. Spinning .

The first thing I’d point out is that Miss Rhys is very likely one of the first to present a classic novel that can possibly be considered fanfic. The first time it hit me was with the name of Grace Poole, towards the end of the book, and clues come together as we see Antoinette’s husband insisting upon calling her Bertha, and the background name of the Masons, though we are carefully never given the name of Mr. Rochester until the very end.

I must say that I truly enjoyed this rather brief novel, in that the level of insight into the characters was handled exceptionally well by Jean Rhys. Against the backdrop of a tropical island that steams in racial hatred that is either masked by condescension or openly aggressive, there is the struggle between the sexes as the main character fights to control her own life yet must submit to the power still wielded by the men in her life. Under this pressure, and with the ghost of her mother’s own madness shadowing her, Antoinette is brought down.

Rhys has given us a new view of Charlotte Bronte’s story from the madwoman’s perspective, also going back to her childhood to assemble a reason for the way she has ended up in Bronte’s England, locked up in the towers of her husband’s estate. It is an interesting story, either read completely apart from its parent narrative or as its prologue.Rhys’s own background is brought in as the base of her character.

From what I understand, this is Rhys’s last novel and the one that brought her recognition for her talent in bringing vibrant characters into a controversial situation while keeping it a fairly simple narrative plot. Her writing style is something I really respect, and though I’m not nuts about using someone else’s characters, I well understand the appeal for both Rhys and her readers. Jane Eyre is a wealth of character and questions, fully open to this sort of development.

I’m going to go ahead and call the “looking glass” image a symbol rather than metaphor. It becomes clearer when Antoinette’s husband uses the mirror to watch a confrontation between his wife and a servant who obviously harbors prejudicial hatred and disdain against her white mistress.

No one was about. The kitchen door was shut and the place looked deserted. I went up the steps along the veranda and when I heard voices stopped behind the dodor whic led into Antoinette’s room. I could see it reflected in the looking-glass. She was in bed and the girl Amelie was sweeping.  (p. 99)

There are so many secrets, so many hidden emotions between all these people that I see the looking glass as a chosen point of view of these characters. There is a distance that a mirror brings; a wall that no matter how close one gets, one cannot get beyond, even as we see ourselves and others beyond that wall. I may be that wall that is their preferred way of seeing things, clearly and yet untouchable.

As well as leit motif I suspect; the recurrence of a “looking glass,” a mirror. In this section of the narrative, the point of view has remained as first person, but the narrator has changed to be the narrator’s husband. We find out that the whirlwind romancing of Antoinette was an arrangement that he agreed to for money. On their honeymoon, as they are staying at a mountainside home of Antoinette’s that still, while shabby, has servants and is in a beautiful natural setting, she tells her new husband of a memory she has of this place:

“And then suddenly I was awake. I saw two enormous rats, as big as cats, on the sill staring at me.”
“I’m not astonished that you were frightened.”
“But I was not frightened. That was the strange thing. I stared at them and they did not move. I could see myself in the looking-glass the other side of the room, in my white chemise with a frill round the neck, staring at those rats and the rats quite still, staring at me.” (p. 82)

Earlier we had Antoinette’s description of the moment after the fire as she watched Tia after the girl had thrown a rock at her:

“We stared at each other, blood on my face, tears on hers. It was as if I saw myself. Like in a looking glass.”

And there are a few other references to mirrors. What I find interesting is that while the looker sees himself, and in Antoinette’s early scenario, believes Tia to be herself, a mirror is in fact the exact opposite of what we are. Simply put, our left side is our right side as we view it; very different from what others see us to be.

Is the looking glass then a metaphor for illusion? for hope or belief that we’ve no reason to take as reality?

Before the fire that destroyed her house, the narrator had a friend with whom she shared a good part of her life. They had parted in an argument that grew nasty with racial name-calling and we wondered if the bond of childish friendship, so tainted by the world in which the two girls lived, could overcome. But here, in the dark night of the fire, as the family tries to get safely away and the crowd has dispersed, the narrator sees her friend:
Then, not so far off, I saw Tia and her mother and I ran to her, for she was all that was left of my life as it had been.

We had eaten the same food, slept side by side, bathed in the same river. As I ran, I thought, I will live with Tia and I will be like her. Not to leave Coulibri. Not to go. Not. When I was close I saw the jagged stone in her hand but I did not see her throw it. I did not feel it either, only something wet, running down my face. I looked at her and I saw her face crumple up as she began to cry, We stared at each other, blood on my face, tears on hers. It was as if I saw myself. Like in a looking glass. (p. 45)

Two young girls, at odds with who they are, where they are. Unable to get beyond the required behavior of their society once that bridge if innocence has been broken by knowledge. They reach out to close the gap; one with hope, one with stone.

With the mood set early on as one of quiet hatred and fear, Rhys gets us involved in dramatic action as the house is set afire and the mother, her new husband, her two children and the servants must escape for their lives.

We have an image of the mother, Annette, as prone to unhappiness, willing others to step forward rather than making life liveable for herself and her children. When she has used up all her resources to maintain a lifestyle she manages to nab a rich Englishman. When he doesn’t safely take her away from the squalor of the by now rundown homestead, she makes his life fairly miserable. He doesn’t seem to understand the hatred the natives feel for the white people. He doesn’t have the respect for them that she has learned to have to be able to live among them.

Maybe her symbol of freedom is a parrot she keeps. The bird certainly holds meaning to the natives.

I opened my eyes, everybody was looking up and pointing at Coco on the glacis railings with his feathers alight. He made an effort to fly down but his clipped wings failed him and he fell screeching. He was all on fire.

I began to cry. “Don’t look,” said Aunt Cora. “Don’t look.” She stooped and put her arms round me and I hid my face, but I could feel that they were not so near. I heard someone say something about bad luck and remembered it was very unlucky to kill a parrot, or even to see a parrot die. They began to go then, quickly, silently.  (p. 42)

The people had set fire to a back room where the narrator’s young brother, an invalid, slept. He was supposed to have been guarded by one of the servants. His mother ran in to save him just as his crib caught fire. Then as they all fled the flames, she tried to go back in to rescue her pet parrot.

The parrot of course couldn’t fly–his wings had been clipped by Mr. Mason, Annette’s new husband. Coco the parrot and Annette; two of a kind, flighty types that depended upon others and were held by that dependence for survival.

While there are several pages of an introduction to this, I didn’t read them. I’m stubborn about learning about a work on my own and only rarely do I seek out information as listed in research or forewards or even the back cover unless I’m really stumped. Such as with my introduction to Faulkner.

With that said, I’ve entered into a world that is discomfiting at best. The first person narrator is recalling a childhood that is not a happy, loving place to be. Her father has supposedly drunk himself to death, the mother is holding on to dreams while trying to raise two children in a place where the family is considered not of high social status. There is an emphasis on the difference of people based on color and class and there seems to be a determination to survive within it.

Rhys’ writing is adept at getting through the mood and voice without a dependence upon adjectives. Instead, the short sentence structure, the bluntness of what is said, and the dialogue go far in setting the environment and the interaction of the characters.

Hate to admit it, but the initial off-the-shelf appeal of this book was its slender size. I really need to catch up on my reading and this novel by Jean Rhys looks like easy reading.

I need to get more involved in a book right now, and Gibson’s Neromancer just wasn’t holding my attention. It does make you wonder if it’s character, genre, pace, or if they all come together to keep one into the reading.

Been hitting Neruda’s Odes for my soul, and will get back into Chekhov’s collection as well.