Way back at the dawn of creation, before The Shirt, before The Pond, before The Heaving Bosom Of Emotional Confusion — so, around about 1993 or so — I dressed up as Jane Austen for a “be a famous person” thing at school. Back then my lines would still get a little blurred between which part of the About My Famous Person speech, written out in my barely legible mechanical pencil fist-smashy handwriting on neon note cards, was really about Jane herself, and which was about Elizabeth Bennet. The two iconic women blurred in my head.
One was fiction, the other a hazy hagiographic ghost of a woman long dead whose image I recreated with my mom’s old Dutch Pantry waitress dress and a weird little red belt recycled from an old school photo shoot. But they were the women whose names and images first came to mind when I heard those three words, the ones that meant the big blue book with the golden edges was coming out. Pride and Prejudice. Ah yes. A book about sisters, mothers, best friends. And there was that guy in there who was kind of annoying but turned out to be okay in the end. What was his name?
But then something happened. I became a teenager. And all of a sudden, at about that time, Pride and Prejudice went all teenager on me too. This book about sisters and being tough women and making decisions about how you’re gonna act when stuff gets serious somehow turned into a bodice ripping TV booby romance!?
It’s been over twenty years now that we’ve discussed this book about women, by a woman, featuring a cast of women, almost exclusively in terms of “Mr. Darcy.” Darcy this, Darcy that. Darcy and a fried egg on top and Spam.
But it’s not about Mr. Darcy. It never was. Just stop it.
It’s about Elizabeth Bennet.
Elizabeth is the heroine of the novel. Her choices are what save Lydia and Jane, not Darcy’s. It’s her pride and her prejudice that must be overcome for the “happy ending” to occur, and that happy ending is not her marriage to Mr. Darcy, no matter how dreamy he is. (And for the record, no, I would not kick him out of bed.) (Duh.)
And I know a few of you are sitting there reading this like
(btw I stole your gif, whoever made this. Thank you)
But Elizabeth’s choice to return to Pemberley with an open mind is what saves her sisters. Darcy could never rescue Lydia, and eventually restore Jane and Bingley, if Elizabeth never chooses to pay him the compliment of believing what he says in his letter about Wickham.
Elizabeth, like Austen’s other heroines, has to come to grips with her own shortcomings before she can reap the rewards of financial and matrimonial stability. For her, bonus, that stability also happens to include “a large, handsome stone building, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of high woody hills” in which “natural beauty [has] been so little counteracted by an awkward taste.” (Also probably ponies and stuff.)
But I mean, seriously, she could have been like “screw your letter, you just called my mom AND dad horrible names, insulted the honor of my sisters, and I hate you. I’m not reading your stupid letter.”
Or she could have read the letter and decided that he was full of crap. But she didn’t. She swallowed her PRIDE! (title!) and got past her (guess what) PREJUDICE for Mr. Wickham and against Mr. Darcy —
[Because remember? Back in Chapter 16 when Wickham was all “oooh but how do you feel about him?” and Elizabeth was like “idk he kinda seems like a jerk” and Wickham was like O_O :
“I cannot pretend to be sorry,” said Wickham, after a short interruption, “that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond their deserts; but with him I believe it does not often happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chuses to be seen.”
“I should take him, even on my slight acquaintance, to be an ill-tempered man.” Wickham only shook his head.]
— and realized that she had also been a big stupid butt. “Of neither Darcy nor Wickham could she think without feeling that she had been blind, partial, prejudiced, absurd.”
So you know what? Spare me the “oooh Mr. Darcy is so amazing, Ooooh Mr. Darcy is so romantic” stuff. Yeah, he went after Lydia. But why? Because Elizabeth came back to him. She humbled herself, just like he did. She didn’t even have to. She wasn’t exactly nice to him, but she didn’t have to be. He is the one who insulted her, her family, her sister, etc, I already said this. And she is the one who went back.
[Okay, fine, I always do get a little bit tingly though when I think about how excited he must have been when he saw her at Pemberley. Like – did you ever get a surprise gift? Or a way better grade on something than you thought you deserved? Mmhmm. Tingly.]
So she saw him at Pemberley, and although she had almost started to make up her mind that he might have been telling the truth about all that Wickham stuff in his letter (but not the bit about Jane — come on) there was still the whole issue of insulting her whole family. But then he was so nice. Even if it was fake-nice, he was NICE to her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner. The fishing! The tour! “His sister, his friends, his house, his fruit”! She started to really allow herself to believe in his innate goodness, a process that had begun already with his letter, but was now continuing because #OMGNICEDARCY. The belief in his goodness had begun when she (Austen Lesson) overcame her irrational emotions and realized that he wouldn’t feed her a whole line of crap in his letter if she was just going to go ask Colonel Fitzwilliam about it, but also — importantly — through her sister’s (Another Austen Lesson) ongoing insistence that Bingley wouldn’t have been friends with a total turd.
See? Trust your sister. Trust her when she believes the guy isn’t lying. Trust the other one when she says she’s going to a soldier’s encampment where she’ll be “the object of attention to tens and to scores of [soldiers] at present unknown,” and spend her days “tenderly flirting with at least six officers at once.”
Elizabeth’s decision to return to Darcy is the most heroic in the book.
