The Transformation of Gilly from Heyer's The Foundling

On Votaries, I am discussing characters that transform. A character that transforms too much may leave the readers confused. A character that transforms too little may leave the readers disappointed. 

Gilly from Georgette Heyer's The Foundling is a great example of a character who transforms just enough. 

Gilly’s uncle and trustee feels compelled to protect Gilly’s inheritance as the Duke of Sale. (His own son, who also supports Gilly, would inherit if the uncle was less protective and upright.) 

Gilly is a soft-spoken young man who has been coddled and watched-over all his life. He eventually goes “walk-about,” leaves his protective supporters, to have an adventure of his own. 

The book is one of Heyer's travelogues, which means that Gilly encounters a con-man and a damsel in distress. He engages in several adventures and acquits himself. 

At the end, when he returns home, his uncle attempts once again to "help" Gilly through blustering goodwill. Gilly finally lays down the law and makes it clear that he, not his uncle, is the Duke of Sale.  

What makes the scene so perfect, however, is that Gilly remains Gilly:

The Duke raised his head and met his uncle's fierce look with one so icily aloof that Lord Lionel was startled. "I have borne enough!" he said, his voice still level and low-pitched, yet anger throbbing in it. "I will not endure any longer this ceaseless thwarting of my every wish. I am fully sensible, sir, of the great debt I owe you for your unremitting care of me...but my gratitude would be increased tenfold if you would bring yourself to believe that I am neither a child nor a fool...It is not I who stands in danger of forgetting that I am Ware of Sale!" 

Lord Lionel is taken aback. But he is a fair-minded man: 

"I never saw you look so like your father before....Ware of Sale, indeed. There, stop glaring at me, Gilly. I have a good mind to box your ears."

The rigid look vanished from the Duke's face. 

He quickly accepts his uncle's olive branch. He continues to speak in a sweet and low way that is more effective than shouting the place down. He doesn't transform into a perfectly confident, perfectly extroverted, perfectly commanding (in style), perfectly perfect Duke of Sale. He remains Gilly--only he has gained the ability to trust himself in his role. He expects others to treat him accordingly. 

The Bratty Lover

Allec is my "bratty lover." Like Rory, 

he saves his older, more stable lover.

One rather adorable archetype in romance is the bratty lover. The character is often younger than the lover, full of piss & vinegar with a sharp tongue and lots of attitude. 

When the archetype works, it is--as noted--adorable and fun. 

Unfortunately, when it doesn't work, it is simply irritating. The character comes off as entitled and self-centered and rather incapable (almost deliberately incapable). 

In Therin's Magic in Manhattan series, Rory is a bratty lover. And he works for several reasons:

1. He isn't entitled. 

His adorableness is built-in, not deliberately cultivated (a character who deliberately cultivates a persona can be interesting but if the purpose is grifting--using others--the deliberate cultivation ultimately fails. Rory, in contrast, is behaving like himself; he has no idea how much he delights his lover, Arthur.

2.  He thinks about others. 

In fact, one of Therin's insightful points is that Rory thinks about all kinds of things, even his complicated relationship with religion. He is aware of people, their variation, their complications. When he starts to figure out Arthur, he goes out of his way to track him down and bring him a meal. 

3. He is fully capable. 

A delightful aspect of the book is that Arthur, the lover, isn't only protective of Rory; he is protective of everyone. 

"You're right, I'm being monstrously overprotective. I'm afraid it's a bad habit of mine. If it makes you feel better, Jade is a telekinetic ex-spy who can kill a man with her mind, and sometimes I can't sleep because I'm afraid she's lost control and accidentally stabbed herself."

"He calls," said Jade.

"I do," Arthur admitted. 

Arthur is protective of Rory, but Rory isn't helpless, and he doesn't practice learned helplessness.

Rory as a bratty lover allows him to be tough as nails, despite several bad events in his past, and to meet Arthur head-on, despite the disparity in class. 

From Yugi Yamada's oeuvre, Naoki plays a similar role with the people around him.  

A-Z Romance Paperbacks: Therin and the 1920s

I complain in several places of the non-historicity of historical romances. The characters behave and talk like moderns. They have modern expectations. They scold each other for violating modern norms. 

It's highly irritating. 

Allie Therin's series Magic in Manhattan (and Roaring Twenties Magic) is a great example of the opposite phenomenon. Therin excellently captures the time period, the zeitgeist, of New York City (and later, London) in the 1920s. The series is urban fantasy, so Therin had more options--could take more liberties with historical "facts"--but generally speaking, the books feel like a tribute to the era of Al Capone and speakeasies and new automobiles and luxury liners than stories containing off-the-cuff allusions to those elements. 

As a writer who struggles with setting, I have to ask, How does she do it? 

She uses language--cloche hat, phonograph, "asylum" rather than "mental institution"--and settings--the series starts in New York City and one of the main characters operates a speakeasy. And Therin references certain events, such as a character learning to drive, which is considered--for a woman of the lower-middleclass--to be highly unusual. 

