Geraldine Brooks 'Heroism In Year Of Wonders'

SAMPLE ESSAY – ‘Year of Wonders’

‘Heroism is a feature of ‘Year of Wonders’, but so is its reverse.’ Discuss

What is it to be a hero / heroine? Is it just a matter of goodness? Is it possible for someone whose character is flawed – or suddenly revealed to be flawed - to still retain this status? Geraldine Brooks’ novel, ‘Year of Wonders’ leaves us with such questions and reminds us that these are complex considerations. A ‘hero’ (or ‘heroine’) can be defined as, “a person who is greatly admired for their noble actions and nobility of spirit”. In terms of ‘Year of Wonders’, we can flesh this out more clearly – those we deem ‘heroic’ are seen as such because of their selfless devotion to the welfare of others. They serve others without
complaint and with little concern for themselves. They show strength and courage in the face of loss and disaster. They take control of their lives and assist others to manage theirs and they are motivated by a tireless commitment to doing the right thing. Little wonder these qualities are greatly admired.

All of this is undoubtedly a very tall ask of anyone in society. As Brooks suggests, very few of us would ever be able to claim this title – something that is reflected in her novel in the fact that only three (and possibly two?), by its end, could be said to truly fit into this exemplary category. In the case of Anna and Elinor, the jury is clear – they fully deserve to be called heroines, especially as their flaws – such as they are – are lone, minor ones (Anna’s is limited to her showing, during her terrible grief, a liking for opium to smooth away her pain; Elinor’s – a ‘crime’ from years before – the killing of her unborn baby in her ruthless wounding of herself, out of shame). In the case of the third candidate – Michael Mompellion - things are a little more complex. Michael shares all of the qualities of the other two in his commitment to the village and his tireless work to save it. However, his terrible revelation at the novel’s end confounds the readers’ initial wish to label him as ‘heroic’. We need to step back and think a little more about this. We need to ask ourselves, ‘does one action, that is so deeply disturbing, cut him out forever from all other accolades? Could Michael still be called a ‘hero’, in spite of what what he has done to his wife and in spite our protagonist’s (and our?) new dislike for him?’ In part our reaction to Mompellion is drawn from our response to the saintly Elinor whose goodness deserves no cruelty – from him or anyone else – so there is a prejudice against him immediately, when we realise he has been ‘punishing’ her for years. Is all of this enough to put him in a more culpable light? Probably not. After all he does what he does to her out of the misguided belief that he is morally (after all, he is her rector) responsible for her soul and that he is ‘saving’ her – not out of some malicious, or cruel desire to hurt her. Besides, Mompellion remains one who has done much to ‘save’ the village, who has just as determinedly and tirelessly worked for his parishioners in any way he can, as we see in his going out at all hours of the day and night to sit by their bedsides, or to single-handedly dig their graves. He is also universally acknowledged for his service to the villagers and for his wisdom and good judgment, as is indicated when they so willingly accept his dramatic plan for the quarantine of the village. A strong case can be thus made for Michael’s inclusion into the company of ‘heroes’ in the novel, whatever else he might have done.

And what of Brooks’ other characters?
What can we say about them, either as ordinary people or exceptional ones? All of this, in its final analysis, depends very much on their actions and reactions to the events of the plague – what we see them doing in response to the horrors brought to the village by this fierce epidemic, and whether that is something, finally, to be admired. Brooks certainly weaves a moral landscape in and around the little village of Eyam. Some rise to the occasion with goodness, service and compassion, while others become even more self-concerned, more self-seeking and apparently more capable of nasty indifference to the sufferings of others – even to the point of exploitation. All of this provides a strong backdrop to the novel against which, set in high relief, are two distinct camps – those we admire and those we do not. Central to this is the novel’s protagonist – and yes, ‘heroine’ –
Anna.
Anna Frith is not the woman she later becomes when we meet her at its beginning, though we can see snippets of what she will be. The novel opens with her tending concernedly to the needs of a detached and despairing Michael Mompellion, the village’s rector. He is grieving for his murdered wife and appears to have lost all faith in himself, in his God and, by now, in anyone’s capacity to ‘save’ the village from the ravages of the plague. In a telling image in the first few pages, Anna observes that his hand has fallen from the Bible by his side – a metaphor that suggests this no longer sustains or guides him. Anna, by contrast, from the first, is strong and relentless, give or take a wobble or two after the deaths of her family. She is persistent in her efforts to tend to him. She is also, by this stage, a person who makes up her own mind and we have, in the little scene in the stable in Chapter One, a strong sense of her innate courage as well. Here she fearlessly enters the stall of the great horse, Anteros, despite the obvious threat the horse represents, talking to him and soothing him all the while. This is no young, timid girl and, as the novel unfolds, we see even more of these qualities. Despite her terrible grief, Anna, with the help and encouragement of her friend, Elinor Mompellion, undertakes ministering to the people of the village in their need. Both women take on the mantle of the village’s medical care, by learning plant lore and herbalism, acting as mid-wives, salving the pain and suffering of those afflicted by the plague and remaining at the bedsides of the sick and dying. They even assist the orphan child, Merry Wickford, to retain her rights, by digging all night in the bowels of the mine, so as to secure her claim. In the case of both of these women, these are no mean feats – especially when we consider the era in which the novel is set; when women were expected to live far more restricted and passive lives. Anna has her grief to contend with, and her fears, yet she willingly goes to the confinement of a woman with birthing complications, despite her memories of her mother’s death in childbirth, and the forever-painful memories of her own, now dead, young ‘babies’. She goes down into a mine very much like the one that killed her husband, Sam – overcoming yet another fear and yet more terrible memories to do so. She is present at the attack on the Gowdies, and attempts to stand up to the hysterical, superstition-ridden crowd, to save the two women. She goes repeatedly into the plague houses and tends to the sick and dying with little self-concern. And she does all of this in a positive and loving, and mostly cheerful way. Only once does she falter in the face of the loss of her beloved children: when she steals the poppies from which the numbing opium is distilled, but, to her credit, she later gives up this opiate – realising that it is no solution to her troubles and that she must go on regardless, whatever life brings. Clearly this is another example of her heroic strength of character.

