I USED TO LIVE HERE ONCE: THE HAUNTED LIFE OF JEAN RHYS
By Miranda Seymour
William Collins. 425 pages. £25. ISBN 978-O-OO-835325-4
Reviewed by Jim Burns
I am looking at a copy of The
Transatlantic Review, a magazine edited by Ford Madox Ford from
Paris. It’s dated December, 1924, and the list of contributors
includes Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, Robert McAlmon, Tristan
Tzara, and Jean Rhys. Her story is entitled “Vienne”, and a note
says that it’s an excerpt from a novel called
Triple Sec which remained
unpublished in its complete form. But the presence of the story in a
publication which had status in the world of the literary
avant-garde of the Twenties brought its author to the attention of
people who knew and cared about new writing.
Jean Rhys was born on Dominica, a “small and sternly beautiful
Caribbean island”, in 1890. Rhys wasn’t her real name which was Ella
Gwendoline Williams. Her father was Welsh and had been a ship’s
doctor but had set up a practice on shore. Her mother was Irish and
had been born on the island so was classified as a “white creole” in
the same way that her daughter would be, a fact that had relevance
in terms of jean Rhys’s later experiences. Gwen, as she was called
at home, was discouraged from associating with darker skinned
relatives. Miranda Seymour has some useful things to say about
distinctions between the minority white population of Dominica and
the coloured people who constituted the majority. Power and wealth
were largely in the hands of the whites when Rhys was growing up.
But she had a nursemaid who told her tales of witchcraft, Obeah and
Zombies. Rhys later said, “Meta had shown me a world of fear and
distrust. I am still in that world”.
She was brought up in the Anglican faith but was sent to a Catholic
Convent school. Seymour offers a vivid account of Rhys’s adventures
as a young girl, including probing into the “forbidden world of the
islanders”, and her love of reading. It’s of some importance to know
about her background in order to understand why Rhys always felt
like an outsider and often looked back wistfully to some aspects of
her earlier life in Dominica. At the school she was introduced to
French poetry. At home her unsympathetic mother punished her for any
infraction of the set rules of behaviour and told her, “You’ll never
be like other people”.
In 1907 she was sent to school in England where, as a colonial with
an accent (she had what was described as a sing-song voice), she was
ridiculed by other girls. She had ambitions to go on the stage, and
in 1909 gained a place at Sir Herbert Tree’s Acting School. Her
accent worked against her taking on leading roles and she eventually
joined the chorus of a touring musical comedy group which visited
places like Oldham and Southport. The life of a chorus girl with its
sequences of dingy lodgings, cheap meals, and different men with the
same idea in mind, is evoked in
Voyage in the Dark,
Rhys’s third novel published in 1934.
She worked in pantomime and in the chorus for a 1911 production of
Franz Lehar’s The Count of
Luxembourg, but it was evident that she was going nowhere as an
actress, and was struggling to keep afloat financially. When a
wealthy admirer, Hugh Lancelot Smith, offered to support her she
took to the arrangement quite willingly. She soon had to have an
abortion and her liaison with Lancelot Smith came to an end, though
he continued to keep in touch with her and bail her out when she had
money problems. She worked as a film extra and as a model for the
artists Sir Edward Poynter and William Orpen. And she frequented
Augustus John’s club, The Crabtree, where she mixed with Nina
Hamnett, Jacob Epstein, Mark Gertler, Paul Nash, and Wyndham Lewis.
There are references to the club in
After Leaving Mr Mackenzie,
which appeared in 1930.
Rhys helped out in a canteen catering for soldiers during the First
World War, and in 1919 met Jean Lenglet, a Dutchman with a somewhat
shady background. She was warned against involvement with him but
their relationship developed and they married, despite Lenglet
already having a wife. A job for Lenglet with the Inter-Allied
Commission took them to Vienna (see the story I mentioned earlier)
and Budapest. Rhys gave birth to a son, William, who died.
But Lenglet had been
embezzling money from the Commission and was arrested and
imprisoned. An idea of how Rhys survived can be gleaned from her
story, “Hunger”. She had another child, a girl named Maryvonne, who
was “cared for at a series of baby shelters or orphanages”. When she
grew up Maryvonne opted to live with her father in Holland just
before the Nazis invaded. Both became involved with the Dutch
Resistance.
I’m moving quickly through the facts of what was frankly a somewhat
rackety life. Rhys ended up in Paris where she met Ford Madox Ford,
and had an affair with him which later provided the basis for her
novel, After Leaving Mr
Mackenzie, published in 1930. It was during her time in Paris
that her first book, The Left
Bank, a collection of stories, was published in 1927. Seymour
gives a full account of Rhys’s involvement with Ford and his wife,
Stella Bowen. Whatever the facts, there’s no doubt that, from a
literary point of view, Ford was of great use to her, both in terms
of advising on her writing and widening her choice of reading. Like
virtually all of Rhys’s work the stories in
The Left Bank were
autobiographical, so it is possible to identify many of the real
people behind their fictional counterparts. For example, Seymour
says that a staid English couple in “La Grosse Fifi” were probably
based on the artist Paul Nash and his wife.
The marriage with Lenglet having foundered Rhys took up with Leslie
Tilden Smith, who soon became her second husband. A heavy drinker,
like her, he acted as her agent, and regularly argued and even
physically fought with her. The marriage survived, despite the
couple’s financial and other problems. Rhys’s novels,
Voyage in the Dark and
Good Morning, Midnight
were published in 1934 and 1939 respectively, but after that there
was what became a long silence insofar as publishing was concerned.
