Content Cradock Sidebar: The Illustrator Betrays Us ALL!

Before we push on, a note on the illustrations. So far, they have been functional (if very, very, very dull and static), but the line drawing for Chapter 3 of the "exotic" Mistress Salome either betrays the century's unimaginative view of what exoticism actually is or that the author and the artist were working against each other. I lean towards the second possibility.

(Click for a larger version)

Yes, that's exotic, inscrutable, scandalously unseemly Salome, instantly recognizable by her look of boredom and her nondescript appearance. The complete absence of any distinguishing characteristics from the text gives it away, really.

But hark, let's see how the flower flirting from the last chapter was represented:

(Click for a larger version)

Well, neither one of them seems to be having much fun. You'd think she'd be more into it, at least. Content is indeed holding out the fragrant spray of flowers, albeit more out of duty than anything--after all, that's what the caption says, so that's what we do. Archer, on the other hand, seems to be transfixed by something just past and above her left shoulder. Is it a sign from the Great Beyond? A bear? A giant gleaming metallic robot from the future with machine guns for arms and a speaker in its chest blasting "Who Let The Dogs Out?" Alack-a-day, we shall never know...

Before you get the idea that it's all stiff posing and immobile faces...well, it's mostly true, but check out this detail from the "Freudian" candle-lighting scene.

(click for full picture)

"I'm sorry, I've never missed the wick before." "Oh, hold still and let me do it."

And that deep sense of shame from typing the above is one of the many, many reasons I'm not yet Internet Famous. The secret is out.

Round 5: Mistress Content Cradock

Dave, the pickmaster for Round 5 and the guy who hammered me with Waters That Pass Away, is trying to strike me down yet again for dragging out The Rough Riders to an unspeakable degree. His goal is to make me wish I had chosen fantasy football as a hobby like other guys. His second nominee for instrument of my eventual destruction: Mistress Content Cradock by Annie Eliot Trumbull.

Selection #5 is drawn from the unnervingly vague category “A Group of Female Novelists,” which sounds like a police report. “A group of female novelists were apprehended at the main branch of the New York Public Library on Tuesday morning adding 'malicious capitalization' to the works of e.e. cummings. No trial date has been set pending syntax evaluation.” I have a sneaking suspicion the common thread in this grouping isn't “chick lit” so much as “lit by chicks.” Silly Victorians, you don't divide books by the sex of the author, you divide them by how much sex the author puts in them. And whether the characters buy expensive shoes. This is called “progress.” Not "annoying."

Enough of the ramble, time to roll through the bramble.

Mistress Content Cradock. By Annie Eliot Trumbull. 12mo. New York: A. S. Barnes & Co. $1

Miss Trumbull's latest work is much enhanced by the illustrations by Charles Copeland. It is a historical tale of New England life, and the action takes place in the Salem colony. Chief among the characters portrayed is Roger Williams, and the story deals with the incidents which surrounded this man's independent personality and his tireless appeals for freedom of thought and action. The thread of romance and love is rendered most attractive by the author's well-known bright and attractive style, her delicately fashioned descriptions, and her entertaining dialogue. Miss Trumbull is very happy in her New England stories, which are always sure to contain interesting types of local character.

Unlike Dave's last pick, I managed to scrape up a few biographical notes for our author: Annie Eliot Trumbull (1857-1949) was an author, poet, and playwright whose first full-length book was published in 1889 and who was just hitting the peak of her renown around the time Mistress Content Cradock was published. Trumbull was a junior member of Mark Twain's Hartford circle, the last surviving member of that group on her passing. She was the daughter of philologist and historian James Hammond Trumbull, of whom George F. Hoar of the American Antiquarian society said “[he] knows the history, the life, the manners, even the gossip, of every New England generation from the beginning, as if he had been a contemporary.” As much as I found about her, I'm finding much more about him, but at least that quote means she may have picked up a good grounding in the historical period she chose. Unless, as I suspect and the following review suggests, historical setting is beside the point.

Given a Puritan setting—a stern shore and grim ancestors. Place Oliver Cromwell, Roger Williams, and John Winthrop in the background, and pink arbutus in the foreground, then bring upon the scene Mistress Content Cradock and her two lovers, Archer and Stukely, and the stage is ready for action.

The whole question of the historical novel must be set one side in any fair discussion of Mistress Content Cradock and her virtues or shortcomings. The place and limits of the historical novel involve issues too diverse to be taken up in any right appreciation of a book so modest as this of Miss Trumbull's. Nor do the charm and value of the book depend, to any appreciable extent, on the historical element. In so far as the character of Mistress Content Cradock could have had existence in no other time or place than Puritan New England, the setting is of moment. In so far as the story is the old one of 'two men wooing a maid,” the setting is irrelevant. Mistress Content's own granddaughter could not have vacillated between her two lovers with more feminine inconsequence or have chosen the wrong one with more inevitable persistence than does Mistress Cradock herself. All the characters are very human. That they move upon a Puritan stage is a mere detail of art. That exits and entrances are adjusted somewhat primly, with an eye to effect, and that the story moves with monotonous evenness are perhaps, faults to be grateful for in a day when art seems to be, for the most part, a series of wild and incalculable experiments. --The Critic, August 1899

Any time “monotonous” is used in a book review, I send up a distress flare. Any time “monotonous” is used in a book review as a positive attribute, I check the reviewer's blood alcohol level. The pull-quotes in the publisher's ads call the book “wholesome.” How wholesome I manage to stay in my play-by-play depends on how quickly I acclimate to a love triangle where the dialogue is liberally doused in “thee”s and “thou”s. That never stopped me with Shakespeare, but the operating assumption here is that Mistress Content Cradock isn't another As You Like It. Will it be as I like it? We shall see.

And now, the text:

• Google Books has a single copy from the NY Public Library, so that's what we're working from. Them's the conditions wot prevail. Google Books now offers two downloadable formats, the page image PDF versions or an OCR-converted text in EPUB format. Just like Google's (non-proofread) plaintext rendering, scannos abound in the EPUB version. It's not the worst I've seen, but I'm sticking with PDF.
  

That's all the stage dressing you get, bub. Time to roll up my elbows and get to work.

Chapter Recaps: Chapters 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13 (Links to the chapter recaps go live upon posting.)

Rough Riders Sidebar: A Gallant Old Fellow

While we're between chapters (and while I'm bored and awake in the dead of night) is a good time to test out the "clip" function on Google Books: one of the many photographs tipped into the original editions of The Rough Riders was of Sergeant Guitilias, the Civil War vet who helped man the dynamite gun.

Questions for discussion: Do you think that's a look of stoicism, exhaustion, or resentment? And what's up with his hat? That's the flattest hat I've seen on anybody in this book.

A Notable Book...This Post, Not So Much (Combo Rough Riders Sidebar / Procrastination Post)

Where did the updates go? Don't ask me what ate the past two weeks. All you need to know is that the march to Cuba resumes later today. In the meantime, here's a vintage ad for the book to kill about ten seconds of your day.

Round 4: The Rough Riders

Our next selection was originally filed by our anonymous NYT editor under “History, Biography, and Memoirs,” and it's a real humdinger, buddy...

The Rough Riders. Theodore Roosevelt, Colonel First Volunteers, United States Army. New York: Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons. 8vo. $2.

