“THE PAST IS A FOREIGN COUNTRY”

A few nights ago, my husband and I were scrolling through some movie possibilities on Amazon Prime and came across a period drama called The Go Between, a 1971 film based on the novel of the same name written in 1952 by L. P. Hartley, an accomplished British author. The story, set at the turn of the 20th century among some of England’s upper/noble classes, stars Julie Christi, Sir Alan Bates, and Dominic Guard and is in many ways another treatment of the age-old trope of forbidden love, in this particular case, a love forbidden by the strictures of a strongly class-based society. Julie Christi’s character, Mariam, we eventually discover, is in love with a man named Ted who is below her social station in life, is engaged to a viscount, and ends up enlisting a young, naive school chum of her brother’s to carry messages between her and her lover. I could go on for quite some time about the layers of meaning within the story, nuances of respectability or lack there of, the choices one makes despite the belief of having none, and the destructive use of a child in adults’ deceptions. But that is not my actual focus, rather I want to discuss two quotes from the movie that have put me into some intense reverie and frequent musings, the first quote, perhaps, is quite profound, the second, maybe, less so. Still they are both interesting.

As the movie opens, horse-drawn carriages are racing toward a beautiful mansion set in the English countryside as a voice-over states the following: “The past is a foreign country. They do things differently there.”

That statement appears so simple but contains numerous truths and possibilities that I could, and probably will, think about for weeks. By the end of this story the English schoolboy, Leo, is more than 50 years older and is, it appears to me, looking back at that foreign country of his youth through different, older eyes, with a 1950s perspective, and, perhaps, through a language he no longer understands. I’m not sure, but I can’t help but think about how the past is indeed a foreign land where they do things differently, where there are things we cannot fully understand in much the way it is difficult for us to fully understand a foreign culture, a foreign language, or a time not within our reach or no longer within our reach. That is why our children and our grandchildren do not really understand our “times” nor we understand the times of our parents and grandparents. The past is, indeed, a foreign country where they do things differently. And, how might we, for instance, relate to 1845 Texas or 1910 St. Louis or 1650 Massachusetts? They do things differently there.

The other statement comes about when the boy Leo discovers that the notes he has been carrying between Mariam, whom he himself is quite in love with, and Ted, the local yeoman farmer, are of a romantic nature. Leo has become fond of the viscount and is surprised and troubled to learn that the viscount is engaged to Mariam. Leo, in trying to work out the rights and wrongs in this adult world tells the viscount that he has been reading a book where two men fight a duel over a lady. He says to the viscount that in such a case of a duel, wouldn’t it all be the lady’s fault. The viscount answers, “It is never the lady’s fault.” This is an answer I found myself thinking over for some time, not that I think such a statement to be true, but I have to muse about its refreshing chivalry, especially since it seems clear that the viscount is aware of the question’s situation. I think many of us come from a tradition in which the opposite would more likely be said or believed, a tradition where almost everything is the lady’s fault—beginning with Eve, continuing through Bathsheba, and on to Marie Antoinette. I couldn’t help but muse that, perhaps, the nobility could actually be noble. Perhaps the advantages of primogeniture, gender laws, and physical strength made them gentlemen indeed.

“And that is all I have to say about that.”

Later in the movie, then boy Leo has come to like the viscount a great deal and having discovered that he has been promoting the romantic connection of his the viscount’s fiancé and the other unsuitable man by carrying notes between them, he becomes troubled. He tells the viscount he has read a book in which two men have a duel over a woman. He says to the viscount that isn’t’ it the woman’s fault if two men fight a duel over her. The viscount answers, “It is never the lady’s fault.” It seems clear the viscount is aware of the romantic situation. Now I found this aristocratic chivalry surprising as well as refreshing. I found myself thinking it about it for some time, coming from a tradition where it is thought most moral failings are almost always the lady’s fault—beginning with Eve, through Bathsheba, and on to Marie Antoinette. I suppose the nobility may actually be noble! But then when blessed with primogeniture and breeding, they can afford to be. “And that is all I have to say about that.”