And Rhys’s behaviour tended to work against her widening her
reputation in the London literary world, not to mention any kind of
respectability among neighbours. When intoxicated she could quickly
turn both orally and physically aggressive. She was arrested in Soho
for drunkenness and fighting with her husband. When she moved to
live in a village in Norfolk in 1940 while her husband was in the
RAF she quickly fell out with the locals and was again arrested for
being drunk and disorderly. “I Spy a Stranger”, one of Rhys’s
excellent wartime stories (“rich in black humour”, in Seymour’s
words), is illustrative of how she saw her situation with regard to
other people. She was always the outsider.
Tilden Smith died in 1945, and in 1946 a collection of Rhys’s
stories was rejected as being “too dark”. She continued to drink,
and in 1947 married Max Hamer, a man described as “unreliable”.
There were more disputes with neighbours, one of which involved her
throwing a brick through a window, and another a confrontation with
a policeman. Hamer was arrested and charged with attempted fraud
when he stole several cheques from his employer. Again, I’m
compressing details of Rhys’s life and activities. Seymour covers
them fully and they can occasionally make for fairly depressing
reading. Perhaps the one positive aspect of this period is that Rhys
did continue to write and was working on what was to become her most
well-known work, The Wide
Sargasso Sea, though it wouldn’t be published until 1966.
In the meantime a few people tried to keep track of her. She had
admirers, among them Alan Ross, Lucian Freud, Julian Maclaren-Ross,
Francis Wyndham, Sonia Orwell, Diana Athill, and Selma Vaz Dias.
There were occasional glimpses of her when the BBC broadcast a radio
adaptation of Good Morning,
Midnight, and short-stories appeared in
Art & Literature and the
London Magazine. But the
usual problems of poverty and excessive drinking continued. Rhys’s
brother bought her a cottage in the Devonshire village of Cheriton
Fitzpaine, though she complained about the local people and feeling
isolated. Seymour is of the opinion that, in fact, Rhys’s loneliness
“was always more of a state of mind than a fact of her existence”.
People helped her in various ways, and the well-educated local vicar
often visited to talk about books and other matters. He encouraged
her to continue writing when she was depressed and about to give up.
But she shocked other people with her drunkenness and her rages. An
attack on a neighbour in 1964 led to her brother having her sent to
a mental health clinic for observation and possible treatment.
When Wide Sargasso Sea
was published in 1966 her fortunes began to improve. Thanks to her
supporters the book received advance publicity and was guaranteed
reviews in the right places. Not all of them were positive. Kay Dick
dismissed it as an “awkward annotation” of Charlotte Bronte’s
Jane Eyre, and Alan Ross
said it was just “romantic evocation”. But Rhys’s creation of the
story of the mad woman locked in Mr Rochester’s attic proved
popular. I have to admit to preferring Rhys’s other writings to this
book. Stories of chorus girls in pre-1914 London, and bohemians in
1920s Paris, are, for me, of greater interest, and the way in which
they are written has more appeal. Their simple sentence structures,
the directness, and the moods they evoke are to my taste. But that’s
a personal opinion, and the fact is that sufficient people bought
Wide Sargasso Sea to
bring Rhys’s name to greater prominence and to provide her with
financial security. She didn’t write another novel, but she could
still turn out fine short-stories. A couple of late ones are worth
noting. “Kismet” takes us back to the pre-1914 world of shabby
theatre dressing-rooms and the tawdry lives of chorus girls. And
there is the wonderfully brief and chilling ghost-story, “I Used to
Live Here Once”, which ought to be held up as an example to budding
writers of how to make an impact with a minimum of words.
There’s no doubt that Rhys could be hard work to be close to.
Seymour makes it clear that even her most-devoted friends, who had
tolerated her drinking and requests for loans that would most likely
never be repaid, were glad that she continued to live in Devon:
“Absence made it possible for them to retain real tenderness for a
stubborn old woman whose child-like need for sympathy and attention
could - and increasingly often did – become relentless. What almost
certainly would have killed off such unstinting affection was the
greater trial of daily proximity”.
The easy-going George Melly and his wife, with whom Rhys
lived for a time, eventually grew tired of her demands and asked her
to leave. She spent her final years in Cheriton Fitzpatrick and died
after a fall in 1979.
Good writing doesn’t excuse bad behaviour, but when all the
anecdotes and gossip are done with what remains is, as Rhys herself
said, the work. There’s no doubt in my mind that her four early
novels, and her short stories, constitute a body of writing that
deserves to last. I’m not forgetting
Wide Sargasso
Sea, simply stating my
preference for the other books. But I have to admit that it may be
the one she will be remembered for.
Miranda Seymour’s biography has all the information about Rhys’s
often-chaotic life that a reader might need. And she looks closely
at the novels and stories, and shows how they drew on her life for
their inspiration. But the point I would make is that it isn’t
necessary to have that information, nor to know about the real-life
characters behind the fictional ones, to enjoy what Rhys produced.
She didn’t deal in facts and, as Seymour herself says, “It’s seldom
useful or enlightening to attempt to overanalyse Rhys’s fiction”.
I respect what biographers
and academics do, but I like to think that Jean Rhys can be assured
that her reputation will rest on her books and not on any kind of
notoriety she attracted because of her waywardness and
indiscretions.
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