The Virginian

The serious reader, these days, finds himself slogging through many a weighty tome. Many—too many for equanimity—of such works describe in discouraging detail the bankruptcy of our culture and the world’s, and especially America’s, progress toward collectivist perdition. Well, that’s where we are, and it’s necessary to know it. But, after too-large and too-continuous doses of where it’s at, what blessed surcease it can be to sneak back for a refreshing mental vacation in the land of where-we’ve-been.

The Virginian is generally considered to be the granddaddy of “west-erns”—the first of its genre. Here is the fresh, pure source of scenes and situations which writers less gifted, and certainly less original than Owen Wister, have hackneyed into cliches. But, calling The Virginian “a western” is akin to calling Atlas Shrugged “a mystery.” The statement is true. But, it’s also irrelevant.

Not that The Virginian is on a plane with Atlas Shrugged. Few novels are, either as pure storytelling or as works of philosophy. However, The Virginian does contain some very pungent, pithy philosophical observations which are presented with the sort of deceptive simplicity that is so easy to read and so difficult to write.

What The Virginian contains besides is a whopping good story. It’s got a hero of unusual stature who has the invaluable additional asset of a delightful sense of humor. It has a villain who is a villain, and is treated as such, and never mind his unhappy childhood with a mother who didn’t love him. It has a heroine who’s a person with her wits and her wit about her. And it has a climax which grips the imagination despite the fact that the gun-duel showdown in a dusty street has since become a movie and television staple endlessly played out.

The difference between The Virginian and the average “western” lies in part in the author’s understanding that evil is impotent to achieve destruction without the assistance, witting or unwitting, of the good. The tension of the book’s climax comes not from the Virginian’s conflict with the villain, Trampas, but from his conflict with the woman he loves, whose concept of rectitude is different than, but as passionately held as, his.

The Virginian's explicit, articulated knowledge that his self, created in accordance with his values, is his supremely valuable possession, which he cannot barter or sell and still remain alive except in the biological sense, is what makes him stand out among fictional heroes. His agony, and his triumph, make powerful reading—and the grandeur of Wister’s basic concept makes The Virginian tower over many a more pretentious work of fiction as his hero towered over the men around him.

Here is a book which is fun to read on several levels. It can be read quickly, in an evening or two, for “the story.” It can be read more slowly and thoughtfully, for what is behind the story. It can be read with pleasure merely for its humor—the tale of the great Tulare frog-ranch boom has got to be the funniest put-on since Mark Twain. (How often do you laugh out loud while reading all alone?) Or it can be read for the pleasure of savor-ing its love story, the denouement of which some denizens of our un-draped age might find Victorian—but which exudes a sensitivity and genius of understanding of passion that elude the “emancipated” writers of animal-level sex scenes.

What I’m really saying is that The Virginian isn’t just fun to read—its fun to re-read. Despite its flaws (yes, it has them, and I expect the usual ration of nitpicking letters detailing them to me), I recommend it highly.

Reviewed by Lillian R. Boehme / Fiction (434 pages) / BFL Price $5.95