More than providing language and setting and references, Therin USES them. When Rory, the main protagonist, breaks his glasses, the possible cost of another is considered as big an imposition as me having to fix part of my car. The fact that the woman he works for can drive becomes a factor later on. And the speakeasy is an ongoing setting, especially since the woman who runs it needs to avoid being cheated by bootleggers. 

As I mention in one of my fan fiction posts, capturing a historical time period means taking the conditions of that time period seriously. Therin's series do. 

The Non-Platonic Marriage in Ellis Peters

A sub-sub-sub genre of romance is the platonic marriage. It also shows up in the occasional movie--the straight and gay best friends who raise a baby together, for instance. (Hey, Boston Legal did a variation!)

Generally speaking, I'm not a fan. Brennan in Bones has a point when she refutes that she and Booth are "friends." I don't entirely agree since I think friendship--the ability to talk to someone about anything--is one of the most positive aspects of a relationship. 

But I do agree with her in the sense that I think that an intimate relationship does, in fact, imply a physical relationship. 

One of the best platonic yet physical relationships occurs in The Excellent Mystery by Ellis Peters.  

*Spoilers.* 

A young woman who was engaged to a crusader from a young age learns that he has chivalrously acquitted himself in battle. But he was mortally wounded, to the point where he can no longer father children. He releases her from the betrothal and enters a Benedictine order as Brother Humilis. She dresses as a young man and enters as Brother Fidelis. (Interestingly enough, as educated monks, they are both put to work in the scriptorium.) She becomes his closest confidant and cares for him. In the end, he figures out who she is and expresses his love and gratitude. 

It is incredibly touching--and an entirely physical union. Peters makes clear that some more dogmatic members of society considered an engagement the equivalent of marriage. Julian, the young woman, was instructed as much. She considers them wed and claims her rights to his physical body. She baths him, dresses his wound. He is young (enough) in his forties, but his wound is the type that in that time period will eventually result in weakness and death. In a final act of chivalry, he does what he can to preserve her reputation. 

The book is beautifully written. Although disguises are not always believable, Peters establishes the "rules" that allow us, the readers, to accept Julian's disguise. And they  prepare us for her husband to glean the truth. In a final act, while they are seated together, he acknowledges the blessing of her companionship. Her grief at his death is awesome (in the old-fashioned sense of the word, heartfelt, and entirely physical). 

An excellent marriage indeed! 

The Great Major Margaret Houlihan

I mention on Votaries that Major Frank Burns had more potential than the writers allowed for. 

Apparently, Loretta Swit objected to her character's ongoing affair with Frank. (Maybe Swit did; maybe she didn't--what gets reported isn't always accurate).  

In any case, I've always considered Major Houlihan one of the great female characters of the 1970s. She doesn't spout off the correct-sounding stuff. She is a full character with layers. And I never had any trouble understanding why the seemingly tough and ambitious Houlihan would have an affair with Frank. 

First, she likely isn't as interested in marriage as she thinks she should be--she is a product of her time period, and a woman in the military is still an outlier. She sees friends getting married and settling down and having kids. She would hate that life, but a part of her thinks she is supposed to love it--until an actual marriage fails her. 

Second, a person can be savvy and hard-headed in one area yet a fool with romance. She marries a jerk--in fact, she acknowledges at one point that Frank was better than her cheating husband, Lt. Colonel Penobscott, who was entirely shallow and fell short of Frank's devotion.

Third, she isn't stupid--the obvious person for her to hook up with his Hawkeye...and they would kill each other in a fortnight (as the episode when they sleep together proves). Hawkeye is too cynical. He is also, work-wise, her mirror. She doesn't need a mirror, and Hawkeye isn't comfortable with one (as the episode with a female surgeon proves). 

Fourth, Houlihan has enough self-knowledge to understand herself regarding Frank. To him, she states, "You were military issue. I got you with my mess kit and khaki girdle."

Consequently, I wouldn't pair Frank with Houlihan in the long run. I would have them become good friends who can confide in each other. But Frank is looking for a wife--and, as stated above, Houlihan isn't necessarily looking for a husband, even if she thinks she is.   

The above analysis is based on the character--what she does, what she says, how she says it. The complexity and strength is there!  

Fantastic character! And excellently acted!  

Couples in Merchant of Venice

Merchant of Venice is a fascinating play since it showcases how Shakespeare was very much a product of his time and very much his own person with his personal creative sensibilities.  

That is, with Merchant of Venice, Shakespeare was using a current popular plot--similar to how every studio in Hollywood will churn out a robot film or a social commentary film or a film about bugs in the same year. 

And yet, Shakespeare's version of a "popular plot" has strong characters and a hint at another side to the equation. It can--and has--been endlessly interpreted. 

