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Summary
Summary
Named one of the best books of 2019 by the Daily Mail , The Sunday Times (London), and the BBC
An utterly transporting and original historical novel about an eighteenth-century experiment in personal isolation that yields unexpected--and deeply, shatteringly human--results.
"The best kind of historical fiction. Alix Nathan is an original, with a virtuoso touch."
--Hilary Mantel
Herbert Powyss lives in an estate in the Welsh Marches, with enough time and income to pursue a gentleman's fashionable investigations and experiments in botany. But he longs to make his mark in the field of science--something consequential enough to present to the Royal Society in London. He hits on a radical experiment in isolation: For seven years a subject will inhabit three rooms in the basement of the manor house, fitted out with rugs, books, paintings, and even a chamber organ. Meals will arrive thrice daily via a dumbwaiter. The solitude will be totally unrelieved by any social contact whatsoever; the subject will keep a diary of his daily thoughts and actions. The pay: fifty pounds per annum, for life.
Only one man is desperate to apply for the job: John Warlow, a semi-literate laborer with a wife and six children to provide for. The experiment, a classic Enlightenment exercise gone more than a little mad, will have unforeseen consequences for all included.
Author Notes
ALIX NATHAN read English and Music at York University. She lives in the Welsh Marches, where she owns some ancient woodlands with her husband. She is the author of His Last Fire (2014), a story collection, and The Flight of Sarah Battle (2015), a novel.
Reviews (4)
Publisher's Weekly Review
Nathan's intriguing yet overlong U.S. debut tracks what happens after an experiment in late-18th-cenutry Wales goes awry. In 1793, the wealthy Herbert Powyss, seeking to "contribute something important to the sphere he so admired: natural philosophy, science," devises an experiment-to have a man live in total isolation for seven years in chambers deep under Powyss's Welsh estate. The incentive is A£50 per year for life, and only one man applies: the semiliterate, working-class John Warlow. Warlow is given ample comforts-the same food that Powyss eats (delivered via dumbwaiter) and any book he desires. But Warlow has little interest in reading and can barely write in the journal he's supposed to keep; he's more interested in the frogs he finds in his chambers. Complications further ensue when Powyss develops an affection for Hannah, Warlow's wife. Naturally, the experiment doesn't go as planned, but the novel never picks up a full head of steam, instead remaining largely static narratively and devoting ample page space to the servants on the estate. There are provocative wrinkles-such as whether it's an inevitability that Powyss was going to hate the man he is experimenting on-but the story takes too long to get where it's going and doesn't fully land once it does. Nathan's novel never fully lives up to its promising premise. (Aug.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.
Kirkus Review
An 18th-century Englishman tries to isolate a man in his manor's basement for years in the name of science. What could go wrong?Nathan's second novel (The Flight of Sarah Battle, 2016, etc.) is inspired by the true story of a man who offered 50 pounds a year for life to a man willing to live underground for seven years. But it's strongly informed by what we now know about solitary confinement, which is to say it's a doomed endeavor. Herbert, a bachelor landowner in the West Midlands, put out a call in 1793 for a man willing to live alone in a well-appointed but windowless basement room, where he'd have a comfortable bed and regular meals (served via dumbwaiter). He has one taker: John Warlow, a laborer struggling to support his wife and four children. He's barely literate, so the presence of Robinson Crusoe in the library is mockingly absurd, and the journal Herbert requires be filled for research purposes is barely scrawled in. Unsurprisingly, in time John grows confused and feral. What's happening downstairs clarifies the power lines and capacity for cruelty and chaos upstairs. The servants and gardeners on the estate see John's confinement as further proof of the need for the class revolution sweeping the country, while Herbert stubbornly digs in, determined to use John to justify his introversion. (Though Herbert's contact with John's wife, Hannah, complicates that attitude in multiple ways.) As an allegory of prison culture at its cruelest, Nathan's novel forces its conclusion, and one friend exists mainly to send Herbert finger-wagging letters, but overall the novel is a powerful rebuke to the notion that withholding compassion can somehow be corrective. Nathan's main strength is her keen characterizations of all involved, fully inhabiting Herbert's selfishness and John's confusion and slow, crushing descent.A sturdy historical novel about the perils of pseudoscience, revealing how selfishly oblivious we can be to facts and emotion alike. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Booklist Review
