Müh.

 

I attach a very free adaptation of the first 28 lines, below, to give an indication of how they come across.

 

I know it all – philosophy,

Medicine, law, bureaucracy,

And sadly too theology,

Sweated over thoroughly.

I remain a stupid fool,

Of rote learning a mere tool.

Doctor and Professor I am called:

With ten years’ teaching I have stalled.

Back and fore and up and down

I lead my pupils, like a clown.

I see that we can nothing know:

It breaks my heart – a heavy blow.

I am smarter than my neighbours –

Pedants, wedded to their labours.

I don’t think of doubts and errors.

Hell and Devil hold no terrors.

But in me is instilled the yearning

To uncover what’s worth learning.

I’d prefer it if our college

Did impart more useful knowledge.

I have no money to my name

And in the wider world no fame.

To make my fortune, avoid the tragic,

I’ll devote myself to magic,

Exercise my mental strength:

Secrets will be revealed at length.

With confidence, instead of doubt,

I’ll teach the things I know about.

 

 

Appendix 2. Johann Wolfgang Goethe (1987), Urfaust, Stuttgart: Philipp Reclam Jun – Epilogue by Robert Petsch

The Epilogue provides a context for the appearance of Goethe’s first version of Faust circa 1775.  Here, the late Professor Petsch wrote as follows (in translation):

Among books offered for sale at 18th century Germany’s trade fairs (e.g. in Frankfurt am Main), which kept old popular books in being, there was to be found an abbreviated version of the Historia von D Johann Fausten (1587)* – a version that revealed the influence of the Age of Enlightenment in its critical attitude to the old legend.  As he reports in his autobiography, Dichtung und Wahrheit (Truth and Poetry), as a boy, Goethe himself read and devoured the story, mislaid it, restored it, and made the content firmly his own.  The figure of the old devil-conjuror on the puppet stage gripped him and made a greater impact on him.   The brilliant Faustus drama by Shakespeare’s greatest predecessor, Christopher Marlowe (which Goethe only got to know later in life) had been taken by English actors to Germany, gradually turned into a popular drama, and reduced to puppet theatre.

In the “clever” 18th century, people no longer wanted to know about the fable; the clergy were annoyed by the inclusion of the Devil; the philosophers of the Enlightenment sensed stultifying superstition; but an enlightened spirit like Gottfried Ephraim Lessing (1729-1781) had an inkling, behind the debased text of the strolling players, of the former poetic significance of the material and applied himself to an up-to-date revival; he did not wish the honest truth-seeker to be lost, despite his straying from the strait and narrow.

Then the younger generation, those of the ‘Sturm und Drang’ (‘Storm and Stress’), to which Goethe himself belonged, brought to the Faust legend a deeper understanding.  In contrast with the Age of Enlightenment, they sought to do justice to the seamy side of life, to understand mankind’s dark impulses and passions, and to take a leap into the incomprehensible.

[*freely translated into English and published (1592) as The Historie of the damnable life and deserved death of Doctor Faustus – the principal source of Marlowe’s own play.]

 

 

 

 

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To go or not to go? Boccaccio, Chaucer, Shakespeare.

TO GO OR NOT TO GO?

Plots of stories and dramas often centre on love rivalries, involving three or four people.

In Giovanni Boccaccio’s Filostrato (14th century), set in the time of the mythical Trojan war, the main characters, Troiolo and Criseida fall in love, have a relationship, but keep it secret.  Unfortunately for them, a personnel exchange is arranged, whereby Criseida is obliged to leave Troy and go over to the other side (the Greek camp), to be with her renegade father.  Then she is wooed by Diomede, and she accepts him in the place of her former lover. Troiolo is left to bewail his fate.

When the lovers first hear about their impending separation, Troiolo proposes to Criseida that they steal away from Troy while they have the chance:

         andiamcene in un’altra regione….

e’ son di qui remote

genti che volentieri ci vedranno….

Fuggiamci, dunque occultamente.

 

[Part 4, from stanzas 144f, Mondadori edition, Milan, 1990]

 

“Let us betake ourselves to another region….There are, remote from here, peoples who will receive us gladly…Wherefore let us make our flight secretly.”

