Halfway through my Balzac novelettes, my mind, immersed in the depressing realism of 19th century Parisian life, needed a momentary break. Alcott’s The Inheritance
was the perfect answer. Essentially, The Inheritance
is sugar and spice and everything nice. Some sections are so sugary sweet that they are almost painful to read: As they went though the park, Lord Percy stooped and lifted from the ground a handkerchief her name was on, and ’twas wet with tears. He laid it unseen in his breast, and none ever knew how tenderly ’twas cherished as the only relic of a love that never died.
Yet the little girl in me thinks moments such as this are really cute. Had I read this when I ten or eleven, I would have loved this novel. In truth, it is a fun story where hidden identities have a chance to be revealed, and goodness and true love can prevail over “evil” intent—though nothing that happens in this novel can really be categorized as an event truly evil. Actually, the villains in this story rather made me smile.
As the output of a seventeen year old writer, The Inheritance
is a fun story. Yes, it is easy to notice various faults in execution, especially her overuse of coincidence to drive the plot. But overall, I found these faults easy to forgive.