Novel on Yellow Paper

The cover shows a detail from Catherine
Carrington, by Dora Carrington.

Novelist and poet Stevie Smith seems to have become a forgotten author, but back in the middle of the last century her spare, wry poems were immensely popular, offering a skewed view of suburban life that questioned our perceptions and made us think about loneliness, death, and the dispossessed. I must admit I have never been a huge fan of her poetry (her language doesn’t sing to me, or if it does I don’t hear it). However, she also wrote three novels, and I’ve just read one of them – Novel on Yellow Paper, which sings out loud and clear, and I loved it. My copy (one of my charity shop finds) was published by Virago in 1983, but they don’t seem to have reprinted it recently, and as far as I am aware no-one else is producing it either, which is a shame. If a modern edition is available, I apologise. If not, can I make a plea for this to be re-issued? Please?!

It has to be one of the most curious novels ever written, and is unlike anything else you are ever likely to read, with the possible exception of Tristram Shandy (actually, I felt quite pleased with myself for thinking this, because I didn’t look at Janet Watts’ introduction until I’d finished the book, when I found she had made a similar statement).

Anyway, it ought to be listed as one of the greatest and most glorious idiosyncratic books in the English language. Its style, story, structure and characters are unique, and it cannot be categorised.  Apparently when Smith tried to get her poems into print in 1935 she was told to go away and write a novel, and this was the result.  It was published the following year, and must have seemed as odd then as it does today, because it breaks with so many literary conventions and traditions.

Trying to describe this book is really, really difficult, because it’s so individual, and so idiosyncratic. There’s no plot or storyline, and it doesn’t slot easily into of the usual pigeon holes, and the central character is hard to pin down as a will o’ the wisp, flitting from thought to thought and scene to scene. Even her name is not her own. Reflecting on it she says:

Did I tell you my name was Pompey Casmilus? Patience I was christened, but later on when I got grown up and out and about in London, I got called Pompey. And it suits me. There’s something meretricious and decayed and I’ll say, I dare say, elegant about Pompey. A broken Roman statue. One of those old Roman boys that lost their investments and went round getting free meals on their dear old friends, that had them round to fill up the gaps, and keep things moving.

She tells us:

There’s not a person nor a thing in this book that ever stepped outside of this book. It’s all just out of my head

Nevertheless, it seems to incorporate elements from Smith’s life, and it’s hard not to view

Stevie Smith.

Pompey as the alter ego not just of Patience, but of Stevie Smith herself, whose real name was Florence Margaret. Pompey, like the author, works as a secretary, writes poetry, and is trying to write a novel – on very yellow paper, so she doesn’t confuse it with letters for her boss, which are typed on blue paper. She also has a ‘Lion Aunt’, just like Smith. And this is her book, in which she describes her thoughts on Life, Love, the Universe and Everything.

She writes about her friends, her family, her employer, current affairs, politics, religion, education and sex. There’s a lot about the situation in Germany, and from her initial comments you might assume that she’s anti-Jewish, but she’s not – she’s vehemently opposed to the Nazis. And there are references to history philosophy, popular culture, music hall songs, poems, classical literature. Pompey/Stevie writes it all down exactly as it pops into her head, and plays with words and language in a way that rivals James Joyce.

Yet her style seems almost ‘naïve’ as she writes so matter of factly about strange events and complex concepts, which gives the book a surreal edge. Barbara Comyns also does this, describing the most bizarre events as if it was all quite normal, so you can find echoes of other books in Smith’s work – or perhaps you find echoes of her book in other people’s work – but taken in its entirety it’s a one-off that can’t be classified.

Smith obviously knows her novel is ‘different’ and that people may not like it, so she has Pompey tell us:

.

This is a foot-off-the-ground novel that came in by the left hand’ she warns. ‘And the thoughts come and go and sometimes they do not quite come and I do not pursue them to embarrass them with formality to pursue them into a harsh captivity. And if you are a foot-off-the-ground person I make no bones to say that is how you will write and only how you will write. And if you are a foot-on-the-ground person this book will be for you a desert of weariness and exasperation. So put it down. Leave it alone. It was a mistake you made to get this back. You could not know.

Says she’ll try to make it easy to read, as her publisher asks, but finds it difficult.

For this book is the talking voice, that runs on, and the thoughts come, and the thoughts come, the way I said, and the people come too, and come and go, to illustrate the thoughts, to point the moral, to adorn their tale.

Oh talking voice that is so sweet, how hold you alive in captivity, how point you with commas, semi-colons, dashes, pauses and paragraphs?

I feel I really haven’t done justice to Novel on Yellow Paper, but it’s a marvellously written book, which is a wonderful read, and I love it to bits – and I think that ‘talking voice’ deserves to be heard by many more people. 

A Heroine who is Hard to Like

Henrietta was third daughter and fifth child of Mr and Mrs Symons, so that enthusiasm for babies had declined in both parents by the time she arrived. Still, in her first few months she was bound to be important and take up a great deal of time. When she was two another boy was born, and she lost the honourable position of youngest. At five her life attained its zenith.... When she was eight her zenith was past, and her plain stage began. Her charm departed never to return, and she slipped back into insignificance.

