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swordznsorcery) wrote2008-05-30 02:07 am
swordznsorcery) wrote2008-05-30 02:07 am
Entry tags:
Gadding about in the nineteenth century again
They had the right idea, those travellers and sight-seers of long ago.
Strikes me that it was far more fun to explore the world in the nineteenth century. partly because you got to go to places that weren't really all that widely known, but mostly because it was all so much harder. I mean, where's the fun in hopping on a plane, and flying out to some distant part of the world, only to find it full of people who speak your language, and are happy to ferry you about the place in a tour bus?! Back in the nineteenth century they had to go everywhere by horse, or by foot (though generally neither of these methods was recommended for voyages overseas) - and, yes, danger of being eaten. Or murdered. Or shipwrecked, attacked by pirates, struck down by any number of deadly diseases, lost forever in the jungle, or indeed all of the above. But still... think of the fun.
Yes, there is a point to all of this nonsense. Next two books in the "I was a famous person lots and lots of years ago, and I travelled around the world in a really big boat" series. First up is Adventures In The Rocky Mountains, by Isabella Bird. She was an Englishwoman who was told to travel abroad for her health, and wound up journeying around North America, mostly in search of lots of horses to ride. She seems to have encountered a remarkable lack of sexism, but then I suppose in a frontier world it's all hands to the pumps through sheer necessity. Consequently everybody was apparently more than happy to let her join in with ranch work and the like. Actually, not just happy - they seemed to be the ones asking her to help. So much for all those Westerns, where the women stayed at home and did lots of cooking. Poor Victoria Cannon could have gone out and had fun with the men after all. Yes, I know. Get on with it. She seems to have had a wonderful time, and she writes in a terrifically descriptive way about the scenery. The purple mountains, and the fabulously tall pine trees, and the beautifully clear skies. Her love of the region is obvious, as is her fascination with, and affection for, the settlers that she encounters. I want to recommend it highly, and in some ways I can, but it's a recommendation that sticks in the throat. Or in the keyboard. Whatever. It's not just how she appears to worship the frontiersmen who kill the "Indians" for a living; it's her whole attitude. On one page she seems to berate the white men who are needlessly slaughtering the buffalo, and enraging the local tribes in the process; and then on the next she's advocating the total destruction of all the tribes. Her attitude is cold and dismissive, and utterly without compassion or the least attempt at understanding. She devotes pages to waxing lyrical about majestic scenery, about beautiful animals, about brave people forging lives for themselves in the wilderness. Yet the native people are muttered about in a few unpleasant sentences. They alone get no superlatives, no compliments. It's the book's one real failing - and it's a big failing. Very big.
On a happier note (in a way) is A Journey To The End Of The Russian Empire, by Anton Chekhov. This is a book in two halves, the first a series of letters sent home to friends and family as Chekhov journeys to Sakhalin by carriage, the second the formal report that he wrote of what he found there. Sakhalin was a Russian penal colony, where criminals of various description were sent in exile for varying terms. Chekhov's description of it is bitter and bleak and unpleasant; a place where people are tough, and the wardens are brutal, and where floggings are administered so often that people become hardened to them, and no longer feel the lashes. The first half of the book is a study in merriment and jaunty adventuring, though. Writing in 1890, Chekhov's letters home could have been written yesterday. He chats away about what he sees, comments on the day's events, jokes about fellow travellers, etc, in the most endearingly bouncy fashion. It's a lovely side to see to a man most remembered nowadays for his plays. His enthusiasm for his journey comes across clearly, as does his fondness for those waiting for him back home. The darker turn of the second half of the book makes for a stark contrast, and shows the frequent brutality of the Russian judicial system. Not a good time to be breaking the law in Russia anyway, of course. Alexander III was Czar, and he was a bit of a git, all told. Mind you, it didn't help that people kept trying to kill him. That sort of thing will tend to have an effect on your sense of humour. And of course his father was murdered, which was hardly a good start to things. Not really an excuse, though, is it. Sorry, I know. Stay on topic. Chekhov. Sakhalin. Not a good place to be sent to. Wretched communities, with nothing to do but play cards all day, and gamble away food that they couldn't afford to lose. Getting by on vodka, because I suppose they felt they needed it. Forgotten by the world, and as likely to die of boredom as of fever, or goodness knows what else. Chekov wrote good prose. It's a very different discipline to playwriting, but clearly he was an all-rounder. He paints an effective picture of a community that you wouldn't want to sentence your worst enemy to live in. And his letters really are entertaining.