People can agree to strange things in the name of science. In John Warlow's case, he agrees to be isolated in relative comfort for seven years at the estate of Herbert Powyss. In return, he would receive an annual stipend of 50 British pounds per year for the rest of his life, providing well above his laborer's wages for his wife and six children. Powyss, a reclusive amateur botanist who dreams of larger contributions to the burgeoning world of science at the close of the eighteenth century, wants to explore how a human could survive in complete solitude. But despite his best efforts to make the experiment a success, which include the provision of a chamber organ in Warlow's rooms and listening tubes to give Powyss insight into what is happening, it is only a matter of time before the experiment goes terribly awry, with tragic consequences for everyone involved. Inventive and engrossing, this novel casts a glaring light on the so-called Age of Enlightenment and the realities that come crashing down on Powyss' high-minded pursuit of knowledge.--Bridget Thoreson Copyright 2010 Booklist
Library Journal Review
Herbert Powyss is a Welsh gentleman of means living at the close of the 18th century. His fortune allows him to pursue studies in botany, and he has made minor contributions in this field. However, he longs to leave his mark on history by conducting an experiment in human behavior whose results can be presented to the Royal Society of London. He wants to isolate a human subject from all human contact for seven years, promising a lifelong stipend at the end of the experiment. John Warlow, uneducated and almost unlettered, applies for the job. While the project proceeds for more than three years, the results are less than satisfactory. Meanwhile, the outside world also provides challenges for Powyss. Circumstances cause the experiment to be terminated abruptly, which leads to tragedy for everyone involved. VERDICT Nathan (The Flight of Sarah Battle), who bases this story on a real event reported in 1797, supplies the details to make her characters come alive, capturing the difficulties in human relationships (or lack thereof) and the tragic outcomes that can arise from unforeseen circumstances. All general readers will enjoy.--Joanna Burkhardt, Univ. of Rhode Island Libs., Providence
Excerpts
Excerpts
Excerpted from Chapter 1: Down and down. He sniffs dank air, listens to the man. Powyss. 'I'm providing plenty of fuel and kindling, Warlow. You'll have four baskets of wood a day and a scuttle of sea-coal. They'll come down in the morning. There's a tinder-box, oil-lamps, boxes of candles in that cupboard over there. The jar of lamp oil will be refilled each week, but that'll depend on your use of it. Send a note if you need more. 'I've tried out everything myself and it all works perfectly. Samuel, get a fire going for Warlow.' 'I makes my own fire !' 'Yes, of course, of course. But let's warm the place while I'm showing you round.' White cloth. Fork, spoon. Them's silver. Wine glass! Chair legs like bent knees; never sat on one of them. Look at it! Candlesticks all shone up. Brass. Pictures. Who's that in the mirror? Me is it? Him? 'Three meals a day, as I said. When Jenkins carves at table he'll dole out a serving for you and send it down by lift. I'm rather pleased with this. Over here. Look: you open it up and inside are two shelves. It's just a dumb waiter table but without legs and fixed to a pulley. Like hauling sacks up into the barn. 'Don't look dumbfounded, Warlow! It's quite big enough for trays, strong enough for the fuel box. Has to come a long way down but with covers the food should remain hot. Pull the cord to send back empty dishes. Ring the bell first to alert them in the kitchen.' Powyss moves to the other side of the room. He follows, dog-like. 'Here's the organ.' Organ ? Powyss opens the doors of a cupboard. Not a cupboard. Metal pipes stand in order. Big ones, little ones. Powyss lifts the lid on the keys. His fingers are thin, very clean. What's him want me to do now? 'The case of this chamber organ is walnut. Beautifully made. I hope it will amuse you, Warlow. It's a good one; I tried several and this was certainly the best. While you play you pump with your feet to keep the air going through the pipes. Not too heavily. You don't want to crack the underboard.' He sits. Feet up and down, treading. It wheezes like an old woman. 