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The Yellow Poppy by D. K. Broster
Jun. 26th, 2020 05:06 pmWe seem to be progressing through Revolutionary French history, apart from the brief detour taken by The Vision Splendid: having dealt with the Vendean War of 1792-3 and the Quiberon Bay invasion of 1795, D. K. Broster now moves on to the Royalist uprisings of 1799-1800, in which a certain young man from Corsica appears on the scene for the first time.
The Yellow Poppy (1920), Broster's second solo novel, is set amongst the Royalist leaders of Finistère in the far west of France (this made me think of the beautiful June Tabor song, although I believe that's about the Finisterre in Spain rather than this one). It's going to be a difficult one to review, because most of the plot depends on a couple of big twists that take place early on, and that I don't want to give away because they were so much fun to experience unspoiled. So, as much as I can say without spoilers:
The novel opens on a gathering of Royalists led by the émigré Marquis de Kersaint, including the priest Pierre Chassin and a gallant but naive young man named Roland de Céligny. A happy coincidence gives them some information about a hoard of buried treasure at the château of Mirabel near Paris, which once belonged to the Duc de Trélan, now believed to be in exile in England. De Kersaint is a relation of the Duc and hopes, with his permission presumed if they can't actually obtain it, to find the treasure and use it to fund the arming of Finistère. In making these plans, the characters discuss the sad story of the Duc de Trélan: he went into exile in 1790, leaving behind his wife, who was imprisoned and then executed two years later; some people hold the Duc to blame for the Duchesse's death. The rest of the story follows the group's attempts to recover the treasure of Mirabel and subsequently to raise Finistère against the Republicans... and along the way we learn much more about the story of the Duc and Duchesse de Trélan.
This story has an incredible amount of dramatic irony. At one point two characters both believe that the other is dead and are both living under assumed names, and a third character ends up making promises to both of them not to give away their identities to anyone—and so can't tell either of them that the other is alive, even though he knows they'd both want to know. At another point one character lies to another for reasons of his own that a third character is dead, then goes back to the third character, who's living under an assumed name, and discovers the truth about who he is—and the third character still doesn't know about the lie... anyway, there's a lot of this kind of thing, with vital secrets being revealed to the reader and then slowly, in turn, to the characters, and it was great fun to read!
Broster also has a lot to say about honour. Obviously all the secrets and lies place a great deal of stress on the characters' honour, in particular in the relationship between the Marquis de Kersaint and his second-in-command the Comte de Brencourt. It's all very exciting, and culminates in a dramatic duel fought under the moonlight (Broster, as the omniscient narrator, comments on the absurdity of the conventions of duelling—look, I know the rules are silly and don't make sense, but this is really what it was like, okay...). The ending of the novel turns on a horrifically dishonourable act committed by Napoleon Bonaparte—and there's a subplot where a minor character, a Republican officer who has followed and adored Bonaparte for some time, is so disgusted with the orders he's obliged to carry out that he gives up his commission (this led to some interesting thoughts about Keith Windham).
The characters are great. There's the Marquis de Kersaint, with his difficult past and his hard-won honour; the Comte de Brencourt, a seriously unpleasant person who repents of his worse decisions and learns what they cost; the equivocal Republican M Camain; 'les jeunes', Roland and the other young men accompanying de Kersaint, who are written with much of Broster's amused, half-sentimental indulgence and were very funny to read about, but who turn out to be serious enough when it matters; and of course Valentine, the heroine, with her painful, complex backstory, her self-awareness, steadfastness and bravery. I thought she was sidelined a little in the later part of the book—she doesn't do very much of importance to the plot after her spell as concierge—but her character development remains very good right up to the final page.
The title refers to Glaucium flavum, a flower which, 'so late in blossoming, so little favoured in its surroundings, so exquisite . . . and, perhaps, so short-lived', is a metaphor for two characters' relationship: having known each other for many years and had a difficult relationship in the past, they reunite in middle age and find a brighter and more fulfilling love than either of them ever expected. I really enjoyed this relationship—complex and an unusual sort of thing to make the centre of a romance, in several ways, but very compellingly and heartbreakingly written. The flower metaphor also allows for a lot of the detailed, evocative nature descriptions that Broster does so well—the chapter which introduces it takes place on the coast of Finistère beside the sea, and is very memorable indeed.
And then there's the ending. Apparently, having had the big plot twists in the first half of the book, Broster decided that it didn't need any more, because unlike Flight of the Heron and Sir Isumbras, both of which suggest an obvious 'fated' ending and then swerve away from it, this one ends exactly how it looks like it's going to end. But this is handled very well too, with the slow and inevitable fall towards a tragic ending that, the characters being as staunchly honourable as they are, couldn't have gone any other way.