His later efforts to save Lydia are admirable, but they would be entirely impossible without her first overcoming her pride. (Shh. I know. He had to overcome his pride too, to wander through the streets of London, and deal with the deplorable Mrs. Younge. But dude, whatever, he should have done that anyway — he even admits that it was his fault he didn’t (basically) duel the crap out of Wickham in the first place and keep him from preying on other young girls. “It was owing to him, to his reserve and want of proper consideration, that Wickham’s character had been so misunderstood, and, consequently, that he had been received and noticed as he was.” WELL YEAH MAYBE SO MR. D.)
Okay so maybe P&P is a little bit romantic. Austen used the popular “marriage plot” novel to convey her moral lessons — self-knowledge and sisterhood — to us, kind of like how Tina Fey used 30 Rock to teach us how to work on our Night Cheese.
But what is the romance, really? Where is the strongest proof of love? Darcy changes for Elizabeth, sure, but this book, written by a woman, starring women in all the major roles, featuring the problems women faced at that time, is about the changes Elizabeth went through, the realities she had to face and the sacrifice she almost had to make (Does he really love me? Will I get to live in that swank pad or not?) to restore her sisters. For one sister, restoring honor. For the other, restoring love, hope and the ability to trust people.
So, while I think it’s okay to find Mr. Darcy dreamy and admirable and strong and clever and kinda nerdy and hot in a book-reading socially awkward smartass sort of way — no. On this Valentine’s Day I won’t say I ♥ Darcy.
During this part of your virtual tour, I’ll try to reconstruct the ancestral folk festival that culminated in Stoneleigh Abbey landing in the hands of Mrs. Austen’s cousin, the Rev. Thomas Leigh, rector of Adlestrop.
I’ve pasted in another part of “A History of the County of Warwick” from British History Online, this time from Volume 6, published in 1951. I’ll blockquote the parts from that book.
After the dissolution of the monastery, its site, with lands, mills, &c., was leased to Richard, Lord Grey, in February 1538 for 21 years, the reversion of the property after the expiry of the lease being granted in December of that year to Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, who is said to have sold it to William Cavendish. From him it was bought in 1561 by Sir Thomas Leigh. He was son of Roger Leigh of Wellington (Shrops.) and had served as factor to Sir Rowland Hill, a wealthy London merchant, whose niece he married.
This Sir Thomas Leigh was so accomplished in business and life that he became the Lord Mayor of London during the reign of Mary, after whose death he rode in front of the coronation procession of Queen Elizabeth I. According to the Wellington Town Council, he gained her favor even before she was crowned:
“Thomas was instrumental in deferring the accession of Elizabeth I so that the politically sensitive issue of realigning the English monarchy’s sympathies from Catholic to Protestant would not result in anarchy. As Lord Mayor, Thomas arranged and led Elizabeth’s coronation pageant in January 1559 and gained a knighthood for his efforts.”
Sir Thomas obtained the lordship of the manor in 1562 and died in 1571, his widow living there until her death in January 1604.
His wife, Sir Rowland Hill’s neice Alice Barker, was 11 at the time of their marriage – he was 31. They had several children, and she outlived him by 32 years. She was notable not only for her long life, but for the almshouses she founded in the village, which still stood as of the Victorian times.
Their second son Sir Thomas bought the manor from his nephew William son of Rowland Leigh in 1605; he was created a baronet in 1611, and died in 1626 seised of the manor,
Rowland Leigh was the first son of Alice and Sir Thomas. He was provided for by the largesse of Sir Rowland Hill, and it is with him that the Adlestrop branch – Jane Austen’s branch – of the Leigh family was established. His son William sold Stoneleigh to his uncle, as mentioned above. This uncle Sir Thomas passed the estate on to his grandson:
which passed to his grandson Thomas, who was created Baron Leigh of Stoneleigh in 1643 and died in 1672, aged 76.
…and this grandson had quite a history. When Jane, Cassandra, and their mother visited in 1806 I’m sure they would have seen the portraits of this Sir Thomas and his wife Mary, daughter of Sir Thomas Egerton, and would most likely have heard of their involvement with history. In fact, one wonders if Cassandra Austen née Leigh ever subjected the girls to an evening in which she “followed the history and rise of the ancient and respectable family, in the usual terms: how it had been first settled in Cheshire; how mentioned in Dugdale, serving the office of High Sheriff, representing a borough in three successive parliaments, exertions of loyalty, and dignity of baronet, in the first year of Charles II., with all the Marys and Elizabeths they had married…”
Stoneleigh Abbey, from its foundation to the present time says of Thomas Leigh, 1st Baron Leigh that he “was reputed a giant; and it is told of him, though with what truth we know not, that on one occasion, finding a man riding a donkey trespassing within his park, he lifted up man and beast and threw them over the gates.” He certainly must have impressed King Charles I, who stood less than five feet.
Charles I had reason to respect Thomas Leigh for more than his prodigious height. In the summer of 1642, when the gates of Coventry were shut against him and his assembled armies, Charles retreated to Stoneleigh Abbey and received (or demanded) the assistance of Sir Thomas. In exchange for hosting the armies of the King, Sir Thomas was created Thomas Leigh, 1st Baron Leigh on July 1, 1643.
It must have been quite a sight to see the assembled armies of the king, with their tents and hangers-on, spread across the manor and park. And Thomas 1st Baron Leigh would have given other material assistance besides his land. But after this episode he was marked in the public mind as a Royalist – a label he would not have denied – but one that became dangerous for him as the tide turned against Charles. When the Parliamentarians came to power Thomas was imprisoned at Coventry, a place notorious for its bad treatment of Royalists. He was only freed by the hard work of his wife. For four years she begged the Parliamentarians to release him, but was finally only able to secure his freedom by making a payment of £75,000. That’s almost $18 million in 2014 dollars. She now had her husband back, but the family’s finances were in a less than ideal state.
