The Cloister and the Hearth

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In the Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Archive at the Harry Ransom Center in Austin, Texas, there is a document list of Doyle's 18 favourite things. When asked who his favourite heroine in fiction was, he replied, "Margaret" in Cloister and Hearth. [2] One of Reade's goals was to put flesh (or, a story) on the dusty bones of forgotten names in history, which is a very interesting idea. How many times do we read our own genealogies, only to just let the names glaze us over and we fail to grasp that these were living, breathing human beings at one point just as we are? The story is about two lovers, Gerard Eliassoen and Margaret Brandt. Gerard is training to be a monk, but he soon becomes enamoured by Margaret, the daughter of a herbalist. Faced with serious opposition that leads to his arrest, Gerard decides to flee the country and to meet with Margaret in Italy. Arthur Machen, in his short story "The Islington Mystery, [3] contrasted the work with George Eliot's Romola:

being on the road with Gerard. I love a good Chaucerian journey with changing travelling companions, dangers and tales shared between the characters. Rudyard Kipling, discussing his masterpiece Kim (in his autobiography Something of Myself) said he had wanted to write something “worthy to lie alongside” Cloister. ‘Not being able to do this, I dismissed the ambition as ‘beneath the thinking mind. So does a half-blind man dismiss shooting and golf.’

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The writing style was a challenge but one that brought deep engagement and attention from my side. I was so well gripped in the story that it didn’t even matter that some words were not found in the translation application, so I had to go by guessing and interpreting according to my taste, mood and opportunity. I think I was right, in most cases though 😂 Reade’s writing almost choked me with his clear cut, edgy irony and satire. Well, that’s poor fool me for being an unlearned reader ;) so I thank him so much more and even for knowing my own’s frailty and absurdity…O my, novice of novices! It is the latter half of the fifteenth century, and twenty-two year old Gerard Eliassoen is the eldest of nine children of Elias, a cloth merchant, and his wife Catherine of Tergou, Holland. His next two younger brothers, Richart and Jacob, have left for work in Amsterdam. Another brother became a tailor, and his oldest sister a robe maker. That left four others at home, the dwarf Giles, the crippled Kate, and the two youngest, Cornelis and Sybrant, both ne’er-do-wells. Gerard has been taught by the monks, became a scribe and illuminator, and is destined for service in the Church. However, on the way to a contest in Rotterdam, where some of his work has been entered, he meets Peter Brandt, a physician from the nearby village of Sevenbergen, and immediately falls in love with the doctor’s daughter Margaret. They also run across Ghysbrecht van Swieten, Burgomaster of Tergou, who years before had secretly cheated Peter’s father out of a huge sum of money. It is said that speech is the familiar vent of human thoughts, but Life is an intermittent fever, and there are emotions so simple and overpowering that they rush out not in words, but eloquent sounds. In the longer journey of it, there are days that come by with passions and perils, by fits and starts, and as it were, in clusters. And yes, I would candidly confess, this novel also made me sob single-mindedly. It is indeed a glorious book, it has all, all in all together, and especially vivid unforgettable adventures, marvellous occurrences, that can hardly be ever dismissed from human’s fancy :) I am surely one of his greatest fans now!

Not a day passes over the earth, but men and women of no note do great deeds, speak great words, and suffer noble sorrows. Of these obscure heroes, philosophers and martyrs, the greater part will never be known till that hour, when many that are great shall be small, and the small great; but of others the world's knowledge may be said to sleep: their lives and characters lie hidden from nations in the annals that record them. The general reader cannot feel them, they are presented so curtly and coldly: they are not like breathing stories appealing to his heart, but little historic hailstones striking him but to glance off his bosom: nor can he understand them; for epitomes are not narratives, as skeletons are not human figures." There were always priests, monks and other clergy to be found, and they were either ascetic or corrupt – rarely anything inbetween. Women could be lewd, shrewish, strong-minded or virginal, but essentially dependent on their menfolk. Taverns and prostitutes were a-plenty. Aristocrats were noble or dishonest, not much else. Poor people were subservient and loyal. there was the dwarf, slit and fanged from ear to ear at his expense, and laughing like a lion. (think Victor Hugo 'The Man Who Laughs' and in turn think The Joker from Batman stories) What is more, few medieval stories do not contain aristocrats, soldiers, servants, fair maidens and clergymen. To call these clichés or tropes is almost to underestimate the importance of these fictional conventions. They are the only story of the age. They are almost literally present in any tale about medieval times, no matter who the writer or artist is. However, after finishing the book, I felt I had a little better understanding of the different medieval civilizations of Europe—France, Germany, Italy, Holland. I read strange and unusual vocabulary words. And best of all I felt the satisfaction of finishing something hard.

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past the middle of the fifteenth century; Louis XI was sovereign of France; Edward IV was wrongful king of England; and Philip "the Good," having by force and cunning dispossessed his cousin Jacqueline, and broken her heart, reigned undisturbed this many years in Holland, where our tale begins.

The scene with the gibbet wherein (haha) they stand under the decaying bodies of certain criminals and are regaled with the tales of how each poor soul was brought to this sorry end. Classic macabre medieval lit. Toothsome, that. Just some personal notes I started keeping before the eye-scorching set in. - the writer of fiction may be of use to the public—as an interpreter.The book was far too long, and I wished there was more about the Pilgrimage, but what a trip! I think I may have to actually read it next time, so I can spoon all those fragrant, steaming chunks of language manually into my brain. This pads out the book at the expense of any pacing, but perhaps this is as well, as there is not a lot of story to begin with. It is hard not to feel frustrated that the two lovers seem to spend decades before meeting up when a journey across Europe should not have taken more than a few months. This is achieved by the piling up of unlikely events designed to detain or deter Gerard from completing his travels. novel by Charles Reade 1893 poster by Edward Penfield advertising a US edition of The Cloister & the Hearth The Cloister and the Hearth', by Charles Reade, was published in 1861. It's a long and winding picaresque novel set in 15th century Europe, telling the story of the love between Gerard Eliason, an artist turned priest, and Margaret Brandt, the daughter of a poor scholar, and reflects the conflict between family and church which overshadowed the lives of so many in medieval times. Its uniqueness lies in the way Reade, having meticulously researched his subject and the period, gives us insights more detailed than any other writer of fiction into medieval lifestyles and morals, combined with vivid descriptions of his characters – many based on real historical figures – and locations. He deliberately strays towards a medieval writing style, with many an archaic word to tantalise the reader or listener (an education in itself). Until well into the twentieth century, ‘The Cloister and the Hearth’ was considered one of the greatest novels in the English language. Its popularity may have faded, but those who have read it will tell you of the enduring power of Reade’s tour de force. A revival is long overdue, and is deserved: it’s an exceptional book. - Summary by Tom Denholm Thus records of prime truths remain a dead letter to plain folk: the writers have left so much to the imagination, and imagination is so rare a gift. Here, then, the writer of fiction may be of use to the public--as an interpreter.