Uncanny Stories - May Sinclair

To those of us in this particular corner of the blogosphere, where reprint publishers of early twentieth-century women's novels are our bread and butter, the name May Sinclair is probably most closely connected with her 1922 novel Life and Death of Harriett Frean (and perhaps for coining the term 'stream of consciousness', in print).  And a very good novel it is too (my thoughts here.)  What gets less attention is that the following year she published a collection called Uncanny Stories.  Indeed, she was astonishingly prolific, publishing fourteen books in the 1920s alone - and, as Uncanny Stories demonstrates, was not afraid to venture into different genres.

Truth be told, there is only really one story which stands out in this collection, and that is the first one: 'Where Their Fire is not Quenched'.  I'd read it a while ago, and hoped that the others in the collection would match up - sadly they didn't really.  The atmosphere, characters, and writing were all good, but they often follow essentially the same premise: a ghost returns to clear up some unfinished business, usually romantic. I suppose that is as good a ghost story prototype as any, and Sinclair is careful always to incorporate some psychological angle, but 'Where Their Fire is not Quenched' is excitingly original by comparison.  (Oh, and there is 'The Finding of the Absolute', which is a posthumous discussion about adultery and Kant... but that was mostly bizarre.)

The term 'uncanny' had only recently (four years earlier) been used as the title to an influential essay by Freud ('Das Unheimliche') and it is likely that Sinclair deliberately chose her title to connect with his, especially given her interest in psycho-analysis.  But the relationship between sexuality and the supernatural is not hidden in 'Where Their Fire is not Quenched'.

The story concerns Harriott who, like her near-namesake Harriett Frean, misses out on an early chance at love.  No further opportunities present themselves until, after her father's death, she embarks upon an affair with a married man, Oscar.  They spend a fortnight together in the Hotel Saint Pierre, Paris, and the affair drags on... and on...

She tried hard to believe that she was miserable because her love was purer and more spiritual than Oscar's; but all the time she knew perfectly well she had cried from pure boreom. She was in love with Oscar, and Oscar bored her.  Oscar was in love with her, and she bored him.  At close quarters, day in and day out, each was revealed to the other as an incredible bore.

At the end of the second week she began to doubt whether she had ever been really in love with him.

When Harriott wonders whether or not she could marry Oscar, she thinks 'Marriage would be the Hotel Saint Pierre all over again, without any possibility of escape.'  Little does she realise the fate that awaits her after her death... Although she lives many years after the end of her affair, even becoming a deaconess, after her death it is Oscar she sees.

The rest of the story is hauntingly surreal, and incredibly filmic.  It would make a superb short animated feature, actually - think Tim Burton meets Salvador Dali.  Harriott keeps escaping Oscar, running through past memories of a church, her village, her childhood home and garden... but every corner she turns, the rooms and streets rearrange themselves into the corridor of the Parisian hotel.  Sinclair writes this so well, vividly and visually.  I thought that Jean de Bosschere's illustration, which accompanies it, gives a good idea of what Sinclair was trying to convey:

Ineluctably Harriott is forced back to the scene of her loveless affair, overriding everything else she has done.

"In the last death we shall be shut up in this room, behind that locked door, together.  We shall life here together, for ever and ever, joined so fast that even God can't put us asunder.  We shall be one flesh and one spirit, one sin repeated for ever, and ever; spirit loathing flesh, flesh loathing spirit; you and I loathing each other."

"Why? Why?" she cried.

"Because that's all that's left us.  That's what you made of love."

It is unpopular these days for a work of fiction to have a moral; the much-fated quality of 'openmindedness' has led to people being extremely closed-minded in this area.  It was pretty unpopular for stories to have morals even in the 1920s, but Sinclair has dared to.  The story is not so much a warning against adultery as a cry against sexual relationships where there is no love - as such I think the story is very resonant today, and chilling in ways that Gothicised tales of horror cannot be.  It's a shame that the rest of Uncanny Stories is fairly pedestrian - entertaining and diverting enough, but never experimental.  But I do recommend you track down 'Where Their Fire is not Quenched', in or out of this collection.  In fact, you can read a pdf version here...

Life and Death of Harriett Frean

Today we're headed to more Stuck-in-a-Book familiar territory - good old Virago Modern Classics.

I've heard quite a bit about May Sinclair (she first used the phrase 'stream of consciousness', doncha know) but not read anything by her - in Thame I came across Life and Death of Harriett Frean, and, being so short, it leapt immediately to the top of my tbr pile. And I read it in a morning - it's got 184 pages but there's so little text on each one that it's more like 90 pages of an average book. And somehow, in this tiny amount of space, May Sinclair manages to include an entire, long life.

There aren't many incidents in Harriett Frean's life, at least not significant ones. She lives her life as a spinster, in the benevolent shadow of her parents - to the end of her days, she proudly and frequently announces 'I'm Hilton Frean's daughter'. The one event of note is a tangled love triangle (doesn't that sound very like Hollyoaks? Obviously it's nothing of the sort.) Her close friend Priscilla always protests that she will never be married, and forces Harriett to pledge the same vow... when Robin comes along, both their resolves are tested. The novel becomes a 'what might have been' - questioning whether moral choices are black and white, and what happens to those who choose the path not labelled 'happy ever after.'

The thread I found most interesting (and one familiar from other Virago Modern Classics such as The Love Child by Edith Olivier, and The Third Miss Symons by F. M. Mayor, as well as Persephone Books' Alas, Poor Lady by Rachel Ferguson which I must write about soon) is the life of a spinster with her mother. Or, more importantly, the life of a spinster once her mother has died. These paragraphs are subtly rather clever:

Next spring, a year after her mother's death, she felt the vague stirring of her individual soul. She was free to choose her own vicar; she left her mother's Dr. Braithwaite who was broad and twice married, and went to Canon Wrench, who was unmarried and high. There was something stimulating in the short, happy service, the rich music, the incense, and the processions. She made new covers for the drawing-room, in cretonne, a gay pattern of pomegranate and blue-green leaves. And as she had always had the cutlets broiled plain because her mother liked them that way, now she had them breaded.

And Mrs. Hancock wanted to know why Harriett has forsaken her dear mother's church; and when Connie Pennefeather saw the covers she told Harriett she was lucky to be able to afford new cretonne. It was more than she could; she seemed to think Harriett had no business to afford it. As for the breaded cutlets, Hannah opened her eyes and said, 'That was how the mistress always had them, ma'am, when you was away.'

Lives of mutual self-sacrifice have, in the end, benefited neither of them. Sometimes May Sinclair seems to be dragging her novel into polemic territory - not necessarily a bad thing, but I'd question some of Sinclair's advertised morals on occasion - but that aside, Life and Death of Harriett Frean is a slight, sharp view of so many women's situations in the early twentieth century. Not particularly cheerful, it must be said, but very powerful - the blurb compares it to Woolf, and others which I forget, but they're right - if this novel doesn't quite deserve to be considered a classic of Modernism, it's not very far off. What's more, it's in print from Virago - though if I know you, and I think I do, you'll be hunting for the proper green VMC edition...