THE MODERN(IST) SHORT FORM: CONTAINING CLASS IN EARLY 20TH CENTURY LITERATURE AND FILM by STACEY MEREDITH KAPLAN A DISSERTATION Presented to the Department of English and the Graduate School of the University of Oregon in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy March 2010 11 University of Oregon Graduate School Confirmation of Approval and Acceptance of Dissertation prepared by: Stacey Kaplan Title: "The Modem(ist) Short Form: Containing Class in Early 20th Century Literature and Film" This dissertation has been accepted and approved in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree in the Department of English by: Paul Peppis, Chairperson, English Michael Aronson, Member, English Mark Quigley, Member, English Jenifer Presto, Outside Member, Comparative Literature and Richard Linton, Vice President for Research and Graduate StudieslDean of the Graduate School for the University of Oregon. March 20,2010 Original approval signatures are on file with the Graduate School and the University of Oregon Libraries. © 2010 Stacey Meredith Kaplan 111 IV An Abstract of the Dissertation of Stacey Meredith Kaplan in the Department of English for the degree of to be taken Doctor of Philosophy March 2010 Title: THE MODERN(IST) SHORT FORM: CONTAINING CLASS IN EARLY 20TH CENTURY LITERATURE AND FILM Approved: _ Dr. Paul Peppis My dissertation analyzes the overlooked short works of authors and auteurs who do not fit comfortably into the conventional category ofmodernism due to their subtly experimental aesthetics: the versatile British author Vita Sackville-West, the Anglo-Irish novelist and short-story writer Elizabeth Bowen, and the British emigrant filmmaker Charlie Chaplin. I focus on the years 1920-1923 to gain an alternative understanding of modernism's annus mirabulus and the years immediately preceding and following it. My first chapter studies the most critically disregarded author of the project: Sackville-West. Her 1922 volume of short stories The Heir: A Love Story deserves attention for its examination of social hierarchies. Although her stories ridicule characters regardless of their class background, those who attempt to change their class status, especially when not sanctioned by heredity, are treated with the greatest contempt. The volume, with the reinforcement of the contracted short form, advocates staying within given class vboundaries. The second chapter analyzes social structures in Bowen's first book of short stories, Encounters (1922). Like Sackville-West, Bowen's use ofthe short fonn complements her interest in how class hierarchies can confine characters. Bowen's portraits of classed encounters and of characters' encounters with class reveal a sense of anxiety over being confined by social status and a sense ofdisplacement over breaking out of class groups, exposing how class divisions accentuate feelings of alienation and instability. The last chapter examines Chaplin's final short films: "The Idle Class" (1921), "Pay Day (1922), and "The Pilgrim" (1923). While placing Chaplin among the modernists complicates the canon in a positive way, it also reduces the complexity ofthis man and his art. Chaplin is neither a pyrotechnic modernist nor a traditional sentimentalist. Additionally, Chaplin's shorts are neither socially liberal nor conservative. Rather, Chaplin's short films flirt with experimental techniques and progressive class politics, presenting multiple perspectives on the thematic of social hierarchies. But, in the end, his films reinforce rather than overthrow traditional artistic fonns and hierarchical ideas. Studying these artists elucidates how the contracted space of the short fonn produces the perfect room to present a nuanced portrayal of class. CURRICULUM VITAE NAME OF AUTHOR: Stacey Meredith Kaplan PLACE OF BIRTH: New Jersey DATE OF BIRTH: May 10,1973 GRADUATE AND UNDERGRADUATE SCHOOLS ATTENDED: University of Oregon, Eugene, Oregon Guilford College, Greensboro, North Carolina DEGREES AWARDED: Doctor of Philosophy, English, March 2010, University of Oregon Master of Arts, English, 2005, University of Oregon Bachelor of Arts, Theater, 1995, Guilford College AREAS OF SPECIAL INTEREST: British and American Modernism Early Cinema The Rise of the Novel PROFESSIONAL EXPERIENCE: Graduate Teaching Fellow, University of Oregon, Fall 2004-Fa112009 vi Vll ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I would like to sincerely thank Professor Paul Peppis for his guidance and support during the dissertation process as well as during the years of work leading up to this point. Additionally, I wish to thank my committee, Professors Michael Aronson, Mark . Quigley, and Jenifer Presto, for their insightful suggestions and helpful advice during this process. I also want to thank Professor Karen Ford for her unending, unwavering encouragement. Finally, I wish to thank my fellow (former) graduate students at the University of Oregon for all of their time, thoughts, and love. To Ellis Ruth V111 IX TABLE OF CONTENTS Chapter Page I. REEVALUATING THE SHORT FORM............................................................. 1 II. "HER 'DUAL NATURE"': VITA SACKVILLE-WEST'S DUEL WITH TRADITIONAL CLASS STRUCTURES 15 III. "STRAY[ING] ACROSS BOUNDARIES": ELIZABETH BOWEN CONFRONTS CLASS AND CONFINEMENT 73 IV. "CHARLES AND CHARLIE": CHARLIE CHAPLIN'S MULTIPLE PERSPECTIVES ON CLASS 128 BIBLIOGRAPHY 179 1CHAPTER I REEVALVATING THE SHORT FORM While most scholars of modernism and twentieth century literature still neglect the short narrative, some critics have begun to argue for the form's particular significance to modernity. Austin M. Wright, for example, contends that "the only kind of short story is modem" (46). James F. Kilroy claims that the short story is the genre of modernism: "Its fragmented action and characterization reflected the disillusionment of the postwar generation" (95); for a brief span, it was "the genre that could be said to best represent the essence of the age" (Ferguson 191). In addition to its ability to express fragmentation, the short'.s brevity "is directly imitative of the modem experience of being alive" (Shaw 17): the short form, like modem life, moves quickly and exists in a contracted space. The concision of the short form also led to a compression of language that resonates with the Imagist movement's poetics of compression. But while concision is often taken as key to Imagism's success, it is frequently seen as one of the major limitations of short fiction and short film: many critics still consider short narratives inferior to full-length narratives. This double standard arises in part because short films and short stories are often seen as commodities aimed for popular consumption whereas Imagism is understood to have expressed a modernist "aversion to oversupply," which, according to Aaron Jaffe, forms much of the basis for the modernists' "critical interventions in mass culture and society" (66). Thus, despite the short form's 2responsiveness to the mood and mindset of twentieth-century life, the genre still "has not been assigned any definite role in accounts of modernism" (Shaw 18). Critics often deem the short narrative a low art form, adding to the critical shortsightedness; the genre has been denigrated for its close ties to journalism, its formal limitations, and its crass commercial motivations: "the short story's continued involvement with journalism has damaged its standing while ensuring its popularity" (Shaw 7). Shaw argues that, in an effort to gain popular appeal, short stories and short films cater to and reflect their more popular audiences, often portraying middle- and working-class characters engaged in varieties of modem labor, revealing a repetitive, dreary lifestyle emblematic of the typical Victorian realist novel (209). Due to the contracted space of the short form, these narratives focused on middle- and working-class characters often have a "tightly controlled quality" that limits character development to the point of "depriving [] characters of any self-determined power, making them appear [. . .] locked in a structure [...] specifically designed to fate them to passivity and sameness" (Shaw 208). I agree with short-story scholar Valerie Shaw that the short form's brevity . . necessarily limits character development and creates a sense ofcontainment, making the genre amenable to a conservative portrayal of lower,·, w.orking-, .and middle-class characters. However, the short stories and short films I examine use such innovative techniques as free indirect discourse, recurrent characters, dream sequences, and narratives that resist their own containment to interrogate the form's constraints, reflecting the early twentieth century's increasing unmooring of traditional social and 3political structures, especially long established class hierarchies. In this way, the short form becomes an ideal genre to portray the excitement and anxiety that accompanied the breakdown of conventional social divisions in the early twentieth century. Despite scholars' tendency to prioritize poetry, novels, and feature films, my study of short stories and short films today institutionalized as minor works helps reassess and reconfigure the peak years of modemism. Susan Ferguson's essay on the short form equates literary and social hierarchies. Ferguson argues, . like societies of people, the society ofliterary genres has its class system [.. .]