The Cloister and the Hearth

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past the middle of the fifteenth century; Louis XI was sovereign of France; Edward IV was wrongful king of England; and Philip "the Good," having by force and cunning dispossessed his cousin Jacqueline, and broken her heart, reigned undisturbed this many years in Holland, where our tale begins. Fourthly, the young man Gerard as the chief hero is from start different than the rest, in his family, but also amongst strangers. He was going into the Church, despite the fact that his own’s habits were frivolous, in the sense that his trivialities, whereas he easily got advanced in learning and skills, were reading and penmanship, also coquetting a bit with drawing and fine art. Moreover, as the story develops, it turns out that the young man Gerard is a prodigy of Don Quixote, in a sort of parallel. He is fighting all kinds of robbers, thieves, even wild animals, and it gets out of it victorious. I am still remembering the scene with the wind-mill, where Gerard managed to keep at distance all those ill men, and one by one they are eventually killed by a blazing fire… And then, more marvellous occurrences happened, and Gerard became Brother Clement, a friar of St. Dominic, as if dying to the world, the monk parted with the very name by which he had lived in it, and so broke the last link of association with earthly feelings. But that’s not all, because there are other steps on the ladder of his becoming till his end of days…a hermit, too, and then a priest, and then a monk again. And, surely, that age was not a time for fooling, if you know what I mean ;) One of Reade's goals was to put flesh (or, a story) on the dusty bones of forgotten names in history, which is a very interesting idea. How many times do we read our own genealogies, only to just let the names glaze us over and we fail to grasp that these were living, breathing human beings at one point just as we are? However, after finishing the book, I felt I had a little better understanding of the different medieval civilizations of Europe—France, Germany, Italy, Holland. I read strange and unusual vocabulary words. And best of all I felt the satisfaction of finishing something hard. THERE IS AN ILLUSTRATED EDITION OF THIS TITLE WITH LINKED TABLE OF CONTENTS WHICH MAY VIEWED AT EBOOK

The courage, like the talent, of common men, runs in a narrow groove. Take them but an inch out of that, and they are done. Martin's courage was perfect as far as it went. He had met and baffled many dangers in the course of his rude life, and these familiar dangers he could face with Spartan fortitude, almost with indifference; but he had never been hunted by a bloodhound, nor had he ever seen that brute's unerring instinct baffled by human cunning. Here then a sense of the supernatural combined with novelty to ungenteel his heart. After going a few steps, he leaned on his bow, and energy and hope oozed out of him." --chapter XXWhat is more, few medieval stories do not contain aristocrats, soldiers, servants, fair maidens and clergymen. To call these clichés or tropes is almost to underestimate the importance of these fictional conventions. They are the only story of the age. They are almost literally present in any tale about medieval times, no matter who the writer or artist is. I wonder what the medieval period was really like. We know what the fictional medieval era was like because it can be found in every single work of fiction about this age for hundreds of years. Indeed even the writers of that time perpetuated the myth. Memory escapes me as to why I ever thought I wanted to read it. Perhaps I thought the forbidden romance between a priest and his lady love sounded intriguing, or maybe it was because the main character is an illuminator and I love that type of detailed art. The important question to ask is: Was it worth it? The answer is not a very simple one. I came away feeling that if I had known how miserable a tale it would be, I would not have begun to read it in the first place. I really didn’t get much from the story personally. Every possible obstacle was put in the characters’ ways and the story dragged on and on. It is quite an unfortunate tale of love and loss and waiting against hope, of death and despair and the subjugation of comfort and affection. I had a hunch that the length, ebb and flow of the action pacing signaled that it had begun in serial form in the 1800’s, and upon doing some research I learned that is correct. In which case, I think this very dramatic novel would make a good basis for a serialized audio drama. Arthur Machen, in his short story "The Islington Mystery, [3] contrasted the work with George Eliot's Romola:

