The Indigo Girl by Natasha Boyd

Eliza Lucas was a remarkable girl who ran her father’s South Carolina plantations while he was lieutenant governor far away on the island of Antigua. I’ve been intrigued to know more about her since my undergrad days at the College of Charleston, but even then I didn’t realize that my West Ashley townhouse was within a mile of her Wapoo Plantation home, possibly even on the Wapoo Plantation grounds themselves.  I’m thrilled to learn that now, as I’ve always admired her—and still do after listening to The Indigo Girl.

I do recommend this book, but note that I may return to adjust this review later, as I’m so curious about the real Eliza Lucas Pinckney that I plan to learn more.

First, kudos to Boyd for crediting Eliza’s father for his open-mindedness in allowing his brilliant daughter to take charge.  No matter how competent their daughters may have been, not all men of the 18^th century would have set this up to happen. So let me amend that:  kudos to Boyd and to George Lucas, both.

Maybe. But was it open-mindedness or sheer ruthless, pragmatic greed?  After all, he was running slave plantations for profit.  We’re not talking about someone committed to progressive social change, not that I know of, and some of the worst slave conditions meted out by the English were on those Barbados islands, from what I understand. Did he simply see in Eliza a competent manager?  Was it all simply $$$$ signs (or pound signs, I suppose I should say)?  I rather question him leaving his family in South Carolina like that. It was harsh to abandon his family for years—and I don’t believe he ever saw Eliza again. Nevertheless, no matter his human failures, I’ll give him at least a little credit for not restricting Eliza based on her gender or age. At the same time, though, I’m sympathetic to any more traditional men of the time who might have shaken their heads with concern and dismay.

Boyd makes slavery a central theme of the book. I understand why, as it’s a near-impossible subject to ignore (or should be), given the reality of Eliza’s situation.  She redeems Eliza fairly well, but I find her guesswork and premise suspect. I’d love to chat more with her about how she came up with her plot, but as much as we might wish that Eliza had such an open, fair mind, I’ve seen little to convince me that she considered the slaves the way Boyd’s Eliza did.  Again, I hope to read more and make my own determination about that, and I’m sympathetic to Boyd’s efforts on Eliza’s behalf, but I prefer my historical fiction to accurately reflect history—though again, I’ll have Boyd’s story in mind when I get to Eliza’s letterbook, and I might decide that Boyd was right, after all.

I’ll go ahead and reflect on one element now.  In the author’s notes, Boyd presents as evidence that Eliza signed an emancipation note for Quash, a mulatto slave.  This was when Eliza was older, maybe near the time of her husband’s death. Wouldn’t this most likely be her husband’s illegitimate brother or child?  My limited understanding has it that the blood-children of the slave owners were the most likely slaves to be emancipated—and someone gave Quash his European ancestry. It isn’t a random factoid here, though I don’t know for sure it had anything to do with his emancipation. Maybe it just opened doors for him with opportunity. Still—and this is just my guess—to assume that Quash’s emancipation reflects some overarching sympathy with abolitionist views seems to be wishful thinking. Again, I’m looking forward to reading Eliza’s letterbook and will be enthusiastic if I find evidence in support of Boyd’s interpretation of events. [Later edit: I didn't, not really, though I did see where Boyd seized her inspiration with a very between-the-lines interpretation. Her novel is fiction, after all.]

Despite these reservations, I warmed to the story quite well.  After getting over my surprise at Eliza’s relationship with Ben and her relative lack of assertiveness at the beginning of the story—she seemed to be such an ordinary girl, contrary to my expectations—I found myself pulled into the tale quite nicely, interested all the way through to the end, when I saw more of the strong Eliza I suspect was always there, raring to know more about her.

I started the book in Savannah, Georgia, a city settled by Oglethorpe. Charles Pinckney refers to the ‘tyrannical government of Oglethorpe’ more than once, to my delight. It’s rather amusing to me that while in Georgia, I wasn’t as engaged in the story, but once I crossed state lines, traveling in South Carolina, I was fairly riveted.

