A swift, blithe comedy of sexual and creative jealousy plays out on the grounds of a dubious finishing school in Dame Spark's gem of a novel, her 22nd. College Sunrise, founded by would-be novelist Rowland Mahler and his practical wife, Nina Parker, is a mobile institution (currently situated in Lausanne) at which very little of use is taught. Rowland does preside over a popular creative writing class (with five students, it boasts more than half the school's enrollment), while Nina takes care of the office business and dispenses delicious advice in her informal etiquette seminars ("[I]f you, as a U.N. employee, are chased by an elephant stand still and wave a white handkerchief. This confuses the elephant's legs"). Trouble arrives in the form of redheaded, 18-year-old Chris Wiley, who has come to College Sunrise to work on his novel about Mary, Queen of Scots. Chris's authorial insouciance-he is supremely confident of his talents and rather dismissive of historical fact-infuriates Rowland, whose ego was inflated by minor early successes and who has a terrible case of writer's block. Rowland becomes obsessed with the novel and its creator, and their struggle-" `I could kill him,' thought Rowland. `But would that be enough?' "-forms the heart of the book, even as other players, sketched briefly but brilliantly (the "tall and lonely" Tilly, princess of an unknown and perhaps fictitious country; the sweet, stupid Mary Foot, who wants to own a "sahramix" [sic] shop) fall in and out of love and beds. Spark, who is 86, writes in a polished, rather old-fashioned tone (references to "punk music," laptops and other things of the modern world surprise), but this is a cool, delightful little book of bad deeds and good manners. (Sept. 21) Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.
The Finishing School
Narrated by Nadia May
Muriel SparkUnabridged — 3 hours, 14 minutes
The Finishing School
Narrated by Nadia May
Muriel SparkUnabridged — 3 hours, 14 minutes
Overview
College Sunrise is a vaguely disreputable finishing school in Lausanne, Switzerland. Rowland Mahler and his wife, Nina, run the school as a way to support themselves while he works, somewhat falteringly, on his novel. Into his creative writing class comes seventeen-year-old Chris Wiley, a literary prodigy whose historical novel-in-progress on Mary Queen of Scots and the murder of her husband Lord Darnley has already excited the interest of publishers. The inevitable results are keen envy and a game of cat and mouse not free of sexual jealousy and attraction.
Nobody writing has a keener instinct than Muriel Spark for hypocrisy, self-delusion, and moral ambiguity, or a more deliciously satirical eye. The Finishing School is certain to be another Spark landmark.
Editorial Reviews
Adult/High School-Rowland Mahler and his wife, Nina, are directors of College Sunrise, a private school in Switzerland attended by nine free-spirited teens. Its location changes from year to year, the tuition is exorbitant, and the curriculum, anything but mainstream. Chris Wiley has enrolled for the sole purpose of writing a novel and does not attend classes. Others pursue a variety of interests that include drama, creative writing, and Nina's unique version of modern etiquette. Sex and alcohol are not discouraged, and while Nina and Rowland bring in the occasional guest speaker, they teach most of the classes with minimal educational expertise. In fact, the school itself is questionable as it caters to students who, for various reasons, are unable to attend established institutions. Because Chris and Rowland are concurrently writing books, tension between the two pervades the novel, and becomes its primary theme. Nina begins an affair with a neighbor, one of the students becomes pregnant by the gardener, and, at the end of the term, the school's continued existence is precarious. Spark seems to be laughing at 21st-century permissiveness with well-drawn characters and eloquent writing. High school students will enjoy reading about this fly-by-night "finishing" school and its unusual attendees.-Pat Bender, The Shipley School, Bryn Mawr, PA Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
At 82, Dame Spark brings yet again a brimming supply of wit, drollery, understatement, and plain human interest to a tale-this one about changing sexual alliances in a tiny private school in Europe. Rowland Mahler, 29, and his wife, Nina Parker, 26, are the founders, managers, and faculty of College Sunrise, the little school that from time to time they move from one European location to another, partly for cachet but partly for the convenience of leaving certain debts behind. Right now, the school has nine students, aged sixteen and up, each supported by well-off parents and each made touching, memorable, or amusing by the merest stroke or two of the Sparkian brush. Still, as Nina teaches her "Etiquette" course and Rowland carries on with his popular creative writing class (one reason for creating College Sunrise was so Rowland could write a novel), one student does come more to the forefront, and that's Chris Wiley, only 18 but-troublingly indeed for the increasingly envious Rowland-visibly gifted as a writer. Worse than just being talented, Chris, unlike the badly blocked Rowland, is cruising right along with his own first novel-on Mary, Queen of Scots-and even getting some attention from publishers and movie people, fickle as they may prove to be. As the school year moves forward amid various perfections of detail, atmosphere, and event-field trips, fashion shows, hotel dances, sometimes even classes-the real story lies in Rowland's obsessive envy of Chris and his jealousy-induced breakdown (Rowland actually stays at a monastery for a bit, trying to recover), events followed by one delicately done twist after another as a marriage fails, another comes about, and the Chris-Rowland"problem" is resolved in a most unexpected way. Another perfect little novel of manners from the ever-wondrous Spark (Aiding and Abetting, 2001, etc.): a microcosm of the world we live in, constructed with wizardry, delicacy, sharp eye, and huge heart.
