Karleen Koen: Through a Glass Darkly (1986)
My comments on this sweeping historical romance (“the grandest love story ever told”) connect with what I wrote elsewhere about Katherine McMahon (2000). But anachronism is by no means so prominent a feature of Koen's method; you might say that Karleen Koen’s sense of the present is indistinguishable from her sense of the eighteenth century.
It is a vast book, and towards the end is plainly preparing
for its sequel. The end of the grand love story is not the end. As it happens
that accords with our persistent troubled idea that the love story is after all
not quite grand, but qualified in manifold ways, its hero inappropriately old,
an inconstant bisexual whose love for Barbara may not after all be his deepest
(that may have been his love for her grandfather). There is no pretence that
Barbara’s hopeful sketches play any part in his subsequent beginnings of Devane
House – his gigantic dream, which she allowed herself to think of as “their
dream”. He dies, it seems, hardly aware of her –- there is no sugary concord
here. He is ruined and disgraced. Barbara’s happiness coincides with, but does
not redeem, a profoundly corrupt Parisian milieu and the death of all her
younger brothers and sisters from smallpox. These are not flaws. In Barbara’s
tumultuous day-to-day experience everything co-exists, as in life.
You know what kind of a book this is, of course. Which
almost blinds you to its unpredictability: to Philippe, Harry, Mary, Thérèse,
the smallpox, the sodden father, the duel, the Bubble. No story goes the way it
should. Everyone is a victim. The characters are effortlessly maintained, but
the tie between character and destiny is intangible. Diana (Barbara’s whorish,
mercenary mother) is an arbitrary exception – her stupid resilience pleases us
in the end. She begins to assume, when nothing else can, the halo of comedy; a
surprising discovery, the kind of thing that may happen when you write without
bother about critics, knowing you will attract none (I don't count).
The story is well-laden with goods (Roger is very rich). One
of Karleen Koen’s characteristic sentence-forms is the rushed list, separated
by “and”s:
It was Christmas Eve. Saylor House was bustling with
servants cleaning floors, polishing furniture and silver. Delicious smells of
roasting capon and goose and turkey wafted from the kitchen. Various sets of
small tables were being moved into the great parlour and the hall and set with
heavy damask trimmed in lace and china plates and silver forks and spoons and
knives and cups and salt cellars. It would be a late supper, at eight, and then
the adults would stay up toasting the evening and watching the yule log burn...
This is 1715. Lest you doubt, turkey had been a popular Christmas
dish in England
since around 1650. The author’s research throughout is fairly impeccable but the
syntax proclaims that anyway all the detail is to be flown through in pursuit
of the elusive tissue of a life that won’t stop going on. The other
characteristic sentence-form is the one-word sentence, usually a name. Roger. Barbara.
These sentences are like stabs, their meaning comprising whole passages of
experience that are signposted as adequately though of course as drastically as
we name a dot on a map as :-- London.
Her grandmother had saved the letter, giving it
silently back to her; she read it and reread it until it tore along its
creases. I am not a fool, he wrote, I know there is much to be explained
between us. Philippe. Who smiled at her under the great dome of Roger’s
pavilion of the arts. If Roger thought she would pack her trunks and rush
headlong to London
tohis waiting arms, he had another thought coming. (Besides, she had rushed
headlong once, already, in the spring, and he had not even realized it. Rushed
headlong into Philippe’s smile. Like running into a wall.) She would wait. She
would let her heart tell her what to do, and she would not make one move from Tamworth until she was certain. Roger could wait . . . as she had waited. She still had much
to deal with. There were dark dreams of her father and of Jemmy. Of Charles and
Richelieu, who opened their arms to her, but somehow she could never reach
them. She had to understand it all. And herself. Roger, wait. As I have waited.
Ah, Roger, the girl who loved you in Paris
does not exist, and the heart of the one who does is so hard . . . it needs to
soften. I need time to heal, to forgive and forget . . .
It doesn’t much matter what Barbara’s heart tells her;
unknown to her, Roger is already dying. Yet because we share Barbara’s
experience we will continue to feel that what the heart tells matters totally.
What other people may tell is nothing, it’s of no consequence unless the heart
accords with it and absorbs it into its own telling.
This is what Roger says to Barbara in the last few months of
his life, the last thirty pages of his life.
‘Behind,’ he whispered. ‘The French
are massed behind . . .’
‘Barbara.’ He croaked out her name.
‘H-hurts.’
(After her performance in the Christmas play) Roger
stared at her, his mouth compressed. ‘I hurt . . .’
‘I . . . love . . . you . . .’
*
This was Karleen Koen's first book, and at the time it set some kind of record for a publisher's advance to a new author. She has now written four books, all ,I think, set in the eighteenth century.
This was Karleen Koen's first book, and at the time it set some kind of record for a publisher's advance to a new author. She has now written four books, all ,I think, set in the eighteenth century.
Labels: Karleen Koen
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home