Ron Gilmour

A few weeks ago I rented a really wretched movie called The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. It is essentially a superhero movie, except that the superheros are 19th century literary characters. The characters include Tom Sawyer, Mina Harker (from Dracula), Dorian Grey, Dr. Jekyll, Captain Nemo, and the Invisible Man (or I should say an invisible man, since he is not the original). The troupe of adventurers is led by Alan Quatermain (Sean Connery), a name that meant nothing to me.

As it turns out, Quatermain is the hero of a number of novels by one H. Rider Haggard (1856-1925), a Victorian adventure writer. The first of these books, King Solomon’s Mines, (1885) is regarded as one of the first books of the “lost world” genre. I decided to put the book on my holiday reading list.

I would have to say that while the book is historically interesting as a “first,” I don’t know that it has much to offer the modern, adult reader. It has a definite feel of adolescence about it, and, in fact, the book is dedicated to “all the big and little boys who read it.” That said, it isn’t very long and the pages do tend to keep turning easily.

The plot is fairly simple. Three adventurers, Quatermain, Sir Henry Curtis, and Captain John Good, set out on a quest into southern Africa in search of Curtis’s brother, who disappeared on a quest to find the fabled diamond mines of King Solomon. They take with them a mysterious native servant by the name of Umbopa. After crossing a vast desert, they find themselves in Kukuanaland, which is ruled by an evil tyrant named Twala. Twala, in turn, seems to be ruled by an ancient hag named Gagool (think Grima from The Lord of the Rings). Umbopa reveals himself as Ignosi, the true king of Kukuanaland, whose father was murdered by Twala. A war ensues between followers of Ignosi and Twala loyalists, which culminates in Curtis decapitating Twala. Ignosi takes the throne and abolishes the cruel practices of Twala and Gagool.

Still hoping to get some diamonds out of all this (they’d already given up on Curtis’s brother), the three adventurers force Gagool to take them to the mines. They display some very bad judgment regarding how to treat an unwilling guide who hates you and allow Gagool to trap them in the mines (although she gets herself crushed by a stone door in the process). Eventually they escape with enough diamonds to keep them comfortable and even find Curtis’s brother as a bonus.

In a novel of this sort, I was expecting some really appalling racism, but was pleasantly surprised. The most noble character is undoubtedly Ignosi, while the most ridiculous is Good. The black characters run the gamut from the majestic Ignosi to the cruel Twala and the positively demonic Gagool. There is a subplot involving Good’s romance with a native woman whom he rescues from a witch-hunt. She is conveniently killed by Gagool before the question of marriage can arise. Overall, the attitude of the book seems to be one of respect for African culture. The white explorers see themselves as strangers and guests in a foreign land, not its lords and masters.

Is it a great book? Not really. It is interesting to see the genesis of so many plot devises that have become clichés in more recent literature. And if you read it, it helps to picture Quatermain as Sean Connery.

I have just finished reading Phineas Finn by Anthony Trollope. This was written in 1869 and is the second of his six “Palliser” novels (although the role of the Palliser family in this novel is trivial).

Essentially, the story is of the political rise and fall of Phineas Finn, the poor son of an Irish doctor. Finn is elected to parliament for a small borough in Ireland and later gains a cabinet position as Under-secretary of State. As a cabinet member, he finds himself bound to vote in accord with the ruling Liberal party and chafes against his lack of ethical freedom. Things finally come to a head with the question of tenant rights for Irish farmers and Finn feels obliged to side with his countrymen against the English prime minister, thereby forcing himself to resign his cabinet post and, for financial reasons, his seat in parliament.

The novel also details Finn’s courtship of no fewer than four women. At the beginning of the novel, Finn appears attached to Mary Flood Jones of Killaloe, Ireland. During his London career he becomes enthralled first by his political mentor Lady Laura Standish, then by a wealthy heiress by the name of Violet Effingham, and finally by Madam Max Goesler, a wealthy German. Lady Laura promptly rejects him, dooming herself to a miserable marriage with Mr. Edward Kennedy. Miss Effingham also rejects him, favoring Lord Chiltern, her anti-social childhood sweetheart. Regarding Madame Goesler, it is she who makes a proposal to Finn, who reluctantly rejects her, having by this time already pledged himself to Miss Flood Jones during a trip to Ireland.

I’m sure that someone knowledgeable about British history and politics and about relations between England and Ireland could do more justice to this novel than I can. There is much of interest here regarding the rights of the Irish, the perceptions of the Irish among wealthy Londoners, the practice of not paying M.P.s for their labor, and the workings of the House of Commons in general. Ultimately, the novel asks us to consider the interplay between political and moral freedom and the possibility of ethical independence within the context of a parliamentary government. Finn has no money of his own and no salary as an M.P. and so is dependent upon a small allowance from his father until he secures his payed cabinet position. Once he takes the Queen’s money, however, he is no longer his own man.

