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I can remember
when I was a student in Manhattan, in the 1980s, having high falutin'
discussions on literary theory with an old salt of a voracious reader,
a literary bloodhound who often advocated the following point of view:
if a novel is compulsively readable—a real page turner—then
it isn't literature. Literature is something that makes you work, something
that isn't easy. I wryly recalled these discussions in my mind's eye
as I compulsively turned the pages of The Chinaberry Tree, the
third of Jessie Redmon Fauset's four novels; the book is a vital refutation
of my old associate's belief. Carefully plotted, cunningly thought out,
well constructed, this novel powers along, driven by a forceful narrative
engine. It's a model of the sort of aesthetic of literature Lajos Egri
put forward in The Art of Dramatic Writing: Its Basis in the Creative
Interpretation of Human Motives. One can't wait to see what happens
next.
That's a great reason to enjoy a novel, but Fauset provides us with
another. She's a master of understatement, like Miles Davis on the trumpet.
The characters in this novel all veritably sizzle with broiling, perfervid
emotions, but the author has such a light, elegant touch—such a
knack for nuance—that the full impact doesn't come until much later,
upon reflection and introspection. Fauset's patience and maturity in
delivering such a tragic story is quite venerable; many authors would
give in to the temptation to fly off the prose handle with such subject
matter. As I read, I often thought of a contemporary of the author's,
who dealt with similar darkly serious themes—Robinson Jeffers—and
his brand of flash and rhetoric, in every way almost the complete opposite
of Fauset. What a contrast!
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Strange is a wealthy, black, female homeowner in the town of Red Brook,
New Jersey, a Philadelphia suburb. She'd had a scandalous affair with
a wealthy white manufacturer, Colonel Halloway, who left her a wonderful
house and grounds, as well as financial provisions for life, when he died.
The garden is dominated by a huge Chinaberry tree. That tree is a symbol
of solace and peace of mind, as well as sexual expression (throughout
the story, various characters love to sit beneath it, sometimes in secret).
Sal's daughter by Halloway, Laurentine, is a beautiful, quiet girl who
becomes an expert dressmaker, much sought after for her services by all
the ladies of the town—black and white. Laurentine is romanced by
Phil Hackett, the son of the man who owns an establishment that has a
poolroom for whites upstairs and one for blacks downstairs. Sal's sister,
Judy, comes, for a time, from Alabama and is seen around town with Forten,
a married gentleman who likes to hang around Hackett's. Judy leaves after
the briefest of visits. Years later, she sends her daughter, Melissa,
to live with Sal and Laurentine. (We're never really told why; but, by
the end, we can, ourselves, deduce—she's run off to have another
wild affair and can't stand to have the child with her.)
Almost immediately, there is talk of "bad blood" and "the
sins of the fathers" being "visited upon the children",
the latter reminiscent of Ibsen's play "Ghosts". Much, much
later—two thirds of the way into the book—when the reader
finally begins to get the full impact of what's really going on, Fauset
uses a symbolic master stroke to leave little hints around the edges:
she has Malory, Melissa's boyfriend, quote first from Hardy and then,
later, from Rosetti—two tragic European authors who placed a good
deal of credence in fate, in the inevitable, in destiny. Their appearance,
here, is meant to increase our awareness of the point that the characters
we've met are caught up in a similar fatalistic entanglement. (As is
the use of the masks of Comedy and Tragedy in a recurring dream of one
of the principals.) Fauset also makes use of a wide array of characters
to function as a kind of Greek chorus commenting upon the action; although
the story is told mainly through the points of view of Laurentine and
Melissa, there are well over ten characters whose POV the author uses,
at one time or another. And there are numerous plot points that are
very well positioned to keep the story chugging along, major revelations
which provide characters with more and more motives for their behavior.
It's not easy to talk about the plot and the storyline without giving
too much away, but it's appropriate to say this much: Although there
is great tragedy here, there is also hope. The ending is not, at all,
pessimistic. Fauset seems to be saying that life is indeed beautiful
if we can get through the storms. In the end, Laurentine and Melissa—both
of whom are scarred, though by different taboos—are united with
men who are good for them, who have their sincere best interests at
heart. I think it is fair to conclude that Fauset's belief in tragedy
and tragic circumstances was as strong as that of Shakespeare or Sophocles,
but that she also believed that tragic circumstances can be surmounted—even
produce a kind of triumph in a person of strong resolve.