. Over time, classes reorganize themselves, accept new members, cast old members into the dustbin. It has its aristocracy, its middle classes, and its proletarians, and the genres vie for status as people do, by adopting marmers of the upper classes, by marrying up, and by working themselves in persistently at the fringes of the class to which they aspire. (176) Ferguson's analogy, which essentially equates short narratives with the lower classes and reveals how both attempt to climb their respective hierarchical ladders, reinforces the link between the short form and dass politics. Ferguson also postulates that in the late nineteenth century the prestige of the short story rested in the fact that there was "a certain volatility in the class structure, which welcomed the fine differentiation in generic types and social classes so succinctly offered by the forms and content of short fiction" (180). Although I agree with Ferguson that the short form appears interested in and linked to social structures, her account that the short story offers fine differentiation contrasts my findings. Rather, the short narratives I armlyze bring more ambiguity than clarity to class and generic boundaries. 4The short fonn proves the perfect arena for examining class hierarchies, class status, and class relations. Thus while many modernists worked with the short fonn and dealt extensively with issues of class in their short and long pieces, their short narratives and their rich and complex responses to class have yet to receive the critical attention they deserve. Recovering and analyzing neglected short works of the early twentieth century can reveal and illuminate significant interests and fonnal techniques important to modernists and to artists on the margins of modernism that still remain neglected, overlooked, or misunderstood. Therefore, studying the fonns and figures at modernism's margins illuminates not only those on the fringes of modernism but also those at the center of the movement. My dissertation treats short stories and short films not as apprentice work in preparation for long pieces but rather as art forms in and of themselves. If short narratives are examined solely in relation to long works, formal and thematic qualities that are specific to the short form will be overlooked. Shaw claims that around the end of the nineteenth century, "when all branches of literature and the arts were becoming acutely self-conscious," people also began to "acknowledge that short fiction might be shaped according to its -own principles" (3). Yet, the critics who publish works on short stories and short films admit they are unable to decide what, exactly, defines the short fonn other than length, and I would argue that even this apparently straightforward criterion becomes complicated when considering a hundred-page "short" story or a sixty-minute "short" film. Tobias Wolff admits that "I can't say what a short story is" (xi); Francine Prose concedes "the form keeps defying our best efforts to wrap it up and present it in a I ! 5 tidy package" (l0); and Shaw argues "it is almost impossible to stabilize a definition of the genre" (7). Although theories of the short story often rely on Edgar Allen Poe's concept of the "single effect," meaning the story centers on one event with no extraneous or insignificant details deterring from the main point, Prose counters that few readers can explain what, precisely, "is the 'one thing' that our favorite short story is telling us so intensely" (7). Normam Friedman explicitly states what underlies most critical accounts of the short form: " I do not really believe there is any such thing as the short story more specific than 'a short fictional narrative in prose'" (29). The compilation of essays The Art ofBrevity: l!.xcursions in Short Fiction Theory and Analysis from 2004 marks the newest book-length work on the short form. The book claims that short story theory . began in the 1960s and 1970s. It goes on to explain that part of its project is to extend traditional ideas on the short form by privileging the term "short fiction" over "short story' to reflect the fact that, as Susan Lohafer argues, "discussions of the short story now tend to be genre-bending and interdisciplinary" (ix). Yet, none of the essays in the book address anything but traditional short stories. . My dissertation analyzes the short works of authors and auteurs who do not fit comfortably into the conventional category ofmodernism in large part due to their more subtle technical experimentation and their closer relations to popular culture: .the versatile British author Vita Sackville-West, the Anglo-Irish novelist and short-story writer Elizabeth Bowen, and the British emigrant filmmaker Charlie Chaplin. I focus on the years 1920-1923 to proyide an altemative understanding of modernism's annus mirabulus and the years immediately preceding and following it. These three artists 6utilize the short fonn in a manner that proves how adept this genre is at straddling the line between innovation and mass attention. Although studying the short stories of Sackville-West and Bowen in conjunction with the short films of Chaplin may seem incompatible, the commonalities between these three artists emphasize the widespread early twentieth-century concern with shifts in class structures, further dismantle the alleged high art versus mass culture dichotomy, and increase awareness of the wide range of media that were influenced by and influential to the canonical modernists. One of the few critics I found who explicitly mentions the relationship between short films and short stories of the nineteen teens and nineteen twenties is the short-story theorist Kristen Thompson. She notes that by the first half of the teens, films were competing with inexpensive popular fiction [...], 'The Saturday Evening Post' and 'Collier's,' for instance, offered 'one or two nights' enjoyment of the best serials and short stories for five cents. To lure those readers in at a similar price for a shorter period, film producers felt they had to raise the quality of their offerings. Thus, for the short film at least, the popular short story offered an existing modei to be emulated. (163) Although the short film's length was necessitated by industrial capabilities, making the decision to work in the short fonn more of a necessity than a choice, this does not negate the cooperative relationship between short films and short stories. Although Thompson implies that short films learned formal and thematic techniques from short stories, I argue that this relationship is symbiotic. For example, whereas short stories became more visual in their representations, presenting numerous tableaus that prove just as significant to such things as character development as dialogue does, short films, though silent, became 7more concerned with narrative development rather than with simply presenting a string of gags or images. The commonalities between the short stories of Sackville-West and Bowen and the short films of Chaplin help clarify the elusive genre of the short form and its significance for understanding early twentieth century culture. Discussing the similarities between short stories and short films, Elizabeth Bowen, a major practitioner of the modern short story, both upholds and undermines the idea that the short form is an ambiguous genre: neither the short story nor the short film '''is sponsored by a tradition; both are, accordingly, free; both, still, are self-conscious, show a self-imposed discipline and regard for form'" (qtd in Shaw 14). Bowen's assessment of the short narrative clarifies some of the key traits ofthis elusive genre. Being uninhibited by tradition allows short form practitioners to experiment more freely with different themes and formal techniques. Yet this freedom to experiment is balanced by the limitations and constraints imposed by the form's comparative brevity. Thus, the short form straddles freedom and containment, experimentation and convention, modernism and mass culture. Moreover, the short works of Sackville-West, Bowen, and Chaplin thematize their shared interest in the class system, class status, and relations between the classes at a time of increasing social change and mobility. The short form provides a contained space that reflects the confmement of traditional social boundaries. Yet, these artists' works frequently question and pressure these formal and social constraints. Their interrogation of the short form's conventional generic boundaries mimics and advances these texts' frequently ambivalent interrogation of traditionally rigid class divisions as those divisions 8are put under increasing pressure by radical changes in social relations and the distribution of capital during the early twentieth century. That Sackville-West, Bowen, and Chaplin were particularly concerned with questions of class is not surprising considering their personal experiences and personal histories. Both the English Sackville-West and the Anglo-Irish Bowen were aristocrats . writing during a time when, in both England and Ireland, class stations were becoming increasingly unfixed, threatening their position on the top of the class ladder. In contrast, Chaplin went from being a workhouse orphan to becoming the richest man in the world, a shift that also destabilized his sense of class structures. The shifts in social status that these artists experienced underscore the period's increasing social mobility. During the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, downward mobility was much more common than upward mobility, adding social anxiety to common feelings of displacement. The acquisition of property or capital that allowed for individual business creation was the most likely fonn of success (Miles 88). Yet, "as a class indicator the amount of money is less significant than the source. The main thing distinguishing the top three classes from each other is the amount ofmoney inherited in relation to the amount currently earned" (Fussell 29). Still, increasing literacy and growing migration from the country to town centers helped improve the chances ofupward mobility (Miles 88), though these shifts exacerbated feelings of instability: the increase in literacy erased a longstanding class marker and the