Miss Buncle’s Book by D.E. Stevenson

Sherry recommended Miss Buncle’s Book by D.E. Stevenson to me in her yearly reader advisory post, and I decided to read it before I forgot about it.   I’m so glad I did!  I can’t remember when I’ve enjoyed a story as much as I did this one.  Set in the small English village of Silverstream in the 1930s, this is the story of one Miss Barbara Buncle who writes a book for no other reason than she needs the money.  She has no real aspirations as a writer, but somehow she captures Silverstream (which she renames Copperfield) so well that the story is an immediate best seller.  When the good folks of Copperfield (er, Silverstream) read Miss Buncle’s book, they recognize themselves and are either flattered and amused or embarrassed and outraged.  In fact, some of Silverstream’s leading citizens take it upon themselves to find this John Smith (Miss Buncle’s nom de plume) and have his head.  Of course, figuring out John Smith’s identity is another thing entirely, and meanwhile life imitates art (or vice versa), and a very entertaining tale unfolds.   I absolutely love how Stevenson ends the story–I can’t think of a better way to end it.  In fact, there isn’t a single part of this story I don’t like.  I read this one directly on the heels of Emily Climbs, and I can’t help but think that any fan of L.M. Montgomery will love this humorous, lightly romantic, character-driven story.  I give it a Highly, Highly Recommended and look forward to reading its sequel, Miss Buncle Married, and possibly others of Stevenson’s many novels. (Sourcebooks, 2012; originally published 1936)

As always, I am having a hard time adequately expressing what I love so much about this story, so I’ll just end this post by sharing a few more excerpts that showcase what makes this one so good:

John Smith had held up the mirror to poor Stephen and had said, “Here you are, old chap!  I hope you like yourself.  Those nasty marks from your nose to the corners of your mouth, and those others between your brows are marks you put there yourself, you know.  You can’t blame God for those.”  And poor Stephen replied, “Good Heavens, is that me?”  (or he would probably have said, “Is that I?” for he was a pedantic and serious soul) and he would gaze at Margaret–just as she had described “in a queer way”–wondering if it could possibly be true that she was thinking of leaving him, and he would make an effort to be less like David Gaymer.  And lastly he would fly up to town to tackle the publisher and find out who this man was–this John Smith who seemed to know more about himself and his wife than he himself knew.  (85)

Barbara Buncle looked around the room and saw all her puppets (with a few exceptions) assembled together for the purpose of reviling their creator.  She wondered if any other author had ever beheld such a curious sight.  It would be exciting to write a play, Barbara thought, to see your creations put on the garment of mortality, to hear your words issuing from their mouths.  But a play must always be a little disappointing; no actor can completely satisfy an author, and there must be some discrepancy between the author’s conception of a character and the actor’s expression.  This was far better than any play, for the actors were themselves.  They couldn’t act out of character if they tried, for they were the characters–as large as life and twice as natural.  (163)

“Lor’, Miss Barbara, you’re never going out now?”

“Yes,” said Barbara breathlessly.  “I’m going up to The Riggs.  If I’m not back in two hours you can ring up your friend Sergeant Capper and tell him to search for my dead body in the cellars–where’s my umbrella, Dorcas?  Where on earth’s my umbrella?”  (250)