On the D.C.
Public Library site, I found this quote about Fauset:
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Miss
Fauset found strong opposition among publishers for this first
novel. It did not contain stereotypical characters and plots
that they thought would sell a book dealing with the lives of
blacks. There were no descriptions of Harlem bars or cabarets,
no fights or race riots, and no abject poverty. She was determined
to feature another picture—that of a black middle class
of which she was a part.
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This observation is about her novel There Is Confusion, but
it applies equally as well to The Chinaberry Tree. Except
for the obvious exception of mixed race love affairs, the issue
of racism doesn't really come up at until page 312 of a 341-page
book. There, on a trip to the city, Laurentine and her suitor, Doctor
Denleigh, encounter a racist waiter in a restaurant.
The same site mentioned above says of Fauset that she "did
not possess the characteristics generally associated with the Renaissance:
she was older, reserved in demeanor, meaningfully employed (she
was a teacher of languages) and her lifestyle was not bohemian in
nature". The picture that emerges is very clear: she was intensely
interested in writing fiction about extraordinary events in the
lives of ordinary people. She was interested in presenting middle
class black life as essentially not all that different from middle
class white life. As the site says, "Prior to her novels, the
black middle class milieu was not a subject that was recreated in
novels."
So, what does Fauset have to say about matters of race? I believe
the sentiments expressed by Denleigh to Laurentine, in the following
passage, may be a summation of her actual views:
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She
could feel herself growing pale, but she said, steadily, "I
don't believe you really know about me after all Stephen.
I'm just—nobody, not only illegitimate, Stephen, but
the child of a connection all America frowns on. I'm literally
fatherless."
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He
frowned, his face almost as pale as her own. "What bosh
to talk to a physician! Biology transcends society! Is that
over your head, darling? I mean to say the facts of life,
birth, and death are more important than the rules of living,
marriage, law, the sanction of the church, or of man."
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Of course, we would have to say that any reasonable person would
take Denleigh's point of view on this subject, but the fact is that
almost no one—black or white—other than Denleigh, himself,
takes it for vast stretches of the novel, although, obviously, Colonel
Halloway did, acting from beyond the grave to weigh in with his
opinion on the matter. (It's worth noting that Halloway bequeathed
a percentage of his factory's profits to Sal Strange every month
and that, as a result, his wife deliberately tries to mismanage
the business so that the overall profits—and, thus, Sal's share
of them—are smaller). In fact, everyone who is able to lift
themselves above social convention—Denleigh, Sal, Melissa's
initial suitor Asshur Lane—is actualized, happy, and healthy,
while those who do not—Melissa, Laurentine, the punk
Harry Robbins, the old gossips in the town—are petty, vindictive,
and miserable. I think it's fair to say for Fauset that to become
a human being, and not a black or white one, is a state toward which
we all should be striving; and that the pettiness of racism is something
that serious people have no time for. I also think that, at times,
Fauset's outlook calls for a little more patience and understanding
than a good many people on all sides of this question are willing
to exercise, and we're all, perhaps, the worse for that.
The Chinaberry Tree has great value for us today for many
reasons. The first of these is that it's an example of what a writer
can achieve when working at fiction as a craft, as something which
arises out of definite, identifiable principles of artistic construction.
Second, it is historically important because it represents the work
of an author who was totally unique for her time—nobody else
was doing what Fauset was or bringing to light the people about
whom she elected to write. Third, it takes themes which have been
more or less accepted as archetypes of the human experience and
wields them in the context of a definite group of people at a fixed
point in history, thus further validating the universal. I've deliberately
chosen not to talk about the plot in any great specificity, because
I believe that, in this case, it would detract from the experience
of reading the book to know too much beforehand. But let's be clear:
this is a page turner that you will race through once, then
go back and read a second time to savor the author's grace and wisdom.
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