move from the expansive country to the contracted town centers further blurred typically clear class boundaries. Adding to this obscuring of traditional social divisions, as Paul Fussell argues, the definition of class status hinges on 9such non-essential factors as "style," "taste," and "awareness" (27), grammar, . vocabulary, and pronunciation (153). Because these traditional markers of class are increasingly understood as non-essential, performative, and, therefore, acquirable, the .phenomena of class crossing and masquerade become increasingly common. Despite the common assumption that social mobility, especially upward mobility, connotes a positive experience for the individual and society, as Andrew Miles explains "too much mobility can be just as dangerous as too little because it generates rootlessness, uncertainty and insecurity" (5). As this dissertation demonstrates, the short works of Sackville-West, Bowen, and Chaplin present complex, nuanced, and sympathetic views of traditional class hierarchies during a period of unprecedented social upheaval, registering and analyzing the deep ambivalences toward social mobility that social upheaval entailed. These artists use the short form to underscore the liberation as well as the confusion that accompanies the unmooring of the traditionally rigid class ladder. Though short narratives in literature and film are typically deemed contracted and confining forms, these artists push the boundaries of their short works using such techniques as extended length, recurrent characters, dream sequences, and free indirect discourse, emphasizing the fluidity of social and generic demarcations.. My first chapter, "'Her 'Dual Nature': Vita Sackville-West's Duel with Traditional Class Structures," studies the most critically disregarded author of the project: Sackville-West. Despite being a prolific writer, Sackville-West has long been addressed primarily in terms of her intimate relationship with Virginia Woolf. But Sackville-West's . 1922 volume of short stories 'The Heir: A Love Story deserves attention for its 10 examination of the disintegration of traditional social hierarchies. The stories express both sympathy and cynicism toward the variously classed characters they try to contain and reveal a deep ambivalence about the instability of the social structures they portray. Sackville-West's stories capture the fact that as social boundaries became more fluid, class identity became unmoored, spurring feelings of liberation, alienation, freedom, and terror. Thematically her stories address how characters cope with the unreliability ofclass categories while formally her title story is so expansive that it enacts the instability of containment. The fluidity of the class system is also echoed in the stories' use of free indirect discourse; the unpredictability of the narrative voice mimics the instability of the class system. Most of the stories use this third person narrator to inhabit the protagonist's mind, relate a more subjective point of view, and allow the reader access to and, typically, sympathy for characters ranging from the upper to the servile classes, depending on the story. The title story allows this narrator to float from character to character. The narrator's roaming from mind to mind mimics the way characters can cross class boundaries. The use of free indirect discourse also exhibits Sackville-West's flirting with modernist techniques. I argue that while she is not a modernist, Sackville-West's work rests on the stylistic margins ofthis movement; she uses a mode of narration favored by such canonical modernists as Woolf and James Joyce. Sackville':West's The Heir: A Love Story utilizes the short form and modernist tools such as free indirect discourse to help underscore the ambivalence, confusion, and excitement created by the upheaval of the traditional class system. 11 The second chapter, "'Stray[ing] Across Boundaries': Elizabeth Bowen Confronts Class and Confinement," analyzes the dismantling of traditional social structures in Bowen's first book of short stories, Encounters (1923). Bowen has only recently been receiving the critical attention that she deserves. Scholars have beguri to take interest in her how her novels relate to issues of nationhood and gender, but her short stories remain largely overlooked. Like Sackville-West, Bowen's use of the short form complements her interest in how class hierarchies can confine characters. Bowen's portraits of classed encounters and of characters' encounters with class reveal both a sense of anxiety over being oppressed by social status and a feeling of social displacement in respect to shifting class relations, exposing how class divisions accentuate feelings of alienation and instability. The stories in Encounters examine meetings between characters of different backgrounds, points of view, and class groups as well as these characters' confrontations with social structures. Although some critics see the short story as a limited form that does not allow for much character development, Bowen takes this necessarily contracted space and utilizes it to present a complex portrait of how physical, social, and mental containment impacts her characters' thoughts and interactions. Some of the characters desire containment, wanting clear boundaries between class groups andTooms of their own, while other characters fed oppressed by their class group or job status, desiring to break out of their present space and enter into a new life. Yet, the characters who refuse to be contained in their class realities as well as in their stories, like the nouveau riche Herbert and Cicelyfrom "The New House" and "The Lover," do not find happiness; 12 instead, they experience the same sense of displacement that the lady's maid in "The Return," Lydia, feels. In this way, all of Bowen's characters, regardless of class status, experience feelings ofliminality and despondency. And though all of the characters share these feelings of confusion and upheaval due to unstable class divisions, they experience them in individuated ways, revealing a sympathetic, nuanced presentation of all the class groups readers encounter in Bowen's volume of short stories. The last chapter, "'Charles and Charlie': Charlie Chaplin's Multiple Perspectives on Class," examines Chaplin's final short films: "The Idle Class" (1921), "Pay Day (1922), and "The Pilgrim" (1923). While Sackville-West and Bowen achieved only modest success as writers, Chaplin achieved unprecedented fame and fortune with his film career in the United States. But like Sackville-West and Bowen, Chaplin's short works combine popular and modernist techniques and explore questions of class with nuance and rigor. Chaplin is neither a pyrotechnic modernist nor a traditional sentimentalist. His shorts are neither socially liberal nor conservative. Rather, Chaplin's short films flirt with experimental techniques and progressive class politics, presenting multiple perspectives on the thematic of social hierarchies. But, in the end, his films, finally abiding by the conventionality ofmuch popular art, mostly reinforce rather than overthrow traditional.artistic forms and hierarchical ideas. Close examination of Chaplin's final short films offers insight into the transitional years of Chaplin's career: whereas the early shorts typically feature an antagonistic, confrontational, yet confined tramp, the full-length films typically focus on a sympathetic tramp and a more traditional narrative style. These late shorts form the bridge between 13 these extremes, showing the tramp and Chaplin's cinematic style in transition. During the peak years of modernism, Chaplin produced his final three short films, none of which comfortably fit with the rest of his oeuvre. "The Idle Class" (1921) blurs traditionally stable divisions between class groups and depicts all characters, regardless of class, as morally ambiguous. "Pay Day" (1922) sets the tramp up with a wife, a working-class job, and an apartment, which questions the continuity of the tramp character. And "The Pilgrim" (1923) uses its longer length to establish character growth, showing the tramp change from criminal to upstanding citizen. These three short films reveal how the short form enabled Chaplin to present multiple takes on class politics: Positioning his tramp in slightlydifferent economic groups in each film allows for subtle, nuanced class analyses. Ultimately, Chaplin's .short films are neither socially liberal nor conservative. Rather, they play with the confusion and liberation that come with the blurring of established class divisions; even though the films ultimately reinforce rather than overthrow traditional hierarchical ideas, they also expose the impossibility of completely containing class groups. Not only does the dissertation engage in the study of a genre too long overlooked, but my work also examines the neglected issue of class politics. By exploring these often ignored issues together, the dissertation makes clear that the short form is especially well suited to the portrayal and examination of class hierarchies. The contracted spaces of the . short stories ofSackville-West and Bowen and the short films of Chaplin reflect and accentuate the confinement of class,· even as their use ofmodernist techniques facilitate the interrogation of tramtional class lines at a time of increasing social change. Yet, as the short 14 stories ofSackville-West and Bowen and the short films of Chaplin ultimately show, breaking out of class hierarchies could produce profound feelings of insecurity and alienation. Studying Sackville-West, Bowen, and Chaplin and their rich and innovative employments of the short form sheds light on how the contracted spaces of short fiction and short film produces the room to present more nuanced portrayals of class. Thus, delving into the margins of modernism and its miraculous year of 1922 recovers artists whose works do not fit comfortably into institutionalized definitions of high modernism's stylistic and generic categories, but whose works nonetheless drew upon and modified modernist methods, conjoining them to the more "traditional" and "popular" conventions of short stories and short films in order to illuminate the sometimes disorienting social and aesthetic transformations of the first twenty-five years of the twentieth century. 