'It's a little too candy-box pretty for me', George said with that wonderful wit of his, narrowing his eyes with glee, adjusting his driver's seat and lowering his voice into a comical growl. 'Yes', he continued 'for behind these quiet houses often lurks evil in the heart of mankind'. George, one of my weekend guests and I, were exploring a village in New England on a spring day, a small community which has long become a tourist draw for New Yorkers along the shore of the Connecticut River. Chuckling, I glanced out the window at the sleepy Main Street early at dawn, and his comment brought to mind one of my favorite books, first read with great enchantment when published in the early 60's. It was: "We Have Always Lived in The Castle", by the late author Shirley Jackson.
This short novel is about a young girl Merricat now eighteen when the story begins, and her older sister Constance Blackwood, the sole survivors of their intimate family circle, and their elderly Uncle Julian, a now addled invalid confined to his chair, busy with his papers documenting the purported crime that his niece Constance was accused of, that of polishing off her family with a serving of berries and arsenic-laced sugar. Merricat, thirteen at the time of the tragedy, had been sent to her room without supper for some infraction and thus survived; their Uncle Julian only barely, having asked for a modest sprinkling of sugar on his dessert. Constance was acquitted after the trial was over and the case was closed, but the village people remain hostile to her and the house, and she rarely ventures outdoors. Merricat has to go once a week to the the village for groceries, attracting hostile stares from the locals and meeting up with the village bully, Jim Donell, an arrogant man who enjoys his attempts to rattle and tease her.
Occasionally some young boys from the village on a dare, creep up at night and throw stones at the windows of the Blackwood house, chanting their little mockeries before running away as fast as they can and this local legend continues to grow among them. And, then one day a cousin of the family, Charles, a first-time visitor shows up in the midst of their quiet existence, moves into the house, courts Constance and starts to make changes with a firm agenda in mind. Havoc ensues as a result of this intruder.
Merricat narrates the story, and after I finished this mysterious, magical and dark delight, for that was my interpretation at a young age, I wanted to join her as a playmate, and her intriguing unusual voice in the telling of her adventures and forays into nature drew me in right away. Merricat in fact will remain forever thirteen.
Many years later when I picked Jackson's novel up again, it was with finer clarity and a more mature and experienced eye. Words such as creepy, depressing and weird are some of the comments one finds among new and younger readers today and while they all carry validity, to my mind the word 'sinister' comes to the forefront. It is not the gentle Constance, nor the troubled Merricat, nor their ailing Uncle Julian, who are the sinister ones here, it is the collective cruelty of people banding together that is frightening. A theme which the author Shirley Jackson knew about first-hand, and addresses in this memorable and psychological masterpiece of hers, Jackson was to return to this topic in some of her other important works.
There are several defining moments that stood out on this second reading: when circumstances reach an explosive edge, Uncle Julian comes out of his reality from the past, and in a moment of rare if fatal lucidity, joins his two nieces protectively against Charles, the dangerous and manipulative trespasser. There is a tinge of unexpected conviction laced with pathos to be found here. The turning point in the story, however, is perhaps when the leader of the village, Jim Donell, after removing his professional hat, picks up a rock as a sign to the pack of malicious onlookers to have fun, and the destructive party begins.
A tragedy? Reflections on the subject of collective shame? A horrifying tale? All of the above, and more perhaps. Some of the reviewers are able to articulate it better. On a side note, the author Eric Hoffer was to say that he was doubtful about 'collective shame' on the basis that association with others is almost always felt as an association with one's betters, and to sin with one's betters cannot be productive of a crushing shame. And, yet Shirley Jackson goes on to show that there are such cases as the above in this famous novel of hers.
One might feel, after reading this classic, like joining the village people in the aftermath of their actions, in leaving a pot of jam, or some fresh bread, a small token of some kindness on the door-steps of this household now at peace while moving quietly away again. There are slight tinges of redemption to be found here as well. Known for her extraordinary Gothic novels, Shirley Jackson was also a fine psychologist of the human condition, and her own life, by all accounts, was not always a happy one although she could be wicked and witty at times especially when it came to her own family anecdotes and her short stories.
To D. Friedlander, moderate and steady in his views, yet passionate in spirit; his wry humor and fine perception; his reasoned clarifications on important life issues, the many laughs and complexities we experienced over the years, and for explaining to me why Shirley Jackson's enduring short story "The Lottery", best remembered of all her writings today, caused such a furor among people when published in 1948. She will always be a favorite of mine
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