The Flashman Papers, by George MacDonald Fraser

For someone as educated as I am, I am horribly gullible.  You tell me something, and you look earnest, odds are I’ll believe you.  I watch crime shows, and the guilty party will look at the interviewer as say “I didn’t do it” and my immediate response is “the story checks out.”  This gullibility is something my dad played on for years – and he still does.  All through my childhood, he ‘pulled my leg’ over one story or another, and I always fell for it.  I realized, though, that my susceptibility didn’t end with childhood when he suggested I read the Flashman Papers, by George MacDonald Fraser.  He assured me (in fact, he swore up and down), that these were a true account of the life of Harry Flashman, Victorian hero of the British Empire.  

It wasn’t until I was sitting in a fourth-year undergrad seminar on British history (run by the prof who eventually became my Master’s thesis supervisor), that the penny dropped – in that class, I started to suggest that the books were non-fiction, and caught myself right before I committed to saying something out loud about it.  But I’m pretty sure the prof knew what I was thinking, and I still think it’s miraculous that he agreed to be my supervisor after that incident.  When I related it to my dad, he chuckled.  Because he’s a jerk.  And that’s why I love him so much.

Having had this experience, it might be considered a small miracle that I had any interest in reading the series, but it was Christmas time, and that’s the time of year when I love digging into a series of books.  With nothing else in the offing, it seemed a perfect time to get started on these books.  The Flashman Papers are a series of 12 books, based on the memoires of on Harry Flashman, aged 92 at the time they were written, which George MacDonald Fraser ‘chose to discover’ – MacDonald Fraser took the packets of memoires, and put them into the current format for the reading pleasure of the general public, and historians alike, as they shed much needed information on various events in British and world history.  The world first met Flashman in Tom Brown’s School Days, when he was portrayed (correctly, he’d tell you) as the school bully at Rugy.  When he’s writing his memoires,  Flashman is a former soldier in Her Majesty’s army, and served in a variety of postings around the world, some in an official capacity and some unofficially (he would have called it a ‘political’ position, but these adventures were usually commissioned as secret), and all for the glory of the British Empire. 

With that kind of summary, it seems like Harry is a 19^th century James Bond, out to do glory to Britain.  But, in reality, it’s much more complicated than that because, you see, Flashman is a coward of the first order, and he’d be the first (and the only one) to admit it.  There is nothing Harry hates more than being asked to leave his comfortable life in London and travel to some god-forsaken corner of the Empire to battle with the natives and risk his life.  All he wants is a good drink, a willing woman, and a comfortable bed.  But, because he has an image to maintain, he has to portray himself as the most willing of defenders of the Empire.  What Harry has working for him is a great deal of luck; though he spends a great deal of his time trying to run away from some of the nastier events of his life (like being at the Battle of Little Big Horn, or the Charge of the Light Brigade), he always seems to fall from a pile of shit into a bed of roses (eventually).  Through this great deal of luck, and a keen sense of self-preservation, Harry builds a career that allows him to retire with wealth and accolades, and time to write his memoires.  At the end of the day, these books as historical fiction, but they are high-comedy.

If I’m going to spend time reading 12 books, then you know the characters have to be engaging.  Harry Flashman is a treat.  He is portrayed with a wicked sense of humour, a great deal of self-confidence, and a level head on his shoulders.  As you read through the series, there’s no denying that Harry is a coward, but every so often, you ask yourself, is that really the case?  Yes, he does what he does to preserve his public image, but if he were a true coward, he could just run and hide and that would be the end of it.  So, you start to polish your opinion of Harry.  And sure, he cheats unrelentingly on his wife, but she might be doing the same to him, and besides, he hasn’t seen her in three years because he’s been travelling around the world for his queen and country – so you might wish he was sleeping with all these women with less abandon, but he is only human and your opinion of Harry gets a little bit better.  And look, he clearly loves kids and treats them with a lot of care and respect, and if they cross his path, he’s always trying to keep them safe.  And you opinion of Harry gets a little more glowing.  And then Harry arranges for the death of a soldier to keep them from spreading the truth that he ran from a battle; or he sells one of his mistresses to an Indian chief to keep as a concubine; or he uses a child as a human shield during a skirmish.  It’s hard to keep going back and forth on the character that is Harry Flashman, but this dynamic makes him engaging, and keeps the reader coming back for more.