The family did, however, retain some treasures. According to the Leigh’s history of Stoneleigh Abbey, something even more special than Thomas 1st Baron Leigh returned to the Abbey after Charles I’s loss to the Parliamentarians:
This Sir George Beaumont (1762-1827) was a contemporary of Austen. Unfortunately, his discovery of the hidden painting didn’t occur until after her death, but it is certainly a story that Austen fans can appreciate. After all – we’ve been titillated by the possibility of secret portraits in her own works – and of Stuarts, no less! I can only imagine her glee in finally seeing the portraits of her notable ancestors, people who had no doubt been described to her by her fiercely Leigh-proud mama. Proud-Leigh described? (And yes, here is a link for those of you who accuse me of a 1776 pun.)
Now, let us return to the begats:
[Thomas Leigh, 1st Baron Leigh’s] grandson Thomas had been married in 1669 to Elizabeth, the wealthy heiress of Richard Brown of Shingleton (Kent), when they were both under age. He took a violent dislike to her and tried to debar her of her dower by making a fraudulent conveyance of this and other manors.
Imagine my huuuge surprise when I didn’t see Thomas Leigh, 2nd Baron Leigh mentioned in the family history book. Instead, we are treated to a charming diversion on the subject of the 1st Baron’s Aunt, Alice Dudley, Duchess of Dudley, another hard-used woman. The wiki link is interesting if you can wrap your head around all of the Dudleys dead and living, but the History of Stoneleigh book paints us a charming narrative of her abandonment by her husband. It tells us that her husband Robert Dudley was the strong, manly, charming son of Queen Elizabeth’s very own Dudley – that his mistress was “estimable,” “enterprising,” and “very beautiful” – and that Alice, finally victorious in securing a Duchy from Charles I, was resigned, pious, and charitable in her later years, once having gotten over her “affliction.”
Wow. At least she got the land?
Between Robert Dudley and the abusive 2nd Baron, I’m beginning to think women weren’t always happy in marriage back then. But luckily for the Leigh family, their domestic dirty laundry was recorded for all eternity, and now pops up in the records of Jane Austen’s ancestors.
After the 2nd Baron’s first wife died, (I hope much lamented by someone, perhaps her children,) he remarried, and then, thank goodness, hurried up and died so that his son Edward could take over the estate.
After her death he married again and was succeeded in 1710 by his son Edward,
And it was this Edward Leigh, 3rd Baron Leigh, succeeding his unmentionable-in-the-family-book father Thomas Leigh, 2nd Baron Leigh, who undertook to revive the family fortune and the family name. (Speaking of names, he was an Edward because his older brother Thomas died young. Terrible for the young man, but wonderful for those of us getting Lost in Thomases.) With wealth hard-won from his wife’s dowry, he embarked on a plan to enlarge Stoneleigh Abbey with a new West Wing. He hired noted architect Sir Francis Smith to design this new building, and gave him strict instructions to make the building impressive and grand. A visitor can tell simply from the number of windows on the West front of the house that Edward Leigh, 3rd Baron Leigh, wanted to flaunt not only his wealth, but his lack of concern for the window tax. (More details in the photo captions – click on ’em!)
Jane Austen’s mother told her daughter-in-law that there were 45 windows on the West front. Surely Mr. Collins would be in awe.
Stoneleigh from the North, view from the Gatehouse.
A view of Stoneleigh from the South, over the River Avon. This picture was taken from a realty website for a listing of one of the homes that now make up the interior of the old Jacobean building.
But he was not a brute. Some of the most impressive changes he made at Stoneleigh were to the benefit of the staff. While much of the service rooms were still in the Abbey, the servants were given a large gathering room under the west wing furnished with a massive stone fireplace, which much have come in handy during the cold months. Heck, even in summer it can be cold in England, and especially in a stone basement with stone walls and a stone floor! And most especially when you’ve been up since 4am scullerying & all that.
The 3rd Baron went to great lengths to make his house a showpiece. The staircase hall alone is breathtaking. It’s almost impossible to sense the scale from the picture on the left, but perhaps I can help: if this were Hogwarts, the man in the bottom portrait next to the door would have been able to comment on my hairstyle, because during our visit, his eyes were just above my head. Impressive! Grand! Perhaps the 3rd Baron was looking out for his giant of an ancestor when he made that huge door! (Or maybe they had trolls in the dungeon…)
Edward kept pouring money into this new building, cladding the walls of the northern portion of the west wing with seas of dark oak. The staircase hall leads to the large front room, but I want to skip that for now and stick with the dark oak. First, the drawing room. (Please click on the pictures for the details.)
David showing us the red velvet chairs in the drawing room. These chairs were dyed with carmine, made from beetles native to Mexico, and would leave pink dye on the dresses of fashionable ladies. Yet another reason I love living in the bluejeans era.
You can see the extensive, and expensive, oak panelling. In fact, the oversized mirrors were added to cut costs, because they were actually cheaper than oak panelling.
David explained that the fire screens were there not only to keep the ladies fashionably cool, but to keep men’s makeup from melting. The makeup was, of course, made from lead and egg whites, and sealed with wax. Yuck.