It is unnecessary to recapitulate the reasons why this is the most interesting account of the American Invasion of Cuba, for no one aware of that achievement is ignorant of the part taken by the present Governor of New York and the regiment of which the close of the war found him commander. What no one can know without reading it is the extraordinary skill with which the narrator eludes the danger of being ostentatiously modest and of boasting either on his own behalf or on his men's, and writes as the infant talked to Eustace Cleaver, “telling this thing just as it was,” because he feels that his country desires to know it. The book is illustrated with forty full-page pictures from photographs, and has two portraits of the author. The other pictures, excellent though they are, will not be needed by those who fight the battles o'er again under Col. Roosevelt's command. Complete lists of the officers and men of the regiment are to be found in the appendices, also some much needed corrections of the narratives given by civilians, and comment by officers present in Cuba, and the text contains some matter not published in Scribner's Magazine, where the book first appeared.

The Rough Riders is our first brush with recognizable (then-) current events in the Project, and brings to the signature event of not only the previous year but possibly of America's post-Civil War foreign policy up to that point. We also hit an anniversary I could've tied this to if I hadn't been so busy with the misery porn of Waters That Pass Away. On August 12, 1898, 110 years ago this month, hostilities were halted in the Spanish-American War, the so-called “splendid little war” that effectively marked the end of the Spanish Empire and warmed up the band for the American Century. (You can safely assume that all I know about this conflict is what I saw on the History Channel, by the way.) The problem here is that, with it still being so fresh, we have more than a few non-fiction books on the list that touch on the conflict in one way or another, even a history of the recently claimed territories with the not too reassuring title of Our Island Empire. So what am I supposed to do? Read the background first or throw ourselves into events? I'm an American, Jack, so the answer is obvious: throw myself into the conquest first and then figure out what the hell's been conquered (and why) later.

In Roosevelt, we finally have an author who truly needs no introduction, so I'll just remind you that in the years immediately leading up to the events in the book he was busy living a life that befits a legend-in-the-making and being Batman. Theodore R. had recently topped off a blockbuster return to public life after spending several years getting his head together out west, first by becoming president of the board of New York City Police Commissioners and bringing a zealous spirit of reform to the NYPD, even going so far as to walk late-night and early morning beats to be sure the patrolmen were actually on duty. He followed this up with an appointment as William McKinley's Assistant Secretary of the Navy, and helped build up the country's sea power on the theory that a nation with global interests needed a modern navy. (Also on his personal belief that we probably needed a war to prevent cranking out a rising generation of callow wimps (you can look it up), but that's just a sidebar to the main show.)

Since I assume you already know how this story ends, I don't feel as compelled to use the spoiler tag. Not that anyone's paying attention to those, of course... I also probably won't be obsessively recapping every section this time, just touching on the points that jumped out at me. Or maybe I will go nuts again. We'll feel it out as we go along. Whatever keeps things moving...

As for the text itself, there are so many options here:

• Google Books has multiple options for PDF and page-scan fans, and as usual, the page numbers will be from the Scribner's first US edition (complete with fancy-schmancy photographs).

• Project Gutenberg only gives us a plain ASCII and PDA-compatible version this time, so for a shiny HTML edition (with the aforementioned fancy-schmancy photos), you have to go to Bartleby.com.

In a perfect world, I'd also be able to link to the serialized version that started in the January 1899 edition of Scribner's Magazine, but for some reason, the otherwise excellent Making of America archive at Cornell comes up a few years short, so you'll just have to settle for Charles Dana Gibson's manly and rugged portrait that accompanied the first installment. Poor you.

(Edit @ 11:24pm: Spoke too soon, because Google has my back on this one, too. Here are the installments from January, February, March, April (which is marred by The Monkey's Paw...um, scanner's hand...on a few pages. Don't make a wish on it, just to be safe....), May, and June 1899. Regardless, I'm still working from the book for the "exclusive" material.)

Stay tuned, lit fans...we're charging the hill soon.

And once again, links to the Chapter Recaps (chock full of spoilers, links go live as they're posted): Chapters 1 (parts 1, 2, 3) , 2 (parts 1, 2), 3 (parts 1, 2, 3), 4 (parts 1, 2, 3), 5 (part 1, 2, 3), 6 (part 1, 2), and post-game.

Post-Game Report: Waters That Pass Away

Caution: This post-game rant is going to be a sprawling, rambling mess, so seat yourselves comfortably. And once again, here are the links to the spoiler-laden chapter recaps for the latecomers:
Book I: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. (with a Halftime Report)
Book II: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.

I have a dog whom we didn't train very well as a puppy. She's a great companion, but she won't fetch, she snarls at not only strangers but people who shouldn't be strangers anymore, and does all kinds of ridiculous things to the sofa pillows. But the one thing that confuses me above all is what she does when you point to something, because she'd rather look at your finger than the place where the finger's pointing.

That in a nutshell is one of the insurmountable issues I had with Waters That Pass Away. Nannie Winston is my dog and she wrote a 300+ page story about my finger.

To illustrate, let's go back for a moment to Book 1, Chapter 7, which focuses on the disgraceful deeds of Andrew Tompson. When I approached this chapter in the play-by-play, I mentioned the modern critic's favorite mantra: show, don't tell. With those words in mind, I want you to have a look at what's going on at the very end of this chapter, especially in light of what came immediately before.

We have just burnt several pages, with prose so deeply purple it might as well have been navy blue, dealing with the white hot passion Tompson holds for Helen Galbraith. Everything we've learned about the man so far is (once again) spelled out in big bold letters. We've read maybe the second or third redundant account of his overheated emotions and how she will bend to his will...oh yes, she will (arches eyebrow). We've been told, flatly and rather artlessly, what we're expected to think of him, rather than just letting his creepy, stalkerly actions speak for themselves. But when it comes time for something to actually happen, for the man to act decisively for once in his life...well, you tell me...

With this purpose clearly defined in his mind, Tompson walked on at an unprecedented pace, heeding no one who passed him by. Reaching Madison Square he still walked on, down Fifth Avenue. At Eighteenth Street he paused a moment, looked about at the numbers of the houses in that vicinity, then facing towards the east, crossed over to Broadway, and continuing east from this point he finally disappeared into a house which appeared to possess the double character of a residence and place of business.

It is useless, and would be degrading, even if not uninteresting, to follow Andrew Tompson into this house, and to listen to the exact conversation which he held there with one who should not, under any conditions, never have touched his life. It is sufficient to say that when, at an early hour of the morning, Tompson turned into his own home, he was perfectly aware that he had been guilty of a dastardly act. He had placed the matter of Helen Galbraith and Mr. Westmore into the hands of a skilled detective! The truth he must have. The events of the future must come within his knowledge, so that he could deal with them according to his own purposes. This was his excuse, and so entirely had he yielded to the promptings of his lower nature, that he honestly felt himself justified in adopting any course which might realize the end he had in view. (pp. 147-8, my emphasis)

So to summarize, we've been told in excruciating detail the state of mind that led him to the decision to hire a private detective, complete with extensive editorializing. We've been shown what he was doing in the hours immediately before his fateful decision. We've been told of the immediate aftermath of the detective decision. We're even given a turn-by-turn Google Maps-esque narrative of the moments before he entered the man's office. The only thing we're not privy to is the actual meeting itself...in this case, we're not even given a frustratingly vague summary from the narrator. In fact, we're told it's not even worth talking about. Don't give it another thought.