15 CHAPTER II "HER 'DUAL NATURE"': VITA SACKVILLE-WEST'S DUEL WITH TRADITIONAL CLASS STRUCTURES Although Vita Sackville-West enjoyed a long and eclectic literary career and, during her life, "attracted a good deal of attention as a novelist, biographer, and poet" . (Stevens 82), since her death in 1962 this prolific writer's output has been deemed "old- fashioned and quaint" (Watson, Preface). Today, Sackville-West is best known for her romantic relationship with one of modemism's preeminent authors, Virginia Woolf. Suzanne Raiitt points out that both women were "highly privileged and articulate" and ."were.rarely forced by economic need to do things that they did not want to do" (ix). Yet, like Woolf, Sackville-West maintained a heterosexual marriage while engaging in homosexual affairs (Raiitt ix); despite their economic independence both women adhered to certain social norms. Priscilla Diaz-Dorr notes Sackville-West "was confronted with an inner conflict over her own sexuality, what she called her 'dual nature'" (257). Using the same key words, Michael Stevens asserts that her early works "are largely based on . problems of heredity and duality" (85). This issue of duality manifests in numerous ways. Not only was Sackville-West engaged in both homo and heterosexual relationships, but she also descended from a family of diplomats and humble Spanish dancers, and, despite a strong connection with the land and history, she was prohibited by her gender from inheriting anything her family had amassed and deemed important. According to Diaz- 16 Dorr, "the British novelist felt herself an alien in the Edwardian aristocracy that was her heritage" (256). Despite feeling displaced by the confinements that came with her social standing, Sackville-West renounced neither her heterosexual marriage nor her class status. Born and raised at Knole, Sackville-West appreciated this "ancient and noble house" (Watson 13) as "a living symbol of the continuity of history, of the heritage of a long family-line, of the everyday life-patterns of past ages" (Watson 16). But gender politics complicated Sackville-West's love for Knole and her passion for history and heritage: "if she had been a boy, she could have inherited Knole; she could have been freed from the shackles of Edwardian society; and she would have had the opportunity to attend schools and a ,university" (Watson 18). Frustrated by her situation, Sackville-West "turned to reading and writing in rebellion against the social code of her class" (Watson 20), though this scholastic revolt did not eradicate Sackville-West's sense of "herself as a scion of the English aristocracy" (Raiitt 42). Sackville-West's personal as well as her literary life reveal an ambivalent rather than a purely rebellious attitude toward social conventions and stereotypes: "Sackville-West, it seems, shared Woolfs sense of the absurdity of many of the conventions of the English upper classes, butit seems only to have increased her fascination with the dilemmas of an anachronistic aristocracy" (Raiitt 92). Much of Sackville-West's work portrays a nuanced, sympathetic, and satiric portrayal of this "anachronistic 'aristocracy" as well as how the disassembly ofthis upper tier of the class ladder unmoored people of every rung. 17 Sackville-West's 1922 volume of short stories The Heir: A Love Story reveals an ambivalent reaction to the deterioration of this "anachronistic aristocracy" and the upheaval it caused for those on all rungs of the class ladder. As social boundaries became more fluid; class identity became unmoored, spurring feelings of liberation, alienation, freedom, and terror. Sackville-West's stories capture this dual relationship to social instability. Thematically her stories address how characters cope with the unreliability of class categories while formally her title story is so expansive that it enacts the instability of containment. The fluidity of the class system is also echoed in the stories' use of free indirect discourse; the unpredictability of the narrative voice mimics the instability of the class system. Most of the stories use this third person narrator to inhabit the protagonist's mind, relate a more subjective point of view, and allow the reader access to and, typically, sympathy for characters ranging from the upper to the servile classes, depending on the story. The title story allows this narratOl to float from character to character. The narrator's roaming from mind to mind mimics the way characters can cross class boundaries. The use of free indirect discourse also exhibits Sackville-West's flirting with modernist techniques. Diaz-Dorr argues that Sackville-West's use a "traditional style with modern subjects" (264) and that the "enduring value of her works comes from the honesty with which she portrays the emotional turmoil created by the . changing social mid intellectUal environment of the 1920s and 1930s in England" (264). While I agree with Diaz-Dorr's account ofSackville-West's themes, I argue that while she is not a modernist her work rests on the stylistic margins of this movement; she uses a mode of narration favored by such canonical modernists as Woolf and James Joyce. 18 Sackville-West's The Heir: A Love Story utilizes the short fonn and modernist tools such as free indirect discourse to help underscore the ambivalence, confusion, and excitement created by the upheaval of the traditional class system. Though there is little written on the title story, what does exist underscores the notion of its being an autobiographical love story: "Running through the story is a deep feeling of tradition, which the house and its contents symbolize [...] Blackboys is Knole in light disguise" (Stevens 37). Watson claims that the "author, like the hero of the story, had [...] a love-affair with at least two old mansions - Knole and Sissinghurst" (68). Making this apparently semi-autobiographical love story "perfect" for Waston is the fact . that "the spotlight is consistently fixed upon Chase, the heir - and the other characters remain shadowy. The action proceeds straightforwardly, always developing the main character [...]. The style likewise is simple and direct" (69). While Chase is unarguably at the center of the story and is the character whose mind the narrator most often inhabits, the other characters are far from "shadowy." Sackville-West develops characters from a range of class background, exposing how shifts in the social structure create a ripple effect. Indeed, this is Sackville-West's longest, most heavily populated story, allowing her to represent all class groups. The length, which is more like a novella than a short story, also underscores the instability of containment; there is a blurring of class·and fonnal boundaries. Moreover, Sackville-West's style in this and in the other stories in the volume often vacillates between sympathy and satire, underscoring the stories' ambivalence toward shifts in social structures. And although both critics applaud the short's positive emphasis on tradition, comparing Blackboys to Knole and Sackville- 19 West's feelings for her own home and heritage, the story does not unabashedly uphold tradition as a good thing. The short story is best read as a condemnation and a celebration of tradition and heredities. The opening of this story and the collection satirizes the death of an elderly aristocratic woman, undercutting any sense of solemnity regarding this wealthy woman: Miss Chase lay on her immense red silk four-poster that reached as high as the ceiling. Her face was covered over by a sheet, but as she had a high, aristocratic nose, it raised the sheet into a ridge, ending in a point. Her hands could also be distinguished beneath the sheet, folded across her chest like the hands of an effigy; and her feet, tight together like the feet of an effigy, raised the sheet into· two further points at the bottom of the bed. (3) Miss Phillida Chase's opulent bed that brings her dead body up toward heaven is comically undermined by the image of her "aristocratic nose" and feet creating peeks and , . valleys in the sheet covering her. That Miss Chase's body signifies her social status suggests that class is inherent and cannot be purchased or easily performed. Yet, the fact that Miss Chase's "aristocratic nose" holds up the sheet shows how class markers tum this dead woman into something to be laughed at, questioning the privilege that comes with class; social status cannot ward off death or mockery. The image of Miss Chase being an "effigy" indicates that she looks like a dummy, humorously constructed in order to insult this disliked woman. The title Miss indicates her being single, and her last name, Chase, aurally suggests her chasteness, which is highlighted by the image of her "feet, tight together," reinforcing the passing not only of this character but also of her class. This opening does not bemoan the death of the aristocracy; rather, it ridicules this aristocratic woman. 