by Douglas Messerli
Ronald Firbank Valmouth
(London: Gerald Duckworth, 1919)
Since I consider
myself a sort of authority of the various genres of fiction, I am no longer
surprised to see that any fiction is described by most readers these days as a
"novel." And, although the genre, "novel," seems to me to
center on a central figure, charting his or her relationship (often in symbolic
terms) with the larger culture or, at least, the world outside the central
figure, I have become somewhat indifferent if people use the term
"novel" indeterminately.
The only times it
truly upsets me is when readers have difficulty with a work of fiction because
it does not meet the standard expectations of a "novel," such as the
case of Djuna Barnes' anatomy Nightwood,
a work that wasted the energies of at least one critic, Joseph Frank, in
creating a new form (what he called "spatial fiction") to explain
what he saw as anomalies, all perfectly a home in the anatomy genre. Others
have approached the epic fictions of Heimito von Doderer and Robert Musil,
works whose structures often work more like musical compositions than
plot-organized novels, similarly. But when I raise these issues, I usually get
blank stares or significant harrumphing.
I might have
described Firbank's Valmouth as a
dialogue fiction, a work that uses conversation as its major structural device,
a writing that can be traced back to Plato's Dialogues. Indeed I intend to teach this work in a course titled
"Dialogue Fictions," which includes works by Elizabeth Bowen, Henry
Green, Ivy Compton-Burnett, Anthony Powell, and others.
This time my
reading, however, revealed that perhaps I have been wrong in even presuming to
describe Valmouth and most other
Firbank works as "fictions." While it is true that many kinds of
fiction contain little or no plot—and Firbank seems unable to close any event,
let alone begin it—at least most fictions have a narrative. If there is one in Valmouth, it can be summarized by saying
that the book is primarily about a group of elderly women, women who have
survived longer that those in other English communities either because of the
Valmouth air or its water. The major "event" of Valmouth consists of a grand dinner party for these women and most
of the town's citizens in Hare Hall. Little of importance happens at this
occurrence—indeed it is often difficult to know throughout the work what indeed
might be "happening"—but it is significantly placed near the center
(p. 78 of a 127 pages) of the work.
There also
appears to be no "central" character, indeed no "real"
characters, Firbank preferring names (Teresa Twisleton, Rebecca Bramblebrook,
Flo Flook, Simon Toole, Tircis Tree, Mrs. Hurspierpoint, etc. etc., listed
sometimes for entire paragraphs) over characterization, but three quickly drawn
figures do predominate, namely the black masseuse, Mrs. Yajnavalkya, her
mysterious niece Niri-Esther, and Mrs. Thoroughfare's son, Dick—a sailor who is
away from home for most of the fiction. If one must point to a single central
figure, it would have to be Yajnavalkya, since it is clear that she is the most
intelligent and exuberant figure in the book.
Firbank clearly
loved Blacks, and writes about them in several of his "fictions." His
admiration for Blacks, however, does not mean that he escapes the prejudices of
his time (Valmouth was first
published in 1919); the word "nigger" appears once or twice in this
book, and in the title of his Prancing
Nigger. The elderly women seem to be of two minds concerning Yajnavallkya,
as they praise her ointments and the touch of her fingers alternating with
disdain for her race.
In fact, we
don't ever truly know Yajnvalkya's ethnic background. At times she is simply
from "the East," at other times she appears to have traveled from
Africa or India, while at the end of the work, it appears, she is Tahitian, her
niece born of Tahitian royalty. It hardly matters, since it is apparent that
what Firbank most enjoys is the possibility of using his "Black"
figure to create another kind of voice, in this case through a sort of strange
mélange of dialect and argot. At least she is given a few full sentences
("We Eastern women love the sun...! When de thermometer rise to some two
hundred or so, ah dat is de time to lie among de bees and canes.").
The rest of the
figures utter half sentences, phrases, overheard remarks. Most of this work is
so utterly fragmented that—although we glean that the conversation is usually
about societal behavior and love—the meaning and significance of the dialogue
is impossible to detect.
Mixed with
Latinate sentences, French phrases (some of them poorly put together), and an
occasional German word or two, the fragments coming from these figures' mouths
is less a dialogue than a series of signs, linguistic clues to what might or
might not have happened:
There
uprose a jargon of voices:
"Heroin."
"Adorable simplicity."
"What could anyone find to admire in such a shelving profile?"
"We reckon a duck here of two or three and twenty not so old.
And a
spring chicken anything to fourteen."
"My husband had no amorous energy whatsoever; which just
suited
me, of course."