The whole episode is infuriating, all the more so because it happens over and over again. We're told the sad story of Marie Levier and her bastard child through a third party, which is followed by a “what is to be done” debate by Mrs. Elliott's League of Busybodies, but Helen's visit to the girl, which we're assured was long and exhausting, is dismissed in one desultory sentence, and the whole episode is never mentioned again. Forget about showing adultery (seriously, that was too much to ask), it's hard to accept Helen as a woman being befouled when the author can't even bring herself to use the word “adultery.” Even worse, Westmore vanishes from the story for the entire length of their affair. After the initial “darling” at the end of Book 1, he only shows up again once it's time to dismantle the evil that he's done, and not a second sooner.

The whole narrative is maddening like that, circling around key events from an extreme distance without actually landing on them. I understand that the author was probably a genuinely pious woman, and didn't set out to write anything other than a sincere corrective, but if you're going to write a story about sin, you're going to have to write about the sin at some point. That's not what we get.

What we do get—in spades—are a number of rambling conversations, apparently about whatever the the author was thinking about at the time and usually completely superfluous to the story. We're also given an exhaustive history of Alexander Galbraith, telling us—again, not showing us—how godlike and imposing he was when he was operating at full-power (and with all his limbs), but he doesn't actually do anything in the present-day story but stare out the window and slowly waste away. It's an amazing amount of space wasted on a character who was utterly incidental to the plot.

And so many Mary Sues! Would it have killed Ms. Winston to introduce a flawed but sympathetic character? The wrong decisions and the delusions were reserved almost solely for the selfish, evil antagonists. And yes, Helen Galbraith was a sinner, but you convince me that she was genuinely flawed. Her major grievous mistake had a lovingly crafted element of perfection, since she was coerced into a liason so she could keep the job that kept her husband from dying of starvation. Once you realize what type of characters the story has been populated with and where they line up on the moral axis (and none of that was left to guesswork, since it was spelled out at every juncture) nothing that happens (or nothing that you've been told just happened) really surprises you.

Did I mention that I couldn't stand this book? This is the one time I missed having a hard copy version so that I could have the joy of throwing it across the room after I finished the last page. That's not to say there's nothing you can take away from the book, since Pliny the Elder said that even a bad book can teach you something. The digressions give you a quick trip through the attitudes of the times, and the book itself is an extreme example of sentimental style of writing that, let's face it, just doesn't work today, but was deemed Quite Worthy in 1899. In that way, it's educational...just not particularly entertaining.

MVP Of The Book: I was very close to declaring myself the MVP, just for finishing it without pulling my hair or eyes out, but in the end I have to hand it to Sherman Elliott, so rugged and manly that his sweat smelled like Old Spice before anybody knew that was what Old Spice smelled like, for delivering in the final chapter the one monologue that felt like it had flesh and blood behind it, rather than reaching for the mechanical effects of leaden melodrama that dominate the text.

One of the many textual games I play to keep myself engaged is to find the messages that actually speak across the chasm to us, and the last paragraph of Mr. Elliott's homily seemed to be staring holes in The Way Things Are Now—both in 1899 and 2008. When he says “Those that crave great positions, rather than true greatness—those who undertake tremendous labor for the fame attached to it rather than for the sake of adding a finer and more enduring quality to human labor—these become often popular heroes—but also only for a time,” he might as well be talking to you, buddy. It also served to open up the whole “sit still and suffer” concept as more than a callous turn of phrase (although let's be honest, it strikes modern eyes in a very different way). You can tell this is where the author's real emotional investment lies, and she puts those words into the mouth of Sherman Elliott. It's a shame Ms. Winston didn't come through until the end was in sight, and even then was only able to hold it together for two pages.

Would you recommend it to a friend? Oh, God no. I can't think of anybody I've ever known who would appreciate this story as straight entertainment, and if they're looking for a so-called “problem novel,” they don't have to go here.

Is this (still) a summer book? Definitely not. The book was well enough regarded in its day—but not, as I found out, well enough regarded to avoid being retitled when it was reissued a few years later—but for modern audiences, it's the exact opposite of a light read. Waters That Pass Away is the type of book that the stereotypical view of 19^th century popular reading was built around. It was an ordeal to finish (it took a whole frickin' month, folks...you want me to go faster on the penalty rounds, start paying me), and I've been told that even my recaps were rough sledding; that's only because I want you to hurt like I do. Unfortunately, that doesn't bode well for the rest of the list, since for a style to become a stereotype, there obviously has to be more than one book like this on the list. My heart is overcome with terror...

Before I let it drop, it's also worth mentioning that to go directly from The Hooligan Nights, where any morality was suggested by a character's actions but judgment was left to the reader, to Waters That Pass Away, where every page tells you at length what you're supposed to think, makes me realize what a vegetable feels like when it's being blanched.

No nagging question this time. Let's just get this over with...

Coming soon: The long-awaited Round 4! I've got an idea of my own, but as always, I'm open to suggestions.

Waters That Pass Away: The Halftime Report!

Since this story was split into two “books”, we might as well take advantage of the intermission curtain to do a preliminary processing of what's been crammed down our gullet so far. So now, it's the Waters That Pass Away Halftime Report! Brought to you by Galbraith Ale: made from the choicest barley and real human tears!

Questions for discussion:

1. As promised, we start with my theory about Alexander Galbraith: I've had a lot of fun so far yammering on about how Alexander Galbraith is dying from Movie Of The Week Disease (and I'm sure as hell not about to stop now), but it occurred to me in the last recap that he was dying of nothing more than self-pity and broken pride. Now, I've never heard of anyone dropping dead from a broken spirit outside of books like these, but obviously a man with a strong moral compass (as we've been assured at excruciating length Galbraith does) isn't going to rig up a shotgun to disconnect his brain. Is it possible that brooding in his cottage all day, wasting away, staring out at the nature that drove him to such heights without actually engaging in it—that's his subconscious forcing a slow suicide? It feels pretty obvious that some gremlin in the back of his head said “Okay, we're done” after he lost his hands, but many people have lived as hermits for decades without dropping dead, as we're constantly assured Alex is. But we've also been assured that Alex is a strong man of strong will. He tells himself “I am going to be a great artist,” exerts Herculean effort to get it done, and almost makes it there. Could the gremlin be whispering in the back of his head “You've done everything else you've set your mind to do. Now let's set it to die.”?

Keep in mind the reason all of the above is up for grabs: none of it is alluded to anywhere in the book, and everywhere else every possible motivation for each character is spelled out in flaming letters viewable from space. We're given so little about what has driven him to death's door, so it could be my wishful thinking to find any fatal flaw in the simon-pure protagonists, or stitching together my own narrative out of the rags of the one I've been given. God forbid I make the book sound like any less of a chore than it is.

Since there's no reading ahead, I'm also not discounting the idea that the author might cross us up and let Alex die of old age. And if that's what actually happens, you'll never hear the end of it.

2. I still can't shake that last scene from Chapter 8. The whole thing smacks of a seduction scene in a 1930s Production Code era Hollywood movie where everything fades to black during the clinch and you're left to imagine what happens in the dark...or if anything happens in the dark. Of course, in this case one of the people in the clinch fades to black before the scene does, so we're left guessing. What the hell happened in those missing two hours? Did they play Old Maid? Did he teach her to juggle?