20 As Mr. Nutley, one oftwo solicitors, and Mr. Chase, Miss Chase's nephew, discuss her death, the men focus on money rather than emotion. The men "looked resentfully at the still figure under the sheet on the bed" (4). The men's resentment appears to stem from the fact that Miss Chase led a life of luxury and even iil death demands being waited on. Miss Chase's demise has forced Chase to come to the country from London, taking time off from work, and Mr. Nutley has had to go to work, things that the men are unhappy about. Miss Chase's "figure" may be inert but the "figure" she is worth impacts the lives of those below her. A delayed coffin has lead to a delayed funeral, which will keep Chase in the country and out of work longer than expected. Nutley worries that Londoners may come too early and be upset about spending an extra day.in the country: "'It's very. annoying to have one's work cut into'" (4). Nutley fears the Londoners will be annoyed about missing work, but the comment also suggests that Nutley is frustrated because Miss Chase's death has taken away from his clientele, meaning less money for him. Miss Chase's "still" body describes its being physically inactive as well as points to the fact that it is "still" there, ruling these men's lives from beneath a sheet and beyond the grave. That the men stand over Miss Chase's dead body talking about work signifies their true concern at this moment: these middle-class men cannot be upset about Miss Chase's death because they are too focused on making sure they maintain their class positions. Still in the bedroom, Nutley portrays Miss Chase's home and servants in a stereotypical manner, revealing his adherence to class types despite his frustrations with· his own class position. He remarks how "tidy" Miss Chase kept everything: 21 "'handkerchiefs, gloves, little bags of lavender in every drawer. Yes, just what I should have expected: she was a rare one for having everything spick and span. She'd go for the servants, tapping her stick sharp on the boards, if anything wasn't to her liking; and they all scuttled about as though they'd been wound up after she'd done with them'" (5). Figuring things as what he "should have expected" underscores Nutley's preoccupation with the upper classes. Although Nutley first appears to give Miss Chase sole credit for keeping '''everything spick and span,'" the servants soon enter his discussion as the true .agents of the cleanliness. Adding new meaning to her already multi-signifying name, Miss Chase would, it appears, chase the help about until they did everything she demanded. That the workers "scuttled about" highlights their rapid response to their mistress as well as hints at their being insect or animal-like in their motions, and the phrase "as though they'd been wound up" equates the servants with mechanical toys. The mixed image of animal and mechanical life accentuates the less-than-human view Nutley has of the serving class. As a social climber, he demeans those below him to make himself feel more powerful than he really is. Nutley's first recommendation for Chase, the "'sole heir'" (5), reinforces the solicitor's focus on money. As Nutley "finger[s]" (5) Miss Chase's dresses, he advises Chase on what to do with "'the old lady's clothes"': "'they wouldn't fetch much, you know, with the exception of the lace. There's fine, real lace here, that ought to be worth something'" (5). Despite the possible worth of the "'silk dresses'" that are '''made of good stuff" (5), Nutley counsels Chase to "'give some to the housekeeper; that'll be of more value to you in the end than the few pounds you might get for them. Always get the 22 servants on your side, is my axiom'" (5-6). Nutley wants Chase to grant the housekeeper the dresses not to make her happy but rather to make Chase happy. Keeping the servants "'on your side'" proves the power of the serving class, granting them agency; however, that the housekeeper could be kept on one's side with a few old dresses counters this agency, accentuating Nutley's belief that servants are easily appeased. Nutley closes the paragraph as well as the men's time in Miss Chase's bedroom with the comment that "'we're not likely to find any more papers in here, so we're wasting time now'" (6), emphasizing his attention to business since it leads to monetary gain: Nutley's singular motivation accentuates his ridiculous nature, making him laughable rather than likable. After leaving Miss Chase's room, the men's ensuing conversation indicates Nutley's frustrations with his. class status and Chase's discomfort with his heritage. On the staircase, Chase hears a shrieking that Nutley explains comes from the peacocks that Miss Chase refused to get rid ofdespite their ruining the land: "'you'll soon do away with them. At least, I should say you would do away with them ifyou were going to live here. I can see you're a man of sense'" (6). Nutley's suggestion is more ofa directive, confirming that although Miss Chase employs him he does not see himself as inferior to Chase, who; despite his heritage, also works for a living. Nutley's emphatic "'would''' stresses that Chase will not remain at the estate. Nutley's conclusion that Chase is a "'man of sense'" not only insinuates that Chase's aunt was not a woman of sense, but also that Chase's not remaining at the estate is the right thing to do. Nutley's bold behavior toward Chase reinforces the solicitor's frustration with his class station; not only' --------------- 23 does Nutley desire to climb the class ladder, but also he has designed to do so by taking over Miss Chase's estate, making Chase an obstacle rather than a client. When Chase shows some sensitivity to the somber situation by leading the crass solicitor out of his aunt's room, he further frustrates the nosey Nutley. After their interaction over the peacocks, "Mr. Chase drew Mr. Nutley and his volubility out on to the landing; closing the door behind him. The solicitor ruffled the sheafof papers he carried in his hand, trying to peep between the sheets that were fastened together by an elastic band" (6-7). Although Nutley attempts to regain control by gaining access to the family's private papers, he cannot see beyond the rubber band, keeping him out ofMiss Chase's affairs until he is asked to help in a professional capacity. This causes Nutley to ruffle his pap.ers, much like a peacock ruffles its feathers, equating Nutley with the vain birds he despises. Despite being shut out by Chase, Nutley attempts to retake control: "'Well, he said briskly," ifyou're agreeable I think we might go downstairs. [...JYou see, we are trying to save you all the time we possibly can'" (7). Nutley's attempt to save Chase time reflects Nutley's desire to get rid of his new boss. When Nutley asks Chase ifhe wants him to call someone to sit with the body, he confirms Miss Chase's lack of family and friends as well as introduces the reader to the butler, Fortune. Chase defers to Nutley's expertise: "'I really don't know,' said Chase, 'what's usually done? You know more about these things than I do.' 'Oh, as to that, I should think I ought to!' Nutley replied with a little self-satisfied smirk" (7). Chase's honest response that he does not know about such things gives Nutley another opportunity to prove his superior knowledge. Nutley enjoys delivering the information 24 that although relatives typically sit with corpses, that is not possible as there are no other relatives: "'In this case ifyou wanted anyone sent in to sit with the old lady, we should have to send a servant. Shall I call Fortune?'" (7). That a butler replaces a relative's duty confmns Miss Chase's lonely existence. The butler's name, Fortune, suggests an allegorical or ironical reading: this serving-class man is not wealthy in money or in luck, yet he might be a personification of chance, a word and notion that recall the name Chase, intimating that Fortune may playa role in Chase's life. Chase's reluctant response to Nutley's suggestion that the butler sit with Miss Chase's body reveals his sensitivity to the servants and his discomfort with giving orders: "'I don't know: Fortune is the butler, isn't he? Well, the butler told me all the servants were very busy. ['" .J Perhaps we needn't disturb them.' Chase was relieved to escape the necessity of giving an order to a servant" (7-8). Chase's resistance to give an order distinguishes him from his aunt, who thrived on her power over the servants; he is not yet comfortable with his new position. This moment also distinguishes Chase from Nutley. Although of a middle-class background himself, Nutley lacks a family fortune, further removing him from the upper classes. His financial proximity to the servants, and his desire to move up the social ladder explains why Nutley has little patience with yet much advice for Chase; he wants to separate himself from the lower and working classes and appear on par with, ifnot-above, Miss Chase's nephew. As the men go downstairs they see one of Miss Chase's peacocks sitting on the outer ledge ofa window. :rhat Miss Chase kept peacocks suggests a vain, proud streak in the aristocratic lady that Nutley tries but fails to imitate, resulting in his mocking it, and in the narrator mocking him: "the 25 solicitor flapped his anns at it, like a skinny crow beating its wings" (8). Although Nutley .sees the servants as scuttling wind-up machines, the narrator portrays Nutley as a "skinny crow," which "in England commonly applied to the Carrion Crow," a "large black bird that feeds upon the carcasses of beasts" (OED). This comparison casts Nutley as a vulture, eager to feed off Miss Chase. Nutley confinns his vanity as well as his dislike for Chase and his family when he assesses this nephew of the aristocracy: "Nutley glanced at him with a faint contempt. Chase was a sandy, weakly-looking little man, with thin reddish hair, freckles, and washy blue eyes. He wore an old Norfolk jacket and trousers that did not match; Mr. Nutley, in his quick impatient mind, set him aside as reassuringly insignificant" (8-9). Nutley's depiction of Chase positions the nephew as an overly fair, weak, washy, thin man. This unflattering portrayal indicates Nutley's class envy. That the solicitor