A  /  B  /  C  /  D  /  E  /   F  /  G  /  H  /  I  /  J  /   K  /  L  /  M  /  N  /  O   P  /  R  /  S  /  T  /  U  /  V  /  W  /  X  /  Y  /  Z

The Price of Things by Elinor Glyn

E >> Elinor Glyn >> The Price of Things

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17



It was this instinct alone which had prompted her to acquire a smattering
of education--and with the quick, adaptive faculty of a monkey she had
been able to use this to its utmost limits, as well as her histrionic
talent--no mean one--to gain her ends. She was now playing the role of a
lady, and playing it brilliantly she knew--and here was Hans back again,
and suggesting that when she had secured all the information that he
required from Stanislass she should return to him!

"Tra la la!" she said to herself, there in the room at the Hotel Astoria,
where she had gone to meet him, "think this if it pleases you! It will
keep you quiet and won't hurt me!"

For the moment she wanted Hans--the man, and was determined to waste no
further time on useless discussion. So she began her blandishments,
taking pride in showing him her beautiful garments, and her string of big
pearls; each thing exhibited between her voluptuous kisses, until Hans
grew intoxicated with desire, and became as clay in her hands.

"It is not thy pig-dog of a husband I wish to kill!" he said, after one
hour had gone by in inarticulate murmurings. "Him I do not fear--it is
the Russian, Verisschenzko, who fills me with hate--we have regard of
him, he does not go unobserved, and if you allure him also among the
rest, beyond the instructions which you had, then there will be
unpleasantness for you, my little cat--thy Hans will twist his bear's
neck, and thine also, if need be!"

"Verisschenzko!" laughed Harietta, "why, I hardly know him; he don't
amount to a row of pins! He's Stanislass' friend--not mine."

Then she smoothed back Hans' rather fierce, fair moustache from his lips
and kissed him again--her ruby ring flashing in a ray of sunlight.

"Look! isn't this a lovely jewel, Hans! My old Stannie gave it to me only
some days ago--it is my new toy--see--"

Hans examined it:

"Thou art a creature of the devil, Harietta, there is not one of thy evil
qualities of greed and extortion which I do not know. Thou liest to me
and to all men--the only good thing in thee is thy body--and for that all
men let thee lie."

Harietta pouted.

"I can't understand when you talk like that, Hans--it's all warbash, as
we said out West. What are qualities? What is there but the body anyway?
Great sakes! that's enough for me, and the devil is only in story books
to frighten children--I'm just like every other woman and I want to have
a good time."

"I hear that you are going to London soon," said Hans, dropping the
tutoyage and growing brutally severe, "to conquer new lovers and to wear
more dresses? But there you will be of great use to me. Your instructions
will be all ready in cypher by Tuesday night, when you must meet me at
whatever point is convenient to you, after nine o'clock--here, perhaps?"

Harietta frowned--she had other views for Tuesday night.

"What shall I gain by coming, or by going on with this spying on Stan?
I'm tired of it all; it breaks my head trying to take in your horrid old
cypher. I don't think I'll do it any more."

The Prussian's face grew livid and his mouth set like an iron spring. He
looked at her straight between the eyes, as a lion tamer might have done,
and he took a cane from where it laid on a bureau near.

"Until you are black and blue, I will beat you, woman," he said, "as I
have done before--if you fail us in a single thing--and do not think we
are powerless! It shall be that you are exposed and degraded, and so lose
your game. Now tell me, will you go on?"

Harietta crouched in fear, just animal, physical fear--she had felt that
stick, it was a nightmare to her, as it might have been to a child. She
knew that Hans would keep his word. His physical strength had been one of
the things she had adored in him--but to be degraded and exposed, as well
as beaten, touched her sensibilities, after all the trouble she had taken
to become a lady of the world! This was too much. No! Tiresome as all
these old papers were, she would have to go on--but since he threatened
her she would pay him out! The Russian should have papers as well! And so
there was good in all things, since now material advantage would come
from both sides. Was it not right that you looked to yourself, especially
when menaced with a stick?

She laughed softly; this was humorous and she could appreciate such kind
of humour.

Hans crushed her in his arms.

"Answer!" he ordered gutturally. "Answer, you fiend!"

Harietta became cajoling--no one could have looked more frank or simple,
as simple as she looked to all great ladies when she would disarm them
and win her way. She would look up at them gently, and ask their advice,
and say that of course she was only a newcomer and very ignorant, not
clever like they!

"Hans, darling, I was only joking, am I not devoted to your interests and
always ready to serve you and the higher powers whom you serve? Of
course, I will come on Tuesday night and, of course, I will go on."

She let her lip tremble and her eyes fill with tears; they were quite
real tears. She felt the hardship of having to weary her brain with a new
cypher, and self-pity inflames the lachrymose glands.

