Heat and Dust by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala, 1975

Heat and Dust continues the early Booker fascination with post-colonial Britain. ‘Losing’ the Empire must have been more traumatic than we now realise looking back from the perspective of the twenty-first century: the novels of the time suggest that there was a lot of processing to be done to come to terms with the trauma involved. Was colonialism really such a damaging, dehumanising process for both the peoples being governed and the generations of British men and their families who served overseas?

Told in alternating chapters the book moves between the 1920s and the 1970s as the unnamed narrator recounts the scandalous history of her step-grandmother and her own parallel experiences in India either side of independence. In the 1920s thread of the novel, Olivia, a young and rather vacuous English bride, becomes bored with the narrow life of a imperial civil administrator’s wife, and seeks adventure in the company of the Nawab, a dangerously charming minor royal, described as “the worst type of ruler – the worst type of Indian – you can have“. Their relationship leads to a scandal that echoes down the decades to the narrator’s generation. She sets out to explore the places where the family secrets were first played out, armed with some papers and letters from Olivia to her sister Marcia, letters which are retold as the earlier part of the story. As she does so she shares some of Olivia’s experiences, and makes some of her own mistakes.

I must admit I made the rookie mistake of assuming that the author was from India due to her name. In fact Ruth Prawer Jhabvala was European, but married an Indian man and lived there for 25 years. Does that matter? Very much so as it happens. The novel’s entire point of view is that of the white settler. It concerns itself with the problems of living in a hot and dusty country when one is not used to the weather, the food, the religion or the customs. The focus is on the impact living in India has on the English men and women in the country, rather than the impact of being governed by Englishmen has on India and Indians:

“Although the Major was so sympathetic to India, his piece sounds like a warning. He said that one has to be very determined to withstand–to stand up to–India. And the most vulnerable, he said, are always those who love her best. There are many ways of loving India, many things to love her for…but all, said the Major, are dangerous for the European who allows himself to love too much. India always, he said, finds out the weak spot and presses on it. …Yes, concluded the Major, it is all very well to love and admire India–intellectually, aesthetically, he did not mention sexually but he must have been aware of that factor too–but always with a virile, measured, European feeling. One should never, he warned, allow oneself to become softened (like Indians) by an excess of feeling; because the moment that happens — the moment one exceeds one’s measure– one is in danger of being dragged over to the other side. … He who loved India so much, knew her so well, chose to spend the end of his days here! But she always remained for him an opponent, even sometimes an enemy, to be guarded and if necessary fought against from without and, especially, from within: from within one’s own being.”

Of course there are Indians in the novel, and they are given voices, but they are almost all secondary characters, and mostly remain enigmatic. The women in purdah in the Nawab’s palace are almost entirely voiceless. But the essential theme of the novel is the question of what it means to be a white colonialist woman in India, not what it means to be Indian. Jhabvala wrote several screenplays for the film directors Ivory and Merchant, who are notorious for their sanitised, romanticised portraits of colonial India, so it really shouldn’t come as a surprise that the picture we are shown here is of an India that is unthreatening, picturesque, at times almost quaint.

I suspect that the narrative technique of telling essentially the same story twice, once in the 1920s and again in the 1970s, is intended to invite the reader to consider what has changed. The narrator is unmarried, and her discrete affair with a local married man does not seem to cause the scandal it once had done. (I am not sure why English authors found sex between Indian men and English women so fascinating) But any connection between the Englishwomen and their Indian lovers remains unconvincing. There’s a suggestion of sexual tourism in the relationships. The end of empire allows the narrator to embrace India in a way Olivia was unable to – for example she sleeps outside at night because of the heat, which for Olivia would have been unthinkable.

‘I lie awake for hours: with happiness, actually.  I have never known such a sense of communion.  Lying like this under the open sky there is a feeling of being immersed in space – though not in empty space, for there are all these people sleeping all around me, the whole town and I am part of it. How different from my often very lonely room in London with only my own walls to look at and my books to read.’    