The sexual politics is even more complicated and Trollope returns to a familiar theme in his works: the relationship between love and money. In the end, love triumphs over money and Finn marries his penniless Irish sweetheart. This ending, though, is not quite as satisfying as such an ending should be. To begin with, Mary Flood Jones is not very interesting. She receives very little stage time and Trollope tells us more of her beauty than her character. She is described as soft and pretty, “one of those girls, so common in Ireland, whom men, with tastes that way given, feel inclined to take up and devour on the spur of the moment.” Not exactly a feminist heroine. Her three English competitors, on the other hand, are all smart, witty, and women of the world in addition to being beautiful. So I doubt that I am alone in feeling a bit disappointed when it becomes clear that Mary will win the contest.

Another character who must choose between love and money is Lady Laura Standish. Much to her later dismay, she chooses Edward Kennedy’s wealth over Finn’s charm and good looks. The marriage is disastrous and she eventually flees to Dresden to escape any legal actions by her estranged husband. The Kennedy-Standish marriage seems almost like a sketch for the stormy Trevelyan marriage of He Knew He Was Right. Both novels were published in 1869 and I do not know which came first. Both marriages come to grief when the husband falsely accuses the wife of infidelity. Lady Laura, however, is a more sympathetic character than Emily Trevelyan, who often seems as obsessed with her own victimhood as her mad husband with his.

Love and money also figure into the fate of Violet Effingham, although she is fortunate in that they reside with the same suitor: Lord Chiltern. The only drawback is that he is generally described as “savage” and seems to have no other ambition in life than to kill foxes. Nevertheless, she has loved him since childhood and he has enough family money to allow his idleness. Lady Laura (Chiltern’s sister) is greatly in favor of the match, pressuring poor Violet much after the manner of Kate Vavasor in Can You Forgive Her? Lady Laura’s advice does not lead to the same disaster as Kate’s, but it is difficult to feel much optimism for the Chiltern-Effingham marriage.

Finally, we have Madame Max, who goes against all convention by proposing to Finn, having already rejected an offer of marriage by the wealthy Duke of Omnium (here is the Palliser connection). The choice of love over money may have been easy for her, since she certainly didn’t lack for the latter, but it is still noble. She offers herself to Finn not only as wife, but as provider of the financial means for him to remain in parliament after he gives up his cabinet post. I don’t think any reader can fault Finn for giving momentary consideration to her offer.

For better or worse, Finn does give up his seat in parliament and marries Mary Flood Jones. We leave the once-successful politician as an inspector of poor houses in Ireland and can only hope for an improvement to his situation in Phineas Redux.

I write tonight in praise of Georg Philipp Telemann (1681-1767). Telemann was well-thought-of during his lifetime and seems to have suffered only one great misfortune. When Johann Kunau died in 1722, Telemann was among the applicants for the vacant position at Leipzig’s Thomaschule. Telemann was offered the job, but declined. Christoph Graupner was then offered the job. He, too, declined the offer and the job finally went to candidate number three, J.S. Bach. The unfortunate result is that history has never quite forgiven Telemann for upstaging Bach and likes to paint his as some sort of less-talented Salieri to Bach’s Mozart.

While I am quite willing to assert Bach’s supremacy in the pantheon of composers, I also have a great affection for Telemann and dislike the implicit aspersion cast upon him by Bach enthusiasts. He was in many ways the more progressive composer of the two, frequently waxing proto-classical and maintaining a correspondence with his godson, C.P.E. Bach. He also surpassed Bach in the diversity of his output, since he (for a while, anyway) managed to write for the opera as well as the church.

As I write this, I’m listening to a recording of twelve fantasias, originally written for unaccompanied flute, but played on this disc by Dutch recorder-goddess Maria Verbruggen. I’ve been fascinated with works for solo instruments since discovering Bach’s cello suites in college and I have to rate Telemann’s fantasias for flute and for violin among my favorites in this difficult genre. While he does occasionally offer up the seeming contradiction of a single-voice fugue, faux counterpoint is not as common in Telemann as in Bach. Dance movements are prominent as are movements which have a very declamatory, aria-like quality. He shared Bach’s affection for the viola da gamba (at that time already losing ground to the modern cello), and composed both accompanied and unaccompanied sonatas for that instrument. Especially for the modern ear, it is not an easy thing to sustain interest in a single musical voice, but Telemann manages this admirably.

So I heartily recommend the Verbruggen recording, and also Andrew Manze’s recording of the violin pieces. As you listen to these, remember that not everyone can be smiled upon by history as were Bach and Handel. The German Baroque has more to offer us than those two great luminaries.

