Fictional Houses

“Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.”

“Upon the face of this aged queen of French cathedrals, beside every wrinkle we find a scar. ‘Tempus edax, homo edacior;’ which I would fain translate thus: ‘Time is blind, but man is stupid.’”

“Jarndyce of Bleak House, my lord.”  “A dreary name.”  “But not a dreary place at present, my lord.”

I read Charles Dickens’ Bleak House last week.  Since I write in these columns about building and buildings, I couldn’t help but notice that the novel’s buildings, especially the eponymous title house, are not just sets, but major characters in the story.  This got me thinking about fictional houses.

My quotes above are from Rebecca, by Daphne de Maurier, Notre Dame de Paris, by Victor Hugo, and Bleak House. 

Victor Hugo’s massive novel Notre Dame de Paris (only in the English translation was the title changed to The Hunchback of Notre Dame) (1829) is credited with being the first novel to have a building as a major character, some might say the major character.  The cathedral is the setting for almost all the action, (except the “greve”, the plaza outside the Hotel de Ville, so called, whence the French word for “strike,” because it is a common site for public protest.)  But the church is also a dramatic force in and of itself; the cathedral is an actor -  inspiring, punishing, embracing, rejecting, redeeming all the characters. 

When Hugo wrote the book, the cathedral had been both neglected and modified.  It was falling down, and to Hugo’s horror, clear glass windows had replaced the stained glass, to let in more light.   He condemned these modifications and neglect, and his very popular novel inspired a move to restore and preserve the great building.

Spoiler alert: I’m going to reveal the endings of Rebecca and Bleak House.  These are two great books – stop reading this right now and go read the novels – the endings are tremendous.

Manderly is a magical beautiful house on the Cornwall coast, where our narrator lives with her new husband.  But she can never forget that the first Mrs. De Winter, Rebecca, lived and died there.  In the novel’s last scene, Manderley burns down, thanks to the treachery of the hated Mrs. Danvers, ever loyal to her first mistress, Rebecca and ever cruel to our unnamed heroine.

In Bleak House our heroine Esther, orphaned and of indeterminate class, (like de Maurier, Dickens uses her as a narrator of about half the book, in an interesting style choice) at the end becomes mistress of Bleak House, but not, as expected, by marrying her noble guardian Mr. Jardyce, the home’s owner.  Instead, he lovingly and secretly builds her a whole different house, which he also calls Bleak House, so she can be happy and marry the adorable Mr. Woodward instead of him.

These three are a pretty random sample of fictional buildings (you can find various lists of greatest homes in literature, including here) but here are some first impressions:

- Many fictional houses are spooky or dangerous or get destroyed in the end.  Bleak House (with its scary title that put me off for years) is an exception – it’s an odd but happy home, and the book also ends happily for almost everyone.  The new Bleak House is a symbol of new possibility and hope for Esther and her true love.  Sort of rare in fiction.

- Maybe it’s because none of my three examples are contemporary, and are all northern European, but the buildings are all really cold.  Lots of scenes where they get the maid to lay a fire or they welcome in a cold traveler in the night.  I think I should read more fiction from the southern hemisphere.

- Also they are all pretty big, with lots of places to hide.  Important plot twists depend on overhearing conversations from a hidden closet or hallway, hiding in the dark.  Does good fiction require enclosed space to create dramatic tension?

- One of the cool things about Hugo’s Notre Dame is that at least two characters actually live in the church, Quasimodo and Frollo, the Archdeacon.  It’s not just a public building, but a home.  For me at least, there’s something intriguing about being able to sleep and eat in a tiny room (tucked away in spooky high corners) in a massive mysterious cathedral.  Like Bleak House and Manderley, Notre Dame, with its secret homes, holds many secrets.  In all three, the main characters either keep the secrets, or are condemned by them.

- I confess I have a set of sort of stock sets that I use in my imagination when I read about fictional houses – the mansion, the farmhouse, the suburban home.  All are roughly based on real homes I’ve known (my grandparents’ grand home, a 19th century farmhouse I lived in in upstate New York one year, my own suburban New Jersey home.)  So the brothers in Steinbeck’s East of Eden and the grim characters in Jane Smiley novels and Willa Cather’s Nebraska farmers all sit around the same kitchen table eating their big farm breakfasts.  Gatsby’s parties and Mr. Darcy’s receptions look strangly like where I had Christmas at my grandparents. 

- Anyone out there have other favorite fictional homes?  Would you like to live in Bleak House or Manderley?  Me, I’d take a secret room in Notre Dame.  Just make it far away from the bells.

Copyright © 2015 Deborah Streeter