This is progress of sorts, but I don’t think we ever forget that the narrator character is living off savings (presumably) and will leave India as soon as she either gets bored or runs out of money (there’s no suggestion she ever considers getting a job).

Jhavbvala drops some heavy hints that the Nawab is bisexual. He certainly exerts a powerful influence over Harry, a young Englishman who forms part of the Nawab’s entourage. The Nawab treats Harry like a pet – “he is like a child that doesn’t know what it wants! We others have to decide everything for him’ . This and his involvement with the local dacoits makes the Nawab a sinister character. We are constantly reassured of his seductive charm but I was completely immune to it personally. Harry’s equivalent in the 1970s narrative is Chid, a young English man in search of enlightenment in India, who moves in with the narrator and

“needs sex very badly, and seems to take it for granted that I will give it to him the same way I give him my food. I have never had such a feeling of being used…I don’t know why I let him go ahead. I’m much bigger and stronger than he is and could easily keep him off…But he has constant erections and goes to a tremendous size”.

I genuinely have no idea if this image is more disturbing or hilarious.

When the Guardian revisited this novel as part of a review of the Booker prize winners it described it as

“the literary equivalent of Coldplay; securely pedestrian, slightly patronising, tinged with the exotic, referencing far better work, but ultimately dull and pointless. It is, in short, literature for people who hate literature.”

Harsh words, and not entirely fair. I am quick to judge novels that ignore the diversity of voices (see here for example) but for all its faults Heat and Dust was not a travelogue. It doesn’t romanticise India and attempts to describe the impacts of colonialism, even if the perspective remains solidly that of the colonial power. I have never seen the film adaptation of Heat and Dust, but instinctively it seems a better medium for capturing the scale and beauty of India compared to the restrictive pages of this novel.

King Solomon’s Mines, by H Rider Haggard 1885

When I was very much younger, so much younger than today, my parents had a lavishly illustrated collector’s edition of ‘King Solomon’s Mines’ in their modest collection of books. The illustrations were vivid, and I can remember them to this day. This must have been why I was able to recall a vast amount of detail about text, brought to mind by those lurid sketches, when I finally returned to reread the novel this week.

Advertised on publication as “The Most Amazing Book Ever Written”, quite a bold claim, ‘King Solomon’s Mines’ is a classic ‘boy’s own’ adventure story (the dedication is “to all the big and little boys who read it” and describes it as a “story of treasure, war, and wild adventure… I can safely say that there is not a petticoat in the whole history.”). This is a novel that has no pretensions to be anything other than escapist. Published at a time when explorers were still uncovering ancient treasures, and when parts of the world were still unexplored by Europeans, (although probably not as many as Haggard suggests) it is easy to see how the adventures of Allen Quatermain and his friends would have captured the public’s imagination in the way it did mine three quarters of a century later.

It is said that Haggard wrote the novel as a result of a bet with his brother, who claimed that he could not write a novel half as good as Robert Louis Stevenson’s ‘Treasure Island’. Whether this is apocryphal or not I have no way of knowing – people tell stories about the origins of their novels because they are asked the question so often. Nevertheless it makes sense – ‘King Solomon’s Mines is essentially a big treasure hunt. Allan Quatermain is employed by Sir Henry Curtis and his friend Captain Good to help find Sir Henry’s long-lost brother, missing in the uncharted African interior. Quatermain suspects this will be a wild goose chase, and a highly dangerous one at that, but agrees in return for a share of any treasure they find. They are joined on the quest by various native bearers, porters, and servants, including one, Umbopa, who obviously is more than meets the eye.

After a perilous journey across a deadly desert they travel into a valley, hidden from the outside world by the protective desert and mountains. This is Kukuanaland. A patrol of warriors are about to kill our adventurers, but are so impressed by Captain Good false teeth, monocle, and white legs that they decide to save them. I must admit I groaned at the clichéd nature of these scenes before reminding myself that these are possibly the original source of the cliché, or one of the earliest such versions at least. Later they prove their divinity as “white men from the stars” by accurately predicting (and claiming personal responsibility for) a lunar eclipse, one such event just happening to be due at just the right time.