These opening lines of Flora MacDonald Mayor's The Third Miss Symons gave me high hopes for this novel, and I liked that rather ironic, detached tone, and the exploration of relations within a family. But overall I was disappointed and I found it hard to like Henrietta – or Etta, as she is known to her family - and it's a somewhat bleak tale.

Henrietta reminded me of Alex, in EM Delafield's 'Cosequences' (http://chriscross-thebooktrunk.blogspot.co.uk/2012/09/consequences-beware-of-spoilers.html ). They are set in a similar period, and although Mr and Mrs Symons are middle class their attitude towards their offspring is very much like that of Alex's aristocratic parents. Mrs Symons is not fond of children (so it's unfortunate really that she has so many of them), while her solcitor husband finds it difficult to provide for his ever-increasing family.

Like Alex, Henrietta is desperate for attention, and wants to be loved – but she doesn't know how to make herself lovable. She' never seems to fit in, and is regarded as 'difficult', so by the age of thirteen she has 'settled down to bad temper as a habit'. she had settled down to bad temper as a habit'. She hopes that when the 'magic season of young ladyhood arrived, a Prince charming would come and fall in love with her'. But it never happens.

The only person Henrietta gets along with is her youngest sister, Evelyn, who she adores, but when she causes a rift between them she becomes even more lonely and bitter, convinced that people despise her, and that nothing ever goes right in her life.

I could see how her experiences soured her and sapped her confidence and, just as with Alex, I felt sorry for an unloved child who grew into an unloved woman - but she was so disagreeable it was difficult to feel any sympathy. And once again I found myself wondering about the way Victorian and Edwardian women were treated, and how that treatment affected their attitude and relationships with their children.

Sandwiches and Sphagnum Moss

I downloaded this from Girlebooks,
who got it from Project Gutenberg.

I'm still catching up on Early 20th Century Authors (I always was a bit of a slow-coach) so I've just read The War-Workers, by EM Delafield. Published in 1918, this was her second novel, written before she'd really honed her talents, and is not as entertaining as 'The Diary of a Provincial Lady'. I wouldn't recommend it as an introduction to EM Delafield, but it is an interesting and enjoyable read.

Set in the First World War, it's a social satire, slow to take off, and a little laboured in places, but sharply observed. The central character is Charmian Vivian, Director of The Midland Supply Depot, which provides supplies for hospitals, doctors, convalescent homes, and troop trains. She approves everything, from sandwiches for the soldiers, to bandages and bags of sphagnum moss. I looked this last item up, and discovered it was used to dress wounds. Apparently there was a factory on Dartmoor where the moss, which absorbs liquid (including blood) and has some kind of anti-bacterial properties, was dried, prepared and bagged. It was needed because cotton - used in the manufacture of ammunition as well as for bandages - was running out. See what I mean when I say I get sidetracked by books?

Anyway, Char is a monster – you will know exactly what she is like if you have ever met the kind of well-heeled committee chairwoman who is not receptive to new ideas (except her own), insists that everything has to be done by the book, and enjoys telling everyone else what to do, and how to do it, although she has no practical experience herself. Basically, she's a bully, with a forceful personality, who seems to have no vulnerable side whatsoever. She has no consideration for anyone else's feelings, puts her war work before everything else, and expects the staff and volunteers to do the same. She rarely has lunch, stays in her office until eight or nine at night, and the more work she does, the more there seems to be. The women in the office think Miss Vivian (she is only Char to her family) is wonderful, and admire the way she never spares herself – even when her father is ill she puts the job first. The women's view of her seems to be determined not just by her own manipulations, but also by the fact that her family are titled landed gentry. But is she really as selflessly dedicated as they think, or is she a control freak on an ego trip, enjoying the sense of power and self-importance she has created?

Her motives are called into question following the arrival of Grace Jones, a Welsh vicar's daughter, who is not pretty, but is sweet-natured, even-tempered, intelligent, capable, good at her job, and remarkably unimpressed by Miss Vivian. Char is just as unimpressed with Miss Jones (Gracie to her friends) but is forced to rely on the new-comer's help when she falls ill with flu, and her father has a stroke.

I thought the interplay between the women who work at the depot was good, and they were well drawn, especially in the scenes at the canteen where Char expects them to spend their spare time, and in the Hostel for Voluntary Workers where they cope more cheerfully than might be expected with the cold, the lack of hot water and the food shortages. They may have their differences, but they are very supportive (although no-one likes Miss Delmege, Char's snobbish, pretentious, sycophantic secretary).

EM Delafield

The various other characters were mostly very credible, especially Char's mother, Lady Joanna Vivian, who is everything Char is not – warm, humorous, interested in people – and wishes she had spanked her daughter when she was younger. You could argue that things might have been different if Char's mother had paid less attention to her husband, and more to her daughter, and that difficult relationship between them is not all Char's fault.

I thought Char would undergo some kind of magical transformation, but that particular fairytale ending would be too obvious and, perhaps, too unbelievable, and it's nice, kind, reliable Grace who (hopefully) lives happily ever after.

One of the interesting aspects of the novel was the fact that it is set on 'the home front' during WWI. Many novels of this period are much more involved with the war itself, with fighting, or life in a military hospital, and it's not often that you hear about the 'war-work' that went on, or the shortages and air -raids – there's a tendency to only think about them in connection with WW2.
Edited: I changed the title.