"To business then, _mein liebchen_--attend carefully to every word. In
England you must be received by Royalty itself, and you must go into the
highest circles of the diplomatic and political world. The men are
indiscreet there; they trust their women and tell them secret things. It
is the women you must please. The English are a race of fools; numbers
are aristocrats in all classes and therefore too stupid to suspect craft,
and those who are not are trying to appear to be, and too conceited to
use their wits. You can be of enormous use to our country, Harietta, my
wife," and he walked up and down the room in his excitement, his hands
clasped behind him--he would have been a very handsome man but for his
too wide hips.

Marietta looked at him out of the corner of her eye; she did not notice
this defect in him, for her he was a splendid male, with a delightful
quality of savagery in love which she had found in no other man except
Verisschenzko--Verisschenzko! Her thoughts hesitated when they came to
him--Verisschenzko was adorable, but he was a man to be feared--much more
than Hans. Him she could always cajole if she used passion enough, but
she had the uncomfortable feeling that Verisschenzko gave way to her only
when--and because--he wanted to, not for the reason that she had
conquered him.

"Of great use to our country, Harietta, my wife," Hans murmured again,
clearing his throat.

"I am not your wife, my pretty Hans!" and she raised her eyebrows, and
curled one corner of her upper lip. "You gave me up at the bidding of the
higher command--I am your mistress now and then, when I feel
inclined--but I am Stanislass' wife. I like a man better when I am his
mistress; there are no tiresome old duties along with it."

Hans growled, he hated to realise this.

"You must be more careful with your speech, Harietta. When you get to
England you must not say 'along with it'--after the pains I have taken
with your grammar, too! You can use Americanisms if they are apt, and
even a literal translation of another language--but bad grammar--common
phrases--pah! that is to give the show away!"

Harietta reddened--her vanity disliked criticism.

"I take very good care of my language when it is necessary in the
world--I am considered to have a lovely voice--but when I'm with you I
guess I can enjoy a holiday--it's kind of a rest to let yourself go," her
pronunciation lapsed into the broadest American, just to irritate him,
and she stood and laughed in his face.

He caught her in his arms. She never failed to appeal to his senses; she
had won him by that force and so held his brute nature even after five
years. This was always the reason of whatever success she secured. A man
had no smallest doubt as to why he was drawn; it was a direct appeal to
the most primitive animal nature in him. The birth of Love is ever thus
if we would analyse it truly, but the spirit fortunately so wraps things
in illusion that generally both participants really believe that the
mutual attraction is because of higher emotions of the mind, and so they
are doomed to disappointment when passion is sated, unless the mind
fulfills the ideal. But if the reality fails to make good, the refined
spirit turns in disgust from the material, unconsciously resentful in
that it has suffered deception. With Harietta this disappointment could
never occur, since she created no illusion that she was appealing to the
mind at all, and so a man if he were attracted faced no unknown quality,
but was aware that it was only the animal in him which was drawn, and if
his senses were his masters, not his servants, her victory was complete.

After some more fierce caresses had come to an end--there was no delicacy
about Harietta--Hans continued his discourse.

"There has come here to Paris a young man of the name of
Ardayre--Ferdinand Ardayre--he is slippery, but he can be of the greatest
value to us. See that you become friends--you can reach him through Abba
Bey. He hates his brother who is the head of the family and he hates his
brother's wife--for family reasons which it is not necessary to waste
time in telling you. I knew him in Constantinople. Underneath I believe
he hates the English--there is a slur on him."

"I have already met him," and Harietta's eyes sparkled. "I hate the wife
also for my own reasons--yes--how can I help you with this?"

"It is Ferdinand you must concentrate on; I am not concerned with the
brother or his wife, except in so far as his hate for them can be used to
our advantage. Do not embark upon this to play games of your own for your
hate--you may be foolish then and upset matters."

"Very well." The two objects could go together, Harietta felt; she never
wasted words. It would be a pleasure one day, perhaps, to be able to
injure that girl whom Verisschenzko certainly respected, if he was not
actually growing to love her. Harietta did not desire the respect of men
in the abstract; it could be a great bore--what they thought of her never
entered her consideration, since she was only occupied with her own
pleasure in them and how they affected herself. Respect was one of the
adjuncts of a good social position; and of value merely in that aspect.
But as Verisschenzko respected no one else, as far as she knew, that must
mean something annoyingly important.

Seven o'clock struck; she had thoroughly enjoyed being with Hans, he
satisfied her in many ways, and it was also a relaxation, as she need not
act. But the joys of the interview were over now, and she had others
prepared for later on, and must go back to the Rhin to dress. So she
kissed Hans and left, having arranged to meet him on the Tuesday night
here in his rooms, and having received precise instructions as to the
nature of the information to be obtained from Ferdinand Ardayre.