King Twala, ruler of Kukuanaland, is a brutal dictator who has come to power by killing his brother. It is soon revealed that Umbopa is actually Ignosi, the rightful king of the Kukuanas. Civil war breaks out with the Englishmen and tribes loyal to Umbopa/Ignosi on one side, and King Twala and his troops on the other. After a lengthy and bloody battle, the rebel alliance triumphs, and Twala is beheaded by Sir Henry in a duel. The adventures continue with the search for the lost treasure that has driven them this far. I won’t fill in all the gaps in their adventures but the path to the diamonds is not an easy one.

It is clear that Haggard knew his setting well. There is enough convincing detail to make the scenes realistic, although I did notice that the travellers suffer from ravenous hunger and terrible thirsts after only a few hours of fasting, presumably a way for Haggard to make the passage of time seem longer.

‘King Solomon’s Mines’ is credited with creating the “Lost World”, genre. Typically in stories of this period of European exploration in and exploitation of Africa, there is a general assumption that the white man is superior, the natives are brutal, stupid, and easily tricked. Haggard doesn’t deploy these lazy clichés thoughtlessly, although there is barbarism aplenty. While some of his African characters are depicted as monstrous animals, such as ‘The Elephant’, King Twala , others are noble, brave and heroic. The racism is generally muted – Quatermain refuses to use the n-word and says that many Africans are more worthy of the title of “gentleman” than Europeans. The romance between a Kukuana woman, Foulata, and Captain Good is an extremely early and quite touching portrait of an interracial relationship. Quatermain is also opposed to slavery:

“ Now I know your low-class Delagoa Portugee well. There is no greater devil unhung in a general way, battening as he does upon human agony and flesh in the shape of slaves.”

This isn’t an academic analysis, but the commentary on imperialism in late colonial Africa is fascinating. Haggard goes out of his way to present an image of undiscovered territory deep in the interior of the continent, protected by natural barriers. He also sexualises the landscape, most notably with the descriptions of the mountains as “Sheba’s breasts”. Is Haggard recreating an aspect of the continent that by 1885 was almost completely lost?

As a narrator Quatermain is self-effacing, constantly stressing his absence of courage. In the introduction he misleadingly presents himself as a scientist and anthropologist:

“if I had given way to my own impulses, I should have wished to go into the differences, some of which are to my mind very suggestive, between the Zulu and Kukuana dialects. Also a few pages might have been given up profitably to the consideration of the indigenous flora and fauna of Kukuanaland.”.

But this is not going to be a complex narrative about the flora and fauna of darkest Africa:

“The fact of the matter is, I thought… that the best plan would be to tell my story in a plain, straightforward manner…It only remains for me to offer apologies for my blunt way of writing. I can but say in excuse of it that I am more accustomed to handle a rifle than a pen, and cannot make any pretence to the grand literary flights and flourishes which I see in novels—for sometimes I like to read a novel.”

Quatermain is initially a digressive author, giving away at least some of his plot (he tells us that at least two of his party die, and that he has to account for their deaths to a magistrate). This framing introduction, and the editorial footnotes which gently tease the narrator, reassure the reader than whatever the perils our hero comes through in the end.

Finally, I probably didn’t notice the homo-eroticism gaze that Quatermain uses in his descriptions of the other members of his party – but I think it’s there if you read between the lines. Here is our first introduction to the Umbopa:

“Presently a tall, handsome-looking man, somewhere about thirty years of age, and very light-coloured for a Zulu, entered, and lifting his knob-stick by way of salute, squatted himself down in the corner on his haunches, and sat silent.”

Later Quatermain describes the scene when Sir Henry inspects the tattoo which is Umbopa’s evidence that he is the long-lost prince of Kukuanaland:

“Sir Henry told me to ask him to stand up. Umbopa did so, at the same time slipping off the long military great coat which he wore, and revealing himself naked except for the moocha round his centre and a necklace of lions’ claws. Certainly he was a magnificent-looking man; I never saw a finer native. Standing about six foot three high he was broad in proportion, and very shapely. In that light, too, his skin looked scarcely more than dark, except here and there where deep black scars marked old assegai wounds. Sir Henry walked up to him and looked into his proud, handsome face.”