3. We've set up Westmore as an obsessive-stalker-with-gobs-of-money type. We've also set up Tompson as a scorned-and-vengeful type. Are these two destined to butt heads over their crossed purposes, or would that require something to actually happen more often than every 50 pages?

This book is putting my “make your own kind of fun if the book doesn't provide it” edict to the acid test, but literature students, pay attention: even though it's true that I'm fighting these florid flourishes all the way, I'm still fully engaged with the text, even though we're doing it on my terms and not the author's. This project is an obligation made to no one but myself, but I refuse to let this book be my Ivan Drago...unless I get to be Rocky Balboa instead of Apollo Creed.

DRAGOOOOOOOOoooo(ooo)!

Next: Book 2...Reader 0! See you there, my riders of the purple prose...

Waters That Pass Away Sidebar: Is This "Our" Miss Winston?

Since there's not a whole lot of information about the author of our current book in the free-and-clear webspace (that is, not hidden behind a wall of dollar signs), that means I have to be a bit more clever. Starting with this snippet of genealogy from the Daughters of the American Revolution Lineage Book (1897):

MISS NANNIE B. WINSTON -- National DAR membership #1797
Born in Virginia

• Descendant of Lieut. James Meriwether and William Bobby Winston, of Virginia.

• Daughter of James Blair Winston and Julia A. Lumpkin, his wife.
• Granddaughter of James Meriwether Winston and Mary Ann Hemingway, his wife.
• Great-granddaughter of William Bobby Winston and Ann Meriwether, his wife.
• Great-great-granddaughter of James Meriwether and Elizabeth Pollard, his wife.

• James Meriwether was one of four brothers in the Continental service. He rose to the rank of lieutenant and served through the war.
• William Bobby Winston was a soldier from 1778 to the close of the Revolution.

We've established this Miss Winston was a member of the Old Dominion DAR chapter, and (as I just found out) "our" Miss Winston later followed up this book's success (which tells us that somebody responded to the book back in the day, even if I don't now) with The Grace of Orders (1902), which a contemporary review tells us is set in "Virginia as it was before the great cataclysm, and as it is now," which has to be more than a coincidence. You'll also notice that the Times didn't make the "Mr. Winston" mistake twice.

Keep in mind that all of the above is strictly circumstantial evidence, and considering some of the things I've said about the book so far, I post this information with a great deal of trepidation in case the author's estate puts a hit out on me. Still, it might be interesting to put a life to the name on the title page. Consider this a combination action item/plea for mercy.

"Waters That Pass Away" Sidebar: A Stunning Grasp of the Locale

Okay, Nannie Winston, you had me and then you lost me. You'll remember in the first chapter her description of the monotonous, unadorned Jersey countryside, which built up her credibility slightly since I actually drove through Jersey once (yes, on the way to Atlantic City, wanna fight about it?) and that's pretty much the way I saw it. But as part of the description of Westmore's office from our second chapter, which I didn't include the last post because life is too damn short, there's an incidental detail that sets off my B.S. alarms:

Near the west windows a shelf had been constructed upon which were arranged several earthenware pots planted with hyacinths and narcissi; the sweet, springlike scent of the flowers filled the room to an almost overpowering degree. Coming suddenly from the cool, fresh air of the outside world into the heat and perfume of this luxurious apartment, and already overwrought by an intensity of excitement, Helen felt herself all at once grow faint, and had not Mr. Westmore come quickly to her side, she would undoubtedly have fallen to the floor. (p. 37)

Remember, this part of the story is set in New York City. She's talking about cool, fresh air. In New York City. No sir, I'm just not seeing it. Especially during the thick of the Second Industrial Revolution. "Fresh" can't be that relative a term.

A little off the path, but that's the type of thing that comes to me in the small hours and I felt like sharing.

Round 3: Waters That Pass Away

The man known as "EvilWaldo" (but whom I call Dave, because that's his name and I'm a jerk like that) decided I've had it too good so far, so he skimmed the list and landed on the first book we've drawn for which I'm not finding a lot of supporting material. In fact, until a few weeks ago, the only online copy was missing several pages, which didn't bode well. Well, my source was fixed just in time for what may be my first penalty round. Dig this, if you will (filed in the original list under "The Summer's Miscellany", a catchall category for "we don't know what to call it, either"):

Waters That Pass Away. By N. B. Winston. New York: G. W. Dillingham Company. $1.25.

This book is of rare interest to people attracted by the study of the formative influences of the human heart. Mr. Winston, whose discernment is rational and whose treatment is as artistic as it is consistent, has written from the depths of the highest possible realization of the true greatness of the human heart. "Waters That Pass Away" will touch most anybody who is at all sympathetic with heart influences. At the same time the author intends his work to stand for the truest moral nobility and for the conscious mastery by humanity of the problems that have so long essayed to unite head and heart into concerted harmony of action.
--New York Times, June 24, 1899.

Mister Winston. Remember that as I run through this pull-quote from the publisher's ad.

"The author of Waters That Pass Away, is a Southerner, whose sex is not to be determined from the name standing upon the title page or from the story itself. There are some things which indicate that the writer is a man and, on the other hand, there are touches that seem to be distinctively feminine..... Each reader will have the pleasure of attempting to solve this mystery for himself; and whether he succeeds or not will have the pleasure to be derived from a well-told story."
--Philadelphia Inquirer.

See? It's a sales angle! You don't know if it's a man or a woman! The suspense is killing me! No, not "killing me"...what's that other thing? Oh yes, "making me scowl in disgust at how ridiculous using this as a promotional angle is".

Let me put you out of your misery. The N is for Nannie. Miss Nannie B. Winston, possibly the same N. B. Winston who was Vice-Regent of the Old Dominon chapter of the DAR...that much I found out (I think...corrections are more than welcome). I love how the Times assumed a Mister out of N. B. Winston, as if gurlz weren't allowed to have initials. You give those chicks a monogram, next thing they'll ask to vote, and wear trousers, and--God forbid--pee standing up! It's like cats wanting to be dogs, I tell ya!

Now that we've gotten that bit of low comedy out of the way, let's see what other reviews the publisher dredged up.

"Waters That Pass Away is one of the rare books that emphasizes notably the true greatness of the human heart. It is written from the depths of the highest possible realization and expressed with an eloquence that touches one irresistibly. It stands for the truest moral nobility, for the conscious mastery by humanity of the problems that have so long essayed to unite head and heart into concerted harmony of action. It is written by N. B. Winston, to whose quality of discernment and rational application it does rare honor for its artistic consistency."
--Boston Ideas

"There is a deep lesson of life to be learned from a book like this, and in it one may study character, and the infallible trend of social consequences, sorrow ever following sin, and sin in its turn yielding to joy when true repentance follows after." --Philadelphia Item

"The author has achieved an interesting problem novel in Waters That Pass Away."
--The Mirror, St. Louis.

In other words, get ready for some world-class suffering. Gee, THANKS Dave.

And now, our sources...um, source.