This pads out the book at the expense of any pacing, but perhaps this is as well, as there is not a lot of story to begin with. It is hard not to feel frustrated that the two lovers seem to spend decades before meeting up when a journey across Europe should not have taken more than a few months. This is achieved by the piling up of unlikely events designed to detain or deter Gerard from completing his travels. It is said that speech is the familiar vent of human thoughts, but Life is an intermittent fever, and there are emotions so simple and overpowering that they rush out not in words, but eloquent sounds. In the longer journey of it, there are days that come by with passions and perils, by fits and starts, and as it were, in clusters. And yes, I would candidly confess, this novel also made me sob single-mindedly. It is indeed a glorious book, it has all, all in all together, and especially vivid unforgettable adventures, marvellous occurrences, that can hardly be ever dismissed from human’s fancy :) I am surely one of his greatest fans now! If the crowd runs after the false, it must neglect the true. The intolerable "Romola" is praised; the admirable "Cloister and the Hearth" is waived aside. In the Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Archive at the Harry Ransom Center in Austin, Texas, there is a document list of Doyle's 18 favourite things. When asked who his favourite heroine in fiction was, he replied, "Margaret" in Cloister and Hearth. [2] I do not know where I can find a book in which the highest qualities of head and of heart go together as they do in this one. [1]Firstly, because under the historical outline of the novel there is painted a true story. That’s because I say so :D As most of the synopsis were telling the same I refer to mentioning the famous scholar Desiderius Erasmus von Rotterdam as being the child of the tragic pair on which the story gravitates I have really enjoyed how the author used his imagination to extend from a couple of lines that was assumed to be written by Erasmus about his parents, and tell the strange history of a pair that loved each other truly and deeply, but couldn’t enjoy their earthly happiness as a normal married couple. To keep it simple, whatever story I do myself believe through the author’s words is true to me. This tale not only found a place in my heart whilst reading it, but I feel it’s going to remain there indefinitely, especially the tale of those two sore-tried souls… The Cloister and the Hearth is certainly erudite, perhaps too much so. Reade makes the error that has become common in writers of the last few decades who wish to be taken seriously. He constantly makes a display of his factual knowledge of every aspect of medieval life, with the result that the story frequently grinds to a halt while we can hear some arid discussion about art or clerical disputes. I was surprised to come to the end of the book and find that this story is a very “supposed” account of two people who actually lived. This is a very Catholic story, but at the same time it takes place on the eve of the Reformation and Gerard has his own opinions on doctrinal issues. In actuality, it is the author's agenda that shows through in the end. I particularly appreciated his making the case for community to help overcome one's temptations, rather than isolation. Leave this pilgrimage, and instant return to Rome. Penitence abroad is little worth. There where we live lie the temptations we must defeat, or perish; not fly in search of others more showy, but less lethal. Easy to wash the feet of strangers, masked ourselves. Hard to be merely meek and charitable with those about us.'" --chapter LXXV

If fiction is to be believed, there were soldiers and knights regularly roaming the country aimlessly on some pointless and digressive quest. Some were brave, some were evil, some were comical, some were weak – and there were very few of any other kind. These knights were always defending damsels, getting into skirmishes or being drawn into battles. Not a day passes over the earth, but men and women of no note do great deeds, speak great words, and suffer noble sorrows. Of these obscure heroes, philosophers and martyrs, the greater part will never be known till that hour, when many that are great shall be small, and the small great; but of others the world's knowledge may be said to sleep: their lives and characters lie hidden from nations in the annals that record them. The general reader cannot feel them, they are presented so curtly and coldly: they are not like breathing stories appealing to his heart, but little historic hailstones striking him but to glance off his bosom: nor can he understand them; for epitomes are not narratives, as skeletons are not human figures." The Cloister and the Hearth" is Charles Reade's greatest work—and, I believe, the greatest historical novel in the language… there is portrayed so vigorous, lifelike, and truthful a picture of a time long gone by, and differing in almost every particular from own, that the world has never seen its like. To me it is a picture of the past more faithful than anything in the works of Scott. [4] there was the dwarf, slit and fanged from ear to ear at his expense, and laughing like a lion. (think Victor Hugo 'The Man Who Laughs' and in turn think The Joker from Batman stories) So that is the setting for the bigger picture, the up close and personal details of this story are made of tragedy and you'll be left booing and hissing at many a personality in this very fine Victorian era written, mediaeval historical fiction.

Thus records of prime truths remain a dead letter to plain folk: the writers have left so much to the imagination, and imagination is so rare a gift. Here, then, the writer of fiction may be of use to the public--as an interpreter.