The next overpoweringly oak room is a card room – I believe it would have been the room to which the men retired to smoke and talk politics. It’s now filled with portraits – perhaps it was then, too. David gave us a quick history of portraiture, and explained that the cost of the portrait went up dramatically with the inclusion of limbs and hands. This explains why many portraits will have one hand hidden, and he also claims it’s how the phrase “costing an arm and a leg” came to be.
I may prefer reading to cards, but I bet it would be fun to go a round against a Baron in one of those chairs.
Portraits everywhere! Luckily we contained our Louisal impulses, and none of them “seemed to be staring in astonishment.”
More portraits. The one on the bottom is one of the family children, but there was something in there about it not being right because his head is way bigger than his body. In my family, that would be completely normal.
The next room on the tour began as the formal bedroom. In the time period that it was built, the bedroom was furnished with the most luxurious and expensive bits of stuff in the house, so it was in a place where it could be easily shown off to interested parties. However, the wife of Jane Austen’s mother’s cousin, nephew of the Reverend who inherited in 1806, later turned the room into a fantastic library. Did I confuse you? I confused myself. Here is a handy family tree, downloaded from the gutenberg.org (FREE!) text of Jane Austen, Her Life and Letters. I’ve tried to give some context. You will probably need to click make this one bigger too.
And here is the library, formerly the bedroom. I know, right? I bout laid an egg.
Those white books in the middle of the top shelf are *Elizabethan.* Yeah. I know. I know.
Books, important family portraits, more books…
Some kind of strange antler… hat rack? Who knows. I bet Lord Byron liked it.
I mean, I see that it would have been impressive as a bedroom too, but I think the books only add to the wow factor.
Jane Austen’s Great Grandpa! In “of Orange” orange.
Now, there are some great stories and great people in that room, but before I get there (Part 3! Part 3!) I want to get us to where I promised we’d be at the beginning of Part 2. We left off at the 3rd Baron Leigh, Edward, who did all of the remodeling, and now we need to find out how the house went from him to his distant cousins over in Adlestrop. The book skips over his son, straight to his
grandson Edward (certified as a lunatic in 1774) [who] died unmarried in 1786, the title becoming extinct.
It’s a bit of a brush-off of this significant man, whose contributions to Stoneleigh amounted to more than simply being a conduit to the Austen visit. He continued the work of his grandfather, most notable in elaborate plasterworks in the stair hall and the front room.
The 5th Baron was, unfortunately, not a well man. He was mentally unstable, and on the tour it was implied that it was partly this instability which led to the intricate and highly meaningful story laid out in plaster in the front hall. Austenonly has a FANTASTIC write-up on this room, and you should go read it RIGHT NOW, I’m serious, I’ll wait. If for some reason you enjoy seeing me squirm, stay here and I’ll try to summarize.
The plasterwork story starts in the center of the ceiling with a massive frieze of the birth of Hercules. The feet! The feet are amazing! They’re hanging off the ceiling. How did they even…? Anyway – around the room, above the doors, are depicted the his six labors. There are different friezes in different places that tell different bits of the story – here he’s killing one mythologically significant family/animal/god, there he’s killing another. You get the idea. And finally, the last frieze shows him dying after putting on the cloak… of something… (you’ll have to excuse me, I was geeking out too much here and forgot to write it all down. No, really, my mom took a picture of it, and if you click on these to make them bigger you’ll get to see my ridiculous, crinkle-faced geekout.)
First, this is the other side of the “Troll in the dungeon” door in the staircase hall. I’m 5’7″. Daaaaag.
The birth of Hercules!
Parts of Hercules’ story.
Imagine being Jane Austen, poor relation, and having this view. (Well, minus the radiator…)
It’s hard to get a sense of how grand the room is, but this probably helps.
HERE IT IS. HERE I AM. GEEKING OUT!!
I believe the idea is that like Hercules, Edward Leigh, 5th Baron Leigh was tormented throughout his life, and he faced many obstacles, yet in the end he couldn’t defeat his own weaknesses. It is highly symbolic and touching, put against the context of his increasingly unstable mental health. Even the doctors who later cared for King George III during his madness could not help Edward, and he was committed to Bedlam, which must have been an absolute horror. He finally retired from the world, and lived under the care of his sister Mary until he died at 44. It was her death, and the confusion left by his will, that initiated the 1806 visit of the Austens to Stoneleigh:
Under his will, dated 1767, the estates passed to his sister Mary for life, with remainder to ‘the first and nearest of my kindred being male and of my name and blood’. At her death in 1806, the Rev. Thomas Leigh, rector of Adlestrop (Glos.), a direct descendant in the male line from Rowland, eldest son of Sir Thomas Leigh, inherited the property, which passed at his death in 1813 to his nephew James Henry Leigh, whose son, Chandos Leigh, was created Baron Leigh of Stoneleigh in 1839, and died in 1850.
So, you remember way back up at the top when I mentioned the Adlestrop branch? Here they are. The line of Stoneleigh Leighs ended with poor Edward and his devoted sister Mary. But that turned out to be quite good news for a couple of ladies who were just itching to get out of Bath in about the year ‘6…
And now, I think that’s enough for part two. In part three we’ll learn more about the Austen visit, peek in on Lord Byron and his friend Chandos Leigh, and finish up our tour of Stoneleigh.
The first full day of our England adventure found us hitting two fantastic literary sites. The first was a small, insignificant place in a town no one’s ever heard of.