'See?' He plays a tune, humming with it. 'The conquering hero! That'll keep you in the right mood.' 'Couldn't never do that.' 'Mm. Well, you can sing, can't you? You could pick out the notes of a tune with one finger.' I sings in the Dog . The others'd laugh at this ! Looks away, sheepish. 'Of course I didn't know who would take up the offer. There's a whole folder of music: more Handel, hymns, J.C. Bach. But no matter. 'Now, come this way. This little room's the bathroom. Water comes into the bath from the cistern. Turn the tap.' 'Bath? Sir?' 'I know there'll be no one to see you, but you'll want to wash yourself. Even without grime from fields and horses and so on. Your beard and hair will grow long. Remember? No cutting. There are no scissors, no knives. You couldn't cut your own hair anyway, could you?' Gabble, gabble. Him's gabblin like a goose can't stop. Not drunk though. Don't get drunk not him. Powyss looks him up and down. 'Hmm. You may find the bathtub a tight fit, Warlow. But look, here's the soap, Military Cake, nothing too perfumed. Tooth-brush, powder. When you need replenishments you must ask. Do that by writing a note, then ring the bell and send it up. The water's cold of course. At one time that was thought to be very good for the health, but the bath's not so far from the fire. The cistern's over there to one side. Keep an eye on it, please.' They wander back. Fire's blazing merrily. 'Send up your dirty linen. Send up your pot from the close-stool.' Pot! Close-stool ! He looks down. Sees his feet, his great clogs. Powyss's leather shoes. Small for a man. 'What work'll I do, sir?' 'Living here will be your work. Living here for seven years. For the sake of knowledge, of science: to see how you fare without human society. Your name will become known, Warlow! You'll become famous. 'Think of hermits who choose to live on their own for the rest of their lives, let alone seven years. Still, hermits spend their days in prayer and I'm not employing you to do that.' He breaks off. 'Do you believe in God, Warlow?' 'I goes to church Christmastide.' 'Well, never mind, I'm not quizzing you. Rarely go myself. I've put a bible here among the books, though. That could occupy you for seven years at least!' He laughs, uneasy-like. Wish him'd go, let me get on with it. 'Keep the place tidy and swept, won't you. There are brooms, everything you need of that nature. Wind the clock every eighth day and note the date or you'll lose track of time. This is the date hand. See, it shows which day of the month it is. If the chimes get on your nerves stop winding that side.' Can't remember all that . 'Read the books and ask for any others you fancy. I've chosen them carefully. But I have a large library; you can ask for anything you like.' 'Never read a book.' ' Blessed is he that readeth ! And now you'll have the time to do it. You can read, can't you? You said you could. And write? Of course you can, you signed the contract. There are pens, ink, paper and a journal. See, here's the first, 1793. Please keep the journal. I'll send a new one each year. Keeping it will help you and be crucial for me when I write everything up to send to the Royal Society.' 'Journal, what is that, Mr Powyss, sir?' 'You write in it what you do each day. First you write the date, then what has happened that day or you write what you're thinking. Nothing very difficult. It's a good thing you had some schooling.' 'It were long years afore.' 'It'll all come back to you, I'm sure.' Powyss shakes his hand. Him's had enough too. 'Good luck, Warlow! Don't forget, your wife and children are taken care of. You'll do it! We meet again in 1800.' He smiles. Goes off in his fine black velvet breeches and coat. Locks the door. Instructs the footman Samuel on the other side. Planks nailed across. Four of them. Hammering. The sound of metal sinking into the frame. * Herbert Powyss walked straight out of the house into the orchard. He was elated. He hadn't spoken so much in such a short time for years, being normally silent; solipsism a tendency from his youth. Now, having showered the man with instructions, he couldn't keep still; paced between young trees, touching them with careful fingers as if in greeting. He felt propelled from the small of his back. Light wind pelted him with plum blossom. At last he would contribute something important to the sphere he so admired: natural philosophy, science. He'd spent too long treading the margins. Reading, always reading, travelling when younger, attending to his small estate in middle age. Soon he would be forty-five, his hair, when he cared to look at it, was turning grey. He was pleased with the improvements