Just how old are they, these women in Alice Munro’s stories, these women in “Hard-Luck Stories” in particular.
“Over the past couple of years I have experienced moments of disbelief when I meet my friends in public. They look older than I think they should.”
These stories still feel current to me, relevant, the women recognizable in many ways.
But, perhaps as the narrator suggests, they are older than readers think?
Dressed in shirt waist dresses and straw hats? Driving a bookmobile in the Ottawa Valley? These must be women of another time.
And that’s an appropriate observation, because the women in this story are considering women of another time, their own selves in other times, too.
Douglas, too, is preoccupied with the past, spending countless hours travelling around Ontario, buying materials for the archives, “all sorts of old diaries, letters, records, that would otherwise perish”.
He sits with the women, drinking wine, telling tales of his bookish exploits, drawing out the elements of excitement, all of them looking for the exceptions in the sets of rules by which their lives have been governed.
Julia drinks more wine than the other two. That introduces a quiet tension into the story, as the others and the readers wait to see what that means.
“No, seriously, do you remember when we were driving down and you told about the visit you went on, the visit that man took you on, to see the rich people? The rich woman? The awful one?”
This is introduced on the second page of the story, but it takes ten pages for the story to be told again.
Presumably it is retold for Douglas’ benefit, but Julia needs it to be told.
“Do you remember you said then about there being the two kinds of love, and the one kind nobody wants to think they’ve missed out on?”
Julia is preoccupied by this element of the story. For a lot of reasons. Among them, the sense that “she feels her emotions, her life, her something-or-other — all that is being wasted”.
The narrator has not, yet, it seems, decided whether to tell the story again. Still on its third page, she is observing that “this sounds like the complaints many women make, and in fact it sounds a lot like the complaints I used to make, when I was married”.
She wonders, inwardly: “How much is this meant, how deep does it go? How much is it an exercise that balances the marriage and keeps it afloat?”
But, then, she does tell the story, though without the oblique statements that Julia used to summarize the events so succinctly.
Readers, however, know to listen carefully, to spot those “two kinds of love”, to gauge the ways in which the narrator might have felt she had missed out on.
It’s not necessarily that the women in this story are older than readers might think; the themes are older, still relevant, still poignant.
Note: This is part of a series of posts on Alice Munro’s stories, beginning with with Dance of the Happy Shades, Lives of Girls and Women, Something I’ve Been Meaning to Tell You and Who Do You Think You Are? (The Beggar Maid). I aim to read through her work to date. She is one of my MRE authors.
The next in The Moons of Jupiter is “Visitors”; one story will be discussed on each Thursday. Please feel free to join in, for the series, or for a single story.
I am no literary critic, but have read enough to feel deep joy when reading Alice Munro’s stories. This one is so much about any of us women! I loved the line where the narrator says: “I think that I am in some ways a braver person than Julie, because I have taken the risk. I have taken more than one risk.” Each story within the story is a gem. The way Alice gets to the soul of things is beautiful. Like when the narrator is describing Caroline, the rich host woman: “She seemed to be pleading with you to reassure her, and yet reassuring her seemed to involve you in a kind of fakery.”
It’s true, isn’t it, that even single sentences are impressive in her work: so multidimensional, resonant. When I do read literary criticism of her work, I’m always impressed by the readings, by the kind of detail unearthed (especially when it comes to symbols and allusions) but I am quite happy to approach her as an enthusiastic reader. Although I’m sure she’s pleased to have intrigued the critics, I have the feeling she is a reader’s writer as much as a writer’s writer.
I totally agree with your assessment that these stories still feel “current” and “relevant” and the women “recognizable in many ways.” I found so many little things that I grabbed on to as being particularly astute: like when Douglas is described as “preserved not ripened” and meetings are said to be “good for people. They make people feel everything isn’t such a muddle” and librarianship is referred to as a “refuge profession” and when Caroline is described the author writes “There was such a strain around her.” I love these little gems Munro gives her readers. For me the wisest observations given me by this story were the reference on page 227 during the visit to the country church graveyard: “silly sound of my own voice against the truth of the lives laid down here” and that on page 228 when the narrator refers to Douglas’ gentle touch: “a pressure of the hand with no promise about it, could admonish and comfort me.” Thank you Alice Munro for these gifts.
Oh, these little bits are just amazing, aren’t they? Even if somebody hasn’t read the story, hearing the phrase “preserved not ripened” will conjure up a certain understanding of Douglas, even without any other information. I thought the graveyard scene was drawn perfectly. I was listening to an interview yesterday with Michael Ondaatje (CBC’s Writers & Company from last November) and he was discussing the way in which a writer like Alice Munro has a landscape of her own and a scene like that certainly makes the point.
I find it interesting that the focal character seems to be missing out on so much, but in reality, she is just lost inside her own head. This sounds like a story that I could relate to, and as I am coming to see, this collection just might be perfect for me. Very nice review today.
I know I keep saying this, Zibilee, but I do think you’d enjoy her stories. Maybe when her new collection comes out in November you’ll be irreversibly tempted!