The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne, Brian Moore

Note: This post discusses the entire plot of Brian Moore’s The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne, including the ending.

How much you like The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne depends on how well you respond to paragraphs like this:

. . . . Miss Hearne had always been able to find interesting happenings where other people would find only dullness. It was, she often felt, a gift which was one of the great rewards of a solitary life. And a necessary gift. Because, when you were a single girl, you had to find interesting things to talk about. Other women always had their children and shopping and running a house to chat about. Besides which, their husbands often told them interesting stories. But a single girl was in a different position. People simply didn’t want to hear how she managed things like accommodations and budgets. She had to find other subjects and other subjects were mostly other people. So people she knew, people she had heard of, people she saw in the street, people she had read about, they all had to be collected gone through like a basket of sewing so that the most interesting bits about them could be picked out and fitted together to make conversation. And that was why even a queer fellow like this Bernard Rice was a blessing in his own way. He was so funny and horrible with his ‘Yes, Mama’ and ‘No, Mama, ‘ and his long blond baby hair. He’d make a tale for the O’Neills at Sunday tea.

judith-hearneI respond very well to such paragraphs, and indeed I loved this book all the way through. I could quibble with some plot developments — I wasn’t that interested in the plot, and I’m not sure Brian Moore was either — but I thought that the character development of Judith Hearne was nothing short of brilliant. Take that paragraph, for example — it’s in the first chapter, and already you know so much about Judith Hearne: her self-consciousness about being single, her ready acceptance of the idea that she was uninteresting on her own, her desire to ingratiate, her insistence that her “solitary life” included “great rewards”. Yes, Judith can be off-putting with her insistence on conventional mores–she’s scandalized by a joke about Mary Magdalene–but she’s heart-breaking, too.

Because I was writing about The Painted Veil while I was reading this book, I could not help but see Judith Hearne as the photo-negative of Kitty Garstin: Judith plain where Kitty is beautiful, dull where Kitty is charming, neglected where Kitty is spoiled. Based on the publication dates of these books, Judith would only be about a decade younger than Kitty and it’s not hard to imagine that her fate is exactly what Kitty feared when she rushed into marriage. Kitty being wealthier, her future wouldn’t have been quite as bleak as Judith’s, but by Judith’s age an unmarried Kitty who had lost her looks and charm would still have faced a lonely life filled with people who didn’t particularly want to talk to her.

It was for this reason that I find the descriptions of Judith Hearne that you see in so many reviews to be entirely wrong-headed. NPR, for example, calls her “an alcoholic looking for love.” And indeed, Moore treats her alcoholism as a huge revelation midway through the book. But to my mind, her alcoholism is a symptom of her distress, not its root cause. She is lonely, trapped in a world where a middle-aged single woman has no worth, unable to make a man care about her and unable to envision a satisfying life without a man who cares for her. One of the saddest passages of the book, for example, shows Judith fantasizing about a husband who would dandle her on his knee and, possibly, smack her if she said something irritating. But then he would be contrite! This is Judith’s idea of marriage, and the worst part of this fantasy is how much she longs for it. Judith’s life is not bleak because she is alcoholic; she is an alcoholic because her life is bleak, and she can’t think of a way to fix it. All she can do is hope that a man someday looks her way, and in the meantime she can dull her pain with alcohol. And if she’d never touched a drop she’d be just as unhappy and just as unable to break out of her unhappiness.1

sacred-heartAs the book went on I began to sympathize more with the piety that I had originally found grating. Catholicism is her mainstay; the Sacred Heart oleograph she displays in her room is the only proof that her life matters at all. The very worst thing to befall Judith Hearne may be near the end of the book, when she begins to lose her faith:

O God, I have sinned against You, why have You not punished me? I have renounced You, do You hear me, I have abandoned You. Because, O Father, You have abandoned me. I needed You, Father, and You turned me away. All men turned from me. And You, Father? You too.

The painted Mary smiled from the side altar; blue robed, with white virginal tunic and delicate painted hands uplifted in intercession. O Mary Mother, why did you not intercede for me? Why do you smile now? There is nothing to smile for. . . .