Later still, when preparing for battle, Sir Henry chooses to dress as a native warrior:

“When you are in Kukuanaland, do as the Kukuanas do,” he remarked…round his throat he fastened the leopard-skin cloak of a commanding officer, on his brows he bound the plume of black ostrich feathers worn only by generals of high rank, and about his middle a magnificent moocha of white ox-tails. A pair of sandals, a leglet of goat’s hair, a heavy battle-axe with a rhinoceros-horn handle, a round iron shield covered with white ox-hide, and the regulation number of tollas, or throwing-knives…I am bound to say that I seldom saw a finer sight than Sir Henry Curtis presented in this guise. It showed off his magnificent physique to the greatest advantage, and when Ignosi arrived presently, arrayed in a similar costume, I thought to myself that I had never before seen two such splendid men”.

Possibly for reasons of nostalgia I have a soft spot for ‘King Solomon’s Mines”, and I enjoyed revisiting it. It’s an important text in the history of imperial novels about Africa, but also an enjoyable and not particularly offensive adventure story in the Indiana Jones mould.

Black Mischief, by Evelyn Waugh, 1932

In many of my previous reviews I have struggled to respond to texts that either contain offensive language – that use racially insulting terms, that denigrate gay people or women, or otherwise offend my twenty-first century sensibilities. I usually try to draw a distinction between those texts that use offensive language which was in common usage in the period in which the text was written – Huckleberry Finn, for example, with its widespread use of the n-word – and texts that are more broadly offensive, that perpetuate stereotypes or go out of their way to be insulting to racial or other groups. Sometimes I find offensive novels that have not generally been considered in that category – Perfume being the obvious example, which most reviewers found harmless but which I took great exception to. 

In almost all cases however, I have been able to find redeeming features in the text. The novelist may have been reflecting outdated attitudes towards race, gender or sexuality, but they have nevertheless managed to write something worth reading. But that is mainly because I have been careful not to read those books that should be forgotten and which don’t merit a wider readership today. History has edited these novels from our bookshelves. But this is not always the case with authors who have written otherwise well thought of work, such as Evelyn Waugh’s ‘Black Mischief’. Because ‘Black Mischief‘ is an embarrassingly offensive novel. 

The events of ‘Black Mischief‘ take place mainly in the island kingdom of Azania, one of the few independent countries in Africa between the world wars. Waugh’s intention appears overt – he sets out to demonstrate that allowing African peoples to run their own countries is a ludicrous proposition that leads to profound mis-Government, chaos, and conflict. His argument is that Africans simply don’t have the intelligence, judgment or ability to run their own affairs.

Seth, emperor of Azania, inherits his role shortly after graduating from Oxford. He determines to modernise his country, but his ambitions are portrayed as utterly unrealistic – not only does he not understand what modernisation entails, but his efforts are undermined by his people, who have no interest in the modern world, and his officials, who just want to steal anything not nailed down.

Basil Seal, a feckless college friend, journeys to Azania on a whim to escape his debts in London, and is quickly appointed Minister of Modernisation. His sidekick is the Armenian businessman Yokoumian, an equally unpleasant and racist portrait. The small group of Europeans in Azania, diplomats, businessmen and missionaries, do not escape Waugh’s satire – they are all crooks and bored idiots, particularly the British consular staff headed by Sir Samson Courtenay, but there is a venom in the portraits of the Africans in the novel that is missing when the focus turns to the Europeans. 

A pageant to celebrate birth control is used as cover for the launch of a coup against Seth, with the French consul planning to install a puppet Government headed by his senile uncle Achon, who promptly dies at his coronation. In the bloodbath that follows the League of Nations steps in and claims the country as a League of Nations Mandate. The natural order with the white man running matters is restored, and Basil returns to London, where his absence has passed largely unnoticed. 