• Google Books has posted the only web copy (originally from the NY Public Library), which wasn't all there until a recent rescan. Because it looks like this book was scanned "non-destructively"--that is, this rare library copy wasn't chopped up and fed through a high-speed automatic scanner--you can occasionally see the fingers of the person running the machine on the edges of some pages and, even more disconcerting, fingers which were filtered out...along with small bits of the text. (To see the human touch in action, flip to the two images following p. 281...that's a picture of the page actually being turned.) Still, all the pages are there, which means I've got something I can work with, and the blanked-out bits (all in the early chapters) are usually small enough to be read around.
  

Since this time I'm going to have to type in my quote blocks instead of stealing them from a plain text alternate (oh, the tragedy!), any questionable transcriptions I'm compelled to make will be bracketed.

Hang in there, gang! The new adventure begins soon!

Links to the spoiler-laden chapter recaps (links go live as they're posted):
Book I: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. (with a Halftime Report)
Book II: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.
And the Post Game Wrap-Up.

Post-Game Report: The Hooligan Nights

For late-risers, here are the links to the Chapter Recaps (chock full of spoilers): 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22.

If you're interested in a treatment of the Hooligan problem that takes a more directly critical and advisory tone, Clarence Rook wrote an article on the topic for The Anglo-Saxon Review in 1900, somewhat sarcastically titled "St. Patrick Hooligan". This one even draws a comparison between the Hooligan and Lord Byron. No, really.

His conclusion in this later article is the fruit of the seeds scattered throughout The Hooligan Nights.

No human instinct is bad; and the only sensible way of developing character is to accept the instinct and make the best of it. Lawlessness in itself is not praiseworthy; but I maintain that the character which naturally breaks out into lawlessness contains splendid possibilities. So long as we leave several hundreds of thousands of boys to roam the streets with no legitimate outlet for their abundant energy, so long shall we be startled by the howl and occasionally stunned by the belt of the Hooligan. Here and there efforts are being made in the right direction. Here and there an obscure clergyman has recognised that if boys are set to box with the gloves in a parish-room they will be too tired to fight with the fists in the street. The organisers of the cadet battalions, such as the Queen's, which has its headquarters in Southwark, have found that 'playing at soldiers' is an extremely popular amusement with boys. Such efforts, however, touch but one in ten thousand ; and London swarms with boys who, filled with the laudable ambition of being pirates, have to struggle blindly, without guidance, after their ideal. Let us not think too unkindly of a lad when he goes howling through the streets to the fray. Let us remember that the Oxford undergraduate was a Hooligan, delighting in town-and-gown rows, until some one had the happy thought of turning his misdirected energy towards athletics.
--Anglo-Saxon Review, December 1900

This is touched on fairly early in the book itself, the theme of "There is no such thing as a bad boy, just bad guidance from adults who should know better." In spite of himself, Rook does occasionally find admirable qualities in the young man who is his subject which, if they had been channeled in positive directions at an early age, would've made him an upstanding (if not as well-paid) citizen. The hopeful, if (in my opinion) woefully over-optimistic, closing lines seem to reflect a belief in the perfectibility of humankind fairly common to the time, that if you could somehow crack the code of the soul, everybody could live a beautiful life.

Of course, there's a less-than-pleasant second flank to this argument, one which isn't necessarily said out loud in the book but which bubbles up when we take a gander at Alf's less-than-ideal mostly unsupervised upbringing: If those bloody lower-class parents knew how to raise their brats, I wouldn't have to lock my windows at night. And it poses the most valid question to the human perfectibility drive: Whose idea of "perfect" are we talking about, anyway? Because while this frame of mind led to a number of worthy charitable organizations striving for the betterment of awful situations, it also led to more sinister things like the imperialist concept of the "white man's burden". In that spirit, it probably says more than he intended about Rook's sense of social bias when he silently refuses to believe Alf's contention that some people steal because they have to steal to keep from going hungry, not just out of stubborn-minded up-yours rebellion.

Anyway, dragging our focus away from the subtext and back to the book itself: the early chapters' straight biographical narrative fades in and out like a bad TV signal, but the anecdotes and observations that make up the bulk of the book have the desired effect (suggested by the dominant framing device) of sitting down in the back room of a pub with a petty criminal while he gives you a loose account of his "brilliant career".

Would this have had the result of warning and deterrent? That's a question I'm not fully equipped to answer, since the reaction you have to the events of the book hinge on what mindset you have coming in. When Alf is telling his own story, you're given just the story, not cues on how to react...apart from Rook's occasional interjections. But it does fall into a longstanding gambit of condemning behavior while presenting it meticulously--almost lovingly--for the entertainment of people who want to feel superior but also want to wallow in second-hand sin. On that level, The Hooligan Nights is a success and points the way to, among other things, the Fox Network Saturday night lineup. Maybe not Mad TV, though.

In spite of the promises of the introduction, Rook didn't manage to completely hold off on the moralizing, unless by "story without a moral", he meant that Alf didn't reform and stayed true to his established nature all the way through. Maybe it was asking too much for him to completely resist the urge to interject his consternation, but I still maintain that Chapter 20's digression into civic pride was a genuinely sour note. Instead of the authorial hand gently pushing up from underneath to make certain things stand out, we got an authorial fist suddenly punching through the floor. He was doing so well up to that point, too. But again, there weren't that many wobbly spots of that variety, so it was just a hiccup on the race to the finish.

MVP Of The Book: It's Alf by default, since out of necessity he's front and center on almost every page. Take him away and it's just Rook sightseeing around some seedy neighborhoods.

Nagging Question: I've come to terms with the idea that Alf is at least partially based on a real young man, albeit one that's probably been embellished out the yin-yang for the page, but info on the author himself eludes me. I know Clarence Rook was a journalist/mystery writer/travel writer who originally wrote his Hooligan material for The Daily Chronicle. I have a birth and death year (1862-1915), and--here's a surprise--Bill Schwarz tells us that he was an American. Apart from that, all we have is what Rook left us on the page, and no, I haven't read him past this one book. Forget about Wikipedia, there isn't a trace of him in the Encyclopedia Britannica. Not even the 1911 edition, when he would've still been alive. There's no way he could've shuffled off the mortal coil without leaving a trace. A little help here? Part of my failing is using the Interweb as my primary research tool, I'm sure...

Would you recommend it to a friend? Sure. If they're interested in sneak thieves of days gone by, this should be on their list. The eternal question, though, is "Would I let an impressionable kid looking for imitatable acts read it?" Probably not. I've been exposed to too many sitcoms where the dad obliviously reels off his childhood misdeeds with a chuckle and a twinkle in his eye, while his kids pay rapt attention and silently take mental notes. And those were about building rafts and jumping things on your BMX bike, not bashing old ladies over the head to steal the money from their candy shops and fighting dirty. Having said that, there's nothing in Hooligan Nights that tops the Grand Theft Auto/Sopranos family of entertainment in terms of violence and nastiness, so use your own discretion.

Is this (still) a summer book? Emphatically yes. Don't let the fits and starts of my updates fool you; that was more out of frustration with my own working methods than anything the book was (or wasn't) giving me. It would've been a brisk read if I wasn't so insistent on anal-retentive note-taking and strike-while-the-memory's-hot recapping. For potential readers, keep in mind that any sex is implied (and even then it's strictly between-the-lines weasel phraseology) but the violence is right up front, so you'll get at least one of your basic food groups.