And now? What will become of me, am I to grow old in a room, year by year, until they take me to a poor-house? Am I to be a forgotten old woman, mumbling in a corner in a house run by nuns? What is to become of me, O Lord, alone in this city, with only drink, hateful drink that dulls me, disgraces me, lonely drink that leaves me more lonely, more despised? Why this cross? Give me another, great pain, great illness, anything, but let there be someone, someone to share it. Why do You torture me, alone and silent behind Your little door? Why?

“I hate You,” she said, her voice loud and shrill in the silence of the church.

Where is Judith at the end of the book? She is, indeed, living in a house run by nuns, at the mercy of their rules and regulations, with her only consolation the oleograph of the Sacred Heart that she displays in her room (but not hung up, of course, because the nuns don’t like to spoil the walls). The only grace Moore allows his protagonist is that as her story ends, the Sacred Heart oleograph has started to work its old magic and she is beginning to recover something of her old faith.2

When I was in college studying women’s history, I read an anthology of women’s letters that included a deeply sad missive from a nineteeth-century teacher living alone, weeping beside her fireplace for the husband and children she suspected she’d never have. That letter came back to my mind again and again as I read The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne. Instead of weeping, Judith employs a stiff upper lip, a nearly delusional belief that she can still have what she wants, and, of course, a flask. But her misery is just as palpable.


1 Of course her life would have been much happier if she had been an iconoclast: a writer or an activist or a career girl. But Hearne is far too conventional for any of that; it’s hard to imagine anything like that ever entering her head. return

2 It’s interesting that both The Painted Veil and The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne show their protagonists turning to religion as the books draw to a close. (Kitty doesn’t explicitly talk about religious belief, but she does aspire to be more like those Chinese nuns.) So many nuns in these books! And yet neither of them is aspiring to a happy or fulfilled life, only a bearable one. return

The Painted Veil, W. Somerset Maugham

Note: I’m calling this a review, but it’s really more of a response, and I am responding specifically to the ending. So there are huge spoilers for The Painted Veil if you haven’t read the novel. I also talk about the ending of Kate Chopin’s The Awakening. Consider yourselves warned.

PaintedVeilWhen I took piano lessons as a child, my teacher assigned me a piece that strung together several renditions of a simple tune as different composers might have interpreted it. Here is how Beethoven would have handled; here is Mozart’s version; here it’s done in the spirit of Brahms. I kept coming back to that idea when I was reading The Painted Veil. The storyline is simple. How would Jane Austen have written it? E. M. Forster? Edith Wharton? Flaubert? But when I finished it, I realized that the author whose version of this story I would be most interested to read was Kate Chopin.

Chopin, you will recall, wrote The Awakening more than a quarter of a century before Maugham published The Painted Veil (1899 and 1925, respectively) and their takes on the adulterous wife couldn’t be more different. Chopin sympathizes with her protagonist, Edna Pontellier; she shows Edna’s affair with Robert Lebrun to be positive for Edna in many ways, and she depicts without judgment Edna’s adultery (and her subsequent suicide, when the affair ends).

The Painted Veil, by contrast, never lets us see Kitty happy. It begins in the moment that Kitty is found out:

She gave a startled cry.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

Notwithstanding the darkness of the shuttered room he saw her face on a sudden distraught with terror.

“Some one just tried the door.”

“Well, perhaps it was the amah, or one of the boys.”

“They never come at this time. They know I always sleep after tiffin.”

“Who else could it be?”

“Walter,” she whispered, her lips trembling.

We’re told in the course of the novel that Kitty’s affair with Charlie Townsend made her happy, but we never get to see her happiness. We see the emptiness that leads to the affair, and we see the unhappiness that unfolds once she is discovered, but the joy that she felt from being in love is only a rumor.

There were things I loved about this novel, which I could hardly put down. The prose is exquisite:

Dawn was breaking now, and here and there a Chinese was taking down the shutters of his shop. In its dark recesses, by the light of a taper, a woman was washing her hands and face. In a tea-house at a corner a group of men were eating an early meal. The gray, cold light of the rising day sidled along the narrow lanes like a thief. There was a pale mist on the river and the masts of the crowded junks loomed through it like the laces of a phantom army. It was chilly as they crossed and Kitty huddled herself up in her gay and colored shawl. They walked up the hill and they were above the mist. The sun shone from an unclouded sky. It shone as though this were a day like another and nothing had happened to distinguish it from its fellows.