made to the house, successful cultivation of flowers, trees, fruit. He bought wisely on trips to nurseries in Turnham Green, Shepherd's Bush or Loddiges in Hackney, seed shops in Fenchurch Street. Filled books of notes. He'd built a hothouse, his own design but based on those he'd seen in Chelsea and elsewhere. Nine foot wide, sixty foot long, it was heated by a boiler that ran on sea-coal, lit in November, extinguished when all danger of frost had passed. Sea-coal burned with little smoke, wouldn't choke tender seedlings. Over the years he'd tested seeds, especially the newest imports from South America and the Antipodes, experimented with the grafting of pear stock. He'd sent several short papers to the Royal Society. A favourite was his recent Investigation into the Effectiveness of Chevalier de Bienenberg's Method of Preserving Blossoming Fruit Trees from Spring Frosts, in the County of Herefordshire . His were minor papers, it's true, but contributions all the same. Yet Benjamin Fox had asked a question some years ago, a question that pulled him up, that he couldn't quite forget. Who is it all for? Well, he'd replied, a few plantsmen might read my papers on the Chinese Lily Tree or on the nervous Cape Horn Pea. A few of the Fellows might remember my name. But Powyss had no children, not even a wife, no siblings, no family at all. Everything he did was for his own satisfaction. He both enjoyed and resented the dialogue with Fox, conducted entirely by letter. It had become a habit. They'd attended the same school where they'd disliked each other. But an epistolary relationship that required no physical presence suited both, grew after they'd left school. It was a diversion for the intellect. Powyss entertained Fox with botanical and architectural details, Fox wagged his Unitarian finger. They quoted morsels of their latest reading and Latin tags dragged up from their schooling, exchanged political opinions, Powyss tentatively, since he wasn't really interested, Fox with vigour. Fox would insist on comparing the condition of the poor in London with the poor in the Marches, though Powyss saw little enough, ensconced as he was most of the time in his house and garden. Even when Fox walked on the Heath he encountered tinkers and gypsies. Powyss could walk for miles and meet nothing but sheep. Only once had Powyss, on a seed and plant-buying excursion to London, visited Fox at his house in Hampstead. It had been a mistake. The house was a pleasant modern design though almost too small for Fox's large person and ebullient personality. He showed Powyss into his study. 'This is where I write my epistles to wild Herefordshire! The desk was my father's. Vicar of St Mary at Finchley. Fortunately he died before I abandoned the Trinity, else he might have cut me out.' Comfortably if randomly furnished, the centre of the house was the dining room in which a large oblong table apparently seated a good crowd of Fox's friends. 'Yes, here and at each other's houses, turn and turn about, we feast on ideas. And feed ourselves too, you can be sure of that . How we chew on the constitution, Powyss! How we dice up the monarchy into a ragout, chop the government into a salmagundi! Of course the best gatherings are John Tooke's in Wimbledon, for which, however, the distance obliges me to rise much earlier than I should like. 'But you say you do not ever entertain, Powyss?' 'Never.' ' And you persist in your agnosticism? Think it's all flam.' 'Yes.' 'Then I insist that you accompany me to Newington Green one Sunday, for, you know, we Unitarians have the only rational religion in existence. It ought to suit you.' Fox was overbearing, his sociability, his certainty oppressive. At any moment Powyss felt he'd be tripped up by a verbal foot, gouty though Fox's actual feet undoubtedly were. There appeared to be no common ground between them. In letter form it mattered not, but facing the man was intolerable. Behind Fox's fat back, Powyss strongly desired to slip away. But now, at last, he had an excellent answer to Fox's question and a firm counter to the implicit criticism of his way of life. His experiment was not just for himself. It was for science, for mankind. For all who would learn how it might be possible for a human being to live without the company of others, without seeing another human face. For all who were curious about the resilience of the human mind. What could be more important than that? He stopped to inspect a group of trees. New gages. If the spring weather remained clement and the bees continued their work there might be a small harvest of fruit even in their first year. Excerpted from The Warlow Experiment: A Novel by Alix Nathan All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