Far more surprising is that when we arrived at a terribly sad time near the end of the book, Boyd almost randomly seems to insert a few of Eliza’s letters. Maybe 4 or 5.  I believe she wants us to hear Eliza’s philosophical tone there, which while not addressing the events in the story, do somewhat reflect how one might try to cope with the story’s events. So, I’m listening to Eliza talking about a comet she witnessed—which she goes on about it in two different letters. Moments later, I see a meteor with a tail in the sky—far larger than any meteor I’ve ever seen, for all that I’ve gone to watch the Perseids on a dark island (none of those even compared to this meteor’s size).

So, between the meteor and the discovery that I practically lived on the Wapoo Plantation site for two years, The Indigo Girl has been a rather magical experience for me. I like Eliza in the story, and I hope to learn more about the very-real and quite-remarkable Eliza Lucas Pinckney.

        

Kristin Lavransdotter by Sigrid Undset

I’ve just listened to a 40+ hour trilogy that I bought in a single volume: Kristin Lavransdatter, which is made up of Sigrid Undset’s trilogy: The Wreath, The Wife, and The Cross. I’d heard it recommended by someone online as her favorite book, and then shortly afterwards I was listening to an Anne Patchett audiobook (a CD one, not digital!) in which a teenager was reading Krisitin Lavransdatter, and when I looked it up, I saw that Undset had won the 1928 Nobel Prize in Literature. Needless to say, all this prompted my curiosity about the book(s).

It’s a massive work, a saga that goes on forever, but I can’t say I’m sorry to have listened to it.  There’s something grand about a work that spans someone’s life, from her girlhood to her death (while in her 50s, maybe?).  I enjoyed being immersed in the medieval time period, even if the author’s depiction might not be precisely how it was. Despite so much tragedy, the vastness of the novel(s) made the tragedies seem merely a drop in a wooden bucket—sort of like how my troubles seem miniscule when I visit the ocean and realize how insignificant I am (in a good way). There’s something oddly satisfying about that massiveness—and the fact that the story just meandered on and on and on, like you were witnessing Kristin’s very-realistic life.

Certain unnamed author-friends of mine might have a conniption about the lack of a story arc.

And some story elements were so sad that I wondered if the author had a mission to depict medieval life as brutish and hellish. When the plague came through, nobody, once afflicted, seemed to survive—but that’s just not accurate.  Some people did survive.  And while I appreciate stories that don’t have their characters engaging in all sorts of illicit, bawdy sex that would have generated serious consequences, Undset’s medieval society was as prim as Victorian society in the extreme—a concept which it seems should have fallen apart when presented in conjunction with her more relaxed attitude about nudity.

I’m curious how off she is on this. I rather think it’s a tendency so many have to kind of make that assumption that society is more uptight and prim the further we go back in history. After all, as we go back in our own minds through the more-strict 1950s and such, on back into the Victorian times, sexual mores become stricter and more severe. It’s natural to assume that they must grow even more severe as we continue to go back!  But in researching for my own novels, I’ve grown to understand that at least the 17^th and 18^th centuries were more lax than Victorian times—and while I know less about medieval society, I’ve thought it to be less uptight then, as well.  Undset was a product of Victorian times, however, and she has a point that Kristin would have worn wimples and veils. This reminds us of Muslim societies, which have a tendency to be quite conservative.  So perhaps I’m left more uncertain than I was before—even about the clothing. Wimples and veils but more relaxed nudity?  I’m just unsure.

This saga took an eternity to finish, but it feels like an accomplishment to finally get to the end. The protagonist, Kristin Lavransdatter, was generally cold and stand-offish, not emotional enough for my preferences, but then she was Scandinavian, as is the author, and reminded me of my blond, reserved mother quite a bit. So even as I was impatient with K.L., I resonated with her reserve, and it struck a deep chord of familiarity. Perhaps one of my favorite elements of the book is the author’s ability to present somewhat narrow-minded perspectives while still holding our respect for the characters—she includes a few tedious religious discussions, but those serve to remind us that the characters were not being flippant with their narrow-mindedness. They just hadn’t yet challenged other elements of their world view—and wouldn’t, of course. While I don’t believe we should assume that people can’t be open-minded, regardless of time period, obviously most aren’t, and the author’s purpose is valid. To be so invested in your protagonist and restrict yourself with blinders you’ve determined are in place is quite a feat—and I admire the world she’s constructed for us. I do feel more in touch with medieval Scandinavia than I ever have before, thanks to Sigrid Undset.