Jack Ames Boughton, soi-disant prodigal son of a Presbyterian preacher, is conjured on this new novel with a literary magician’s finesse: Jack has the sort of presence one ascribes to nice stage actors; he looms, he introspects, he fascinates, he disappoints, and he compels. His voice, the one which continued in Robinson’s head, is quickly lodged in ours – Robinson is a virtuoso of dialogue.
She can also be structurally daring: the novel’s opening scene is a quick, fraught trade between Jack and Della, articulate daughter of an African Methodist Episcopal preacher, and ends with a disgraced Jack returning Della’s copy of Hamlet to her doorstep. A 12 months later, inside a darkening cemetery, they encounter each other once more. Della is there accidentally (inadvertently locked in after closing time), Jack by intent (it’s considered one of his nocturnal haunts). And for 79 pages Robinson sustains a dialogue between these two.
The cemetery is a locked, green-black place, half enchanted, half threatening. Within the nonetheless segregated post-World Battle II metropolis of St Louis, Missouri, their being caught there collectively would imply shame and dismissal for Della, a trainer on the esteemed Sumner Excessive College, and doable re-incarceration for Jack, whose carelessness has already earned him a quick spell in jail.
So the construction is established: black girl, white man falling in ill-fated love (Della’s imposing preacher father will show implacably opposed). And Jack, having already shamed his household and ever-forgiving father with calamitous irresponsibility, faces the prospect of tragedy, of doing hurt to a lady whose presence, and whose calm is redemptive grace to him: ‘‘She mentioned nothing, learning his face forthrightly, as she will surely by no means have studied anybody in circumstances her manners had ready her for. He let her look, not even reducing his eyes. He was ready to see what she would make of him, as they are saying. After which he could be what she manufactured from him.’’
‘‘Forthright’’ is the phrase for Della, and the essence of her significance for Jack. She loves with out illusions. And her voice, ‘‘tender and delicate’’ like Cordelia’s, tells him truths. The allusions to Shakespeare all through the novel come as naturally as rain, simply half, just like the scriptural references, of Robinson’s experiential vocabulary. And the novel’s ostensible structural engine – the stress inherent in black-white American inter-action – isn’t cranked into operation. It’s simply there, an unavoidable aspect of American expertise, of the world Robinson inhabits. She writes to know, to light up, to not grandstand.
It’s so straightforward to be distracted by American stereotypes, by America’s personal habits of typifying, or exceptionalising itself. Robinson’s novels are stringent correctives. Her Iowa, her Missouri, her Kansas, her Illinois are actual locations, not the locales of fantasy (or political alternative). And what she writes about them is explicit, and infrequently stunning.
As one character places it: ‘‘It wasn’t so way back man needed to anchor a raft in the course of the Mississippi River to show our youngsters at high-school stage, as a result of it was unlawful to try this in Missouri and in Illinois.’’
However the love story – and it’s transcendently that – makes one ponder, with Jack, a perennial thriller, one which leaves us with hope: ‘‘… how one human being can imply a lot to a different, by way of peace and assurance, as if loyalty have been as actual as gravity.’’