'Woman Within': An Unlikely Rebel of the Privileged South
An occasional series in which The Post's book critic reconsiders notable and/or neglected books from the past.
The court of literary opinion is no more fair or just than the court of public opinion. Writers of limited gifts and accomplishments (Ernest Hemingway, Carson McCullers, John Steinbeck) are overpraised and over-rewarded, while others of great gifts and singular accomplishments (William Humphrey, Dawn Powell, Jerome Charyn) are ignored or misunderstood. This of course is true in other endeavors, but somehow it seems especially unjust that writing, the best of which is supposed to stand the ages, so often produces such small recognition for those who do it so well.
My own list of unjustly overlooked and underrated writers is long; it includes, in addition to those mentioned above, John P. Marquand, Thomas Savage, Roxana Robinson, Harold Frederic, Elizabeth Spencer, John Oliver Killens and, at or very near the top, Ellen Glasgow. Born in 1873 to a genteel and modestly prosperous Richmond family, she published some two dozen books before her death in 1945, 19 of which are novels. For a while during the 1920s and 1930s she enjoyed brisk sales, and in 1942 she was awarded a Pulitzer Prize for "In This Our Life," but as is all too typical of Pulitzers in fiction, it came too late and was for a relatively minor work. Now only a handful of her novels are in print -- fortunately they include her three best, "Barren Ground," "Vein of Iron" and "The Sheltered Life" -- and her name rarely surfaces in discussions of American literature.
This seems more than a little odd when one considers that feminist critics and academics have made cottage industries out of other writers (Kate Chopin, Zora Neale Hurston, Sarah Orne Jewett) whose accomplishments are far more slender than Glasgow's. She was a relatively privileged white Southerner (though so was Chopin), and her principal metier (though scarcely her only one) was the novel of manners. Literary opinion in this country tends to dismiss the upper classes as irrelevant and to be suspicious of the novel of manners for the same reason. The contemporary with whom Glasgow is often compared, Willa Cather, was victim to neither of these prejudices, which may in some measure explain why her work is still admired while Glasgow's is neglected.
Glasgow (the name gives it all away) was Scottish by ancestry, and proud of it. She was Virginian, too, and proud of that as well, but in this case her pride was tempered by an utter absence of sentimentality. "She began as the most girlish of Southern romantics," Alfred Kazin wrote in "Native Ground," published in 1942, "and later proved the most biting critic of Southern romanticism; she was at once the most traditional in loyalty to Virginia and its most powerful satirist; the most sympathetic historian of the Southern mind in modern times and a consistent satirist of that mind." The neglect now visited upon her could be explained if her work defended the Lost Cause or if her prose was old-fashioned and stilted, but none of that is true; she despised the Old South mythology, and her prose is an absolute joy to read. Her chief subject is the conflict between Ol' Dixie and the rising industrial world, and she was unsparing in her criticism of the South's tendency to sentimentalize itself and its past.
For the reader who doesn't know her work, probably the logical place to start is "Barren Ground" or "The Sheltered Life," but at a time in our literary history when memoir is all the rage, perhaps the place to go is "The Woman Within." Written off and on between 1934 and 1943, it was sealed in Glasgow's safe-deposit box in Richmond, preceded by a note "To My Literary Executors" that read, in part: "This rough draft is the original and only copy of my autobiography. It was written in great suffering of mind and body, and the work is as true to actual experience as I have been able to make the written word. . . . I was writing for my own release of mind and heart; and I have tried to make a completely honest portrayal of an interior world, and of that one world alone."
The manuscript was opened after her death in November 1945 by her literary executors, who seem to have decided almost immediately that it had to be published -- not to make money, since Glasgow had no direct descendants, but because it is "a narrative of quite extraordinary human interest." They meant not "human interest" as in a journalistic sob story, but as an exploration of the inner depths of one human heart and soul to which other humans could connect. Publication was not hasty -- the book appeared in 1954 -- and it has remained in print off and on in the ensuing half-century, now in a paperback from the University of Virginia Press.
This is appropriate, since the manuscript of the memoir, along with the rest of Glasgow's papers, is stored at that university's library, but it is also ironic, since Glasgow was perhaps Virginia's most astringent critic, almost certainly its most astringent native-born critic. She did love Richmond and lived in her parents' house on West Main Street all her adult life, but she saw with utter clarity the "sanctified fallacies" that Richmond and Virginia embraced. To quote Kazin again, Virginia's was "a society living perpetually in the shadow of the Civil War, a society curiously lacking in the sense of time, but oppressively fanatical when dealing with contemporary problems; obsessed by principle, but living on pluck; dedicated to 'culture' and . . . suspicious of ideas other than its own."
Here is how Glasgow herself puts it, in a passage from "The Woman Within" about an apprentice work, "Sharp Realities," that eventually she burned but that pointed her in the direction she was fated to go:
"My revolt from the philosophy of evasive idealism was seeking an outlet. I hated -- I had always hated -- the inherent falseness in much Southern tradition, and 'Sharp Realities' was an indignant departure from the whole sentimental fallacy, not only in the South, but all over America. Those critics who classify me as 'beginning in the local color school' can have read none of my earliest novels. On the contrary, my native impulse, as well as my later theories of the novel as a mirror of life, sprang directly from my dislike for what I called 'little vessels of experience.' Never, at any time, have little ways and means of thinking made a particular appeal to me. If I prefer fine workmanship and delicate embroideries of style, I demand that both material and pattern shall be ample in form and richly varied in texture."
She was an unlikely rebel and an unlikely realistic novelist. Not merely was she in, or close to, Richmond's upper crust, she was frail, secretive, afflicted with "morbid shyness," yet even as a child she was "a social rebel." Surrounded by the wealthy and the powerful, she found herself drawn to the poor and the powerless; as a very small girl she "began to think, or to feel, that cruelty is the only sin." She was, in her parents' populous household, "the only dissenter from orthodox Christianity, and the only rebel against the Calvinist conscience."
Glasgow was deeply unhappy for much of her life. Her father was honest, decent, icily cold, rigid: "Not once in my knowledge of him had he ever changed his mind or admitted that he was wrong -- or even mistaken." She adored her mother without reservation -- she "was the center of my childhood's world, the sun in my universe" -- but when Ellen was still young her mother "suffered the long anguish of a nervous illness." The result was that this emotionally starved girl often had nowhere to turn for succor except an older sister who was only occasionally available. Yet she "was not disposed, by temperament, to self-pity," and she was blessed with a "sardonic spirit which mocked incessantly: 'I will not be defeated! I will not look defeated!' "