"I suppose when there's no more room for another crow's-foot,
one
attains a sort of peace?"
"I once said to Doctor Fothergill, a clergyman of Oxford and a
great
friend of
mine, 'Doctor,' I said, 'oh, if only you could see my—'"
"Elle était jolie! Mais jolie!...C'était une
si belle brune...!"
"Cruelly lonely."
"Leery...."
"Vulpine."
"Calumny."
"People look like pearls, dear, beneath your wonderful trees."
This goes on for several pages, and such passages dominate
the entire text.
At several other
moments we overhear the whispered conversations of servants:
"Dash their wigs!" the elder man exclaimed.
"What's the thorn, Mr. ffines?" his colleague, a lad with a
face gemmed
lightly
over in spots, pertly queried.
"The thorn, George?"
"Tell us."
"I'd sooner go round my beads."
"Mrs. Hurst cut compline, for a change, to-night."
"...She's making a studied toilet, so I hear."
"Gloria! Gloria! Gloria!"
"Dissenter."
"What's wrong with Nit?"
The
younger footman flushed.
"Father Mahoney sent me to his room again," he answered.
"What, again?"
"Catch me twice—"
"Veni cum me in erra
coelabus!"
"S-s-s-s-s-s-sh."
"Et lingua...semper."
At least we can sense what's behind their gossip, namely the
sexual attacks of the priest on the young footman; but just as often these
conversations offer up no real information.
Similarly, there
are passages of fragmented readings, the one below listened to by Mrs.
Hurstpierpoint between the Aves of
her beads:
Music, she heard. Those sisters † a ripe and rich marquesa † strong
proclivites †
a
white starry plant † water † lanterns † little streets † Il Redentore †
Pasqualino † behind the Church of † Giudecca † gondola † Lido † Love †
lagoon † Santa Orsola † the Adriatic——
Again, we get the idea, the satiric mix of the sacred and
the mundane, a romantic love story set against the movement of the prayer
beads, but there is no other significance, and even that has been revealed to
us through signs and symbols.
Niri-Esther
speaks throughout in a language of her own, using phrases such as "Chakrawakt—wa?" and "Suwhee?" A passing drunk
sings an entire song in a near-nonsense language:
"Lilli burlero, bullen a-la.
Dar we shall have a new deputie,
Lilli burlero, bullen a-la.
Lero lero, lili burlero, lero lero, bullen a-la,
Lero lero, lilli burlero, lero lero, bullen a-la.
Ara! but why does he stay behind?
Lilli burlero, bullen a-la.
Ho! by my shoul 'tis a protestant wind.
Lilli burlero, bullen a-la.
Lero lero, lilli burlero, lero lero, bullen a-la,
Lero lero, lilli burlero, lero lero, bullen a-la
Now, now de heretics all go down,
Lilli burlero, bullen a-la
By Chrish! and Shaint Patrick, de nation's our own—
Similar songs appear in his other works, this little gem
from Prancing Nigger:
" I am King Elephant-bag,
Oh de rose-pink
Mountains!
Tatou, tatouay,
tatou..."
My point in
mentioning these numerous fragmented passages (and I might have selected nearly
any page in Valmouth for examples) is
that it is clear Firbank is not at all interested in telling or even
circuitously conveying a story. His
pleasure is in language, not in fiction. Even when he has set up a scene, as he
does at the end of the book, gathering all the work's figures together for the
marriage of Niri-Esther, the Black Tahitian princess, to the fair-haired
inheritor of Hare Hall, Dick, nothing comes of it, as Dick suddenly disappears
from the scene and book and, while the community impatiently awaits within the
church, Niri-Esther, wandering out-doors to follow a butterfly. The work ends
with no attempt at conclusion or even suggestion of one. Absolutely nothing happens. It is as if Firbank
were toying with any reader who might seek an interrelated narrative.
Yet, Firbank's
works, for some—for me—are highly enjoyable, delightful forays into linguistic
silliness, as somehow both the old and the young of this work come together
again and again to talk, to share idle gossip, gripes, complaints, and tales of
illicit or imaginary love. Although we never know the full content of any of
these, we can—the author requires it of the reader—fill in the blanks, turning
Firbank's characters' words into our own desires and disappointments. In short,
anyone coming to Firbank expecting a story, a kind of "novel"—no
matter how one defines that—will be
disappointed. For Firbank is closer to being a poet than a storyteller, a man
interested more in the play of language than in what it means.
Los Angeles,
July 28, 2011
Reprinted from Or,
No. 7 and PIP Poetry Blog.
