 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Home | About Me | Blog | Novels | Studies | Faves | Links | Contact Me |
|
|
| Nathan, Robert. A Portrait of Jennie. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1939. |
|
|
Now that I have a grasp of what really fascinates me in fiction, I've been able to uncover books I had previously been unaware of. One such book is Jennie. I had been searching for information about Ray Bradbury on the internet, and apparently at some point he had written an endorsement for this book, one that caught my eye. Having read Nathan's novel now, I can see why Bradbury loved it. Nathan's writing style and the events of the story could well be considered an ancestor of Bradbury's. The novel is short, does not waste a word, is narrated in a very lyrical first-person voice, and the story that unfolds is a haunting one, of a young, starving artist who, at his lowest point, is visited by a little girl who manages in brief moments to give him company and inspire him to success. A kind of ghostly muse, she grows up in the span of a year and only a few visits, eventually falling in love with Eben, the young painter.
What fascinates me about this story is the quality it shares with Bradbury's work, that sense of the otherworldly that comes to interrupt everyday drudgery. More than that, it's a story that could easily veer into being overly maudlin or mawkish; it requires the deftest touch to be told effectively, something Nathan achieves beautifully. A good storyteller can convince his reader or listener very subtly why it is that this story is their story. Most people don't live in a cheap flat in New York, for which their rent is in arrears, and try to live by selling their sketches. However, most people have experienced something akin to this: |
|
|
|
When I talk about trouble, I am not talking about cold and hunger. There is another kind of suffering for the artist which is worse than anything a winter, or poverty, can do; it is more like a winter of the mind, in which the life of his genius, the living sap of his work, seems frozen and motionless, caught--perhaps forever--in a season of death; and who knows if spring will ever come again to set it free? (3-4). |
|
|
|
Who hasn't felt that winter, the one that seemed to suppress all the joy and confidence in our lives? There is nothing done cheaply here, Nathan earns the desired effect by evoking that pang of loneliness we feel when we remember a time when nothing seemed worth doing, and when it seemed we could tell no one.
As the novel goes on, Eben wonders about the nature of Jennie, why it is she seems old-fashioned and why she seems to grow so much between visits, and though the pieces of the puzzle are there for him to figure out, he does not try too hard. Like many of us upon encountering something good in life, he hesitates to question her nature or motives, for fear she will disappear under scrutiny. Eben does consider his own reality, however: |
|
|
|
How little we have, I thought, between us and the waiting cold, the mystery, death--a strip of beach, a hill, a few walls of wood or stone, a little fire--and tomorrow's sun, rising and warming us, tomorrow's hope of peace and better weather...What if tomorrow vanished in the storm? What if time stood still? And yesterday--if once we lost our way, blundered in the storm--would we find yesterday again ahead of us, where we had thought tomorrow's sun would rise? (72). |
|
|
|
Reality can indeed seem flimsy when inspected closely. Eben struggles with his need to know, and his need not to know. He paints Jennie into his landscapes, which are noticed and bring him acclaim and success for the first time, but his world has changed, both for better and for worse. Though her visits bring a kind of innocent beauty to his life, just as quickly she is gone and he is left knowing how bare his life had been before, and wondering when and where he would ever see her again.
So far in my readings I've found novels that unabashedly favored learning and striving for discovery, and in those novels the alternative was to die in one way or another. In this novel, however, the difference is not so extreme. Jennie may have an inspiring and even enlightening effect on Eben, but her ethereal nature, and most of all her absence, give Eben reason not to dwell on questions of why or how. As the novel progresses, he seems to flip back and forth, in this case, finding some sense of security: |
|
|
|
From the mystery which surrounded her, my mind hung back, my thoughts turned themselves away. It was enough for me to believe that wherever in this world she actually belonged, in some way, for some reason, she belonged with me.
Even if I had known, it could have made no difference; I can see that now. It was not in my hands, nothing was in my hands; I could not bring the spring nearer before its time, I could not keep the winter from vanishing behind me (88). |
|
|
|
Perhaps, in the face of something nearly beyond comprehension, he is right to resign himself to fate. He does what he can, he goes on painting, finally capturing Jennie as young woman in a portrait that will earn him a great sum and begin his career in earnest.
Though little is known of Jennie, she differs from Eben in that she strives for something impossible, defying fate in a strange, impossible way so that she could meet the special person whom fate apparently denied her. While Eben must only be patient and wait, who knows what kind of struggle Jennie's ghost has mounted in order to see him, even as she is alive and older elsewhere in the world, apparently unknowing. Again, I don't see this as something weird or contrived; I believe (or at least hope) everyone at some point in their life meets one person whom they had better not pass up, someone who can provide a sense of life and security like no one else will, a kind of soul-mate, and this is the dilemma faced by Eben and Jennie. What do you do when that one person never came to you in life? What lengths will your spirit go to right the wrong done to it by fate? Perhaps Jennie's ghost can draw comfort from Eben's thoughts on the matter: |
|
|
|
I had one clear day of happiness, and I shall never forget it. Even the miserable ending to it cannot change its quality in my memory; for everything that Jennie and I did was good, and unhappiness came only from the outside. Not many--lovers or friends--can say as much. For friends and lovers are quick to wound, quicker than strangers, even; the heart that opens itself to the world, opens itself to sorrow (157). |
|
|
|
Eben's narration is from some time long after the fact, a wise reflection on the formative events in his life. Though he says little or nothing of what was to come later, it's not hard to see how special his brief time with Jennie was, and imagine how much disappointment there must have been later in finding there were no other magical relationships, that they involve opening your heart to sorrow in a way he hadn't needed to with Jennie.
This book is an interesting little creature. I could see some readers complaining that it too idealizes the notion of a brief but somehow "perfect" love, dooming its characters to never again live so well. In a way it reminds me of all those old teenybopper love songs, where someone dies in a car wreck (no doubt racing a hot rod) and the survivor vows never to love anyone else, etc., etc. But it holds too much personal truth to be dismissed, and it doesn't purport to contain any message, though I feel it's an admonishment to cherish what you have, while you have it. The story is told in such an earnest and haunting way that I doubt I'll ever forget it. |
|
|
|
All contents, except where otherwise noted, are copyright Andrew Lee Hunn. |
|