[Translation by Griffin N and Myrick A, Cambridge, Ontario, 1999 – available online.]

In reply, Criseida gives reasons for not taking flight, namely, the adverse consequences for the Trojans’ war against the Greeks (in which Troilus himself plays a great part), and for their own reputations, and indeed for the quality of their relationship.  She promises, instead, to return to Troy ten days after her enforced departure to the Greek camp.  (In the event she does not.)

Filostrato is the main source of Geoffrey Chaucer’s Troilus and Criseyde.  In it, Chaucer’s Troilus makes the same proposal (about leaving together) to his Criseyde.  Troilus assures her that, between them, they do have enough wealth to live on.  He adds:

         And hardily, ne dredeth no poverte,

For I have kyn and fremdes elleswhere

That, though we comen in our bare sherte,

Us sholde neyther lakken gold ne gere

But we been honoured while we dwelt there,

And go we anon; for as in myn entente,

This is the beste, if that ye wole assente.

 

[Book 4, lines 1520ff, Riverside Chaucer, 1987]

 

         And you need have no fear of taking hurt

Through poverty, for I have friends elsewhere,

And kindred; though you came in your bare shirt,

You would not lack for gold and things to wear;

We should be honured if we settled there.

Let us go now, for it is plain to me

This is the best, if you will but agree.

 

[N Coghill’s translation, Penguin, 1971]

 

Criseyde gives reasons similar to those of Boccaccio’s Criseida, and also swears to return to Troy after ten days.  (She does not.)

Now, some of Chaucer’s works are sources for some of those by William Shakespeare.  Chaucer’s Troilus is the principal source for the love plot in Shakespeare’s Troilus and Cressida.  In brief, the story is speeded up; the personality of Cressida suffers in the process.  But Cressida should be seen in context, i.e. as a victim of male oppression; and the reader (or spectator) of the play should ask how many choices she actually has.

I’d like to move on to a very different play, namely, A Midsummer Night’s Dream.  It has often been said that the plots of the Dream are devised by Shakespeare himself and are not derived from other writers.  True, there is a love rivalry plot, to do with Hermia, Lysander, Helena and Lysander.  But as I have said at the beginning, this topic is very common.  Here, the conflicts are resolved, with a happy ending.  In Act 1 Scene 1, Hermia and Lysander are presented with a difficulty – the impending marriage of Hermia, against her will, to Demetrius (her father’s choice).  (Patriarchy!)  As in Boccaccio’s and Chaucer’s Troilus stories, the man suggests to the woman that they take flight, at an early opportunity.  Lysander says, reassuringly:

         I have a widow aunt, a dowager,

Of great revenue; and she hath no child.

From Athens is her house remote seven leagues;

And she respects me as her only son….

If thou lovest me, then

Steal forth thy father’s house tomorrow night,

And in the wood….

There will I stay for thee.

 

[Act 1 Scene 1, lines 156ff, Penguin edition, 1967]

 

Could these lines have been inspired by Shakespeare’s reading of Chaucer?

 

 

Friends for a reason, friends for a season

I have just read the Balkan Trilogy by Olivia Manning (1908-1980), first published in 1987, based on her experiences in Romania and Greece between 1939 and 1941 (i.e. during the Second World War).  It is a story of war, seen from the point of view of numerous civilians caught up in it.

Native Romanians and Greeks feature in the pages; but most of the characters are British – people who have either chosen to live abroad or have been posted there to work for the British Government.

At the very end of the story, Harriet Pringle (principal character) and Guy (her husband) are obliged to flee from Greece as the Germans invade (1941).  Harriet thinks about the scattering of the people they have got to know:

Harriet thought of Charles left behind with the retreating army, of David taken by the enemy, of Sasha become a stranger, of Clarence lost in Salonika, of Alan who would share the fate of the Greeks, and of Yakimov in his grave. Not one of their friends remained except Ben Phipps; the ‘vainest and the emptiest’.

Note that Harriet is a woman in a man’s world; and the above-named are all men.

