Evan S. Connell’s Mr Bridge was the subject of my previous post; today I intend completing this assessment of his 1969 novel about an emotionally repressed Kansas City lawyer (with his mantra ‘there is nothing to discuss’) and his family, who along with everyone he encounters largely cause him to feel exasperated, angry, bewildered or embarrassed.
I ended last time like with reference to Mr Bridge’s unsettling relationships with his children, especially Ruth, and in his inconsistent – even hypocritical – attitudes to sexuality. This will be the theme of this post.
We see a far more rebellious side to his children in Mr Bridge than we do in the earlier novel. Mrs Bridge showed his son Douglas’s stubbornness, and this reappears in different ways here, causing Mr Bridge to reflect that the boy’s ‘despotic obstinacy’ is a trait they share. Carolyn, the younger daughter, is in many ways similar. Ruth’s insubordination is therefore more shattering for him. When she provokes him in ch. 72 by asking for a loan to help a friend obtain an abortion he slaps her ‘across the mouth’. Afterwards he’s appalled:
He could not believe he had struck her…When she was a baby he had held her in his arms while she was falling asleep. There were nights when nothing more than the knowledge of her existence had been enough to waken him so that he had gotten out of bed and gone to the crib to watch over her.
After such a tender memory, it’s perhaps more shocking and truthful when his barely suppressed illicit sexual impulses are revealed. In ch. 59 the almost effaced narrator that Connell employs presents us with a disconcerting scene when Mr Bridge voyeuristically ‘watched attentively’ as Ruth sunbathed in the back yard in her bathing suit, oiling her skin.
But his behaviour afterwards is even more troubling. Mrs Bridge enters the bedroom from where he’s watching and he kisses her violently; she pulls away, but he forces her towards the bed ‘while she murmured doubtfully’. As usual there is no narrative mediation or comment on this event (almost rape?), which makes it all the more shocking – a technique that I’ve shown to be effective in different ways at other points in both the novels.
When Ruth later defies his anti-swearing rule in the house he’s disturbed by her again: ‘She had never been more beautiful’, the narrative ingenuously informs us:
He was shaken by the sight of her, and he knew he loved her in a way he could not ever love the other children, perhaps because she was the first, or because of the strange darkness in her which he could feel also within himself.
This scene shows yet another example of his failure to confront or reflect on his own feelings; they tend to come refracted through the prism of his family.
But it’s Ruth’s own increasingly defiant sexual activity that causes the most severe crises in Mr Bridge’s psyche. In ch. 84 he catches her having sex in the lounge at four in the morning. She’s unmoved by his outrage, and her defiance takes him aback: he realises ‘he was attempting to cry’ for the first time since he was a child, but can only manage to cough. ‘Things are different now,’ she announces calmly. He disagrees:
‘Love, respect and human decency – these never change. Your mother and I have these things.’
‘Good for you’.
Ruth challenges him again when she announces she wants to leave Kansas City:
She wanted more out of life than raising children in the suburbs…while her husband climbed the ladder.
He knows he can’t stop her, and is heartbroken, but the narrator as always refrains from telling us this. We perceive it instead when he shows Mr Bridge’s disappointment when Ruth writes home from New York in letters clearly directed at her mother, not at him. His feeling of elation when she does write to him alone at his office address disappears when it’s apparent that she’s simply to tapping him for money. And he knows, for once, that ‘buying her love’ won’t do.
Another Humbert Humbert moment arises in ch. 98 when he sees an acquaintance’s daughter resembling Ruth:
Desire for his own daughter had surged from the depths where it must be concealed.
This echoes the scene I wrote about last time when he argued with Grace Barron. There too the almost-absent narrator told us ‘He did not like the feeling that swept through him…’ as she challenged his views. In this way Connell presents Mr Bridge as almost a victim of his passions; it’s not that he’s incapable of powerful, even illicit emotions, but that they come unbidden and surge out of control through him. Similar incidents occur when he takes his wife on holiday to Europe.
It shouldn’t spoil the ending if I finish with an examination of it here: the novel has no linear plot to speak of, just an accumulation of contiguous, revealing vignettes. In the final chapter, as Mr Bridge detaches himself from a church service, he reflects on the words of the hymn they’re singing, ‘Joy to the World’:
Evidently he had experienced joy. He asked himself if he had ever known it. If so, he could not remember. But he thought he must have known it…but it must have been a long time ago. Satisfaction, yes, and pleasure of several sorts, and pride, and possibly a feeling which might be called ‘rejoicing’ after some serious worry or problem had been resolved. There were many such feelings, but none of them should be called ‘joy’. He remembered enthusiasm, hope, and a kind of jubilation or exultation. Cheerfulness, yes, and joviality, and the brief gratification of sex. Gladness, too, fullness of heart, appreciation, and many other emotions. But not joy. No, that belonged to simpler minds.
With these partly verbless, truncated lines the narrative ends with a final stream of our protagonist’s free indirect thought. As always Connell refrains from commenting on the scene. What makes the two novels so compelling is that we are required to scrutinise what we’re presented with by the narrator, whose reticence resembles Mr Bridge’s own. Mr Bridge’s self-congratulatory sense of superiority is paradoxically blended with intermittent thoughts that he has somehow been cheated by life. Maybe he’s a little like Emma Bovary, too: like his wife, he has fleeting near-epiphanies in which he senses that there must be something else, something more.