Life would be a paradise if only it were not for these ridiculous and
tiresome political intrigues. Harietta had no taste for actual intrigue,
its intricacies were a weariness to her. If she could have married a rich
man in the beginning, she always told herself, she would never have mixed
herself up in anything of the kind, and now that she _had_ married a rich
man, she would try to get out of the nuisance as soon as possible.
Meanwhile, there was Ferdinand--and Ferdinand was becoming in love with
her--they had met three times since the Montivacchini ball.

"He'll be no difficulty," she decided, with a sigh of relief. It would
not be as it had been with Verisschenzko, whom she had been directed to
capture. For in Verisschenzko she had found a master--not a dupe.

When she reached the beautiful Champs-Elysees, she looked at her diamond
wrist watch. It was only ten minutes past seven, the dinner at the
Austrian Embassy was not until half-past eight. Dressing was a serious
business to Harietta, but she meant to cut it down to half an hour
to-night, because there was a certain apartment in the Rue Cambon which
she intended to visit for a few minutes.

"What an original street to have an apartment in!" people always said to
Verisschenzko. "Nothing but business houses and model hotels for
travellers!" And the shabby looking _porte-cochere_ gave no evidence of
the old Louis XV. mansion within, converted now into a series of offices,
all but the top flooring looking on to the gardens of the _Ministere_.

Verisschenzko had taken it for its situation and its isolation, and had
converted it into a thing of great beauty of panelling and rare pictures
and the most comfortable chairs. There was absolute silence, too, there
among the tree tops.

Madame Boleski ascended leisurely the shallow stairs--there was no
lift--and rang her three short rings, which Peter, the Russian servant,
was accustomed to expect. The door was opened at once, and she was taken
through the quaint square hall into the master's own sitting-room, a
richly sombre place of oak boiserie and old crimson silk.

Verisschenzko was writing and just glanced up while he murmured
Napoleon's famous order to Mademoiselle George--but Harietta Boleski
pushed out her full underlip and sat down in a deep armchair.

"No--not this evening, I have only a moment. I have merely come, Stepan,
you darling, to tell you that I have something interesting to say."

"Not possible!" and he carefully sealed down a letter he had been writing
and put it ready to be posted. Then he came over and took some
cigarettes from a Faberger enamel box and offered her one.

Harietta smoked most of the day but she refused now.

"You have come, not for pleasure, but to talk! Sapristi! I am duly
amazed!"

Another woman would have been insulted at the tone and the insinuation in
the words, but not so Harietta. She did not pretend to have a brain, that
was one of her strong points, and she understood and appreciated the
crudest methods, so long as their end was for the pleasure of herself.

She nodded, and that was all.

Verisschenzko threw himself into the opposite chair, his yellow-green
eyes full of a mocking light.

"I have seen a brooch even finer than the ruby ring at Cartier's
just now--I thought perhaps if I were very pleased with you, it
might be yours."

Harietta bounded from her chair and sat upon his knee.

"You perfect angel, Stepan, I adore you!" she said. He did not return the
caresses at all, but just ordered:

"Now talk."

She spoke rapidly, and he listened intently. He was weighing her words
and searching into their truth. He decided that for some reason of her
own she was not lying--and in any case it did not matter if she were not,
because he had resources at his command which would enable him to test
the information, and if it were true it would be worth the brooch.

"She has been wounded in some way, probably physically, since nothing
less material would affect her. Physically and in her vanity--but who can
have done it?" the Russian asked himself. "Who is her German
correspondent? This I must discover--but since it is the first time she
has knowingly given me information, it proves some revenge in her goat's
brain. Now is the time to obtain the most."

He encircled her with his arm and kissed her with less contemptuous
brutality than usual, and he told her that she was a lovely creature, and
the desire of all men--while he appeared to attach little importance to
the information she vouchsafed, asking no questions and re-lighting a
cigarette. This forced her to be more explicit, and at last all that she
meant to communicate was exposed.

"You imagine things, my child," he scoffed. "I would have to have
proof--and then if it all should be as you say. Why, that brooch must be
yours--for I know that it is out of real love for me that you talk, and I
always pay lavishly for--love."

"Indeed, you know that I adore you, Stepan--and that brooch is just what
I want. Stanislass has been niggardly beyond words to me lately, and I am
tired of all my other things."

"Bring me some proof to the reception to-night. I am not dining, but I
shall be there by eleven for a few moments."

She agreed, and then rose to go--but she pouted again and the convex
_obstine_ curve below her under lip seemed to obtrude itself.

"She has gone back to England--your precious bride--I suppose?"

"She has."

"We shall all meet there in a week or so--Stanislass is going to see some
of his boring countrymen in London--the conference you know about--and
we have taken a house in Grosvenor Square for some months. I do not know
many people yet--will you see to it that I do?"

"I will see that you have as many of these handsome Englishmen as will
completely keep your hands full."

She laughed delightedly.

"But it is women I want; the men I can always get for myself."

"Fear nothing, your reception will be great."