Next: Time to choose #3, folks. Take a close look at the list and see what you'd like to inflict on me this time.

Hooligan Sidebar: A Bust of Wordsworth--Engraved

There were a couple bits of side business from Chapter 7 that caught my fancy which didn't really feed the story but fed the atmosphere in spades. Here, apropros of nothing, is a digression from the middle of Alf's Clapham Common misadventure:

As young Alf told me of his spell of honest employment we were standing at the top of the Walk, where it bends round to meet the Lambeth Road. There is a shop at that point which always interests me. If I shut my eyes and think of something I do not want and could not in any probable circumstances want, and then open them on that shop window, I shall see the thing itself.

A silk hat of the later eighties? It is there. A Jumbo Entertainer's voice producer? It invites you. A bust of Wordsworth - engraved? You may have it at a sacrificial price. 'Law's Serious Call'? It stares you in the face, with 'The Young Criminal' as next-door neighbour. Racing calendars, too, seven years old, and looking their age, you may get; accordions, and briar-pipes, well-coloured, and marked at twopence. It would pay a discontented man to come to that corner--he could ride there from any reasonable part of London for threepence at the outside--and learn how many things he does not want. Where do these strange things come from? And have they any future? You would think that the silk hat of the later eighties would have had enough of life and be glad of oblivion.

I was interested in the shop; but courtesy demanded that I should attend to my entertainer. (pp. 88-9)

Round 2: The Hooligan Nights

This time my project's early adopters let me pull the rabbit out of the hat. Maybe they were demoralized that I had such a good time with the first book.

For round two, filed under the heading of "Travel and Adventure", I've picked The Hooligan Nights by Clarence Rook (1862-1915), who has been described by Gale’s Contemporary Authors Online as “…a shadowy figure whose writing rested uneasily between fiction and journalism.” Already I'm intrigued...

The Hooligan Nights. Being the life and opinions of a young and unrepentant criminal recounted by himself, as set forth by Clarence Rook. 12mo. New York: Henry Holt & Co. $1.25

Mr. Clarence Rook declares that this work of his, with the strange title, is "not a novel, or in any sense a work of imagination." Hooligan is a London burglar, and the main character is a young thief, Alf by name; and Alf, because of his boldness as a pickpocket and general rascal, becomes in time the leader of the Hooligan band. Mr. Rook has made a careful study of the criminal class in London, which wages constant war on society and exists because it robs. Now, writes Mr. Rook, considering Alf as the type, he should be unhappy, "but as a matter of fact he is nothing of the sort; and, when you come to think of it, Alf has had a better time than an average clerk on a limited number of shillings." You never could persuade Alf "that honesty is the best policy." The young villain's conduct is not commended; there is no apology offered. Alf was born a thief, and is bound to die one. "The Hooligan Nights" is curious, as the author gives the peculiar slang or argot of the London thief.

--New York Times, June 24, 1899.

A rascal? Watch out, he's one thrashing away from become a scallywag! I'd hate to be a dustbin in Shaftsbury tonight... (There's also a fuller review available, if you're up for it. It's worth reading just for the telling tidbit that boxing is awesome and manly, while boxing for money is morally repugnant. So if you're going to beat the tar out of someone, do it for free or you're going to Hell...)

Obviously this required further preliminaries, and from just a touch of research I found that The Hooligan Nights, which was reprinted in 1979 (presumably as part of the Victorian pop lit revival that also gave us back Varney the Vampire) and dramatized on BBC radio as recently as last year, casts a respectable shadow over the genre of crime literature. It made such an impression on turn-of-the-century London that the author was actively pursued as an advisor on the criminal and delinquency issues his book raised. The book has been name checked and referenced in modern books and articles about organized crime, juvenile delinquency, and the rise of teen culture, and arguably gave the English language a new word to boot.

And yet somehow all that attention still doesn't ring my chimes. After all, one of the motivators of this project is that lots of books that seemed like a good idea at the time are dire slogs a hundred years down the line. Dammit, I need a tipping point. So let's see what this contemporary ad's pull-quote tells us. C'mon, baby, sell it to me...

"The Hooligan Nights" must be accorded a position of honour in the mean-street library...it is splendid reading, and a valuable revelation of the natural history of Hooliganism... The joys and sorrows of the modern Artful Dodger, the highly developed trickiness and casual brutality of the under-life of London are certainly most fascinating in Mr. Rook's editorial hands.
--Pall Mall Gazette, as quoted in a publisher's advertisement.

Hey, casual brutality! Now we're talking! On top of that, I've been assured that at no time does the story "point to a moral"; Alf's story is what it is, and any heavy-handed judgment must come from the reader. And you know I'm all about that. And just like that, we're off again...

And now, for those of you who want to play along at home, our sources:

• Google Books has two full-view versions of the first American edition--one digitized from Widener Library at Harvard, the other from University of California. Since they're both from the same edition, we're going to assume one is as good as the other until experience or missing pages prove us wrong. At least this time we have the last page of the story. (All page references will be tied to this version.)
  
• The Victorian Dictionary has the full text in HTML (albeit with OCR errors), each chapter on its own page for your convenience...although sadly not the "frontspiece in colours". The full site also has all kinds of dandy illustrations and articles relating to the days and the times, so it'll come in handy.

Chapter Recaps (chock full of spoilers, links go live as they're posted): 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, and the (less-spoilery) Post-Game Report.

Nabob EXTRA: Hi, 'Bob! The Nabob Drinking Game

Before we move on, since one of my self-preservation strategies through this project is to "make your own kind of entertainment," the possibility of a drinking game popped up (you see what I named it; hopefully that tells you why I came up with a drinking game). It can be played in a round-robin read-aloud setting with groups, or as a pathetic loser sitting home alone in your underwear. Honestly, I can't decide which setting would be sadder, but whatever gets you through the day...

HI 'BOB!: The Hungarian Nabob Drinking Game

John Kárpáthy:
One shot:

• when the book calls him Master Jock or Squire John.
• when he or somebody else comments on his huge...real estate holdings.
• when he or a member of his party does something which is supposed to be mischievous. Two if you actually laugh. If your designated reader is really good at his/her job, you're screwed.
  

Two shots:

• when the narration calls him "the Nabob".
• whenever another new stately home is introduced.
  

Three shots:

• when he or somebody else announces John by his full name, first and last. It has to be in dialogue.
  

Abellino Kárpáthy:
One shot:

• when he says something snobbish and/or dickish. It's usually both simultaneously.
• when one of his schemes hits the inevitable snag.
• when somebody kicks him out of a place.
• when he's telling a fanciful lie, or when one of his confederates is spinning a fanciful lie on his behalf. If the lie goes on for more than a page, take a shot for each page they drag it out.
  

Two shots:

• when somebody offers him money that he refuses, for whatever reason.
  
• when something awful (or awfully hilarious) dawns on him.
  

Three shots:

• when somebody offers him money that he actually takes.
• when you think see his "final humiliation." Obviously this isn't an "everybody drinks" one. You can use your own judgment. Be honest, but remember there are several false positives. This is a penalty phase for those who try to be the "clever kid" in the room.

Fanny Meyer:
One shot:

• When somebody comments on the low quality of her family.
• When somebody else thinks or comments on how sad they are for her, or how totally, totally screwed she was/is/will be.