finds Chase "reassuringly insignificant" confinns Nutley's attempt to undennine Chase's potential power. Later in the story, the narrator provides a full portrait of Chase that does not exactly counter Nutley's but that does specify how Chase's class status has negatively impacted his physical and mental health: "He was poor; and hard-working·in a cheerless .. fashion; he managed a branch of a small insurance company in Wolverhampton,and expected nothing further of life. Not very robust, his days in an office left him with little energy after he had conscientiously carried out his business. He lived in lodgings in Wolverhampton, smoking rather too much and eating rather too little" (22-23). Whereas the depiction Nutley provides leaves it ambiguous if Chase's weak physical. nature is a 26 result of his aristocratic heritage or his unpleasant lifestyle, the narrator's portrayal clarifies that Chase's lack of robustness comes from being a hard-working man who does not enjoy his job or the existence it allows him. However, these parallel end results of physical frailty question which class is truly in decline. As Nutley and Chase join the other solicitor, Mr. Farebrother,and the estate's neighbor and sole trustee, Colonel Stanforth, Chase reminds Nutley to introduce him to the Colonel, but Nutley's behavior reinforces his desire to make Chase feel'unwelcome and uncomfortable. When the men meet, Nutley details his work for Farebrother, telling him that the paperwork was not locked away; they can thus look it over before the funeral so Chase can return to Wolverhampton as soon as possible, confirming Nutley's desire to get Chase out of the house .. After much preamble, Nutley finally looks up at Chase, who is "still standing in embarrassment near the door" (10). In addition to delaying introductions, Nutley makes Chase feel uncomfortable by asserting that '''Colonel Stanforth has lived outside the park gates all his life, and I wager he knows every acre of your estate better than you ever will yourself, Mr. Chase'" (10). Nutley's behavior accentuates his desire to make Chase feel like an interloper. Farebrother's interactions with Chase and Nutley reinforce' that money influences . all of the men; Like his name implies, Farebrother conveys a fair and brotherly attitude toward his junior partner, the Colonel, and the middle-class heir. Yet, the first part of his name, fare, suggests that even this most magnanimous of men is concerned with money; Miss Chase's estate is, literally, paying his fare. After Nutley's cominents' about Chase never getting to know the estate, "Mr. Farebrother, a round little rosy man in large 27 spectacles, smiled benignly as Chase and Stanforth shook hands. [...JBut his pleasure was clouded by Nutley's last remark, suggesting as it did that Chase would never have the opportunity of learning his estate; he felt this remark to be in poor taste'" (10). Farebrother's "round" and "rosy" appearance as well as his benign smile and displeasure with Nutley confirm the qualities suggested by his name. The detriments of heredity take center stage when the estate comes up for discussion. When Farebrother says, despite the "'melancholy circumstances,'" he hopes Chase will be with· them for some time (10), Nutley, in his predatory manner, "pounced instantly" on this statement to remind the men that "'Chase never knew the old lady, remember. The melancholy part of it, to my mind, is the muddle the estate is in. . Mortgaged up to the last shilling, and over-run with peacocks:" (11). Chase's never knowing his aunt coupled with his living in Wolverhampton and working a desk job expose how far apart these two family members were in geography and lifestyle. Chase is only at his aunt's side now because he is the sole heir, underscoring the dwindling of this family. The estate's being over-run with peacocks implies that Miss Chase's vanity helped lead to her and the estate's demise. In fact, Miss Chase appears to be part of the impoverished aristocracy, having run the estate on vanity and heredity since there was little ready money to liveotJ or leave behind. As Farebrother provides a detailed historical account of the estate, Nutley's comments become increasingly mean spirited, verifying his disdain for his job, class .position, and senior partner. Farebrother expresses sadness over the state of Blackboys and tries to blame its ruin on "undesirable tenants" as Nutley rudely announces thaf"'the 28 place will be on the market as soon as I can get it there'" (12). Nutley goes on to claim that the family tradition of passing down the estate are '" out of date, my good man,' said· Nutley, full of contempt and surprisingly spiteful" (13). Nutley's contempt for tradition, especially one that keeps him working for the elite, explains his desire to put everything into terms of money rather than heredity and legacies. That the solicitors' appraisals of the estate as well as their attitudes and approaches to social structures vary so greatly despite their having the same job complicates attempts to simplify or caricature class groups. Miss Chase's will reinforces her notion that land is more important than money .and, to an extent, she is right The servant, Fortune, and the estate neighbor, Stanforth, .both receive money for "services"provided: Miss Chase leaves a legacy of "five hlmdred pounds to the butler, John Fortune, in recognition of his long and devoted service, and [] a legacy of two hundred and fifty pounds to her friend Edward Stanforth 'in anticipation of services to be rendered after my death'" (13). This money, which is clearly in exchange for "service," will not alter these men's class status. But the gifting of property to an unknown nephew will place him in a new social stratus: Miss Chase leaves. the "whole of the Blackboys Estate and all the other [...] premises situated in the counties of· Kent and Sussex and elsewhere and all other estates and effects whatsoever and wheresover both real and personal to her nephew Peregrine Chase" (14). Chase receives land and status solely because of his family name. But Miss Chase leaves her nephew property that is heavily mortgaged and no money to help rectify the situation. No matter how desperate the situation appears, though, Chase's name implies that he will attempt to 29 maintain the house. This is the first time that Chase's first name is mentioned: peregrine is a type of falcon, linking Chase and Nutley in predatory imagery; both men covet the trappings of the aristocratic lifestyle. The reading of the will highlights the dilapidated condition of the estate due to the lack of funds. Stanforth wastes no time in sharing his opinion that the estate must be sold since it is more of a liability than an asset: '''there's a twenty-thousand-pound mortgage,''', and the interest from the farms is '''a bare two thousand a year [...]. So you start the year with a deficit, having paid off your income and the mortgage. Disgusting [.. .]: the place must go. One could just manage to keep the house, of course, but I don't see how anyone could afford to live in it, having kept it. [...] What figure, Nutley? Thirty thousand? Forty?'" (15-16). The focus on money rather than the estate, tradition, and heredity highlights Stanforth's practical approach. Although becoming the master of Blackboys would place Chase in a new, higher class group, with no money to help he would either have to live like his aunt, off tradition and mortgages or have to surrender the property. Either way, Chase's situation reveals how empty class titles have become. Despite his focus on cash, Stanforth admits that the house is a "'historical'" prize in its being a "'perfect specimen of Elizabethan, so I've always been told,aild has the Tudor moat and outbuildings into the bargain'" (16). Stanforth's admittance that he has "been told" of the house's historical worth attests to his disregard for history; Stanforth uses this. historical information to support his monetary interests. .Nutley'S assessment of the house proves less complimentary than Stanforth's and highlights his frustration with heredity, which keeps him stuck in his class: "'The house I. 30 isn't so very large, and it's inconvenient, no bathrooms, no electric light, no garage, no . .central heating. The buyer would have all that on his hands, and the moat ought to be cleaned out too. It's insanitary'" (16). All of Nutley's qualms with the house have to do with its age, emphasizing his aggravation with history and heredity. Rather than live off of the past, Nutley wants to start anew. He goes on to claim, with a "peculiarly malignant intonation," that he would have no interest in such a place ifhe had the money, but "'it's a gentleman's place, I don't deny, and ought to make an interesting item under the hammer.' He passed the tip ofhis tongue over his lips, a gesture horribly voluptuous in one so sharp and meager" (16). Nutley's "malignant intonation" emphasizes his hatred for his situation and, by association, Chase. After all of his negative talk about the estate, .Nutley admits that the house is "'a gentleman's place,'" but only because he shifts to how much it will fetch at auction, a thought that leads him to pass "the tip of his tongue over his lips," reaffirming the narrator's sense of his predatory, unlikable nature. Nutley's fIrst real interaction with Fortune confIrms that the solicitor only deals in monetary terms. After concluding that the house should be sold privately to attract the most buyers and best prices, Nutley decides that Fortune should stay on to take care of the house and show potential buyers around: "Fortune, the butler,came in, a thin grizzled man in decent black" (19). Fortune looks distinguished in his blacks despite his thin and graying appearance, which tells of his hard work. Nutley immediately puts himself in charge with the