Then she flung herself into his arms and embraced him, and then moved
towards the door.

"I will telephone to Cartier in the morning," and Verisschenzko opened
the door for her, "if you bring me some interesting proof of your love
for me--to-night."

And when she had gone he took up his letter again
and looked at the address,

_To_
Lady Ardayre,
_Ardayre Chase,
North Somerset,
Angleterre_.

"I must keep to the things of the spirit with you, precious lady. And
when I cannot subdue it, there is Harietta for the flesh--wough! but she
sickens me--even for that!"




CHAPTER VI


Denzil Ardayre could not get any more leave for a considerable time and
remained quartered in the North, where he played cricket and polo to his
heart's content, but the head of the family and his charming wife went
through the feverish season of 1914 in the town house in Brook Street.
Ardayre was too far away for week-end parties, but they had several
successful London dinners, and Amaryllis was becoming quite a capable
hostess, and was much admired in the world.

Very fine of instinct and apprehension at all times she was developing by
contact with intelligent people--for John had taken care that she only
mixed with the most select of his friends. The de la Paule family had
been more than appreciative of her and had guided her and supervised her
visiting list with care.

Everything was too much of a rush for her to think and analyse things,
and if she had been asked whether she was happy, she would have thought
that she was replying with honesty when she affirmed that she was. John
was not happy and knew it, but none of his emotions ever betrayed
themselves, and the mask of his stolid content never changed.

They had gone on with their matter-of-fact relations, and when they
returned to London after a week at Ardayre, all had been much easier,
because they were seldom alone--and at last Amaryllis had grown to accept
the situation, and try not to speculate about it. She danced every night
at balls and continued the usual round, but often at the Opera, or the
Russian ballet, or driving back through the park in the dawn, some wild
longing for romance would stir in her, and she would nestle close to
John. And John would perhaps kiss her quietly and speak of ordinary
things. He went everywhere with her though, and never failed in the
kindest consideration. He seldom danced himself, and therefore must often
have been weary, but no suggestion of this ever reached Amaryllis.

"What does he talk to his friends about, I wonder?" she asked herself,
watching him from across a room, in a great house after dinner one night.

John was seated beside the American Lady Avonwier, a brilliant person who
did not allow herself to be bored. He appeared calm as usual, and there
they sat until it was time to go on to a ball.

Everything he said was so sensible, so well informed--perhaps that was a
nice change for people--and then he was very good-looking and--but oh!
what was it--what was it which made it all so disappointing and tame!

A week after they had come up to Brook Street, the Boleskis arrived at
the Mount Lennard House which they had taken in Grosvenor Square, armed
with every kind of introduction, and Harietta immediately began to dazzle
the world.

Her dresses and jewels defied all rivalry; they were in a class alone,
and she was frank and stupid and gracious--and fitted in exactly with
the spirit of the time.

She restrained her movements in dancing to suit the less advanced English
taste; she gave to every charity and organized entertainments of a
fantastic extravagance which whetted the appetite of society, grown jaded
with all the old ways. The men of all ages flocked round her, and she
played with them all--ambassadors, politicians, guardsmen, all drawn by
her own potent charm, and she disarmed criticism by her stupidity and
good nature, and the lavish amusements she provided for every one--while
the chef they had brought over with them from Paris would have insured
any hostess's success!

Harietta had never been so happy in all the thirty-six years of her life.
This was her hour of triumph. She was here in a country which spoke her
own language--for her French was deplorably bad--she had an unquestioned
position, and all would have been without flaw but for this tiresome
information she was forced to collect.

Verisschenzko had been detained in Paris. The events of the twenty-eighth
of June at Serajevo were of deep moment to him, and it was not until the
second week in July that he arrived at the Ritz, full of profound
preoccupation.

Amaryllis had been to Harietta's dinners and dances, and now the Boleskis
had been asked down to Ardayre in return for the three days at the end of
the month, when the coming of age of the young Marquis of Bridgeborough
would give occasion for great rejoicings, and Amaryllis herself would
give a ball.

"You cannot ask people down to North Somerset in these days just for the
pleasure of seeing you, my dear child," Lady de la Paule had said to her
nephew's wife. "Each season it gets worse; one is flattered if one's
friends answer an invitation to dinner even, or remain for half an hour
when it is done. I do not know what things are coming to, etiquette of
all sorts went long ago--now manners, and even decency have gone. We are
rapidly becoming savages, openly seizing whatever good thing is offered
to us no matter from whom, and then throwing it aside the instant we
catch sight of something new. But one must always go with the tide unless
one is strong enough to stem it, and frankly _I_ am not. Now
Bridgeborough's coming of age will make a nice excuse for you to have a
party at Ardayre. How many people can you put up? Thirty guests and their
servants at least, and seven or eight more if you use the agent's house."