Oh my gosh, no, seriously, we went to Shakespeare’s house. Yes, Shakespeare’s HOUSE. Because it was awesome, that’s why!
I’ll spare you the entire set of “I’M IN SHAKESPEARE’S HOUSE!!!” vacation pictures, unless you’re friends with me on facebook. In that case, once I get them uploaded you’ll never hear the end of it.
From Stratford-Upon-Avon it’s a short drive to Stoneleigh Abbey, near Kenilworth in Warwickshire. In fact, it’s only about fourteen miles away. I would hope that Jane Austen would have known when she visited the house in 1806 that she was so close to Shakespeare country – and she may have. It became a tourist destination for the literary-minded in her lifetime:
Once the family line had come to an end, the house was allowed to fall into a state of disrepair until a rekindling of interest in the 18th century.Isaac Watts, Charles Dickens, Sir Walter Scott and Thomas Carlyle were among the notables that visited the birthplace and autographed the walls and windows.Many of the signatures still remain on the windowpanes around the house, although the signed walls have long since been painted over. A guest registry book includes the signatures of Lord Byron, Alfred, Lord Tennyson, John Keats, and William Thackeray.
It’s not surprising to see the ever-romantic Byron on the list. And as I found out later, he was in the area for more than just a Shakespeare pilgrimage. But you’ll have to keep reading to find out about that.
After our most excellent tour of Shakespeare’s Birthplace we intended to head directly for Stoneleigh in time to pick up the Jane Austen Tour. Of course, because I am a scatter-brain (me? never!) and we were all running on jet-lag and English food (kidding, it was good), we got there right on time! Half an hour late! I guess I just wrote it down wrong. I have been known to do that kind of thing on a few occasions. Okay, on many occasions.
However, I was expected, because I’m special and amazing. After being greeted by the ever-patient and good humored young man at the desk, we repaired to the Victorian Orangery, now converted to a charming tea room, and waited for the Austen tour to finish. (Click to make the pictures bigger.)
The Orangery, on the banks of the “improved” River Avon.
The Austenified menu in the tea room.
A charming place for lunch.
The “improved” view of the grounds.
David, our tour guide, met us after he finished the Austen tour and answered some of my questions. The most important thing I learned from him, however, is that the people who work at Stoneleigh Abbey are among the nicest people in England. He even stayed in his Austen costume for our non-Austen tour – and believe me, staying in boots and a tailcoat is just above and beyond the call of duty for a young man. Well done, David.
At this point we finally got ourselves onto an actual tour. It began at the 14th century Gatehouse. “Oh, boring, a Gatehouse, yawn” – right? Wrong.1
You see, way back in 1154, Henry II granted some land to a band of Cistercian monks who weren’t happy in their current home. (Not surprising, as they’d been repeatedly robbed. I’d want to move too.) Henry wasn’t too busy, between all the battles and political subterfuges and claiming territories & whatnot, so he said “Sure guys, why not. Take this land for your Abbey, and I’ll move my hogs somewhere else. No biggie.”
For a little while the monks moved to a local village, into a peaceful, restful, truly spiritual place. I’m kidding again:
“These monks first settled at a house in the neighbourhood of Stonele called “Crulefield,” now Cryfield, a name ascribed by local tradition to the cries of the children slain by a “foreign Earl,” who was a great robber, and infested the country, and who lived here till removed by the king’s orders to make room for the more peaceable monks.” (History of Stoneleigh Abbey…)
Suprisingly, they got robbed there too. So they said “forget it, we’re not staying here to be robbed and screamed at by the ghosts of murdered children,” and they took their God stuff to Stoneleigh, where they built their Abbey. And now we come to the Gatehouse. Everything was finally going well for the monks, and they were left in peace to pray and raise crops and focus entirely on pure, Godly thoughts, ha ha, oh boy, I am kidding again! Apparently the monks were not popular in their new home, because in 1241 King Henry III visited nearby Kenilworth Castle, and while he was there he ordered 40 trees cut down and sent to Stoneleigh to rebuild the Gatehouse. The original Gatehouse was sacked and burned in what must have been an extraordinary riot.
The loss of a Gatehouse to a band of angry torch-wielding peasants was probably quite a dramatic sight to behold. But anyone who missed it only had to wait another century or so, because they did it again. This time the monks got wise to the world, and rebuilt the Gatehouse in stone. This 14th c. Gatehouse still stands, and it makes quite a beautiful entrance to the grounds.
The Gatehouse, as seen from Stoneleigh Abbey.
Gatehouse arch. The ancient bench has slots in it, possibly for spears.
The doors of the Gatehouse.
David explained that the monks of Stoneleigh made money for their order by housing pilgrims traveling the road between Coventry and Stratford. Those who could pay more stayed in the stone Gatehouse – the have-nots stayed in the stables or somewhere even less conducive to sleep. Either way, I’m glad I was born in the time of the Econolodge, and the Motel 6. No matter how awful they are, staying in a cheap motel sure beats sleeping in rotten, filthy hay.
