Given the cultural changes over the better part of a century since Excellent Women’s publication in 1952, the proportion of readers who are or have been church volunteers is probably lower now than when the novel first came out. Fewer of us have therefore experienced being pressured to join altar guilds, sit on fundraising committees, or bake for the refreshment table at a church rummage sale. However, as a member of that shrinking minority—I’ve been the churchwarden of a small Anglican parish for over a decade—this book’s scathingly humorous depiction of women whose time is consumed by the endless minutiae of church-related tasks felt uncomfortably personal, if not pointed. Without dwelling too much on possible points of resemblance between my life and that of the main character Mildred Lathbury, it is certainly true that reading Excellent Women made me cackle with recognition at the human foibles exposed to Pym’s merciless eye.
Mildred, who has been relegated to old maid status in her early thirties, leads a spartan and strictly regulated existence in her flat in “a shabby part of London” until her life is upended by the arrival of a volatile married couple, the Napiers, downstairs. To Mildred, who regards unwashed breakfast dishes as a sign of disorder verging on total collapse, Helen Napier’s lax housekeeping is appalling, and her professional career as an anthropologist highly suspect. Soon Mildred is infiltrating the Napier household to perform all the little tasks that she regards as feminine duties, from washing up the dishes to soothing the moods of Helen’s petulant husband Rocky. This goes on to the point that, when the couple eventually break up, they even ask her to organise and label their furniture for the moving company.
Although Mildred seems to regard romantic relationships through a haze of sentimental idealism, she is aware enough to realise that her selflessness has not been rewarded by any kind of interest from Rocky. The other relationship prospects who enter Mildred’s orbit are distinctly uninspiring, including Helen’s anthropological colleague Everard Bone, whose version of asking her out is to suggest that she come over and cook for him. Mildred also discovers that the parish gossip mill has linked her to the rector, who seems willing to take her on as his second choice after his engagement to a young widow ends in ignominy. These options, the novel suggests, are the best that a woman like Mildred can hope for.
The assumption of everyone around Mildred seems to be that unmarried women’s constant busy-ness is meant to fill the void created by the absence of the all-important romantic relationship. It’s true that a lot of their work in the novel, such as meeting their own rigorous tidiness standards, seems to be invented to give otherwise empty lives meaning. For example, when in a moment of boldness Mildred seizes control of the church rummage sale committee from the parish’s lazy vicar, she discovers that the committee has no decisions to make, since the volunteers already know their roles perfectly. Deprived of any purpose, the committee dissolves in confusion. However, for every fussy task that amounts to little more than make-work, there are a dozen small acts of conscientiousness or comfort (like replacing the toilet paper in the bathroom, to name one that particularly exercises Mildred) that are actually essential to the smooth and pleasant flow of others’ everyday lives. Modern feminists have pointed out how these minor tasks --re-stocking the pantry, scheduling appointments, organising a birthday card for a co-worker-- tend to fall disproportionately on women, who receive scant recognition or recompense for such work. With cutting wit, Excellent Women lays bare this invisible and undervalued labour, illuminating a social inequity that unfortunately did not end with the novel’s 1940s setting. It exposes the hypocrisy of a society that calls women like Mildred Lathbury pathetic, even while depending on them to function at all.
Mildred’s first-person narration is delightful to read. Though mild-tempered and always ready to excuse the injustices visited upon her, she is a shrewd observer and often seems to join in the author’s irony. Ultimately, though, the novel does not provide a thrilling moment of liberation for its protagonist: Mildred never escapes from the ‘helpful drudge’ pigeonhole into which she has been shoved. In the final chapters the Napiers, now reconciled with one another, are finally replaced as tenants by two women (possibly a couple) who somehow combine feminine conscientiousness—scrupulously contributing toilet paper for the shared bathroom—with a contentedness and sense of purpose that seem inexplicable to Mildred. This encounter with lives not devoted in service to men leaves her feeling not liberated, but more depressed than ever.
Pym seems to suggest that, so long as women’s oppression is reinforced by their own ideas about correct female behaviour, change will be extremely difficult. This thesis is borne out by the evidence of the seventy-odd years since this novel first appeared. However, if the struggle (and the drudgery) can sometimes seem unending, at least we can resort to the antidotes of humour and clear-eyed fury in this caustically charming comedy.--Mary Thaler