So thus it had been arranged, and John expressed his pleasure that his
sweet Amaryllis should show what a hostess she could be.

None but the most interesting people were invited, and the party promised
to be the greatest success.

Two or three days before they were to go down, Amaryllis coming in late
in the afternoon, found Verisschenzko's card.

"Oh! John!" she cried delightedly, "that very thrilling Russian whom we
met in Paris has called. You remember he wrote to me some time ago and
said he would let us know when he arrived. Oh! would not it be nice to
have him at our party--let us telephone to him now!"

Verisschenzko answered the call himself, he had just come in; he
expressed himself as enchanted at the thought of seeing her--and
yes--with pleasure he would come down to Ardayre for the ball.

"We shall meet to-night, perhaps, at Carlton House Terrace at the German
Embassy," he said, "and then we can settle everything."

Amaryllis wondered why she felt rather excited as she walked up the
stairs--she had often thought of Verisschenzko, and hoped he would come
to England. He was vivid and living and would help her to balance
herself. She had thought while she dressed that her life had been one
stupid rush with no end, since that night when they had talked of
serious things at the Montivacchini hotel. She had need of the counsel
he had promised to give her, for this heedless racket was not adding
lustre to her soul.

Verisschenzko seemed to find her very soon--he was not one of those
persons who miss things by vagueness. His yellow-green eyes were blazing
when they met hers, and without any words he offered her his arm, foreign
fashion, and drew her out on to the broad terrace to a secluded seat he
had apparently selected beforehand, as there was no hesitancy in his
advance towards this goal.

He looked at her critically for an instant when they were seated in the
soft gloom.

"You are changed, Madame. Half the soul is awake now, but the other half
has gone further to sleep."

"--Yes, I felt you would say that--I do not like myself," and she sighed.

"Tell me about it."

"I seem to be drifting down such a useless stream--and it is all so mad
and aimless, and yet it is fun. But every one is tired and restless and
nobody cares for anything real--I am afraid I am not strong enough to
stand aside from it though, and I wonder sometimes what I shall become."

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17

Stranger than fiction: the true story behind Kidnapped

It is a satirist's dream come true. John Crace looks back over a decade of poking fun at clunky plots and dodgy dialogue

I could be the only person who has never forgotten William Sutcliffe's Love Hexagon. It was the first book I ever digested and I'd like to be able to say I'd spent a lot of time selecting it. But it wasn't like that.

A few days earlier I'd been stopped in the corridor by the new editor of the Editor, the Guardian's standalone digest of the week's news (RIP), and asked if I'd like to take over a little-noticed column called the Digested Read. She wandered off before I had time to answer, but she didn't need to hang around. The ­Digested Read is a dream job for any satirist and I would have done it for almost nothing. Come to think of it, I did. But I still needed to choose a book and as I hadn't yet got the hang of ringing publishers, asking to bite the hand that feeds, I went to see the literary editor, who poked around in her cupboard for something she didn't want. So Love Hexagon it was.

I doubt it's much consolation to Sutcliffe now, but I soon realised it was a poor choice. The Digested Read works best with authors who are getting the most media attention in any given week – be they Ian McEwan, JK Rowling, Nigella Lawson or Katie Price – and since that first week, it is a principle to which I have tried to stick.

It's not infallible. Publishers tend to keep their big names for the spring and summer; in these months there's often too much choice and it can be a straight toss-up between JM Coetzee and AS Byatt. At other times of the year, particularly January, the publishing lists are thin and books squeeze in that normally wouldn't get a reading. It happened once with the brother of a well-known author, a mistake for which I've clearly never been forgiven by the victim; a year ago someone kindly directed me to his blog where he continues to regularly rubbish me seven or eight years on. Books do also just get missed. I never gave The Da Vinci Code a second thought when it came out.

Over the last 10 years, the Digested Read has changed locations several times – from the Editor to the main paper to G2 – but the format has remained the same; rewriting a book in 700 words in the style of the author. The primary goal is to entertain – something the book itself has often failed to do – but it's also intended as a (semi-) serious critique, for much of the fun is derived from clunky plot devices that don't work, pretentious stylistic tics, risible dialogue and an absence of big ideas. Literary criticism does not have to be dull to be serious.

Some people object to its cruelty. I have no defence. Satire often is cruel, especially when it's accurate. Here's the thing. I read every word of every book I digest, scribbling notes on the pages as I go along. I can't afford not to because if I get something wrong, I'm stuffed. So you could argue that I show rather more respect for the integrity of an author's work than a reviewer who gives a book the thumbs up after a skim read. And that does happen. I've read reviews of books I've ­digested and can see the critic has only read the blurb, the first few chapters and the ending. But who cares so long as it's a positive review? Certainly not the author or the publisher. You might, though, if you fork out £10 to buy it.