David also gave us the interesting history of a certain abbot named Thomas de Pipe. He had the run of the place starting in 1352, and proved to be an incredibly efficient accountant. His new “Leiger Book” not only kept track of local events, but made the Abbey’s accounting easier to reconcile. This ease is perhaps what got him into trouble:
“In 1364 he was summoned before the king’s court on a charge of alienating the property of his abbey. An inquiry was made by twelve men of the neighbourhood, who reported that the abbot had granted land and rents in Finham to Isabel de Beneshale, his concubine, and their eldest son John to hold for their lives quit of rent. Moreover, fearing to be deposed by the visitors of his order, he had given the grange of Melbourn, worth £20 yearly, to Adam de Stokke, cook, and Roger de Cotes, to hold freely for the support of himself and especially for the support and maintenance of Isabel and the abbot’s children by her, who were more in number than his monks.” (History of Warwick)
Apparently having children who were “more in number than his monks” wasn’t too impressive, because there were only eight monks in the Abbey at the time. But the rumor is that he visited his lady-friend Isabel by means of seven secret tunnels that led to seven mills in the area surrounding Stoneleigh. The 1896 History of Stoneleigh mentions that a group of cottages in the village is referred to as “Pipe’s Mill,” after Thomas de Pipe, but that book fails to mention anything more exciting than his ledger.
David claims that Thomas was fired from his job at the Abbey after his embezzlement and other schemes were discovered, and became a highwayman instead. Supposedly, his intimate knowledge of the wealth of the pilgrims who stayed in the Gatehouse served him well in planning his heists. David further claims that after he had successfully robbed lots of people, he was reinstated at the Abbey, because they found that they had more financial success with him inside the walls than outside.
In the ensuing years, things seemed to finally calm down a bit for Stoneleigh. There isn’t much exciting in the records
until that little bit about Henry VIII. You know, the one who dissolved all of the monasteries. Stoneleigh was not immune from the dissolution, although at least its abbot was pensioned off at £23 per annum – actually quite a princely sum at the time. Henry VIII bestowed the grounds and Abbey (now stripped of treasures, and of glass & lead) to the husband of his sister, Charles Brandon, 1st Duke of Suffolk. I have read differing accounts of the myriad ways in which the manor passed down through the Leigh family, and in the next post I’ll do my best to break down the route through which Stoneleigh eventually ended up in the hands of Mrs. Austen’s cousin.
1. Before I dive in too deep here, I want to share two links with you that will give you some fun information on “Stanlei,” which became Stoneleigh. They’ll come up again later. The first is an excerpt from “A History of the County of Warwick: Volume 2,” published in 1908 and found at British History Online. The second is “Stoneleigh Abbey, from its foundation to the present time,” written in 1896 by (what must have been) a Leigh family member. Only 50 copies were printed, but Archive.org has the whole thing preserved online.
No, this blog is not about music. It is about my own recent (and slightly prolonged) escape from the world of Jane Austen. I reached my saturation point near mid-August when preparing for this year’s JASNA AGM in Minneapolis. (If you visit our shop’s facebook page & scroll down to September you can see some of the fun we had.) That doesn’t mean I haven’t been productive – I’ve written several articles and worked on a couple of Austen-related fiction projects. (Don’t worry, I’m sure they’ll never go anywhere!) But I have pretty strictly abstained from reading Austen, or Austen fiction, or Austen scholarship, or watching Austen movies, because I just can’t handle any more of it right now.
“Oh! the comfort of being sometimes alone!” And Oh! the overwhelming joy of rediscovering some of my favorite pre-Austen-bookstore fiction. I spent a few months getting reacquainted with some authors I haven’t visited with in a while, and it was lovely.
I haven’t read anything worth mentioning in the last week or so – but I did find a couple of used Star Trek novels at Half Price Books. They are my brain’s junk food. There is nothing more therapeutic than turning off the critical reasoning half of my brain and getting thrown into the high stakes adventures of a rag-tag bunch of space warriors.
But I know at some point the old habit will come back. She’s been calling to me, my Dearest Jane. I almost unconsciously put a Pride and Prejudice DVD into the player the other day before I realized that my self-imposed Austen sabbatical hasn’t quite run its course yet.
All this is to say: I will be back shortly with all of the bloggy gifts I promised you. And in the meantime – I’ve shared my shameful “junk food” books with you* – what do you read that you don’t want anyone to know about?
*Shh…, I read a couple of Dan Brown books too. I don’t know what came over me. They’re… well… he’s no Jane Austen, that’s for sure. 😉
In Part I, I briefly discussed some of Austen’s clergy and their marriages. One of the things that got me thinking about these marriages was an article referenced by Sarah Emsley in her blog about Mr Collins. (sometimes I think she and I are the only people talking about Mr Collins!) I already knew I wanted to write something about his marriage to Charlotte, but when I read Ruth Perry’s Sleeping with Mr. Collins (JASNA Persuasions No. 22, 2000) my thoughts clarified a bit. I realized that I wasn’t interested in what Mr Collins’s matrimonial choices say about his relationship with Charlotte, but what they say about his relationship with the church and his parishioners.
Mr Collins’s story is another tool in Austen’s “moralist” toolbox. His marriage to Charlotte is a representation of his symbolic marriage to the church; both should be lifelong commitments, and both carry at least the expectation of faithfulness, honesty, and morality.
But why would a young man with his own money to spend choose to encumber himself with a commitment such as marriage? For sure, much is said of the obligation of young women in the Regency era to marry or suffer dire consequences – but men faced pressure to marry as well. For one thing, if a man was part of the landed class and failed to produce a legal heir, his property would no longer belong to his patrilineal line – in Mr Bennet’s case it was entailed upon his distant cousin Mr Collins. There also wasn’t much of a reason to stay single. Many of England’s eligible young men were off fighting Napoleon or colonizing the Indies, leaving a surplus of pleasant young ladies behind. In the most crude sense, it was a buyer’s market.