An empress of literary sleight of hand. . . . What grace and beauty she’s still displaying during the golden days and starlit nights of her absolutely marvelous career.” –The Washington Post“Ingeniously comic. . . . Spark has packed a multitude of twists and turns into this relatively brief novel, and the action skims along merrily from one surprising revelation to the next.” –Los Angeles Times Book Review“The Finishing School has all the ingredients of her best-known fiction.” –The New York Times“Delicious. . . . A deft new comic novel. . . . Spark remains a master of quick-stroke portraiture and trenchant moral investigation.” –The Seattle Times“A youthful academic comedy. . . . Her style . . . remains as sharp, even shocking, as it’s always been.” –The New York Times Book Review
This is a work, as usual, of glittering Sparkian ice, whose thinly frozen surface tempts you to jump up and down jovially above something deeper and darker . . . One wonders at the simplicity and the intricacy of the plot, blowaway as gossamer . . . One marvels too at the under-surface play of spiritual light and dark. . . One of her funniest novels . . . Spark at her sharpest, her purest and her most merciful
An eloquent, subtle, poetic exploration of what words are and what they do to us. Enchanting, devastating, genius
She has a receptive and wholly distinctive genius
Spark is a natural, a paradigm of that rare sort of artist from whom work of the highest quality flows as elementally as current through a circuit
My admiration for Spark's contribution to world literature knows no bounds. She was peerless, sparkling, inventive and intelligent - the cr me de la cr me
A wholly original presence in modern literature
The care with which she uses words is matched by a gloriously carefree attitude. It's all part of her sanity, her breezy authorial self-confidence; and because of this I think that reading a blast of her prose every morning is a far more restorative way to start a day than a shot of espresso
A profoundly serious comic writer whose wit advances, never undermines or diminishes, her ideas
Has one of the funniest opening pages Spark has ever written and it's full of her incomparable humour
Delightful, laced with wry and witty observations. A rich satire
Muriel Spark's novels linger in the mind as brilliant shards, decisive as a smashed glass is decisive
Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940169837193 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Blackstone Audio, Inc. |
| Publication date: | 01/01/2006 |
| Edition description: | Unabridged |
Read an Excerpt
1
"You begin," he said, "by setting your scene. You have to see your scene, either in reality or in imagination. For instance, from here you can see across the lake. But on a day like this you can't see across the lake, it's too misty. You can't see the other side." Rowland took off his reading glasses to stare at his creative writing class whose parents' money was being thus spent: two boys and three girls around sixteen to seventeen years of age, some more, some a little less. "So," he said, "you must just write, when you set your scene, 'the other side of the lake was hidden in mist.' Or if you want to exercise imagination, on a day like today, you can write, 'The other side of the lake was just visible.' But as you are setting the scene, don't make any emphasis as yet. It's too soon, for instance, for you to write, 'The other side of the lake was hidden in the fucking mist.' That will come later. You are setting your scene. You don't want to make a point as yet."
College Sunrise had begun in Brussels, a finishing school for both sexes and mixed nationalities. It was founded by Rowland Mahler, assisted by his wife, Nina Parker.
The school had flourished on ten pupils aged sixteen and upward, but in spite of this flourishing, mainly by reputation, Rowland had barely been able to square the books at the end of the first year. So he moved the school to Vienna, increased the fees, wrote to the parents that he and Nina were making an exciting experiment: College Sunrise was to be a mobile school which would move somewhere new every year.
They had moved, leaving commendably few debts behind, from Vienna to Lausanne the next year. At present they had nine students at College Sunrise at Ouchy on the lake. Rowland had just taken the very popular class, attended by five of the students, on Creative Writing. Rowland was now twenty-nine, Nina twenty-six. Rowland himself hoped to be a published novelist one day. To conserve his literary strength, as he put it, he left nearly all the office work to Nina, who spoke good French and was dealing with the bureaucratic side of the school and with the parents, employing a kind of impressive carelessness. She tended to crush any demands for full explanations on the part of the parents. This attitude, strangely enough, generally made them feel they were getting good money's worth. And she had always obtained a tentative license to run the school, which could be stretched to last over the months before they would move on again.