And many authors do seem to "get" the Digested Read. I'm continually delighted – and astonished – by the number of writers who are more generous about my work than I am about theirs and get in touch to say how much they enjoy the column. Especially when it's someone else's books. Some even email to say they've liked what I've done to their own book. That I don't understand. Publishers are also surprisingly complimentary; some authors would be surprised to discover how much their egotism gets up the noses of their editors and publicists. My favourite compliment is this from the New York Times: "The best book-related feature in any of this planet's English-language newspapers." That will go on my gravestone.

No writer has yet – and I'm not keen for a precedent to be created – emailed to tell me they hate me. It would be nice to imagine this was because they all thought I was so wonderful, but I suspect this is wishful thinking. More likely they are maintaining a dignified ­silence, or have their minds on higher matters.

Not that authors don't have their strops. Jilly Cooper moaned to the Daily Telegraph that I had given away the plot of her book. I hadn't been aware there was one; the ­ending was blindingly obvious from about page 20. One award-winning young author had a complete strop after I digested their partner's book, and threatened never to write for the Guardian again; a threat that hasn't been kept.

One last thing. Sometimes I am asked if I enjoy reading. How could I not? Do you ­really imagine the last 10 years have been an extended exercise in masochism? Especially now that I also digest a classic each week. Few books are as good as their publicity – and it's more often than not the difference between hype and reality I try to exploit – but there haven't been many that have had no redeeming qualities.

Reading is, and remains, a pleasure. As does digesting. Edith Wharton's The Age of Innocence is a great book. It's also great to satirise. The two aren't mutually exclusive. So here's to ­another 10 years digesting. If you'll have me.

A complete archive of John Crace's Digested Reads guardian.co.uk/digestedread


guardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2010 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds


The greatest Russian writer you've never read

From Huck Finn to Holden Caulfield and Humbert Humbert, the novelist provides an entirely trustworthy guide to some of literature's slipperiest characters

Henry Sutton was born in Norfolk in 1963. After training as a journalist he worked for a number of national newspapers and magazines. He is the author of five previous novels, including Gorleston, Flying and Kids' Stuff, and a collection of short stories, Thong Nation. He also teaches creative writing at UEA and lives in Norwich with his family. His new novel, Get Me Out of Here, is published by Harvill Secker.

Buy Henry Sutton books at the Guardian bookshop

"Something strange happened to unreliable narrators in the mid-20th century: they became a little more reliably unreliable, and a lot nastier. In the late-19th century they tended to be untrustworthy either because they were hiding something about themselves or had failed to recognise the truth, generally because of some kind of psychological weakness. However, as modernism shifted into post-modernism and we all became that much more cynical, most narrators were expected to be complicated. Unreliability became inextricably linked with malevolence – not to mention duplicity, delusion, even derangement. Of course, as the parameters stretched, unreliable narrators also became a lot more fun, with humour often countering the blackness. The challenge was to make tricksy first-person characters both intriguing and entertaining."

1. Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov (1955)

Never straight with himself, let alone the ladies and gentlemen of the jury to whom he is ultimately addressing his words, Humbert Humbert arrived halfway through the 20th century, intent on justifying his appalling crime. Nabokov's syntactical genius is the one true triumph.

2. The Turn Of The Screw by Henry James (1898)

Is it a ghost story, or the tragic tale of a young woman undergoing a breakdown? Believing her two young charges are communing with the spirits of her two dead predecessors, the prim governess of Bly House becomes increasingly panic-stricken and erratic, until she's left with a dead boy in her arms.

3. The Heart Of Darkness by Joseph Conrad (1902)

Right at the start we're told that Marlow likes to spin yarns. However, his tale of journeying up the Congo, in search first of ivory, and then the infamous Kurtz, is one of the most powerful stories in literature. Whether his story is strictly faithful becomes irrelevant, as Marlow ends up highlighting the moral corruption at the heart of all humans.

4. Money by Martin Amis (1984)

John Self is one of literature's most repulsively addictive narrators. The book might be subtitled "A Suicide Note", but it is in fact a love story, with Self dreaming up ever more extravagant ways to shed his wedge while pursuing entirely corruptible Selina Street, among others. The fact that Self might never have actually existed, revealed towards the end, is Amis's sly take on the death of the self.

5. American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis (1991)

Patrick Bateman makes John Self look even more out of shape, when it comes to commenting on the big brands and applying his murderous hands to the unsuspecting and the vulnerable. Yet Ellis's great comment on consumerism and the death of high culture could just be a mirror to our own deluded thoughts, and Bateman nothing more than a sickly funny fantasist.

6. The Killer Inside Me by Jim Thompson (1952)

It was Jim Thompson, not James M Cain, who put the hard into hard-boiled, the noir into roman noir. He was also one of the first crime writers to take us into the heads of seriously twisted killers, if not out-and-out psychopaths. Deputy Sheriff Lou Ford is regarded as a pillar of the small Texan community he serves. Yet he's in possession of a secret he doesn't even admit to himself. When the bodies start to appear, the net slowly tightens.