What’s clear about these books is the amount of research that MacDonald Fraser put into them.  While I now acknowledge that these books are fiction (so there, Dad), one could almost believe they are fact because of the level of casual detail (and casual racism, which is really hard to put up with) and authenticity that is threaded throughout.  But that level of detail and authenticity would make these books almost inaccessible for those without a really good understanding of British imperial history and Victorian culture; there are just so many throw away comments and allusions to various pieces of daily life or world events of the time, that if you don’t know what MacDonald Fraser is talking about, then you can loose the train of events very quickly.  I think MacDonald Fraser recognized this and so included a lot of foot notes and explanations of the larger ideas, but a lot is left unexplained as well.  Even I missed about 10% of the allusions at first, and either had to Google them, or let them slide.

So, final verdict?  I would say these books are a great read, but not for everyone.  If you know your history of the period, I think you’d enjoy them, but otherwise I think you’d find them slow moving and confusing.  These weren’t my favourite books, but I read them all because that’s what you do with book series.  What really bumed me out though, was learning that George MacDonald Fraser died several years ago, so there won’t be anymore of Harry’s stories, and because the books are presented as a memoire, there were multiple allusions to Harry’s experiences in the American Civil War and in Mexico that the reader will never learn about.  But, while we had MacDonald Fraser, he gave us an amazing body of work about a Victorian (non)hero that, for all the author’s hard work and skills, could very well have existed.  But he didn’t, so don’t believe my dad if he tries to convince you otherwise.  

With 12 books, it would take a lot of space in my review to list them, but here’s the list, presented chronologically, though you could read them in almost any order, as they weren’t published chronologically:

Flashman (1839-1842. the First Anglo-Afghan War.)Flashman's Lady (1843-1845. Madagascar.)Flashman and the Mountain of Light (1845-46. The First Anglo-Sikh War.)Royal Flash (1847-1848. the Revolutions of 1848.)Flash for Freedom! (1848-1849. The Atlantic slave trade; the Underground Railroad.)Flashman and the Redskins (Part I: 1849-1850, The Wild West: the Forty-Niners.  Part II: 1875-1876. the Battle of the Little Bighorn.)Flashman at the Charge (1854-1855. The Crimean War; the Charge of the Light Brigade.)Flashman in the Great Game (1856-1858. The Indian Mutiny.)Flashman and the Angel of the Lord (1858-1859. the Harper's Ferry Raid.)Flashman and the Dragon (1860. The Peking Expedition.)Flashman on the March (1868. British invasion of Abyssinia to rescue hostages.)Flashman and the Tiger (Three short stories - The Road to Charing Cross: 1877-1878. The Congress of Berlin; Emperor Franz Josef.  The Subtleties of Baccarat: 1890-1891. Edward VII; the Royal Baccarat Scandal. Flashman and the Tiger: 1879, 1894. The Zulu War.)

Wives and Daughters, by Elizabeth Gaskell



There is nothing more satisfying to an intrepid reader such as myself than picking up a brick of a book, and working your way through it.  To me, reading is as much a tactile event as a mental event, and my last read, Wives and Daughters, by Elizabeth Gaskell, is certainly a satisfying read in terms of heft, but not much else…

Wives and Daughters is the story of Molly Gibson and the intimates in her life.  Set in Regency England (think Jane Austen’s time-period), Molly is the daughter of the physician that services her village and the surrounding areas.  Molly’s mother died when she was very young, and so she was raised by her father and the long-term domestic staff he employed.  As she grows older, Mr. Gibson realizes he’s woefully inadequately prepared to raise a young woman, and so marries the former governess of the local Earl’s household.  The story of Wives and Daughters revolves around Molly’s relationship with the new Mrs. Gibson, her friendships with the other town’s people, her relationship with her new step-sister (Cynthia), and the new sisters’ quest for love.

In a lot of ways, this book was an enjoyable read because it reminded me of the things that I love in Jane Austen’s work.  The dialogue was quick-moving, the characters were a hodge-podge of the sympathetic and ridiculous, and the daily lives of Regency women were dynamically presented.  And yet, this is a big book that could have used some judicious editing; while all the pieces come together, as I was reading it, I was wondering why Gaskell was taking so long in telling her story.

And the telling of that story wasn’t what I expected.  For a book entitled Wives and Daughters, one would expect the plot to revolve around how the woman in the story interact with the paternalistic figure(s) in the book.  To a certain extent, that dynamic existed, but it was overshadowed by the relationships between the women; a much better title would have been “Mothers and Sisters.”  But I suppose that goes to the era in which Gaskell was writing – as the wife of a Reverend in Victorian England, she brought her world view to bear on how she interpreted her own work.  It’s something of a shame, really.