It was early July, but not summery. The sky bulged, pregnant with water. The lake had been invisible under the mist for some days.
Rowland looked out of the wide window of the room where he taught, and saw three of the pupils who had just attended his class, leaving the house, disappearing into the mist. Those three were Chris Wiley, Lionel Haas and Pansy Leghorn (known as Leg).
Chris: Seventeen, a student at College Sunrise at his own request. "I can do university later." And now? "I want to write my novel. It struck me that College Sunrise was ideal for that." Rowland remembered that first interview with red-haired Chris with his mother and uncle. There was no father visible. They seemed to be well off and perfectly persuaded to Chris's point of view. Rowland took him on. He had always, so far, taken everyone on who applied for entrance to College Sunrise, the result of which policy helped to give the school an experimental and tolerant tone.
But we come back to Chris as he and his two friends were watched from the window by Rowland: of all the pupils Chris caused Rowland the most disquiet. He was writing a novel, yes. Rowland, too, was writing a novel, and he wasn't going to say how good he thought Chris was. A faint twinge of that jealousy which was to mastermind Rowland's coming months, growing in intensity small hour by hour, seized Rowland as he looked. What was Chris talking about to the two others? Was he discussing the lesson he had just left? Rowland wanted greatly to enter Chris's mind. He was ostensibly a close warm friend of Chris—and in a way it was a true friendship—Where did Chris get his talent? He was self-assured. "You know, Chris," Rowland had said, "I don't think you're on the right lines. You might scrap it and start again."
"When it's finished," said Chris, "I could scrap it and start again. Not before I've finished the novel, though."
"Why?" said Rowland.
"I want to see what I write."
Nina, Rowland's wife and colleague, sat at a big round table in the general living room of College Sunrise. Round the table were five other girls, Opal, Mary, Lisa, Joan and Pallas.
"Where's Tilly?" said Nina.
"She's gone into the town," said Opal. Tilly was known and registered at the school as Princess Tilly, but no one knew where she was Princess of. She seldom turned up for lessons, so Nina did not pursue the matter further. The subject was Etiquette or as Nina put it, "Comme il faut."
"When you finish at College Sunrise you should be really and truly finished," Nina told the girls. "Like the finish on a rare piece of furniture. Your jumped-up parents (may God preserve their bank accounts) will want to see something for their money. Listen: when you eat asparagus in England, as everyone knows, you take it in your fingers, but the secret of exquisite manners with regard to asparagus is to eat it held in your left hand. Got it?"
"My parents are not jumped-up," said Pallas. "My father, Mr. Kapelas, is of an old family of merchants. But my mother is ignorant. She wears expensive clothes, though."
"Do they hang well on her?" said Mary, a blue-frocked, blue-eyed, fair Englishwoman in the making. Her ambition was to open a village shop and sell ceramics and transparent scarves. "Everything," said Mary, "depends on the hang. You see women with lovely clothes, but they don't hang right on them."
"You are so right," said Nina, which made Mary adore the teacher even more. Hardly anyone ever told Mary she was so right about anything.
"Well now," said Nina, "if you are offered a plover's egg as a snack, that, too, is taken with the left hand. I read about this in a manners book, perhaps it was a joke; anyway, I can see that if you want your right hand to be free to shake someone else's hand, your left hand should hold the plover's egg, preferably, I suppose, between the folds of a tiny paper napkin. This is what your parents are paying for you to know, remember."
"What's a plover?" said Pallas.
"Oh just a bird, there are lots of different species."
"I like seagulls," Pallas said.
"Do they make you homesick?" said Nina.
"Yes. All the sea things make me nostalgic for Greece."
Opal said, "We were to have gone to Greece for next spring if the crash hadn't happened in our family." The crash was a bankruptcy which had left Opal's parents in ruin and distress, with which they were at present trying to cope. Opal's father would perhaps go to prison, so steeply had the family affairs crashed. Nina and Rowland had immediately offered to keep Opal on at the school without paying any fees for her lessons or her keep, a gesture which was greatly approved by the school at large.