One conclusion I draw from my reading is that the people named (and others described in the trilogy) are acquaintances and temporary colleagues rather than genuine friends – friends only for a “reason” (e.g. work) and a “season” (the period 1939-41).  Moreover, there are many squabbles among them – they are not united in the face of adversity.

The British exiles go through various emotions as the war continues and the territories of allies and neutrals are lost to the “Axis” – ranging from hope (which turns out to be ill founded) to ironic humour and to worry (even panic).  Finally they get to grips with the practicalities of getting away (or even staying put).  Their predicament is exacerbated by the fact that, while troops can be evacuated from Dunkirk as France falls in 1940, they find themselves on the “wrong” side of Europe – beyond the easy reach of Allied forces that might keep the enemy at bay or rescue them.

The Brits tend to be unrealistic about the true nature of their plight.  (Make some allowance for hindsight, here.)  One can read signs, between the lines, of the gradual but steady decline of the Britain as a world power.

The air of unreality that hangs over the Brits is reinforced by Guy Pringle’s enthusiastic putting on, in Bucharest, Romania, in 1940, of an amateur production of William Shakespeare’s Troilus and Cressida, a play set in the context of the legendary Trojan War.   It is performed to raise the morale of the British residents and to impress the Romanians.  The casting is inspired, and the performances are widely regarded as a success.  But what an incongruous choice!  Shakespeare’s language is difficult in places, especially in this play, even for people whose first language is not English.  Indeed, it is seldom performed.

One characteristic of Troilus and Cressida is the squabbles among the Trojans (whether to keep Helen or to hand her over to the Greeks), balanced with the squabbles among the Greeks (as to how best to restore the authority of Agamemnon while persuading Achilles to return to the front line) – quite apart from the actual war itself.  (See too Homer’s Iliad, while noticing the major differences in plot, characterisation and tone.)

A second feature of Troilus and Cressida is the evidence displayed that both Helen and the eponymous Cressida are women in a man’s world: they can be reduced to the status of bargaining counters – in other words, “articles of trade….weak and oppressed” (see Prof R A Foakes’s  Introduction to the 1987 Penguin edition of the play).  At the same time, none of the male characters can be taken seriously as a hero (with the possible exception of Hector), either in matters of war or in those of love – they are proud and self-serving.  The end of the play is neither tragic nor comic (certainly, it’s not funny).

At the end of Troilus, the war is still going on.  But (outside the framework of the play) Troy will eventually fall.  One Part of Olivia Manning’s Balkan Trilogy is itself called ‘The Fall of Troy’ – a clear allusion made to the momentous Fall of France in 1940.

It so happens that, earlier this year, I had re-read Troilus and Cressida, before reading the Balkan Trilogy for the first time.  The reference to the former, within the body of the latter, came as a pleasant surprise.

Returning to the Trilogy: Harriet Pringle has a mind of her own, intelligence, perception and sensitivity.  However, by virtue of her married status (Britain, 20th century style), and the roles that both she as an individual accepts and that societies as a whole ascribe to her, she trails behind her husband Guy, in his wake; and she makes a series of concessions to his wishes and needs, in order to keep him happy – swallowing her pride but feeling resentment.

The 21st century reader may see things differently from Harriet intellectually while sympathising with her predicament emotionally.  (Make up your own mind.)

The Balkan Trilogy is an excellent read.  You feel you’re there, in time and place.

Troilus and Cressida is an excellent read too.  (You may never get the chance to see it performed.)

Games of the English Throne, Shakespeare style

In several of his plays, from the very early ones, Wm Shakespeare addresses issues of power and politics – politics often carried out through war.  See, for example, Julius Caesar, Antony and Cleopatra and Coriolanus, from the history of Ancient RomeSee too the tetralogy Henry VI Parts 1-3 plus King Richard III, and King John, set in the Middle Ages of England and Wales, which were composed in the early 1590s.

The Henry VI plays paint a bleak picture of a country at war with itself, while also losing territory in France, at the hands of the resurgent French.  The powerful wreak vengeance on their enemies, in cycles of violence.  The continual debates, battles and killings are (arguably) rather repetitive for the reader (or the viewer).  After many battles and murders, Edward Duke of York becomes King Edward IV, displacing Henry VI.  His brother, Richard Duke of Gloucester, awaits his opportunity to seize the crown for himself.  And in the sequel, Richard III, Richard stays his coup d’état and becomes king himself, till supplanted in turn by Richmond (Henry VII).