servant, announcing that he is speaking on behalf of Chase: "'Your late mistress's will unfortunately isn't very satisfactory, and Blackboys will be in the market before very long; We want you to stay on until then, with such help as you need, and you 31 must tell the other servants they have all a month's notice. By the way, you inherit five hundred pounds under the will, but it'll be some time before you get it'" (19-20). Nutley begins by telling Fortune he is speaking on Chase's behalf, admitting that Chase, not Nutley, has the power in this house. Only after Nutley tells Fortune he must stay and to fire the rest of the staff does he mention the inheritance. This ordering of information is a monetary manipulation; Nutley's implicit message is that although the butler has an inheritance coming to him, it will take time and will not mean much; so he best do as asked. Nutley's using someone else's money to control the lower classes reveals his lack of power. When Fortune begins to question the estate's being on the market, Nutley exclaims that he should not '"lament''' and tells him to "'think of those five hundred pounds - a very nice little sum of which we should all be glad, I'm sure'" (20), using· money to bribe and pacify. As Nutley prepares to leave, Chase finally becomes aware of the solicitor's disrespectful behavior, questioning Chase's judgment and priorities. After Nutley tells Chase to telephone if there are any problems during the night, he immediately retracts this statement: "'oh, I forgot, of course, you aren't on the phone here'" (20). Rather than having forgotten, it is more in line with Nutley'S behavior that he makes this comment to underscore his dislike of the estate's lack of modem conveniences. But it takes until this .point for Chase to realize Nutley's rudeness: "Chase, who had been thinking to himself . that Nutley was a splendid man - really efficient, a first-class man, was suddenly aware that he resented the implied criticism'" (21). That Chase found Nutley "splendid" despite all ofthe solicitor's impolite comments speaks to Chase's being a poor judge of ---------------- 32 character, and that he liked Nutley for being "really efficient" shows that Chase and Nutley are not that dissimilar: both men revere quick work, which could be a result of their class status. Chase's liking Nutley until this moment also creates a problem for readers who, until this moment, thought of Chase as the sensible and sympathetic character; for most, Nutley is the comic relief. Nutley'S unacceptable behavior and disregard for others allows readers to laugh at him, but Chase's sympathy for, similarity to, and blindness toward Nutley make him laughable too. Left alone, Chase ponders his life and options, which lead him to pessimistic thoughts on work, money, and inheritance. In addition to his dismal life and job, Chase's outlook on his inheritance is also bleak: "he had always known that some day [...Jhe would inherit Blackboys, but Blackboys was only a name to him, and he had gauged that the inheritance would mean for him nothing but trouble and interruption, and that once the whole affair was wound up he would resume his habitual existence just where he had dropped it" (23). Chase's sense that Blackboys would be nothing but trouble proves that he knew his aunt was rich in land but not money. Despite circumstances, the narrator claims it is Chase's nature to be negative: "Any man brighter-hearted and more optimistic might have rejoiced in this enforced expedition as a holiday, but Chase was neither optimistic nor bright-hearted. He took life with a dreary and rather petl.ilant seriousness, and, full of resentment against this whole unprofitable errand" (23). The root of Chase's unhappiness is not directly stated, but his resenting the "unprofitable errand" of dealing with his aunt's estate intimates that a lack of money contributes to his cheerless outlook ·.....- -------- 33 Mid-way through the lengthy paragraph about Chase and his pessimistic outlook on life, the narrator changes tone and focus: the unfixed narrator shifts from critiquing Chase, to inhabiting the point of view of the house, to finally inhabiting the now positive point of view of the heir, revealing the shifts in Chase's outlook on his inheritance: The house looked down at him, grave and mellow. [...] It was not a large house [. . .], but it was complete and perfect; so perfect, that Chase [...] was gradually softened into a comfortable satisfaction. It carried off, in its perfect proportions, the grandeur of its manner with an easy dignity. [...] It was part of the evening and the country. The country was almost unknown to Chase, whose life had been spent in towns - factory towns. [.' ..] The house seemed to lie at the very heart of peace. (24) This "complete and perfect" house "looked down at" Chase, underscoring that Chase cannot equal the house's "grandeur" and "dignity." But whether the house or Chase is "grave and mellow" remains ambiguous, collapsing the distance between man and estate, and confirming that Chase belongs here. Emphasizing Chase's affinity with the house is the narrative's seamless return to the heir's point of view. That the house is part of the country, the evening, quiet, and peace expresses how much this symbol of the aristocracy is embedded in the natural world, making it more than just a structure. And Chase's appreciation of the estate and all that it has to offer makes him more thanjust a social climber. As Chase surveys the house and land, he finds himself being drawn into the pastoral scene and straddling two worlds: his middle-class life and his aunt's upper-class world. Despite being the heir to the estate, Chase feels "hesitated, timorous, and apologetic" when he wants to explore the garden since he "could not help being a great respecter ofproperty" (25). Chase's shyness at entering the garden could stem from his 34 being of a class that does not typically enjoy such luxuries. Yet his being a "great respecter ofproperty" comes from his appreciating private holdings, which contradicts the fact that he also considers himself a Socialist: "that was the fashion amongst the young men [.. .]. He had thought at the time that he would be very indignant ifhe were the owner of the garden. Now that he actually was the owner, he hesitated before entering the garden, with a sense of intrusion. Had he caught sight of a servant he would certainly have turned and strolled off in the opposite direction" (25-26). Chase's socialism may be a fad, but his desire to be a property holder is strong. Yet, due to his class training, he feels so uneasy with his place in the chain of command that the presence of a servant would make him turn away from the garden that now belongs to him. Chase's ambivalent relationship to his new status and the estate reveal the complexities of class mobility as well as Chase's reverence for his aunt's estate. Unlike Nutley, who only looks at things in terms of money and finds such things as the peacocks in the garden annoying and destructive, Chase sees these birds as "the royal touch that redeemed the gentle friendliness of the house and garden from all danger of complacency" (27). Chase views the peacocks as the elevating and softening touch to the estate, emphasizing his sensitive approach to the land. As with his response to the garden, Chase is overwhelmed by the fact that the estate now belongs to. him and that he can walk around it at his leisure; but his fear of his new role keeps him from fully enjoying the house: "He had been shown the other rooms by Nutley when he first arrived, and had gazed at them, accepting them without surprise, .ffiuch as he would have gazed at rooms in some show-place or princely palace that he had 35 paid a shilling to visit. [...] but not for a moment had it entered his head to regard the rooms as his own" (28). Chase feels like a paying tourist at Blackboys, emphasizing how foreign his aunt's world is to him as well as his middle-class sense that he must pay to view beautiful things. His disbelief that these stately rooms are his accents his feeling unmoored by his sudden shift up the class ladder. Once alone in his bedroom, Chase is so self-conscious that he does not take off his boots and fears sitting on the delicate bed: "He moved about gingerly, afraid of spoiling something. Then he remembered· that everything was his to spoil ifhe so chose. [...] The thought produced no exhilaration in him, but, rather, an extreme embarrassment and alarm. He was more than ever dismayed to think that someone, sooner or later, was certain to come to him for orders ....." (29). Chase has a hard time embracing his new role,. revealing his ambivalence about climbing the class ladder that has oppressed him for so long. His difficulty accepting his inherited position as well as his sympathy for those now below him results in his still fearing to give orders. Unlike Nutley, who relishes being in charge, Chase cannot fathom such a thing, reinforcing the nuanced portrayal of these middle-class men and their relationship to social hierarchies. Chase's fear of assuming the role of master to his aunt's servants leads him to act like a prisoner in his new home, showing the depths of deep-seated class behaviors. Chase "hesitated to go downstairs to dinner because he feared there would be a servant in the room to wait upon him. Chase dined miserably, and was relieved only when he was left alone" (30). Although this servant deeply impinges on the consciousness and dinner of the protagonist, he or she barely disrupts the narrative. Chase's dread of interacting 36 with the servants also leads him to sneak scraps to a companion dog when the servants are not present (31) and, after dinner, Chase leaves the table before he wants to out of fear that "the servant would be coming to clear away" (32). Chase's dread of