"At large . . ." It was not in any sense a large school. College Sunrise could not in any way compete with the famous schools and finishing establishments recommended by Gabbitas, Thring and Wingate in shiny colored brochures. Indeed, College Sunrise was almost unknown in the more distinctive educational circles, and in cases where it was known, it was frequently dismissed as being rather shady. The facts that it moved house from time to time, that it seldom offered a tennis court and that its various swimming pools looked greasy, were the subject of gossip when the subject arose, but it was known that there had so far been no sexual scandals and that it was an advanced sort of school, bohemian, artistic, tolerant. What they smoked or sniffed was little different from the drug-taking habits of any other school, whether it be housed in Lausanne or in a street in Wakefield.
With a total of eight paying students Nina and Rowland could just manage to cope and make a small profit. They employed a maid and a cook, a French teacher who was also Rowland's secretary, and a good-looking gardener and
odd-job boy. Both Nina and Rowland aimed principally at affording Rowland the time and space and other opportunities to complete his novel, while passing their lives pleasantly. They in fact loved the school.
But the whole point of the enterprise was decidedly Rowland's novel. Nina believed in it, and in Rowland as a novelist, as much as he did himself.
Chris, as he walked with his two companions, was thinking of the letter Rowland had sent to his uncle recommending especially the creative writing class at College Sunrise: "This year's literary seminar pulls no punches investigating ideas of power and literature." Chris was fascinated by this announcement. It would not leave his mind. He had heard it before—where did it come from? Suddenly, as he was gazing into the impenetrable sheet of mist on the lake, a ray of light swung across his memory: it was the phrase used to advertise an English literary festival: In his extraordinary mind Chris remembered the brochure precisely. He felt affectionate toward Rowland, almost protective. His own sense of security was so strong as to be unnoticeable. He knew himself. He felt his talent. It was all a question of time and exercise. Because he was himself unusual, Chris perceived everyone else to be so. He could not think of people as masses except when the question of organizing society arose, and that, thought Chris, should be a far simpler affair than the organizers made out. Left to themselves, people would arrange themselves in harmony. So he should be left alone to pursue . . . well, anything. It was a good theory. In the meantime he found his tutor, Rowland, greatly amusing. Rowland had read the two opening chapters of the novel Chris was determined to write during his terms at College Sunrise. On his second reading: "But this is quite good," Rowland had whispered, as if speechless with amazement. Chris remembered every slightest phrase of that reaction. Rowland had read it over. "Are you sure," he said then, "that you want to go on with this, or would you rather . . ."
"Rather what?"
Rowland did not continue that line of thought. "The dialogue," he said, "how did you know about dialogue?"
"Oh, I've always read a lot."
"Oh, you read a lot, I see. For an historical novel you have to . . . And what, how . . . Do you intend to finish it?"
"Oh, fully."
"What is the story? How does it develop? Historical novels—they have to develop. How . . .?"
"No idea, Rowland. I can't foresee the future. All I know is the story will happen."
"And you find our creative writing classes a help, of course . . ."
"They're beside the point, in fact, but quite useful in many other respects."
Rowland was frightened; he felt again that stab of jealous envy, envious jealousy that he had already experienced, on touching and reading Chris's typescript.
2
The novel Chris was writing was further advanced in his mind than he had conveyed to Rowland. A self-protective urge mixed with a desire to gain as much as possible from the creative writing class made him adopt the pose of a fairly blank set of intentions. In fact he had a plot settled in his mind.
The subject of his story was Mary Queen of Scots, beheaded in 1587 for scheming against the life of Elizabeth I of England. She was also accused of the murder of her husband Lord Darnley, twenty years before. Many since then had believed her guilty, many innocent. There were arguments both ways, one faction claiming that Mary and some of her noble followers were party to the murder, the other holding that she was innocent: the crime had been organized by rebellious noblemen, Mary's enemies.
Chris had a third proposition, and the pith of it was this: He went back to the day when a group of Scottish noblemen, led by Darnley, broke into her room at Holyrood where she was playing cards. They murdered with their daggers David Rizzio, her secretary, musician and close friend, of whom Darnley had become exceedingly jealous. Rizzio was Italian, gifted, ambitious. His family came from Turin.
According to Chris's novel, the murder of Darnley was arranged by Rizzio's family as an act of revenge. David Rizzio had brought to the Queen's court in Edinburgh his younger brother Jacopo, who was at the center of the plot.
Chris didn't trouble to believe this theory one way or another, but he felt it would make a good story. It was to be an excitingly written novel, in addition to its originality. It was to be popular.
Leaving aside the story, of which Rowland was at present unaware, he had scrutinized the first fifteen pages of Chris's book at the same time as he experienced a choking sensation. No, no, this could not be, this is good, very expert. It can't be Chris's work—the logic doesn't hold that he could set such a scene. Something will have to go wrong. Root it out, stop it. And "Oh, my God," thought Rowland, "what am I thinking?"
Videos