Mr Collins’s entry into this market comes in Chapter 13. He is presented to us from the beginning as someone who, though disadvantaged in his youth, has achieved his current position through a combination of brown-nosing and being in the right place at the right time1.
Mr. Collins was not a sensible man, … The subjection in which his father had brought him up had given him originally great humility of manner; but it was now a good deal counteracted by the self-conceit of a weak head, living in retirement, and the consequential feelings of early and unexpected prosperity. A fortunate chance had recommended him to Lady Catherine de Bourgh when the living of Hunsford was vacant; and the respect which he felt for her high rank, and his veneration for her as his patroness, mingling with a very good opinion of himself, of his authority as a clergyman, and his rights as a rector, made him altogether a mixture of pride and obsequiousness, self-importance and humility.
His vanity is detestable, but more than that, it shows that he is incapable of learning from those around him. He valiantly ignores Elizabeth’s refusal, prompting her to beg him to “pay [her] the compliment of believing what [she says.]”
Not only is he vain and self-centered, he is also totally unaware of his own ample shortcomings. We feel tremendous pity for Charlotte, and sympathize with Elizabeth’s feelings of betrayal over Charlotte’s agreeing to marry him. But are all of these negative feelings limited to his relationship with Charlotte? Or is Austen using his unsuitability as a mate as a representation of his unsuitability as a religious leader?
We see that his marriage is a matter purely of convenience for Mr Collins, and we’ve established that his profession is as well. [This was not uncommon in Austen’s day – I discussed the role of primogeniture in the dissemination of family livings to younger sons in Part I.] Does he preside over his parishioners with an air of self-congratulatory self-importance? One need not imagine that he presides over Charlotte in this way – we witness both his showy displays of affection and his total lack of emotional penetration during Elizabeth’s Hunsford visit. It’s not hard to imagine him, in the most intimate moments for either wife or parishioner, being carried away with his inflated self-worth. In some ways he is rather like Emma, congratulating himself for “helping” while unwittingly inflicting pain and discomfort.
“Unwittingly” is an important word here. There is undoubtedly something malicious about Mr Collins (though not nearly as malicious as the last several film adaptations would have you believe), but he is also so blind to his own behavior, so naive to social customs and social roles – it is very easy for the reader to see how his unhappy childhood and sheltered university years combined to create a man unaware of the true nature of the world.
But that little twinge of malice in his character shows us that every now and then he is fully aware of the hurt he is causing. His letter of condolence to Mr Bennet on the event of Lydia’s disgrace causes him “to reflect, with augmented satisfaction, on a certain event of last November; for had it been otherwise, I must have been involved in all your sorrow and disgrace.” If we compare him once more to Emma, however, we see that when she is finally able to see how hurtful her behavior truly is after injuring dear Miss Bates, she is mortified and attempts to make amends. But Mr Collins has no such moment of clarity. He has wheedled himself into positions in his personal and professional lives that allow him to continue to condescend with impunity.
It’s simply a shame that such a man would be put in charge of the lives and afterlives of parishioners who had no choice but to involve him in their most vulnerable moments. If we return again to the scene at the Lychgate where we have already witnessed the kind an thoughtful words of Edmund and Edward, and the preening and simpering of Mr Elton, we now see Mr Collins lecturing a grieving widow and her passel of children. One can imagine his admonitions to the children to perform their duties without excessive displays of grief that are unsuitable for those in their station in life. And to the mother, not to expect more than her fair share of charity from his esteemed patroness.
After all this discussion of the less-esteemed clergymen in Austen’s novels I should turn to one that we all love and cherish: Henry Tilney. He is the epitome of sweetness and a paragon of clever convsersation. In some Austen circles it’s considered sacrilegious to even hint that he may be, like the rest of us mere mortals, imperfect.
Henry is an adorably easy to love hero. He doesn’t have any of Mr Darcy’s hauteur or Edmund’s lack of resolution. He is just independent enough to make his own decisions about love, but just dependent enough on his tyrannical father to excuse his failings as a suitor.
I’ve often felt that he’s probably so easy to love because Northanger Abbey is, in Austen-terms, “unfinished.” Of course it’s a complete novel, but she never returned to it to clean it up the way she did with her later, more successful novels. Because it was written when she was still a young woman, and not as drastically redone as Elinor & Marianne or First Impressions, the characters are less complex. Yet even a relatively simple Austen character is infinitely more complex than those of other writers. So while I think Henry’s overpowering sweetness is charming, that charm is tempered by my suspicion that if he’d been revisited by the editing pen, he’d have grown some warts.
As wonderful as he is, however, Henry’s character (shockingly!) carries with it some quirks that make him less lovable than he appears at first glance. After all, much of the time he shares with Catherine in Bath is spent lecturing or ridiculing her – however gently it is done, it is ridicule nonetheless.
“…But now really, do not you think Udolpho the nicest book in the world?”
“The nicest — by which I suppose you mean the neatest. That must depend upon the binding.”
Henry, lovely Henry, is easy to defend because he is a happy, affectionate lover. He greatly enjoys Catherine’s innocence and naivety. Yet his love for her is tempered with a strange kind of disrespect. He occasionally seems to feel – as does the reader – as if Catherine needs a man who is smarter than her to navigate her through life. And while this may be so for Catherine Morland at 17, will she still feel as if she needs such education as Mrs Tilney, 23? As a 31 year old mother of several children? At what point will Henry stop “teaching” her and start learning from her?