Elinor is not far behind this – in fact she could be said to be just a different version of Anna. She – despite her genteel background – puts on no airs and graces, but treats all – Anna included – equally lovingly. She, like Anna, takes on the care of the villagers in just the same ways, as well as supporting her husband and acting, at times, as his moral compass and support. Elinor is painted in the novel very much like a saint – she seems incapable of anything bad – is always gently spoken, quietly persistent and tireless, despite her much more fragile constitution. It is a definite shock, at the end of the novel, to have her ‘secret’ revealed – a disturbing act by any standards, with its two fold consequences (the murder of her unborn child and the permanent damage to herself). However, the purpose of this revelation is not to have us think any less of her; rather we see how she has silently and stoically done her penance for all these years and, while what she did may well be seen as terrible, she has by now atoned for this. Elinor, interestingly, is no less a saint and no less heroic for her revelation. While we are horrified by such a maddened action, we could also see it as punishment of herself most of all and as an indicator of a fierce strength of character in her. She is obviously (however delicate she appears) one strong woman and perhaps it is the same kind of strength (if kinder?) that has her commit to others’ welfare later – a determination, against all odds to do what has to be done. When Elinor is murdered, another layer is added to her attributes and to how we see her. In a sense, she becomes martyr to her cause and some would claim that this is ultimately the most heroic act of all to die in the service of others. A fitting end, perhaps for one so saintly?

No one else in the novel comes close to these three, though they do provide us with interesting contrasts that highlight the qualities (however impossible for us mere mortals) of heroism.
Against these we have juxtaposed the very reverse, in characters such a Joss Bont, his wife Aphra and the self-serving nasty piece of work that is Colonel Bradford. Joss is all about himself and Aphra not far behind him. He has a suspect history with Anna, who had suffered at his hand for years, before the story opens, and he deals the same treatment out to his other children, when it suits him. He is depicted as lazy, opportunist and a drunkard. He is greedy, scheming and exploitative, when the opportunity arises (as when he becomes the village grave digger) and he is not – as we see in the case of Christopher Unwin – above killing to get what he wants. If heroes are admired for their nobility of spirit, Joss is feared and despised for his lack of it. Few shed tears for him when he dies in the stowe, having been left there as punishment for his heinous crimes. Aphra is in some ways a sadder character, her one redeeming feature being her love for her children, but her dependence on Joss and her willingness to be his ‘partner in crime’ does little to save her from our critical judgment. Bradford (and his family not much less?) is arguably the least likeable and admired character in the novel. He shares many of the characteristics of Joss, but perhaps has less reason for being as he is,
given that he is wealthy and not driven to do unspeakable things just to survive. Bradford is supremely arrogant and self-serving, added to which he cruelly leaves others to their fate, with not even a backward glance (as we see in the fates of Maggie Cantwell and the pantry boy, Brand. There is no appeal that Mompellion can make to have him be more considerate of other or more committed to their welfare. In Brooks’ moral landscape, Bradford comes off the least well of all. His weakness of character, particularly his need to run, when the going gets tough, condemns him out of hand. There is absolutely nothing ‘heroic’ or ‘admirable’ about Colonel Bradford.

Heroism is a difficult position to attain and an even harder one to maintain. It is much easier to categorise all those who fail to reach this level of exalted human behaviour. We may not, in the final analysis of our own lives, ever quite be an Elinor, or an Anna, but hopefully we can aspire to some of their attributes, resilience most of all?