In conclusion, this is another good one, and I encourage you to read it and enjoy the plot twists for yourself :D
The Yellow Poppy (1920), Broster's second solo novel, is set amongst the Royalist leaders of Finistère in the far west of France (this made me think of the beautiful June Tabor song, although I believe that's about the Finisterre in Spain rather than this one). It's going to be a difficult one to review, because most of the plot depends on a couple of big twists that take place early on, and that I don't want to give away because they were so much fun to experience unspoiled. So, as much as I can say without spoilers:
The novel opens on a gathering of Royalists led by the émigré Marquis de Kersaint, including the priest Pierre Chassin and a gallant but naive young man named Roland de Céligny. A happy coincidence gives them some information about a hoard of buried treasure at the château of Mirabel near Paris, which once belonged to the Duc de Trélan, now believed to be in exile in England. De Kersaint is a relation of the Duc and hopes, with his permission presumed if they can't actually obtain it, to find the treasure and use it to fund the arming of Finistère. In making these plans, the characters discuss the sad story of the Duc de Trélan: he went into exile in 1790, leaving behind his wife, who was imprisoned and then executed two years later; some people hold the Duc to blame for the Duchesse's death. The rest of the story follows the group's attempts to recover the treasure of Mirabel and subsequently to raise Finistère against the Republicans... and along the way we learn much more about the story of the Duc and Duchesse de Trélan.
This story has an incredible amount of dramatic irony. At one point two characters both believe that the other is dead and are both living under assumed names, and a third character ends up making promises to both of them not to give away their identities to anyone—and so can't tell either of them that the other is alive, even though he knows they'd both want to know. At another point one character lies to another for reasons of his own that a third character is dead, then goes back to the third character, who's living under an assumed name, and discovers the truth about who he is—and the third character still doesn't know about the lie... anyway, there's a lot of this kind of thing, with vital secrets being revealed to the reader and then slowly, in turn, to the characters, and it was great fun to read!
Broster also has a lot to say about honour. Obviously all the secrets and lies place a great deal of stress on the characters' honour, in particular in the relationship between the Marquis de Kersaint and his second-in-command the Comte de Brencourt. It's all very exciting, and culminates in a dramatic duel fought under the moonlight (Broster, as the omniscient narrator, comments on the absurdity of the conventions of duelling—look, I know the rules are silly and don't make sense, but this is really what it was like, okay...). The ending of the novel turns on a horrifically dishonourable act committed by Napoleon Bonaparte—and there's a subplot where a minor character, a Republican officer who has followed and adored Bonaparte for some time, is so disgusted with the orders he's obliged to carry out that he gives up his commission (this led to some interesting thoughts about Keith Windham).
The characters are great. There's the Marquis de Kersaint, with his difficult past and his hard-won honour; the Comte de Brencourt, a seriously unpleasant person who repents of his worse decisions and learns what they cost; the equivocal Republican M Camain; 'les jeunes', Roland and the other young men accompanying de Kersaint, who are written with much of Broster's amused, half-sentimental indulgence and were very funny to read about, but who turn out to be serious enough when it matters; and of course Valentine, the heroine, with her painful, complex backstory, her self-awareness, steadfastness and bravery. I thought she was sidelined a little in the later part of the book—she doesn't do very much of importance to the plot after her spell as concierge—but her character development remains very good right up to the final page.
The title refers to Glaucium flavum, a flower which, 'so late in blossoming, so little favoured in its surroundings, so exquisite . . . and, perhaps, so short-lived', is a metaphor for two characters' relationship: having known each other for many years and had a difficult relationship in the past, they reunite in middle age and find a brighter and more fulfilling love than either of them ever expected. I really enjoyed this relationship—complex and an unusual sort of thing to make the centre of a romance, in several ways, but very compellingly and heartbreakingly written. The flower metaphor also allows for a lot of the detailed, evocative nature descriptions that Broster does so well—the chapter which introduces it takes place on the coast of Finistère beside the sea, and is very memorable indeed.
And then there's the ending. Apparently, having had the big plot twists in the first half of the book, Broster decided that it didn't need any more, because unlike Flight of the Heron and Sir Isumbras, both of which suggest an obvious 'fated' ending and then swerve away from it, this one ends exactly how it looks like it's going to end. But this is handled very well too, with the slow and inevitable fall towards a tragic ending that, the characters being as staunchly honourable as they are, couldn't have gone any other way.
In conclusion, this is another good one, and I encourage you to read it and enjoy the plot twists for yourself :D