7. The Catcher in the Rye by JD Salinger (1951)

Classic unreliability when first published in the early 1950s which now looks almost tamely reliable. Of course young Holden Caulfield is anything but clear about what his short, privileged life has already led him to believe – he's a teenager. Naturally everything's phoney, except his beloved sister Phoebe. Though even she is abandoned as Holden loses his fragile grasp on reality.

8. The End Of Alice by AM Homes (1996)

Narrated in the first person by a hyper-intelligent paedophile, and from the third person perspective of a 19-year-old girl with an unhealthy fixation on a much younger boy, Homes's homage to Nabokov didn't just question the nature of desire, but that of literary taste and acceptability. A brutally brave and truly experimental novel that, over here, fell very foul of the Daily Mail.

9. We Need to Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver (2003)

Shriver's Orange Prize-winning novel is a postmodern masterclass in unreliability, as the principal theme of nature versus nurture trickles through the slow revelations of exactly what Kevin has done. Told in a series of letters by Kevin's mother, Eva, to her estranged husband, Franklin, the reader is never quite sure of whether it was Eva or Kevin who exhibited the most disturbing behaviour. Franklin, meanwhile, is guilty of chronic denial.

10. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain (1884)

In his search of freedom, as he floats down the Mississippi, Tom Sawyer's best friend "Huck" Finn finds himself travelling out of his rational mind. First published in 1884, Twain himself described his controversial masterpiece, as "... a book of mine where a sound heart and a deformed conscience come into collision and conscience suffers defeat".


guardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2010 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds


Diagram prize pits worm hunter's afterthoughts against Nazi spoons

An anti-Stalinist author who died in obscurity in 1951 may be the greatest Russian writer of the last century, his English translator Robert Chandler explains to Daniel Kalder

Stalin called him scum. Sholokhov, Gorky, Pasternak, and Bulgakov all thought he was the bee's knees. But when Andrei Platonov died in poverty, misery and obscurity in 1951, no one would have predicted that within half a century he would be a contender for the title as Russia's greatest 20th-century prose stylist. Indeed, his English translator Robert Chandler thinks Platonov's novel The Foundation Pit is so astonishingly good he translated it twice. Set against a backdrop of industrialisation and collectivisation, The Foundation Pit is fantastical yet realistic, funny yet tragic, profoundly moving and yet disturbing. Daniel Kalder caught up with Chandler to talk about why more people should be reading Platonov.

Why did you translate Platonov's Foundation Pit twice?

No other work of literature means so much to me. I translated it together with Geoffrey Smith in 1994 for the Harvill Press, and again in 2009, together with my wife Elizabeth and the American scholar Olga Meerson, for NYRB Classics. There were two reasons for retranslating it. First, the original text was never published in Platonov's lifetime, and the first posthumous publications – on which our Harvill translation was based – were severely bowdlerised. One crucial three-page passage, for example, is entirely missing.

Second, Platonov is hard to translate: in the early 1990s we were working in the dark. During the last 15 years, however, I have regularly attended Platonov seminars and conferences in Moscow and Petersburg. One indication of how deeply many Russian writers and critics admire him is the extent of their generosity to his translators; I now have a long list of people I can turn to for help. Above all, I have the good fortune to have my wife, who shares my love of Platonov, and the brilliant American scholar, Olga Meerson, as my closest collaborators. Olga was brought up in the Soviet Union; she has a fine ear, knows a great deal about Russian Orthodoxy, and has written an excellent book on Platonov. She has deepened my understanding of almost every sentence.

You've argued that Russians will eventually come to recognise Platonov as their greatest prose writer. Given that he's up against titans such as Gogol, Tolstoy and Chekhov this is quite a claim.

Well, it probably sounds less startling to Russians than it does to English and Americans. I've met a huge number of Russian writers and critics who look on Platonov as their greatest prose writer of the last century. In my personal judgment, it was confirmed for me during the last stages of my work on Russian Short Stories from Pushkin to Buida, an anthology of short stories I compiled for Penguin Classics. I worked on this for several years, did most of the translations myself and revised them many times. I read through the proofs with enjoyment – I was still happy with the choices I had made – but there were only two writers whom I was still able to read with real wonder: Pushkin and Platonov. Even at this late stage I was still able to find new and surprising perceptions in Pushkin's The Queen of Spades and Platonov's The Return. This didn't happen with any other writers. 
 
Readers who encounter Platonov for the first time are often struck by his surreality: in the Foundation Pit, for example, a bear staggers through a village denouncing kulaks [supposedly wealthy peasants]. But you've said that almost everything he writes is drawn from reality.

