The Jasmine Farm by Elizabeth von Arnim

At Shillerton that week-end, the week-end before Whitsuntide, they had gooseberry tart—or is it pie? Daisy Midhurst, in whose house it was eaten, never quite knew, but anyhow it was the thing with pastry on its top instead of its bottom,—for luncheon on Sunday; and it was a hot gooseberry tart, because pastry is better hot, though gooseberries are worse; and the guests, having eaten it were hot too, and not only hot but uncomfortable; for the gooseberries, on whose sourness no amount of sugar flung and cream emptied had the least effect, almost immediately, on getting inside them, began to ferment. 

 
Daisy Midhurst, normally known to be an impeccable host, serves her guests underripe gooseberries. Serving them once is a mistake any hostess could make. Perhaps not someone of Lady Midhurst’s standards, though one might take comfort in the fact that even she makes mistakes now and again. But when the gooseberries appear at each successive meal, the guests start to wonder, and talk among themselves… 

This novel isn’t just about what happens over the course of the weekend, which is what I had been expecting going in. The story really starts at the tail end of the weekend when Daisy’s daughter, Terry, makes a fateful slip of the tongue about her mother’s secretary, Andrew, to old Mr. Topham, endearingly referred to as Topsy, and known to be “the chief of the London leakers”.

“Any other of her men friends would have died sooner than tell on her. Theoretically Mr. Topham, too, would have died. He couldn’t, however, help himself. He was made that way. Leak he must, and leak he did” (104).

Just like that, the secret is out, and while no one can quite believe it of the girl, they can’t entirely dismiss the rumour about Terry and Andrew as untrue, either.

From an English country house to the south of France, this story covers such unexpected topics for a book published in 1934, as extramarital affairs and blackmail, and, perhaps more anticipated, love, forgiveness, and the complexities of marriage. As usual Elizabeth von Arnim does a number on the married state, but with a lightness and humour that is all her own. 

Daisy’s husband is dead, but we get a glimpse of the couple on their honeymoon, and the first time they came across the jasmine farm that Midhurst would buy for his wife.

A reserved girl, his Daisy, and becoming, it seemed to him, every minute more reserved. Bad, that was, in a bride. Brides, in his opinion, if there was to be any real fun, should be headlong. He had never had one before, but in spite of his youth was experienced in that which, if legalized, would have been brides, and knew what he was talking about. Waste of time, held Midhurst, to be ladylike in bed; keep that for interviewing the housekeeper. Till the day the Napier broke down in the lane that ran through what they afterwards learned was a jasmine farm, Daisy had been very ladylike in bed, giving him to understand by her recoils and her silences, that he was no gentleman. (168)

In the present, Daisy has run away from London, and the scandal around her daughter, to the jasmine farm they owned, but had never been to since. The farm has been cared for by a man named, Adolphe, and the house remains just as they left it more than twenty years ago, right down to Midhurst’s yellow pyjama’s which are still lying folded on his pillow.

All these years they had been utterly forgotten, but now with what vividness she remembered him in them, coming out of the little dressing room opposite, his fair hair, so like Terry’s tousled, and taking a flying leap on to the bed—a boy the same age as herself, but versed in many things of which she hadn’t an inkling.

Wasn’t this horrible? Could she sleep, side by side with Tom’s empty pyjamas? And he dead. Poor Tom dead. So long dead, poor little Tommy, while his pyjamas went on being as fresh and yellow as ever. (185)

This passage and the one previous, highlight the complexities of marriage at a time when men had more experience, or at least had access to knowledge of sex and all that marriage would entail, while women, especially in the upper classes, were sheltered and kept ignorant. Note how Daisy is both repulsed by the pyjamas and feels almost a tenderness towards them, as, in the same sentence, she refers to her husband as “a boy the same age as herself” behaving like a child and “his fair hair” recalling their daughter’s, and contrasting this childlike appearance with his knowledge “in many things of which she hadn’t an inkling”. Then her next feeling is tenderness towards “little Tommy”, while still wanting the physical reminder of him, the pyjamas, to be taken out of her sight and in fact the next thing she does is calls for the servant to remove them.

We see this abhorrence and horror at the physical side of marriage again and again in Elizabeth von Arnim’s novels. There is often a comedic bent to the telling, but the feeling of discomfort is no less potent. This dislike of marriage is present in a number of women in this novel. See the thoughts on love by Mumsie, the mother of Rosie, who is Andrew’s wife.