Two nights ago I stayed on campus after work to attend a student concert. The concert was a series of performances of wind-based chamber works by various groups of music students. The quality of the performances varied greatly, but one stood out from the rest.

Béla Bartók’s Contrasts is a piece for which I have long had a certain affection, perhaps because there are so few real masterpieces written for clarinet, my first musical instrument. According to the Grove Encyclopedia of Music, this piece was commissioned by jazz clarinetist Benny Goodman, who wanted a short (6 minute), two-movement piece to go on two sides of a single. Bartók did not quite comply, composing a three-movement piece that lasts about fifteen minutes.

I have a recording of Contrasts from 1940, with the composer on piano, his friend Joseph Szigeti on violin, and Goodman on clarinet. I’m listening to it as I write this. It’s a great performance. Goodman especially shines with his effortless fluidity punctuated by jazzy squawks and squeals. It has finesse, nuance, and finish. It’s played very professionally by three men who are comfortable with the music.

On Monday night at Ithaca College, no one was comfortable. The student musicians played the hell out of this piece and took no prisoners. They even left out the central slow movement so that the audience didn’t have a chance to catch its breath. While the performance was masterful, it was not the smooth mastery of Bartók, Szigeti, and Goodman. It was the mastery of students who had wrestled with something greater than themselves and who had triumphed and made it their own. Even the “pretty” folk melodies in the third movement came across like something from Hell’s cabaret. It was like a bar fight in music.

I want to thank those students for a great performance. It’s a wonderful thing to be shown a familiar piece in a very new light and this performance brought out aspects of Contrasts that I’d never heard before. A big hand to IC Music, especially Maeve O’Hara (violin), Adam Butalewicz (clarinet), and Atakan Sari (piano).

I recently read Bram Stoker’s Dracula. Great literature it is not, but it’s a fun read. In it I encountered a theme for which I was entirely unprepared: information technology. Van Helsing’s band of vampire hunters made abundant and effective use of the most recent innovations in information capture and reproduction. Dr. Seward used a phonograph with wax cylinders to keep his diaries. These were transcribed using a typewriter by Mina Murray. Mina and her fiancé Jonathan Harker were adept at shorthand. As the characters begin to realize the nature of the threat that they are facing, it becomes apparent that they must share and collate the unique information that each of them possesses, a task that falls primarily to Mina (the only woman in the group, of course). She creates typewritten transcripts in triplicate of Harker’s journals (recounting his imprisonment at Castle Dracula), Dr. Seward’s phonographic accounts of his “zoophagous” patient Renfield, and Van Helsing’s observations on the sickness and death of Lucy Westenra, the Count’s first English victim. This pooling and organizing of information is crucial to their success in driving Dracula from England and ultimately destroying him.

I wonder if the creators of Buffy the Vampire Slayer were thinking of this when they made Buffy’s mentor, Giles, a high school librarian? I also remember that in the movie version of Anne Rice’s Queen of the Damned, the vampire Lestat taunts Jesse (a paranormal investigator), calling her merely “a clever librarian.”

One final note on Dracula. It is the first book that I have ever read entirely online. In the past I have been a harsh critic of e-books, since I felt that no one would really want to read a whole book online. Reference works I would allow, but I could never see the point of an online novel, except for easy searchability. I am beginning to come around, though. The edition of Dracula that I read was from the University of Adelaide’s collection of e-books, which includes a wide selection of literary classics presented in a very readable format.

Winter has officially begun in upstate New York. I awoke yesterday morning to find about 3-4 inches of snow on the ground. It was Sunday, and I could have just stayed home, but I decided I would pretend that it was a workday and see how I fared. I bravely brushed off my car and headed over to a coffee shop for a bagel. I survived the experiment and am bracing myself for a New York winter.

It’s not that it never snows in the south. It does snow, but we have traditional ways of coping with it. In the south when it snows we panic. Or more accurately, we sort of faux-panic. We know (well, most of us) that snow is not necessarily the herald of armagedon, but it snows infrequently enough that we can all pretend it is. We begin with the traditional raid upon the grocery store, where we stock up on bread, milk, and toilet paper. Then we retreat to our homes where we drink hot chocolate, work on our Christmas cards, and watch TV. If we’re lucky, we can find some footage of those crazy northerners skidding all over the roads and making a mess of things. We might call in to work to tell them we’re not coming in, but chances are they already know that. In the south, no one expects you to be anywhere when it’s snowing.

Here in New York, I gather that I am expected to behave as normally as possible, even in the face of socially unacceptable weather. I’m sure I’ll get used to it, but the southern method still seems safer and more fun.