Platonov's stories work on many levels. When I first read his account of the kulaks being sent off down the river on a raft, I thought of it simply as weird. Then I realised that it's one of many examples of Platonov's way of literally realising a metaphor or political cliché; the official directive is to "liquidate" the peasants – and this unfamiliar word is interpreted as meaning that they must be got rid of by means of water.

Many years later I found out that this scene is also entirely realistic. The Siberian Viktor Astafiev wrote in his memoir: "In spring 1932 all the dispossessed kulaks were collected together, placed on rafts and floated off to Krasnoyarsk, and from there to Igarka. When they started loading the rafts, the whole village gathered together. Everyone wept; it was their own kith and kin who were leaving. One person was carrying mittens, another a bread roll, another a lump of sugar." Any educated Russian reading these lines today would at once imagine that they were written by Platonov.

As for the bear, he's drawn from many sources. He is the generally helpful but somewhat dangerous bear of Russian folk tales; he is a representative of the proletariat – strong but inarticulate. As a hammer in a forge, he is linked both to Stalin, whose name means "man of steel" and to Molotov, whose name means "hammerer". He is the tame bear often employed by a village sorcerer. Platonov's bear "denounces" kulaks by stopping outside a hut and roaring; in the late 1920s an ethnographer working in the province of Kaluga recorded the belief that "a clean home, outside which a bear stops of his own accord, not going in but refusing to budge – that home is an unhappy home". And one of Platonov's brothers has written that there really was a tame bear who worked in a local blacksmith's.

Platonov started off as a committed communist, but was appalled by collectivisation and the excesses of Stalinism. Uniquely – unlike others who adopted an oppositional stance, or wrote critiques for the desk drawer – he tried to negotiate a space within Soviet culture in which he could write honestly about what was going on. Is it fair to say that he failed?

I don't think so. Some of the stories he managed to publish – The River Potudan, The Third Son and The Return – are as great, in their more compact and classical way, as the novels he was unable to publish. The Return was viciously criticised, but it was published in a journal with a huge circulation and may well have been read by hundreds of thousands of people. And there is no knowing how important Platonov's example was to younger writers. Vasily Grossman, for example, was a close friend. They met frequently during Platonov's last years and read their work out loud to each other. Grossman gave the main speech at Platonov's funeral. His last stories are very Platonov-like. And Platonov's very last work – the moving, witty versions of Russian folk tales he composed after the war – was included, without acknowledgment, in millions of school textbooks. Platonov was not widely known, but he was widely read. Here again he is in a similar position to Grossman, whose words are carved in granite, in huge letters, on the Stalingrad war memorial, without acknowledgment of his authorship.

Platonov's language is often extremely intimate yet also strange: alienated and alienating. Is he exceptionally difficult to translate? And does he sound more "normal" in the original than in translation?

He is certainly difficult to translate. On the other hand, I've sometimes been surprised by how much of him evidently survives even in a poor translation. I've met people who have been deeply moved after first encountering him in a very poor translation indeed. As for your second question, you need to ask someone who is entirely bilingual and not involved in the work. All I can say myself is that all languages have norms that can be infringed, and that we do our best to infringe English norms just as Platonov infringes Russian norms. It is for you and other readers to judge how much we have succeeded!
 
Sometimes I think you have a secret plan to steer readers away from familiar authors such as Chekhov towards more angular, difficult work such as Platonov, thus reshaping perceptions of 20th-century Russian literature.
 
Well, I'd put it at least a little differently! I love Chekhov's stories as much as anyone, and would especially love to translate The Steppe and A Boring Story. But then Chekhov isn't so very easy or smooth either, though many of his complexities and contradictions are smoothed over in translation. What's certainly true is that I think we have a distorted view of Soviet literature. For many decades it was impossible for a Soviet writer to achieve fame in the west except through a major international scandal. This is what happened with both Pasternak and Solzhenitsyn. Both are important writers, but they are not greater writers than Grossman, Platonov and Shalamov.

Things are changing, however. Grossman is far better known in the west now than he was 10 years ago. Platonov is at least beginning to be noticed – Penelope Fitzgerald and John Berger are two of the English writers who have been quickest to realise his genius. And there is a chance that the Yale University Press will soon be commissioning a complete translation of Shalamov's Kolyma Tales. One more point: we have found it easier in the west to learn to appreciate the 20th-century writers who wrote from outside the Soviet experience. Bulgakov reached adulthood long before the revolution. He was never taken in by it; he looks down on everything Soviet. Grossman, Platonov and Shalamov, however, belong to a generation 10 to 20 years younger. All of them, at least for a while and to some degree, shared the hopes of the revolution. They write from inside the Soviet experience. This perhaps gives them a greater depth and complexity; their work contains no ready-made answers.

• Robert Chandler's new co-translation (in collaboration with his wife and Olga Meerson) of The Foundation Pit will be published in the UK by Vintage Classics later this year.   
 


guardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2010 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds


Copyright (c) 2007. booksboost.com. All rights reserved.