Two shots:

• Any time Fanny stops to think or talk about how totally screwed she is, or someone comments on how very, very miserable she is. If this ur-emo reverie is broken up over several pages, that's two shots for each page, because I'm evil like that.
• Any time Fanny freaks out above and beyond "typical" expectations.
• Any time somebody totally misreads Fanny's motivations. That's for each time it happens in an individual scene, not for the entire incident.

And last, but by no means least:

• Chug a full glass every time Mike Kis has dialogue after Chapter 3. Damn straight I'm still bitter about that one.

If you have any other ideas, drop it into a comment. Like everybody else on the Intertubes, I'm desperate for attention.

Post-Game Report: A Hungarian Nabob

For those of you just joining us, you completely missed the first book in my march to madness. If you don't mind having the book spoiled for you (majorly), here are the links to my chapter-by-chapter recaps: Introduction, Chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22. Now, let's go to the post-game report...

You might remember that one paragraph of the introduction to A Hungarian Nabob set off all kinds of alarms when I first read it.

I may add, in conclusion, that I have taken the liberty to cut out a good third of the original work, and this I have done advisedly, having always been very strongly of opinion that the technique of the original tale suffered from an excess of episode. This embarras de richesse would naturally be still more noticeable in a translation, and I am particularly anxious that "A Hungarian Nabob" should attract at first sight. Let this, therefore, be my apology to Dr. Jókai and, as I trust, my claim upon his forgiveness.

Remember, I'm wary of condensations (I read Don Quixote unabridged, dammit), but in this case it worked in another way, since some issues I might have with the text could possibly be written off to overzealous editing by Mr. Bain, the translator. Take the character of Mike Kis, who was excellently introduced in the lively chapter 3 and seemed to be developing into a major secondary character. After the initial build-up he almost completely disappears from the narrative, which was a major disappointment on my part. We're told by the narrator that he's John Kárpáthy's constant companion after the incident with the coffin, but we have to take the author at his word.

It didn't help my conspiratorial side that the lengths of the chapters were gradually shrinking, as if the editor got bolder in paring back the text as the story wound on. Sadly, I don't have an uncut text to compare with, so this is all just idle speculation.

Meanwhile, as Mike and the other secondary characters from the initial chapters fell away, Fanny's story launched and eventually consumed the book, with the (admittedly marvelous) villain Abellino as the thread that tied everything together. Maybe I haven't acclimated to the task at hand, but once I realized Fanny's story was going to be the main story, and her story was one of those stories, I got a sinking feeling. Especially when I got my first taste of the tone being used for that side of the story.

I eventually adjusted to my approach and found my own type of entertainment in Fanny's story...probably not the type of entertainment the author intended, but really, she thought she was going to Hell for reading a "fresh" note from a guy. Not for actually doing anything in the note (and seriously, all he asked was for her to leave the garden gate open after dark), just for reading. As it transpired, she also had a genteel version of that Jimmy-Carter-Playboy-interview lust in her heart, although she was properly ashamed of herself even if she didn't indulge any of her inner gremlins. So she wasn't completely unbearable, although modern readers without an overdeveloped sentimental streak would best read her inner torments with a healthy dose of snark...and there are plenty of chances to do that.

Once I made the necessary adjustments of expectation, I enjoyed myself quite a bit, but doggonnit, they told me this story was about a Hungarian Nabob! The Nabob was a fun guy, so it's a damn shame he didn't figure more into his own book. Unless he did. Damn you, abridged edition.

MVP of the Novel: Abellino, who truly earned his stripes as upperclass twit supreme, at most points being a monumental jerk and underhanded schemer just for the sheer joy of it. Bonus points for cursing the "n(-word)" Hungarian language, but not hesitating to ask for a sackload of Hungarian money. Spoken like a true carpetbagger.

Nagging Question: Some character points are approached head-on (Aunt Teresa is a Bible reading godly cat lady, and we find that out because we're shown the Bible, the moralism, and the cat), others are approached sideways (Fanny's sisters were whores, and we get to figure that out for ourselves because they always had money and didn't have either husbands or jobs). One point, however, eludes me: Griffard was a financier (loan shark, really), he was unsettlingly charming, and--here's the bit that made me wonder--he lived on the Ile de Jerusalem in Paris. Maybe this isn't anything, but was that Jokai's subtle way of saying that Griffard was a Jewish moneylender? If he was playing into the stereotype, he didn't beat us over the head with it, but as long as I'm second-guessing my reactions to the book, we might as well put this one on the table, too.

And now, the old book report question...Would you recommend it to a friend?: Yes. In the end, I really found myself enjoying the story...taking the previously-listed reservations into account, of course.

Edit on 14 June: I just realized that I left the most important question unanswered, seeing as how this is a blog about antique summer reading: Is this (still) a summer book? (By that, I mean "Could this pass as 'light reading' today for someone without a degree in literature?") I'd say "possibly"; once you look up what a "heyduke" is, it's a steady (if occasionally stiff) read with a little bit of everything, even if in the end the author (or the editor) shorted me on the stuff I enjoyed personally. There are sentimental and moralistic streaks throughout that might smack some modern readers around, but that's never been an issue with me if the author is good at his/her job, which Jokai was. Maybe that makes me a freak (as if that's the only thing that makes me a freak), but we're going to get that from a lot of these books anyway, so you might as well adjust your expectations accordingly.

Next: Well, you tell me. It's time to pick another book from the list, friends, and I'll be forced to do it myself if you don't.

Nabob Sidebar: Egg In His Tea?

Yes, egg in his tea. It still freaks me right out, though. New chapter (or chapters) sometime in the next 24...

A Nabob Sidebar: Potato, PoTAHto

I should've mentioned this earlier, but I also found a British edition of Nabob on Google Books a few days ago, but what's all this then? AN Hungarian Nabob? I suppose that goes back to a previous point: when it comes to language, there's English and there's American. I blame Noah Webster, but that's mainly because I can't hang this one on George W. Bush.

A Strange And Baffling Non-Aryan Language

There are parts of R. Nisbet Bain's introduction to A Hungarian Nabob that tripped all kinds of fascinating alarms in me.

It is no light task to attempt to transplant a classic like "Egy Magyar Nábob." National tastes differ infinitely, and then there is the formidable initial difficulty of contending with a strange and baffling non-aryan language. Only those few hardy linguists who have learnt, in the sweat of their brows, to read a meaning into that miracle of agglutinative ingenuity, an Hungarian sentence, will be able to appreciate the immense labour of rendering some four hundred pages of a Magyar masterpiece of peculiarly idiomatic difficulty into fairly readable English.

This is an alien attitude to a modern reader, the translator being right up front about what a chore the translation was (at least in a mass market edition). But in this case, my friends, the effort must be acknowledged. You see, Mr. Bain was a Briton. The bizarre Magyar morphology frightens and confuses a natural-born citizen of the Empire, assuming they're paying attention at any given time. Then you look at a word like karácsony and realize that's supposed to be Christmas (you crazed savages!) and you have to ask why they don't just pollute their mother tongue with the Germanic families, like God intended? But not Bain. He swallowed his pride and did his duty for England, and therefore you will appreciate what has been gifted upon you, you horrible children. Still, all things considered, there has to be some part of Chinese that would've made his head explode.

