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A review by lee_foust
The Children of the Abbey (Valancourt Classics) by Regina Maria Roche
3.0
I know three stars doesn't seem like much to write home about, but I actually found quite a bit to like about Children of the Abbey. Given my reading in the period thus far has been consigned to the Gothic romances on the one hand and Jane Austen on the other, this straight up romance, by the nature of the genre, was bound to lack--for me--the thrills of the former and the sly wit of the latter. It's a kind of B genre for me--but I would certainly give Ms. Roche's effort here a strong B+. Indeed Children of the Abbey was a whole lot better than I assumed it would be going into it.
Here's what's good: Roche is a damned good writer. Definitely superior to her peer and fellow romancier (albeit Gothic) Ms. Radcliffe in every respect. The prose is as smooth as Austen, if less witty and pointed, and her plotting and the romance's long, convoluted story is really quite engrossing. All ends are tied up neatly, giving one a quite satisfactory read. After every impediment I felt she could do no more to these star-crossed lovers and at every turn I was foiled as she found ingenious ways to keep them apart, bring them back together, and then pry them apart again. I have to marvel at the narrative's overall ingenuity to keep all of its balls in the air, like an expert juggler. Also Roche's poetic interjections--also a habit of Ms. Radcliffe's--are on point and often beautiful. Whereas I find them mostly ill-timed and distracting in Radcliffe's Gothics, here they actually added to rather than detracted from the narrative and I mostly welcomed them.
Even so, this is still an out-dated and tiresome genre and I'm not at all surprised, reading this, maybe its finest example, that the realistic novel won out over the old-fashioned, episodic romance. The characters' goodness reads as mostly insipid today. Our poor heroine, Amanda, spends the entire 600+ pages either moping, crying, refusing food, or unable to sleep. Her only strength of character lies in surviving the narrative despite her radical self starvation and endless insomnia. I thought of a drinking game, taking a shot every time she weeps, but I'm sure it would kill even the most dedicated alcoholic to do so, even if they were a very slow reader. Also, what are there, like only 20 or so people in all of England that they would incessantly be running into each other at opportune moments? And is all sickness caused exclusively by heightened emotions, grief, and disappointment in love? Are there no viruses or infections? It's all very beyond the pale.
But, well, all of these criticisms really stem from a reader inured to the realistic novel, do they not? While I laughed out loud at so many fantastic and often ridiculous coincidences and beyond melodramatic demonstrations of emotion (also, hysterically, the pretend Welsh accent of the nurse made "In all my born days" become "In all my Porn days." Twice.), for the most part I was able to suspend my disbelief and enjoy the ride. Thus, despite only three stars, I actually recommend the book. But don't go into it with your critical faculties sharpened or your realistic assumptions intact.
Note: I didn't actually read this modern critical edition. I own an old hardcover, undated, but a U.S. printing. Interestingly, a former owner had written her name and address on the flyleaf. I Google street mapped the address and found a lovely Victorian home along the river in Lansing, Michigan. I live in Florence, Italy. So this book has come a long, long way in its life of at least a hundred years. I will take good care of it and hope it finds another reader before physical books become completely obsolete.
Here's what's good: Roche is a damned good writer. Definitely superior to her peer and fellow romancier (albeit Gothic) Ms. Radcliffe in every respect. The prose is as smooth as Austen, if less witty and pointed, and her plotting and the romance's long, convoluted story is really quite engrossing. All ends are tied up neatly, giving one a quite satisfactory read. After every impediment I felt she could do no more to these star-crossed lovers and at every turn I was foiled as she found ingenious ways to keep them apart, bring them back together, and then pry them apart again. I have to marvel at the narrative's overall ingenuity to keep all of its balls in the air, like an expert juggler. Also Roche's poetic interjections--also a habit of Ms. Radcliffe's--are on point and often beautiful. Whereas I find them mostly ill-timed and distracting in Radcliffe's Gothics, here they actually added to rather than detracted from the narrative and I mostly welcomed them.
Even so, this is still an out-dated and tiresome genre and I'm not at all surprised, reading this, maybe its finest example, that the realistic novel won out over the old-fashioned, episodic romance. The characters' goodness reads as mostly insipid today. Our poor heroine, Amanda, spends the entire 600+ pages either moping, crying, refusing food, or unable to sleep. Her only strength of character lies in surviving the narrative despite her radical self starvation and endless insomnia. I thought of a drinking game, taking a shot every time she weeps, but I'm sure it would kill even the most dedicated alcoholic to do so, even if they were a very slow reader. Also, what are there, like only 20 or so people in all of England that they would incessantly be running into each other at opportune moments? And is all sickness caused exclusively by heightened emotions, grief, and disappointment in love? Are there no viruses or infections? It's all very beyond the pale.
But, well, all of these criticisms really stem from a reader inured to the realistic novel, do they not? While I laughed out loud at so many fantastic and often ridiculous coincidences and beyond melodramatic demonstrations of emotion (also, hysterically, the pretend Welsh accent of the nurse made "In all my born days" become "In all my Porn days." Twice.), for the most part I was able to suspend my disbelief and enjoy the ride. Thus, despite only three stars, I actually recommend the book. But don't go into it with your critical faculties sharpened or your realistic assumptions intact.
Note: I didn't actually read this modern critical edition. I own an old hardcover, undated, but a U.S. printing. Interestingly, a former owner had written her name and address on the flyleaf. I Google street mapped the address and found a lovely Victorian home along the river in Lansing, Michigan. I live in Florence, Italy. So this book has come a long, long way in its life of at least a hundred years. I will take good care of it and hope it finds another reader before physical books become completely obsolete.