Next up, Mary Kingsley tackles West Africa in 1893, ideally without being eaten by anything. I strongly suspect, though, that there's very little that would dare try.
Shutting up now.
Strikes me that it was far more fun to explore the world in the nineteenth century. partly because you got to go to places that weren't really all that widely known, but mostly because it was all so much harder. I mean, where's the fun in hopping on a plane, and flying out to some distant part of the world, only to find it full of people who speak your language, and are happy to ferry you about the place in a tour bus?! Back in the nineteenth century they had to go everywhere by horse, or by foot (though generally neither of these methods was recommended for voyages overseas) - and, yes, danger of being eaten. Or murdered. Or shipwrecked, attacked by pirates, struck down by any number of deadly diseases, lost forever in the jungle, or indeed all of the above. But still... think of the fun.
Yes, there is a point to all of this nonsense. Next two books in the "I was a famous person lots and lots of years ago, and I travelled around the world in a really big boat" series. First up is Adventures In The Rocky Mountains, by Isabella Bird. She was an Englishwoman who was told to travel abroad for her health, and wound up journeying around North America, mostly in search of lots of horses to ride. She seems to have encountered a remarkable lack of sexism, but then I suppose in a frontier world it's all hands to the pumps through sheer necessity. Consequently everybody was apparently more than happy to let her join in with ranch work and the like. Actually, not just happy - they seemed to be the ones asking her to help. So much for all those Westerns, where the women stayed at home and did lots of cooking. Poor Victoria Cannon could have gone out and had fun with the men after all. Yes, I know. Get on with it. She seems to have had a wonderful time, and she writes in a terrifically descriptive way about the scenery. The purple mountains, and the fabulously tall pine trees, and the beautifully clear skies. Her love of the region is obvious, as is her fascination with, and affection for, the settlers that she encounters. I want to recommend it highly, and in some ways I can, but it's a recommendation that sticks in the throat. Or in the keyboard. Whatever. It's not just how she appears to worship the frontiersmen who kill the "Indians" for a living; it's her whole attitude. On one page she seems to berate the white men who are needlessly slaughtering the buffalo, and enraging the local tribes in the process; and then on the next she's advocating the total destruction of all the tribes. Her attitude is cold and dismissive, and utterly without compassion or the least attempt at understanding. She devotes pages to waxing lyrical about majestic scenery, about beautiful animals, about brave people forging lives for themselves in the wilderness. Yet the native people are muttered about in a few unpleasant sentences. They alone get no superlatives, no compliments. It's the book's one real failing - and it's a big failing. Very big.
On a happier note (in a way) is A Journey To The End Of The Russian Empire, by Anton Chekhov. This is a book in two halves, the first a series of letters sent home to friends and family as Chekhov journeys to Sakhalin by carriage, the second the formal report that he wrote of what he found there. Sakhalin was a Russian penal colony, where criminals of various description were sent in exile for varying terms. Chekhov's description of it is bitter and bleak and unpleasant; a place where people are tough, and the wardens are brutal, and where floggings are administered so often that people become hardened to them, and no longer feel the lashes. The first half of the book is a study in merriment and jaunty adventuring, though. Writing in 1890, Chekhov's letters home could have been written yesterday. He chats away about what he sees, comments on the day's events, jokes about fellow travellers, etc, in the most endearingly bouncy fashion. It's a lovely side to see to a man most remembered nowadays for his plays. His enthusiasm for his journey comes across clearly, as does his fondness for those waiting for him back home. The darker turn of the second half of the book makes for a stark contrast, and shows the frequent brutality of the Russian judicial system. Not a good time to be breaking the law in Russia anyway, of course. Alexander III was Czar, and he was a bit of a git, all told. Mind you, it didn't help that people kept trying to kill him. That sort of thing will tend to have an effect on your sense of humour. And of course his father was murdered, which was hardly a good start to things. Not really an excuse, though, is it. Sorry, I know. Stay on topic. Chekhov. Sakhalin. Not a good place to be sent to. Wretched communities, with nothing to do but play cards all day, and gamble away food that they couldn't afford to lose. Getting by on vodka, because I suppose they felt they needed it. Forgotten by the world, and as likely to die of boredom as of fever, or goodness knows what else. Chekov wrote good prose. It's a very different discipline to playwriting, but clearly he was an all-rounder. He paints an effective picture of a community that you wouldn't want to sentence your worst enemy to live in. And his letters really are entertaining.
Next up, Mary Kingsley tackles West Africa in 1893, ideally without being eaten by anything. I strongly suspect, though, that there's very little that would dare try.
Shutting up now.