Richard III has a long history of success in performance.  Shakespeare’s Richard fascinates because of his ambition and single-mindedness and his ability to deceive and to manipulate.  (“Conscience is but a word that cowards use,/Devised at first to keep the strong in awe” [Act 5 Scene 3].)  Some of his wickedness rubs off on his co-conspirators (some discarded by Richard when they oppose him) but they do not match him in intellect and drive, with the possible exception of King Henry VI’s widow, Margaret.

Richard III then gives us a story in black and white colours.  Richard himself – the main character – is a “baddie”.  He gets, though, his “come-uppance”.

Shakespeare lays more murders at Richard’s door than can be fairly blamed on him: the play is not an accurate reflection of history, but it is fun – a guilty pleasure, perhaps.

Like the Henry VI plays, King John is not a popular play – it is seldom performed.  In my opinion, this is a pity, as I see great merit in it.

In King John, there are (I would argue) many important characters, apart from the King himself.  King John is no match for Richard III, in interest.  He is devious and self-serving; he plots against his nephew, Arthur (a rival claimant to the throne); but he ends up being ineffectual and a follower of his counsellors rather than a leader.  As King John declines, in health and in power, the reins of leadership are taken up by others, including a cardinal, who comes close to matching Richard III for deviousness and specious arguments.  The play could be said to end on an anti-climax, in contrast with the climax of Richard III.

The wider distribution of power and influence, among the characters in King John, is, for me a strength rather than a weakness.  Richard III implies that, with the dethronement of one man, all is well that ends well, whereas John ends on a note of ambiguity (albeit coupled with some hope placed in the young King Henry III).

Shakespeare’s early history plays reflect aristocratic societies, where warrior lords are continually engaged in combat – in civil wars in England or in battles in France.  The loyalty of powerful lords has to be won by a king or claimant to the throne and cannot be taken for granted.  Rhetoric is a powerful tool to persuade people to co-operate or even to compel them.

These societies are patriarchal.  Certain female characters in Henry VI assert themselves, particularly, Joan of Arc, Queen Margaret (wife of Henry VI) and Eleanor Duchess of Gloucester; but Joan is executed and Margaret and Eleanor are exiled.  In King John, Blanche is married to the Dauphin, in order to seal an alliance between England and France – apparently with her consent.  But more typically, the ladies use their allotted speeches to express deep grief at their loss of loved ones.  In King John, Constance laments the capture of her son Arthur by King John’s forces, foreseeing his gruesome end; in Richard III, the Duchess of Gloucester (Richard’s mother), Queen Elizabeth (widow of Edward IV) and Queen Anne (Richard’s wife) mourn the grim fate of Edward IV’s young sons (the ‘Princes in the Tower’).

In both King John and in Richard III, there is a dramatic episode where a major character deploys rhetoric to defend his life (or his eyesight) – George Duke of Clarence in Richard III, Prince Arthur in King John.  The Clarence episode (Act 1 Scene 4) is a bravura piece of writing: its length may not be strictly justifiable, in dramatic terms; and Clarence’s dialogue with his murderers is often cut in performance (as the play as a whole is one of Shakespeare’s longest).

To conclude: Richard III is entertaining, because of the brilliance of the title character and because of the “happy ending”.  The merits of the King Henry VI plays and King John lie in their analysis of the exercise of power and the conduct of politics – in the case of John, a particularly cool and ironical examination.

 

Patriarchy and feminism in Cervantes’ ‘Don Quixote’ – the case of Marcela

In the introduction to his translation of Don Quixote (Spanish: Don Quijote), first published by Penguin in 1950, Mr J M Cohen comments on the patriarchy of the Spain of 1600, as reflected in the work.  After condemning the “pastoral convention” of “too eloquent” shepherds and goatherds, which Cervantes appears to accept, the translator goes on to say:

Another feature of our book which takes the contemporary reader aback is what we may call its sexual morality.  This is based on a crude scale of values by which honour is preserved so long as any seduction, is covered up by marriage.