interacting with the servants echoes his apprehension about seeing himself as the master of the house: he is both enamored by and afraid ofhis new position on the class ladder and does not know ifhe should celebrate it or renounce it. As he exits the dining room, Chase hesitates in the hall, unsure of which door to enter, "afraid that ifhe opened the wrong door he would find himself in the servants' quarters, perhaps even open it on them as they sat at supper" (33). It remains unclear if Chase's anxiety of interacting with the servants comes from his not wanting to upset the servants or himself. The syntax of the sentence, especially the fact that Chase is afraid he would "find himself in.the servants' quarters," puts him at the forefront of the thought, highlighting his discomfort at being upset by them. And, like Nutley, some of this uneasiness may come from being mere steps away from this class group. If class boundaries are fluid enough for Chase to become part of the aristocracy, then he can also become part of the serving class. Although the servants are mainly depicted as a nameless, faceless unit, they continually exert their overwhelming presence in Chase's mind, giving them a strong, ifnot individualized, presence. Despite Chase's apprehension with the servants, he quickly becomes enamored with the idea of having extra money and living at the estate, showing the lure of luxury. Once alone, Chase "sat thinking what he would do with the few hundreds a year Nutley predicted for him. Not such an unprofitable business after all, perhaps! He would be able 37 to move from his lodgings in Wolverhampton; perhaps he could take a small villa with a little bit of a garden in front. His imagmation did not extend beyond Wolverhampton" (31). Chase's desire for a new abode suggests his unhappiness with his present situation, a situation that can only be remedied with money. Yet, that he does not think beyond Wolverhampton, exposes how bound he is by his middle-class mind set. As he spends more time at the estate, Chase begins to embrace his heritage and all that it affords him: Perhaps he could keep back one or two pieces of plate from the sale; he would like to have something to remind him of his connection with Blackboys and with his family. [...] It gave him a little shock of familiarity to see that the coat-of- arms engraved on it was the same as the coat on his own signet ring, inherited from his father, and the motto was the same too: Intabescantque Relicta, and the tiny peregrine falcon as the crest. Absurd to be surprised! He ought to remember that he wasn't a stranger here [.. .]. It gave him a new.sense of confidence now, reassuring him that he wasn't the interloper he felt himself to be. (32) That Chase wants something to remind him of the estate and of his family exposes the power of material objects in the exchange not only of money but also of memories. Chase's shock at seeing the family's crest expresses how much of an outsider he has felt himself to be, but also proves what an insider he really is since he wears the same crest and is further linked to the image by his first name. Though, the family's motto is, curiously, a curse about pining for having forsaken someone or something, which suggests Chase will pine for this new life if he does not stay at the estate. Although he .feels like a member of the family, Chase soon leaves the dining room out of fear that a servant will enter, exposing his lingering unsettledness about being master of the house. 38 Chase's sense of class dislocation continues as he contemplates his position in the house. As he sits with his aunt's greyhound, he looks at the dog's collar to learn its name but only finds the address "CHASE, BLACKBOYS," leading Chase to think "that had been the old lady's address, of course, but it would do for him too; he needn't have the collar altered. CHASE, BLACKBOYS. It was simply handed on; no change. It gave him a queer sensation" (32). Chase has a difficult time accepting the idea that the dog and the house have simply been handed on with no change. Even his aunt's funeral cannot set him free from his feelings of being an "interloper." After his aUht's body is removed from the house, Chase considers how "he could tread henceforth unrestrained by the idea that the corpse might rise up and with a pointing finger denounce his few and timorous orders" (34). Thisimage suggests that, with his aunt's body gone, he can stop wonying about his lack of authority with the servants and can move about "unrestrained" by the old rule, but Chase remains restrained by his vacillating feelings about his place in the house and on the class ladder. As Chase ponders leaving Blackboys and returning to his life as a clerk, he fears how his friends might react to his shift in class status, highiighting the fact that class mobility can spur feelings of insecurity, jealousy, and confusion: "his few acquaintances in Wolverhampton [. , .] would stare, derisive and incredulous, if the story ever leaked out, at the idea of Chase as a landed proprietor. As a squire! As the descendant oftwenty generations!" (36). Chase~s sense that his friends would be in a state of either disbelief or contempt for his inheritance intimates that class ascension may be so enviable as to alienate former friends. Yet, Chase's friends are more acquaintances than anything else. 39 Chase has kept his personal life personal, not telling even his supposed friends his Christian name out of fear that they would ostracize him for being part of a higher class. Chase's desire to hide from his staff again arises when he is faced with the tenants who live on his deceased aunt's estate and for whom he is now responsible, but his reasons for avoiding these farmers complicates stereotypes. When Farebrother tells Chase he should make the rounds of his tenants, "Chase had gone through a moment ofpanic, until he remembered that his departure on the morrow would postpone this ordeal" (37). That Chase views visiting with his tenants an "ordeal" that sends him into a "panic" emphasizes his extreme discomfort with his new authoritative role. After eying the tenants at the funeral, he notices "they were all farmers, big, heavy, kindly men, whose manner had adopted little Chase into the shelter of an interested benevolence. He had liked them; distinctly he had liked them. But to call upon them in their homes, to intrude upon their privacy - he who of all men had a wilting horror of intrusion, that was another matter" (37-38). This passage challenges assumptions about why Chase avoids the lower classes. He is not annoyed, disgusted, or afraid of the lower classes but, rather, being a "reticent" man who keeps his life secretive and has "a real taste for solitude" (38), respects their private lives. The narrator's portrayal of the .lower classes as a nameless, faceless mass, which might otherwise appear dismissive, is the opportune way ofbeing seen, or not seen, for Chase. That Chase attributes a private life to lower and working- class characters reveals his sympathy for all those on the 'Class ladder. Yet, Chase's description ofthe farmers, who are continually refelTed to as "them" and as "big, heavy, . kindly men," upholds the stereotype of hulking, dense farmhands who are not ''us,''· 40 underscoring Chase's conflicted feelings: maintaining traditional social hierarchies affords him an aristocratic position, but he must break out of his present middle-class life to assume this position. If Chase is going to fully inhabit his role at Blackboys, he must advocate for fluidity as well as fixedness of the class ladder. Although he stereotypes the tenants, Chase fears becoming a stereotype. As he reads Nutley's legal papers concerning the estate, Chase initially finds the "brocaded stiffness of its ancient ritual and phraseology" laughable (39). But soon "a sort of terror" strikes Chase (38) as "the weight of legend seemed to lie suddenly heavy upon his shoulders, and he had gazed at his own hands, as though he expected to see them mysteriously loaded with rough hierarchical rings. Vested in him, all this antiquity and surviving ceremonia1!" (30). Chase fears that antiquity and ceremony will result in his becoming a "rough hierarchical" landowner even though he is appalled at such ritualistic things as new tenants having to swear their loyalty to the land "lord" (40), exposing his discomfort with the more ritualistic aspects of history and heredity. But as Chase begins to enjoy Blackboys, he feels his historical link to the people, place, and landscape strengthen. Chase begins to view the estate as a place of "stability"; he"absorb[s]" the wisdom of the country and endows the land with knowledge that only those who are intimate with it can tap (45), revealing his sensitivity to his new place and role. Despite Chase's fear of his tenants, he soon remembers that "he had not found the people of the village alarming" (41); in fact, he even compares his situation to theirs, blurring class boundaries. Chase recalls a conversation he recently had with estate . tenants. Chase "leaned over the gate that led into their little garden" (41). The gate that 41 separates the husband and wife from Chase during their intercourse suggests the physical, mental, and financial barrier between landowner and tenant. The woman's position "inside the gate" (41) reflects her being contained by her working-class status, and Chase's tentative compliment of her flowers emphasizes his discomfort with his newly acquired class status. The couple explains that Miss Chase also enjoyed their garden, though she made them dig up their peonies because she did not find the flowers worthy of being on her land, exposing how little control the couple has over their plot as well as Miss Chase's snobbish ways. Soon the three discover a similarity in that both the couple and Chase were b