The Romeo & Juliet relationship, Lorenzo and Jessica, has a certain pathos. The Antonio-Bassanio relationship can be interpreted as having an underlying homoeroticism. 

But the relationship that runs the play is Shylock and Antonio.

I wrote a book years ago in which Antonio and Shylock have a kind of son-father relationship. They don't perceive each other in those ways but they are constantly orbiting each other, looking for opportunities to clash. Antonio ends up with Portia (who discovers that marrying a man, Bassanio, who needs money, after practically feeding him the answer to a riddle might be a tad dull). They both go looking for Shylock. 

If I wrote the story now, I might make Antonio and Shylock lovers after Shylock moves into Antonio's pensionne and takes over his trading business. ("Diversify! Diversify!") 

The point is, THAT relationship--that frenemies, enemies to enemies, enemies to lovers relationship--is the relationship that pulls in viewers. Portia is interesting in her own right but she becomes MORE interesting when she is forced to negotiate between these two men. 

Unique play in which 2 strong male leads make all the difference. 

C.S. Lewis: Views on "The Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name" and What Lewis Actually Criticized the Most

On Votaries, I discuss the great flawed character: Edmund. 

For awhile, I have been kicking around in my head a fan-fiction story in which Edmund, King of Narnia, marries a prince of the merpeople. 

I will likely never write it down or post it since it would offend, oh, everybody--not just the religious right but all the progressive types who would bemoan a heterosexual woman "appropriating" an orientation not her own. Or--oddly enough from the folks who insist that "gay" is a culture, not a matter of biology--those who would bemoan a gay Christian man with middle class, possibly conservative values.

Or some other bemoaning. I don't know. I don't keep track of dogmatic bullies, those who insist, The world must be the way I tell it to be because I'm one of the truly saved who deserves to be in the right kind of utopia! 

But contemplating Edmund fan-fiction led me back to C.S. Lewis. In many way, C.S. Lewis was a man of his time. He was also very much himself. He does get used and borrowed by Humanists and LDS folks and Catholics and Evangelists (except for the ones who are bothered by his love for paganism). All is fair in the world of art! 

But it also matters to be accurate. Like Dante, C.S. Lewis considered the physical sins far less problematic and objectionable than the sins of the spirit:

1. He likely considered homosexuality a sin.

2. However, in Mere Christianity, when he states that he is going to address individual sins/temptations and how to cope with each, he states that there are certain sins/temptations about which he isn't going to give advice (in a non-fiction lecture) because he can't speak to them personally. He establishes a line that he rarely crosses. He rarely addresses homosexuality. The advice he is giving is to help individuals in their personal lives, not train individuals in service to a political or, even, theological agenda.

3. One exception: In Surprised by Joy, in his discussion of public schools (what Americans think of as "private schools") and the bullying that went on there, Lewis disagrees with condemnations of love affairs that occurred in the schools between the boys, some consummated, some not. To Lewis, those relationships were 

"the only foothold or cranny left for certain good things...the only counterpoise to the social struggle; the one oasis...in the burning desert of competitive ambition. Eros, turned upside down, blackened, distorted, and filthy, still bore the traces of his divinity."

Some readers might be offended by the characterizations of Eros. They should move back in the text to figure out what C.S. Lewis fully condemned without any exceptions at all. 

4. Lewis reserves his most strident distaste for cliques and the attendant games of superiority played by one person or group trying to do another person or group down--in the name of religion or so-called progress or superior intellect or social prestige: 

"Spiritually speaking, the deadly thing was that school life was a life almost wholly dominated by the social struggle: to get on, to arrive, or, having reached the top, to remain there, was the absorbing preoccupation...and from it, at school as in the world, all sorts of meanness flow." 

Lewis correctly includes the intelligentsia as well as the politicians and prigs, the left, the right, all of us, as those in danger of being pulled into this "social struggle."

In sum, Lewis's fictional hells--from Edmund's betrayal of his siblings in icy Narnia to Screwtape's admonishments to his devil nephew--are always about self-aggrandizement at the expense of a generous spirit. 

End of NCIS "Call of Silence" in which

Yost realizes that though the Japanese man

who helped him didn't fight opposite him 

on Iwo Jima, he did at Guadalcanal.

"I want what I want when I want it, even if it means disparaging someone else" captures the worst aspects of the human soul (aspects often exacerbated by social media), not only the worst aspects of the fearful physical self but the worst aspects of the demanding spiritual self. 

Two soldiers who fight earnestly for their sides, then meet and shake hands are less contemptible, if at all, in Lewis's eyes, than two posturing theorists who are sure that "you have so many of the wrong opinions, you won't be allowed in my utopia."

Hence my admonishment to religions: Concentrate on preparing people to love and meet God rather than deciding who deserves to love and meet God.

I could extend the same admonishment to, oh, all of us. Wanting to tell others who/what they are and where they will end up is a human trait. And despite the plethora of life-coaches in our modern world, not a terribly nice one.