Mr Cohen refers (appropriately) to Don Fernando’s seduction of Dorotea, and his abandonment of her, followed by his abduction of Luscinda, in love with Cardenio.  (This story takes up several chapters of Book One.)

But there is more variation and depth in the work that Mr Cohen allows.  Take the case of Marcela (also in Book One).

On his travels, Don Quixote and his squire Sancho Panza hear the tale of the death of the shepherd Grisóstomo: allegedly, he has died of a broken heart, because the beautiful Marcela has rejected his suit.

Grisóstomo’s friends (and the man himself, in the long poem he leaves behind) go so far as to accuse Marcela of cruelty.

Marcela herself suddenly appears, and she states her case both to the dead man’s friends and to Don Quixote and Sancho Panza.  Marcela accepts that Heaven has made her beautiful; but she argues, forcefully and eloquently, that she is in no way to blame for the shepherd’s death:

Yo conozco, con el natural entendimiento que Dios me ha dado, que todo lo hermoso es amable; mas no alcanzo que, por razón de ser amado, esté obligado lo que es amado por hermoso a amar a quien le ama….Y, según de yo he oído decir, el verdader amor…ha de ser voluntario, y no forzoso.  Siendo así, como yo creo que lo es, ¿por qué queréis que rinda mi voluntad por fuerza, obligada no más de que decís que me queries bien?  Si no, decidme: si como el cielo me hizo hermosa me hiciera fea, ¿fuera justo que me quejara de vosotros porque no me amábades?  Cuanto más, que habéis de considerer que yo no escogí la hermosura….

[Book 1, Chapter 14, Academies’ edition, 2004]

With the natural understanding that God has given me, I recognize that what is beautiful is worthy of love.  But what I don’t understand is that just because a woman is loved because of her beauty, she’s obliged to reciprocate this love….And according to what I’ve heard, true love…must be voluntary and not forced.  If that’s true, and I believe it is, why do you want to force me yield my free will simply because you say love me?  Tell me – what if Heaven, which made me beautiful, had made me ugly instead?  Would it be right for me to complain because you didn’t love me?  What’s more, consider this: I didn’t choose to be beautiful….

[translated by T Lathrop, Alam Classics (Richmond, Surrey), 2014]

And Marcela goes on to remind her listeners that beauty is only skin deep – it is inner purity that matters.  She finishes by saying that she values her own freedom above all.

Good for her!

Marcela’s arguments are persuasive; and Don Quixote himself is persuaded.  He sticks up for Marcela, and he says:

Ninguna persona, de cualquier estado y condición que sea, se atreva a seguir a la Hermosa Marcela, so pena de caer en la furiosa indignación mía.  Ella ha mostrado con claras y suficientes razones la poca o ninguna culpa que ha tenido en la muerte de Grisóstomo y cuán ajena vive de condescender con los deseos de ninguno de sus amantes; a cuya causa es juso que, en lugar de ser seguida y perseguida, sea honrada y estimada de todos los buenos del mundo, pues muestra que en él ella es sola la que con tan honesta intención vive.

Let no one [of] whatsoever [estate or condition] dare to pursue the beautiful Marcela, under the penalty of incurring my furious wrath.  She’s shown with clear words and solid reasons that she has had little or no blame in the death of Grisóstomo, and how distant she is from yielding to the desires of any of her suitors.  Far from being pursued, she should be honoured and revered by all good people in the world, since she shows that she’s the only one who lives by such virtuous intentions.

[tr T Lathrop, modified by DRH]

Good for him!

And, after the burial has been completed, the parties go their separate ways.

 

Finding your tongue – anthologies of Welsh literature

When, at the 2006 National Eisteddfod, I picked up a copy of Welsh Women’s Poetry 1461-2001 (edited by Katie Granich and Catherine Brennan and first published by Honno Press of Aberystwyth in 2003), I found I could not put it down.  My copy suffered from the rain as I read it on my way to the public transport that would take me home.