Maugham’s dialogue is also excellent; it sounds natural and each character is distinct. And again, I could hardly put it down; I really cared about what was happening to Kitty and I really wanted to know how her story would end.

But on the other hand, I took issue with Maugham’s handling of his characters and, in particular, with the punitive fate that he gives Kitty: widowed, pregnant, and off to the Bahamas to keep house for a father who has shown her precious little affection at any point in her life. The ending of the novel, to me, felt heavy-handed and moralistic; a writer trying to make a point at the expense of his character.

Maugham is quick to pronounce judgment on Kitty. From the first pages of the novel she is revealed to be shallow, silly, flip, foolish. She is spoiled and selfish. Her beauty is the only virtue Maugham is willing to concede her. (And even at that, he takes pains to point out that her chin is “too square” and her nose “too big.”) She fails to capitalize on the first blush of her youth and so is forced to marry Walter Fane “in a panic,” just escaping the dire fate of marrying after her plain younger sister.

Let’s talk about Walter for a moment. He is no prize himself.*  Yes, he seems to be intelligent and skilled at his profession, and yes, he thinks he loves Kitty. But what does he love her for? The same silly affectations that Maugham condemns. Walter loves Kitty because she’s pretty, because she dances with him, because she is “easy to talk to.” He is no more in love with her than Townsend is. How could he be? He knows virtually nothing about her. And he treats her no better than Townsend does. Townsend lies about his feelings for her, but at least he gives her some happiness; Walter is distant and silent and hard to comprehend even when proposing. 

Maugham is writing about a society that was bad for everyone: bad for the women, who are raised to be shallow and frivolous and dependent; bad for the men, who have to spend all their time making the money to support their wives and daughters. But Maugham’s sympathy seems too heavily weighted toward the men, and let’s face, it’s the men who hold the cards here. The men don’t have to vamp and simper in hopes of attracting a proposal; the men have options other than making a good match. And the men aren’t taught from an early age that their only possible achievement is to be attractive and light-hearted and amusing enough to capture a suitor. The men get to choose. Maugham seems to realize this — he gives Kitty a speech at the end about raising her daughter to be “fearless and frank” — but he also blames Kitty for the fact that her father has no feelings for her. Wouldn’t that be as much Kitty’s father’s fault as her own? Similarly, isn’t Walter partly to blame for the breakdown of their marriage, seeing as how he doesn’t seem to actually talk to Kitty all that much?

I like that Kitty grows enough through this short novel to gain some self-awareness. She recognizes and deeply regrets the mistakes that she made, beginning with marrying Walter in the first place and ending with the unwise affair with Townsend. But it would have been nice if someone in the novel had been clear-eyed enough to realize that Kitty was sinned against as well as sinning. “I’ve been terribly punished,” she says near the end of the novel, and it’s impossible to disagree. She claims to feel hope and courage as she prepares to move to the Bahamas, and yet I did not quite believe it. Or perhaps I simply cannot get behind a novel which ends with its central character vowing to “follow the path that . . . those dear nuns at the convent followed so humbly.”

Yes! Women should be more like cloistered nuns! That will solve all of society’s problems! I’m not rolling my eyes at all! I’m not denying that the nuns in this book seem like good people, but I still don’t think that “take nuns as your model” is good advice for the average woman, and certainly not a woman like Kitty, who seems to enjoy clothes and dancing and romance.

How would Kate Chopin have told this story? Well, I don’t love the way Chopin handled Edna Pontellier either; I don’t think I could spend ten minutes with Edna, and I thought that suicide was an awfully irresponsible response to the end of a love affair. (She has a kid! If you read The Awakening in college, read it again after you have children and see if your perspective changes. Mine certainly did.) But I do like that Chopin takes Edna’s emotions seriously, recognizes the affair’s importance to Edna, and doesn’t pile all the blame for an unhappy marriage on Edna. I wish that Maugham could have shown Kitty some similar compassion. Yes, she’s spoiled and foolish; and yes, it’s good that by the end of the book she recognizes that. But it bothers me that none of the male characters — not even Townsend! — have a similar epiphany, and I can’t help but feel that Maugham punishes her too harshly for buying into a worldview that Walter and her father also accept without reservation.

* Nor is Townsend. Nor Waddington. Were any of these people well-raised? The only exception I can think of is the Mother Superior.