Keep in mind I say all the above as an American, the country that gave us a politician who said that if English was good enough for Jesus, it's good enough for us. A foreign tongue makes some of my neighbors a trifle paranoid...assuming we're paying attention at any given time.

But wait, there's more (my emphasis here):

I may add, in conclusion, that I have taken the liberty to cut out a good third of the original work, and this I have done advisedly, having always been very strongly of opinion that the technique of the original tale suffered from an excess of episode. This embarras de richesse would naturally be still more noticeable in a translation, and I am particularly anxious that "A Hungarian Nabob" should attract at first sight. Let this, therefore, be my apology to Dr. Jókai and, as I trust, my claim upon his forgiveness.

Part of me is suspicious of condensations, having been raised on Reader's Digest, where the popular works of the day are rendered into bite-sized morsels for people who just can't be bothered. I also ran across a late 1930s movie tie-in version of Dickens' Tale of Two Cities in which the editor promised a condensation that removed "non-essential" passages while preserving the heart of the book. And what was the first section to go? Some bit at the front about the best of times, the worst of times. You know, things that the reader wouldn't miss. I'll give Bain the benefit of the doubt for the moment, but here's my bias in a nutshell: when you add water to a can of condensed soup, you get a bowl of soup, but when you add water to a condensed book, you get a pulpy mess. Make of that what you will.

Anyway, back to Nabob. Mr. Bain decided to preserve some of the local color by leaving some Hungarian words in the text, along with a footnote that a glossary of those terms is included in the back of the book. And here's where Google Books (or the library) fumbles just a bit, because the last pages are missing from this copy--including the end of the story. In this case, Gutenberg picks up the spare, but Bain's introduction put me in an especially skeptical mood, so when I came across this--

Csárda, a country inn.

--I was primed for a little second guessing. I ran csárda through an online Hungarian-English dictionary and it came back as "a jerry-shop". And since I'm an uncultured clod, then I had to find out what the hell a jerry-shop is. E. Cobham Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable defines that as "a low-class beer-house", which you have to admit would be a much more colorful description of csárda than "country inn". [minor spoiler] A beer house probably burns faster, too, as you'll find out in chapter 1.

Oh, for those of you who were wondering:

Nabob: a : one who returns to Europe from the East with great riches b : man of great wealth c : a man of unusual prominence in a particular field (these scientific nabobs) -- sometimes a generalized expression of disapproval. (from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary)

Hope that helps. Maybe I'll actually get around to the story next time.

Round One: A Hungarian Nabob

This is the point where I was going to enter the complete introductory piece, to give you the full flavor of the task I've taken on, but thanks to the florid prose that seems so common to this type of 19th century feature writing, this is as far as I got before I surrendered:

What delightful pictures the very name of books for Summer reading brings to our mind--pictures of past holidays as well as visions of past holidays, as well as visions of the many delightful journeys we are always planning; days spent under the trees, in canoes, or flying before the wind on beautiful Long Island Sound; or, as often happens, becalmed in one of its many bays; or perhaps the day may be spent in what Ashby-Sterry called "Happy Hammockuity."

If you swing in a hammock on a summer day through,
And dream with profound assiduity,
A new phase of content it will give unto you,
Which philosophers call Hammockuity.

Or perhaps one's happy lot may be cast by the side of one of Dr. van Dyke's "Little Rivers," in which case, or, in fact, in any circumstances, what pleasanter companion could one have than that delightful book?

In Summer, as at all other times, Dr. Johnson's counsel, to "read the book you do honestly feel a wish and curiosity to read," is the best of advice; but perhaps at this season of the year there is greater latitude in the choice. One could never do much serious studying, or even solid reading, out of doors. There is quite too much to distract one's attention; now a bird, a flower, the outline of the trees against a brilliant sky; now the very changes in that sky itself, the rapidly floating clouds, with their varying shapes; or again, the absolutely cloudless, deep blue sky above us [...]

And it just keeps going on and on like that, and in my mind I picture it being read by a plummy voice with clipped enunciation, glasses sitting on the end of the nose...oh, and I suppose there's a person attached to all that, too. And yeah, I know, it's sentimental because it's supposed to be about the romance of it all--summer and reading and daydreaming and feeling sorry for the poor sods who look at daffodils and only see daffodils--but you'll forgive me if I don't have the stomach to type out the whole thing in one sitting. You're invited to read the whole thing at the New York Times site. In fact, I'd highly recommend it. Cut off a piece. Chew every bite. See if I care.

By the way, I actually have the complete poem. If you're good, I'll even keep it to myself. "Hammockuity". Oy.

As for the first book of the project, I got a grand total of two votes after the list went up the other week, one for Mrs. Hugh Fraser's Letters From Japan, the other for A Hungarian Nabob by Maurus Jokai (or Mór Jókai, if you want to split hairs). In the event of a tie, it falls to me to break the deadlock, so Nabob it is. Before we get to my first thoughts, here's what the listmakers had to say:

A Hungarian Nabob. By Maurus Jokai. Second Edition. Size 5 by 7 1/2. Decorative Binding. 358 pages. The Doubleday & McClure Company $1.25

Maurus Jokai is the Hungarian Alexander Dumas, for Jokai delights in the dramatic situation, and is a master of dialogue. Material for romance abounds in the land of the Magyar, for even up to the first quarter of this century the Hungarian noble was a figure apart. There was still traces of mediaevalism about him, and he was a most picturesque creation. Maurus Jokai's principal personage is an eccentric nabob, and he makes of him an imposing figure among the nobility. The author has an admirable descriptive style, and follows the romantic impulses of the period. In Hungary this novel has attained the position of a classic and has helped to keep alive the national feeling. "A Hungarian Nabob," as translated by Mr. R. Nisbet Bain, loses nothing of its original vigor, but is pervaded with the spirit, the go, of the original text.

As it turns out, Nabob wasn't particularly new in 1899, being about fifty years old at this point; apparently what was "new" about it was this English edition. According to Wikipedia, Jokai was "a combination, in almost equal parts, of Walter Scott, William Beckford, Dumas père, and Charles Dickens, together with a strong hint of Hungarian patriotism." As well-meaning as that description must be, Mark Twain planted a big, red flag for me on the border of Walter Scott-Land, so I'm already on my guard without even opening the book. But as far as 19th century Hungarian novelists go, I've been assured Jokai was important with a capital I, so Nabob should kick us off in the grand manner.

However, before anybody gets a case of national pride from this choice, the guy who recommended Nabob just liked the sound of the word "nabob". And yes, he's an American, too. Thanks for asking.

I'll be posting (possibly spoiler-laden) reports as I go and a post-game wrap-up once I reach the end. And as promised, here's where you can find the full text if you want to play along at home:

• Google Books (Image scans from the University of Michigan collection. Since I'm going for the "original" experience, this is the text I'll be using...at least until I run across pages which are missing or out of order. As much as I dig Google Books, a lot of texts I'm interested in aren't entirely there, even when they're supposed to be. That's when I go to my backup...)
  
• Project Gutenberg (Plain text and HTML versions. If you're interested in just the text, rather than obsessing over some anal-retentive "purity of experience" (guilty as charged), you'll do just fine with this version and it'll only take up a fraction of the space.)

Late addition! Skip to the spoilerific chapter recaps (links go live as they're posted): Chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, and the Post-Game Wrap-up.