There is a wealth of material.  There is poetry in both English and Welsh, and the Welsh pieces are accompanied by translations, so it can be appreciated very widely.

Until the 21st century (arguably), literature has been dominated by men and women have largely been invisible (with a few exceptions, eg some great English female novelists).

My 2017 treat to myself is a new compendium of Welsh language poetry and prose, from the first millennium to the present day: The Old Red Tongue – An Anthology of Welsh Literature, edited by Gwyn Griffiths and Meic Stephens and published by Francis Boutle (London) – nearly a thousand pages, for £30.

Unlike the Honno anthology, very nearly all the originals are in Welsh, but like the Honno one, they are accompanied by English translations.  This is excellent, as medieval Welsh is in places difficult to follow for the inexpert.  (So too sometimes is dialect.)

Many of the translations have been made by the renowned Anthony Conran and Joseph P Clancy.  Some pieces have been translated for the first time.

There is are useful introductions both to historical periods and also to individual writers.

I’ll take the liberty of quoting from the publisher’s blurb, which describes the volume as an “anthology of over 300 texts – poems, plays, memoirs, essays, extracts from novels and short stories, hymns, eulogies, elegies, medieval prose, political and theological commentaries – from nearly 200 writers”.

The book does what it says on the cover – the net is cast wide.

In the last hundred years or so, fortunately, women’s voices have come to be heard, whereas in earlier times men dominated.  The female writers are: Gwerful Mechain, Ann Griffiths, Eluned Morgan, Kate Roberts, Marion Eames, Jane Edwards, Eigra Lewis Roberts, Nesta Wyn Jones, Manon Rhys, Menna Elfyn, Christine James, Angharad Tomos, Gwyneth Lewis, Sonia Edwards, Elin ap Hywel, Mererid Hopwood and Meleri Wyn James.  (Still a small minority, but growing.)

There is an extensive bibliography at the end, useful for further reading.

I should add that The Old Red Tongue is one of a “lesser used languages of Europe” series, which includes anthologies of literature in Breton, Manx, Galician, Channel Islands Norman French, Esperanto, Maltese and Occitan.  A worthy enterprise.

(One English language anthology is: Poetry 1900 – 2000 – one hundred poets from Wales, edited by Meic Stephens, first published by Parthian, Cardigan, in 2007.)

Here are feasts for those who love literature and for those who love Wales.

a personal take on allegations of sexual abuse

 

How are leaders and managers supposed to deal with allegations of sexual abuse by employees or with suppliers of services who they do business with?

The principles of natural justice say that one is presumed innocent unless and until guilty.  In practice, nowadays, those are accused are suspended by the employer while investigations are conducted, or (if they are self-employed) find that their services or no longer required.

In many situations, the matter is that of: one person’s word against that of another.  There may be no forensic evidence available.  The allegations may refer to abuse many years ago.  (Why did not the victims complain earlier?  Damaged self-esteem.  Shame.  Patriarchy.  Not being believed.  Having to give evidence and undergo cross-questioning, if the case is to be pursued.  Etc.)

Societies are still learning about this issue.  Victims are gradually gaining the confidence to speak up.  Abusers themselves, and some of those who lack knowledge of the nature and severity of abuse incidents, deny the victims’ veracity and the severity of their suffering.  The abusers add insult to injury.

Perhaps templates are being created.  I hope this goes well – in the interests of victims.

Are allegations to be believed?  Yes.  What benefit is to be gained from the exposure that results from speaking out? None – quite the reverse.

——

My own first contact with sexual abuse occurred in or around 1979 when the social work team I belonged to picked up a complaint by a teenage girl that her stepfather had sexually abused her.  We believed her; and we removed her from the household (her own mother and sister, her stepfather, and two step-siblings).  At the time, there were no guidelines and no research finding available.  We did our best.

Later, in a mental health team, I did my share of initial assessments of people (women) who reported their stories of having been sexually abused – commonly by family members.  The referral to the service could be prompted by a significant event, eg the birth of a daughter.

Everything that I have heard and read since confirms my concern about the gravity of this issue.  I am both pleased and dismayed by the volume of stories that are coming out now.

