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Set mostly in the 17th century, this story ambitiously attempts a writing style reminiscent of novels of the period. It is told as an extended flashback - gross and debauched old George Cautley, describing his advent into London as a callow bumpkin, intent on making his fortune as a painter of portraits. George, though merely the second son of a deceased Shropshire parson, has a friend in London, a boyhood chum whose father's recent death has raised him to a Lordship. This friend condescends to introduce him to some Persons of Quality, among whom is the mysterious and beautiful Lady Beauclair, and George is deeply smitten. She is highly elusive but eventually George achieves a precarious relationship with her by painting her portrait, and she in turn tells him a long and involved tale about the life of a famous castrato. The two tales are intercut through much of the novel. There are several good points to this story. The 17th century flavour of the language is a touch heavy going at first, but either the author or the reader soon settles into the rhythms of it and on the whole it works well to enhance the atmosphere. George is routinely taken advantage of in the big city, cheated at cards, disdained by women, deserted by his so-called friends and left prey to footpads, but he rarely recognizes the malice of others; his cluelessness is an ongoing joke that is largely successful, although the urge to slap him does surface from time to time. It is also necessary to suspend disbelief that the old roue providing the first person narrative would not be able to update the perceptions of his younger self. The other story, about the castrato Tristano, is quite interesting from the viewpoint of providing historical information about a class of people no longer (thankfully) with us, but is completely unbelievable in its role as a story told by Lady Beauclair. It simply has nothing of her voice about it, so that the transitions in and out of these episodes tend to wrench. The whole business of scooting back and forth between the two stories is presumably meant to build the suspense, but as a plot device it creaks loudly. This is quite a long book - 436 pages - and it begins to seem interminable well before the end. It is mysterious, and one forges on in hopes of a fascinating revelation but the reader is, I'm afraid, due for disappointment as the ending doesn't so much discover as deflate.
Reviewed by Diana Sandberg, October 2002
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Contact: Yvonne Klein (ymk@reviewingtheevidence.com)
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