Many reviewers claim this novel is a satire. I am not sure that is right – what precisely is it satirising? Certainly not colonialism – Azania is not a colony. Modernisation? Perhaps, but it is hard to see what aspects of modernisation are problematic. Or is it modernisation in Africa? Is Waugh telling the reader that modernising Africa is pointless, because they will just use mis-use whatever modern devices or ideas we ‘give’ them (the wires used in the railway’s construction are used as jewellery, for example). The most striking example of this is the poster drawn up to advertise the benefits of birth control, showing one family wealthy and healthy with one child, and another family with many children where life is hard and poor. These posters are misunderstood by the Africans – silly people unable to understand a simple poster – and they think the single child family is the one that is being presented as the one to avoid. 

Life is cheap in Azania – people are killed casually throughout the novel – and cannibalism is widespread. There isn’t a racist stereotype untapped. There isn’t a single positive African character, not even for contrast – they are all either evil, conniving, mercenary, or murderous. Or all four. 

Waugh is not a bad writer, but I can’t help thinking that this novel should be allowed to quietly fade away. It’s not funny, the casual and incessant racism is hard to take, and the ending is callously brutal. For the first time ever I was embarrassed to be seen reading this novel (with the front cover shown above) on public transport, which probably says it all. 

 

Midnight’s Children, by Salman Rushdie, 1981

I found ‘Midnight’s Children’ a challenge. It is a novel that has been showered with praise and awards, and rightly so. While it is overall a complex narrative, with a very large cast of characters and multiple locations, at the same time the autobiographical structure and the single narrator allow the thread of the story to be picked up reasonably easily, even when the novel is read in small portions, as I did in this instance.

So why the struggle? What is it about Rushdie’s novel that prevented me from reading much more than a dozen pages at a time? I’ll return to that question when I have worked through my other observations about the novel, which may help formulate an answer.

The title of the novel refers to all the children born between midnight and one a.m. on the day of India’s independence from the United Kingdom. Rushdie’s conceit is that these children – several hundred of them – are born with magical powers.  The story’s narrator, Saleem Sinai, born at the exact moment of midnight, is telepathic, (although this power plays a surprisingly minor part in the overall events of the novel). Using this power he assembles a ‘Midnight Children’s Conference’ of all the gifted children – a conference that has huge potential, but never goes beyond discussion, and is eventually neutered, literally, and destroyed. The obvious point being made here is about the squandering of India’s post-independence potential.

The novel does not start at this point – Saleem takes his time reaching the disclosure about his magical abilities, spending a lot of the opening book of the novel giving us the background to his birth. This leisurely approach– as a narrator Saleem is very long winded – is part of the readability challenge I mentioned in opening.

Saleem’s story is openly allegorical of the story of India’s independence. Even the most obtuse reader could not avoid the numerous links Rushdie draws between his protagonists and Indian history – for example, Saleem’s story includes a number of the migrations and wars which plagued (and continue to plague) his country’s post colonial history.

Midnight’s Children is a wildly ambitious novel, huge in scope, a dissertation on identity, memory, nationalism, and family. In almost all instances it succeeds, and rightly deserves the awards and success it has received. My inability to engage with the text on this reading is I am sure more a reflection of my appetite for novels of this kind that the success or failure of the novel itself. While reading I could recognise the skill and intelligence involved in the construction of the novel I couldn’t warm to the characters or find much interest in the plot. When your main sensation on finishing a novel is relief you know you need to take a break from the classics – I am now reading Kurt Vonnegut’s ‘Cat’s Cradle’ and the contrast in the experience is marked.

 

A Bend in the River, by V S Naipaul, 1979

‘A Bend in the River’ reads like an updating of Conrad’s ‘Heart of Darkness’, taken 60 or 70 years forward into the post-independence period. As with ‘Heart of Darkness’, ‘A Bend’ is set in an unnamed African country in the interior of the continent. The setting is not the only similarity between these books – both have colonialism as their principal themes, and both are pervaded with a sense of impending danger and disaster.