What next?  Can we learn?  Can we respond appropriately?

The Grey side of John Ruskin

The Grey side of John Ruskin

When I attended Newport (Mon) High School for Boys (established 1896), from 1958 to 1965, there were six “houses”, modelled, like much of the ethos of the school, on English “public” (actually, private) schools.  I fail to remember all the names of the houses.  I do recall that they were named after men – then, all famous.  I belonged to (Isaac) Newton, as my Uncle Ronald (killed in action in 1941) had belonged to it.  Another was named after (John) Ruskin (1819-1900) – eminent polymath, artist and art critic, social, commentator on social and economic and political matters, etc, etc.

Ruskin’s influence in his day is reported to have been enormous, on individuals and on movements.  (Among others, he influenced Marcel Proust, as can be seen, for example, in the chapter, ‘Séjour â Venise’ (‘Staying in Venice’), in À la recherché du temps perdu.)

I have read Proust but never Ruskin.

It appears to me that Ruskin’s many contributions to serious thought have been absorbed by others and hence have come down to us in the ideas of others.

What an extraordinary legacy, then!

What is Ruskin chiefly remembered for nowadays?  Probably, and sadly, his failed marriage (1848-1854) to Euphemia (“Effie”) Gray (1828-1897).  In 1855 she went on to marry the painter John Everett Millais (1829-1896); and she had eight children.

Much has been written and produced about this “triangle” over the years, to the exclusion, to a large extent, of Ruskin’s own merits.

I have just seen, on BBC television, the 2014 film, Effie Gray, which devotes itself exclusively to the matter of the failed marriage and the developing relationship between Effie and Millais.  Much of the content is based on guess-work.

Nothing indecorous is shown.  The acting and scene-setting convey all we (as viewers) need to know.

Ruskin himself is portrayed as unfeeling and patronising towards Effie, and at the same time largely under the control of his own parents.

As a viewer, I longed for Effie to escape from the stifling atmosphere created by the Ruskin family and to escape – to the arms of her admirer, Millais, as that is what she wanted.  A happy ending for her, then, and for Everett, but not for John.

The film makes much of this happy-sad story; but the material for the plot is rather slim.

There remains a larger story to tell about this Victorian sage.

 

 

 

Alys Fowler’s ‘Hidden Nature: A Voyage of Discovery’ (Hodden & Stoughton, 2017)

Tthe title of the book contains a double-entendre.  First, the writer discusses the nature of canals – the botanical, zoological and geological aspects, and the history of their building and uses.  This nature is largely hidden from view – hidden from those who don’t venture on to the towpath or indeed on to the water (as the writer does).  Ms Fowler evokes this nature enthusiastically and in detail – in a blend of objectivity and subjectivity.  She conveys the impact upon her that both the wildlife and the detritus of industry and our throwaway society create.

Secondly, the accounts of her exploration of the canals of the West Midlands (and London too, a bit) are blended with her personal history – her midlife crisis, indeed.   (Well, she is in her late thirties.)  The canal trips provide a way for the writer to re-assess her life and to make life-changing decisions.  (She is a gardener who temporarily abandons her garden.)

In brief, Ms Fowler changes partners.  She is torn, about this.  Her re-orientation takes time and trouble and involves painful feelings.  But she sticks to her decision, once made, and accepts the implications and costs.

Ms Fowler writes about sexuality but not sex.  She writes about herself rather than about her partners – they remain somewhat shadowy, little described.  (This preserves a degree of privacy for them.)  Her account is openly subjective.  The “significant others” would have said something different (of course).

This book is not for everyone.  (I like it.)  Not all will enjoy the canal and nature descriptions.  Not all will accompany the writer on her emotional journey sympathetically.  Some may not go along with her decision to leave one partner and to take up with another.

Worth a look.  Thought-provoking.

Afterthought

Did I mention that Alys leaves her husband for a woman?  No!?

From what I can gather, Alys is not alone in her transition from a relationship with a man to one with a woman.  And the writer is at some pains to say that the former relationship was genuine and fond – implying that it was the right thing at the time (at its time).

I guess we don’t yet know much about what has been termed “sexual fluidity”.