Love, too, that such a fuss was made over. Nothing in that, either. She supposed she had had as much of it as most women, first and last, yet she wouldn’t be surprised if she hadn’t really had any. Not love. Not what you’d call love. However pleased one was each time at the beginning, fancying one had got hold of the real thing at last, it always turned out to be nothing but just another husband. If you married him or didn’t marry him, it made no difference. She had tried it all ways. Lovers didn’t exist, only husbands. By the third morning, when the bickering began, the man didn’t live who wasn’t indistinguishable from a husband. (233)

I love that line, “it always turned out to be nothing but just another husband”. Elizabeth von Arnim is so good at these humorous turns of phrase. Initially, it isn’t clear if Mumsie is talking about sex or something more innocent, until the end of this passage where she refers to “the third morning” when talking about men all being like husbands even when they aren’t husbands in the traditional sense. While we get the sense that Mumsie may enjoy sex to the extent that she is willing to welcome a man into her bed without being bound to him by marriage, we can see that men have been a disappointment to her, as they have for Daisy.

There is also a very funny exchange between two women near the end of the novel. I will resist the urge to share it here, but it makes the point quite clearly that life without a husband is preferable to life with one.

From what we find out about Rosie, she isn’t a fan of the physical aspect of marriage either. Both Rosie and her mother seem to be solely interested in Rosie’s marriage for what they can get out of it without having to put much in. Rosie, in fact, seems to prefer being left out of it. It’s Mumsie who acts the part of puppet master, keeping things running smoothly between the couple, especially once Andrew’s affair comes to light.

“And if, said Mumsie, Andrew as a husband was a wash-out, and didn’t do any of the things he ought to have done for a wife like Rosie—dress her, pet her, flaunt her,—the way of peace lay in laughing and forgetting it” (47).

Meanwhile Daisy is “sprawling on the sofa” (201), “bored dead” (202) at being stuck in the flat in the days following the affair coming out. “Why should she, Rosie, have to spend a whole summer day cooped up in doors, waiting for these developments?” (202).

While I have focused on the representations of marriage in this novel, there is an interesting dynamic between mothers and daughters. It cannot be an accident that we have two sets on either side of this affair, Terry and her mother, Daisy, and Rosie and her mother, Mumsie. Both mothers are widows, which Elizabeth von Arnim uses to both humours and potent effect. This book might not put marriage in a positive light, but in contrast it does emphasize the care and investment that mothers make in their daughters’ lives. 

Daisy’s husband died in the First World War, so he doesn’t feature in the present drama with Terry, but he does indirectly effect Daisy’s reaction to the news that her daughter is having an affair with a married man. Daisy is horrified, and quickly flees London for France. It seems like an overreaction from a spoiled, sheltered woman who cares more about appearances than she cares about her only child with whom she is supposed to have a close relationship. That is until you consider that Daisy's husband was known for his affairs. He would flaunt his relationships in public, not even bothering to hide his mistresses from his wife. In addition to knowing her husband had started cheating on her not long after they returned from their honeymoon, she had the additional upset of having all of London privy to their marital discord. After Midhurst’s death, Daisy and her daughter drew closer, making Terry’s actions all the more hurtful to her mother. Not only because Terry kept this huge secret from Daisy, but because Terry would be both acting as Midhurst did in disrespecting the married state, as well as causing discord in a marriage. Aligning her daughter with Midhurst's mistresses, must have done Daisy's head in.

I read this book along with my friend, Gina. In fact, she sent me this book so we could read it together. She is @babsbelovedbooks on Instagram and blogs over at ‘Babs' Beloved Books’. We have read a number of Elizabeth von Arnim’s books together and it’s always a pleasure to have someone with whom to share ideas about her writing. And thank you for being here, too. It's a joy and a privilege to have so many fellow book lovers to talk with about books.

It would be remiss of me if I didn't share any of Elizabeth von Arnim’s delightful descriptions of nature in this review, so I'll close with this short passage I marked. 

It was very quiet; a hot summer afternoon, hardly stirring in its sleep. Over the hills lay blandness. The single cypress might have been carved in black stone, it stood so motionless. The grass in the olive-grove below the wall was patched with lovely lights, and all the fields were spread with jasmine. (177)