If there is one genre which certainly thrived in the 20th century unlike any previous era, it would be black comedy. Perhaps only a civilization that made it through two World Wars, several genocides, and a constant stream of existential threats could have learned to treasure what is essentially gallows humor on a vast, unhinged scale. And since all of that did happen, it remains a popular theme to this day.
Except that most black comedy is terrible. For the rare masterpiece of the genre, Dr. Strangelove for instance, there are hundreds of smirking, snarky, terrible stand-up comedians (mostly white and male, I should point out) who confuse sarcasm for wit. Yes, they can get quite dark, but for comedy, they'll do what all comedians have done since the dawn of time: make jokes about genitalia.
The Siege of Krishnapur, the 1973 novel by J. G. Farrell (one of six Booker Prize winners to be later shortlisted in 2008 for the 40th anniversary "Best of Booker" award), is a masterpiece of black comedy in that, through all of the darkness, it never actually stops being funny. Like Farrell's previous novel, Troubles (which I loved), The Siege of Krishnapur is a very funny book about something extremely unfunny. In the last book, it was the Irish War of Independence. Here, it's the Indian Uprising of 1857. That particular event involved native troops in a mutiny against their British East Indian Company overlords through a wide swath of northern India, resulting, eventually in appalling atrocities committed by both sides. Today, some historians view the mutiny as the first battle in a war of independence which would finally reach fruition ninety years later.
The novel tells the story of the fictional town of Krishnapur where the British have a long-established presence. Mr. Hopkins, known throughout the novel as "The Collector", is the leading East India Company authority in the region, and knows that something is afoot. He can hear the rumblings of mutiny, and so, quietly prepares a defense against a possible uprising. Meanwhile, he lives the life of a Victorian gentleman who believes firmly in technological progress, as especially embodied by the Great Exhibition.
Meanwhile, young George Fleury, a poet and idealist by nature, visits India with his widowed sister. After first arriving in Calcutta, he falls in love with Louise Dunstaple, who basically rejects him out of hand--justifiably, as he is a self-righteous drip. The characters travel to Krishnapur, and Fleury has a number of chances to humiliate himself in front of whole new audiences: especially the first native Indian he meets, the son of the local Maharajah. Fleury is completely oblivious to how completely insulting he himself is.
Not long after their arrival, however, come rumors of the (historical) mutiny at Meerut. When a general who had previously pooh-poohed the danger of a rebellion arrives bloody and half-dead on his horse, it is clear that war has begun. The Collector manages to bring together the local westerners in the main Krishnapur residence of the company, and defends it with a few able-bodied soldiers, various superannuated veterans, some still-loyal Indians, and various people with no other useful purpose (i.e., Fleury). Their armaments are small and numbers are few compared to the vast army of Indians poised against them, but thanks to an easy-to-defend position and a number of cannon, they manage to hold off the Indians for some time.
However, life in a siege is not something a well-bred Victorian gentleman or lady was ever prepared for--suddenly, English gentlefolk who had been living a life of luxury were forced to undergo deprivation of food, cleanliness, privacy, and worst of all, domestic help. The ladies find themselves shocked and appalled that they must share quarters with the black sheep of their number--Miss Hughes who, heaven help us, lost her virtue. A fallen woman!
There are many eccentric characters to be found--the Anglican minister who copes with the desperate situation by trying to convince Fleury of the literal truth of the Bible, completely oblivious to the dangerous situations he harangues the younger man in. The pair of doctors who completely disagree about everything, and whose treatments for cholera are totally diametrically opposed. The magistrate, an atheist, who is the last word in cynicism. And the Collector himself, who sees his world of bric-a-brac slowly crumbling, as does his faith in civilization and progress.
And horrible things happen. Many of the English defenders die gruesomely. Those who are even slightly wounded find those wounds becoming serious, thanks to pre-Pasteur medical treatment--and those with serious wounds invariably die. Many are wiped out by cholera. Meanwhile, the Indian besiegers never seem to grow fewer and number, and, to add insult to injury, Indian sightseers bring picnic lunches to watch the English get wiped out.
And yet, it's funny--whether it's the juxtaposition of all-too-proper Victorian etiquette with a siege situation where people receive a ration of a handful of flour a day, or the ridiculous behavior of eccentrics like Fleury or the "padre", or simply slapstick situations, as when Fleury and a soldier friend scrape black beetles off a naked woman, using the only tools they have at hand--covers torn off a copy of the Bible.
The situation gets more and more desperate--the defenders eventually retreat to a smaller and easier-to-defend redoubt, finally to one smaller yet. Eventually, they run low on ammunition and are reduced to shooting the head of Shakespeare, torn from a library bust, from a cannon. Yet the threat of certain death isn't enough to stop the compulsive eccentricities of some of the defenders.
What this novel has to say about humanity is not pleasant to contemplate: that we hold onto our prejudices and illusions to an absurdly unhealthy degree? That even in the most dire circumstances, self-aggrandizement and self-enrichment matters more than the survival of our fellow man? That our imagined progress and cultural superiority can be wiped out in an instant?
Yes, it's a black comedy. Therefore, a more cynical version than what might actually happen in reality. Perhaps even far more cynical.
But still...
Next up: I take a brief break from the Booker Prize to read Haruki Murakami's 2005 novel, Kafka on the Shore.
No comments:
Post a Comment