Other than these flaws in the back-ground noise of the book, I found the characters to be dynamic, the book’s a fast read (despite the social moralizing), and the plot is interesting.  My one complaint about the book is the ending – it leaves the reader hanging; Gaskell could have taken another 20 pages to round-up all her loose ends, but instead she leaves the story unsatisfyingly unfinished.

So, finally verdict?  I’m not entirely sure.  I enjoyed reading the book, but in retrospect (and after writing this review), I’m wondering why I enjoyed it so much.  I know I’m interested in reading more of Gaskell’s works, so that’s something.  But would I recommend this one?  If you’re a die-hard fan of Jane Austen, then yes – I think you’ll enjoy this book.  If you’re looking for a satisfying read in terms of tactile experience (which all die-hard readers enjoy occasionally, I think), then yes – this one would be for you.  But if you’re looking for a light-hearted romp through Regency England, then no – I would pass on this one.  

The Painted Bridge, by Wendy Wallace

When it comes to medical issues, very little scares me these days.  Science has made such strides forward over the last few decades that, to my mind, cancers are (for the most part) beatable, HIV/AIDS is treatable, and a whole host of other, lesser ailments are conquerable.  The only things that terrify me are illnesses of the mind.  We just don’t know enough about the brain to be able to successfully treat illnesses like Alzheimer’s or schizophrenia, and my worst nightmare is to loose my current capacities to such illnesses.  My latest read, The Painted Bridge, by Wendy Wallace reinforced just how precarious our understanding is of the brain and mental health, and it really brought my fears home to me.

The Painted Bridge is set in 1859 (Victorian) London.  We’re introduced to the main character, Anna, when her husband is taking her out to the country to ostensible visit some friends; in reality, he’s taking her out to a privately-run asylum to commit her.  As the story develops, we learn that Anna read about a shipwreck off the cost of Wales, and simply left her home to seek out opportunities to help the survivors.  When she returned, her preacher-husband found her explanation ludicrous and arranged to have her locked away for hysteria.  This brings the reader to the second main piece of this story, and that’s the Lake House, a privately-run ‘retreat’ for women just outside of London; in an era where the government is becoming increasingly involved in the administration of health-services to the population, Querios Abse’s retreat is standing on increasingly shaky ground, both financial and in terms of the methods he uses to treat his patients.  The rest of the story is Anne’s efforts to remain sane in world that believes her to be tottering on (if not already fallen off) the brink of insanity.  

This book brings up several historical issues and beliefs about women that are heart-breaking.  The first issue is that women were subject to the whims of the men in their lives.  Anna went from her parental home to her husband’s without much of a chance to learn about him, or vice versa.  As soon as Anna exhibited a bit of independence (and a lack of due deference to the men in her life), she was labeled as a hysteric and locked away.  The women she met at Lake House further prove the above points – one was locked away by her family for daring to have a relationship with a man from India, another was locked up for years for exhibiting signs of post-partum depression.  Now, I’m not going to judge the past on modern standards (especially given that psychology was a fairly new science in that era), but I read these stories with a feeling that a good dose of common sense could have prevented a lot of these incarcerations.

What I really enjoyed about this book was Wallace’s ability to raise questions about almost all her characters’ sanity.  Anna seems sane, but she admits to having had visions since a young age; Abse seems reasonable, but he’s able to studiously ignore everything around him that doesn’t fit into his world-view; and Abse’s daughter, Catherine, seems like she would be a better fit with her father’s patients that Anna, but as daughter of the house, her behavior is forgiven as ‘quirks’ of character.  It’s a really slippery slope for the reader to manage – what were the true symptoms of Victorian insanity, and where does sanity and character flaws/quirks begin.  

I think what struck me so strongly about this book is that mental health (especially in this era) is/was so much about perception.  Anna found herself in an untenable position of being believed to be insane, but any emotion she exhibited over the question of her sanity was interpreted as a worsening of her hysteria, and made her vulnerable to continued incarceration.  However, while displaying calmness and acceptance, it was interpreted as progress in curing her that required extra time.  She was damned if she did, and damned if she didn’t.

So, final verdict?  I’d say this is a book to read.  The internal push and shove of the struggles of most of the characters are interesting and intriguing, and well worth the effort.  I’ll admit though that this won’t be a book for everyone – there are long passages on reflective thought and information about the Victorian sentiments that slow down the forward movement of the plot.  That having been said, the entire work challenges the reader’s understanding of sanity and insanity and, if you’re like me and fear the loss of your mind, it’s a stark reminder of just how tenuous all our lives are.