The Moonstone

A couple of weeks ago I noticed my reading of Wilie Collins' 'The Woman in White'. I now notice my reading of 'The Moonstone', so closing my excursion into mid 19th century pot boilers. And, as it happens, the third book that I have read on my kindle in as many weeks, having hardly touched the thing for months.

Once again, the story is organised as a series of narratives, telling various parts of the story from various different points of view. Maybe the whole of the Collins oeuvre is like this. On the other hand there is no doubt that this is a proper detective story, featuring the redoubtable Mr. Cuff, sergeant of the detective branch of Scotland Yard, grand enough to make a mere superintendent of the periphery (that is to say, Yorkshire) quail. But human enough to be passionate about roses, flowers he would dispute with any gardener who would take him on.

Not a bad yarn, but far too long. I got through it, but it was a bit of a struggle. Perhaps, as with the other book, presentation in serial form, at a time when there was no television, meant that prolixity was less of a problem than it is now.

A love story, of love between a beautiful heiress and a once careless young man, with various trials and torments but ending in happily ever after.

A damaged servant girl, reformed thief, with a hopeless, undeclared love for the once careless young man. Suicide in the local quicksands, the shivering sand.

A bright young boy who helps out in London, very much the same sort of bright young Cockney boy which Sherlock Holmes was to make occasional use of, 25 years later. A boy with the bulging eyes which I had thought was once common in the east end of London, the result of bad diet, but google fails to confirm.

A spinster with a fondness for tracts, good works and committees. Winds up in reduced circumstances, in a cheap hotel in northern France. Demonstrating a sense of humour on the part of the author, albeit if at rather greater length than this reader thought desirable. A rather heavy sense of humour which popped out in various other places.

Money matters, with settlements, loans, pawns and solid, reliable family lawyers.

Druggy matters, with laudanum playing an important, if rather improbable role.

Morality matters, with one of the villains keeping an expensive woman, not his wife, in considerable style in a suburban villa. Accounting in large part for his urgent need for money and his role in the story. All very Simenon. The first time I have come across a fancy woman in 19th century English fiction, albeit in a very cameo role.

With the Moonstone being a large diamond, the property of a Hindu deity, stolen from India at some point, causing much grief wherever it went, but eventually ending up back with its deity in India.

In sum, a tale which did well enough, but the tale of the stone did not grip in the way that the tale of the woman had.

And so back to Maigret, refreshed and ready for more.

PS: having now consulted BH on the matter, I remember that there was a fancy woman of a sort in 'Tess of the D'Urbervilles', with Tess living with her villain in furnished rooms in some spa town. And murdering him there. Unlike Becky Sharpe, whose misdemeanours were off-stage. But I think the substantive point stands: such things are much commoner in foreign works, say Balzac's 'Splendeurs et misères des courtisanes'. Commonplace even.

Reference 1: http://psmv3.blogspot.co.uk/2017/06/the-woman-in-white.html.