While I don’t think news of their marriage at the end of the novel portends doom and gloom, I do wonder if theirs would be the happiest and best-deserved marriages of the 6 novels. To be sure, he braves quite a bit of unpleasantness from his father to secure Catherine, but once he has her, it is possible that he may learn to neglect her or, if her lovely uninformed mind at 17 fails to mature to his expectations, despise her and make her an object of ridicule for their children.
I can hear the Tilney fans shouting already – “Henry would never neglect Catherine!” But we see that he is eminently capable of neglect. (I greatly enjoyed the phrasing in this wikipedia page: “Henry Tilney, in fact, in Northanger Abbey, is absent from his parish half the time and takes holidays in Bath, so that in spite of his intellectual and moral qualities, he bears witness to the lack of commitment of certain clergymen towards their flock.”) He is supposedly an active clergyman – no mere curate – yet he spends a great deal of time in the novel not attending to his parish.
Perhaps Henry, like Catherine, still has much to learn about the world. His wit is one of his main attractions, but it’s also an indication of the type of clergyman he must be. He is clearly thrilled by educating others, and full of joy and happiness, but would he be able to educate his parishioners without condescending to them or laughing at them? He is barely able to do so with Catherine.
Of course, if given the choice between all of Austen’s clergymen I’d probably pick Henry to guide my family through a traumatic circumstance. I’d rather be talked down to by a man with love and joy in his heart than moped at by either of the Eds, preened to by Mister E, or arrogantly blustered about by the hot air escaping from Mr Collins. And if we are carrying on with the theme of comparing husbands to clergymen, I’ll still stick with Henry, if only for this swoon-worthy quote:
I should no more lay it down as a general rule that women write better letters than men, than that they sing better duets, or draw better landscapes. In every power, of which taste is the foundation, excellence is pretty fairly divided between the sexes.
Right on, Henry, right on.
1. A great outline of Regency clergy history, including reasons for choosing the church as a career, can be found on the JASNA Greater Chicago Region website.)
After a bit of a hiatus due to an overly busy Spring season with the bookstore, I have returned to my rightful place on the couch with a sick little boy laying on top of me. As an Austen fan it’s probably obvious that I’ve daydreamed about visiting Pemberley or spending a week in Hartfield, getting the lay of the land and catching up on all the latest gossip. But I’ve never been so romantic as to think I’d enjoy living a Regency lifestyle for very long – and this idea is never more clear to me than when I have a child with (thankfully very very mild) pneumonia. I got him in to the doctor before it could make him unbearably ill, and a quick & easy administration of antbiotics in the mornings will soon set him right. What a relief.
Many in Austen’s era weren’t as lucky. Epidemics like tuberculosis and tyhpus could kill hundreds of people, with children the most vulnerable, their tiny bodies not strong enough to fight off these horrifying infectious diseases. A trip to an old churchyard will show you the alarming regularity of child loss in the era before modern medicine.
It’s easy to see old churchyards as charming and quaint, almost decorative additions to village life. In England especially the ancient stone churches feel like monuments themselves – not merely to those eternally resting on their grounds, but to the centuries of small-town concerns these buildings would have witnessed.
But even one of the most iconic images of the classic English church – the Lychgate – is a symbol of death. This quaint wooden structure is the last departure point for an unconsecrated body. Under this roof, the family of the dead would gather for a last time and say their goodbyes. And under this roof they would be joined by their clergyman, whose role was to meet the family at the intersection of unholy and holy ground to perform the rites that would allow their loved one to be given a proper Christian funeral in consecrated ground.
Austen gives us varying views of the English clergy. Herself the daughter of a Reverend, she clearly had great respect for the role of the church in everyday village life, even if that role was often fulfilled by those not up to the task. A few of her ecclesiastical characters actually give us hope for their parishioners; Edward Ferrars’ calm resignation and Edmund Bertram’s thoughtfulness (when not distracted by a pretty woman) both make me think they’d make an honorable showing at the Lychgate, providing quiet and peace to a family embarking on the long and painful journey of mourning. However, there are other members of the clergy in the Austen Canon that make me cringe to think of the way they’d conduct themselves in such a moment.
Though many scholars have taken on Austen’s treatment of the clergy (notably Irene Collins in Jane Austen and the Clergy) I feel as if they deserve another look.
“I always preferred the church”
Although many of her contemporary readers would have been familiar with the standard sibling professional hierarchy, it sometimes comes as a surprise to modern audiences that younger brothers were often assigned careers based simply on the order of their birth. Because of primogeniture, the eldest son was destined to inherit the estate, no matter how terrible he would be at maintaining it. It was ostensibly his choice whether to support his younger siblings financially, although running an estate often didn’t include the financial wiggle room to support more than one family. Also, if you’ve ever spent any time around sibling boys, you can probably imagine that they aren’t exactly fond of sharing their toys.
In Sense and Sensibility Austen does a good job of showing us what happens when sibling relationships deteriorate. Colonel Brandon was the victim of not only his father’s disapproval, but his brother’s abuse. He and Eliza were in love, but she was forced by his father to marry his cruel older brother so that her fortune would stay with the estate. The Colonel was forced into the army to forget Eliza, but he never did. (This is just one example – there are quite a few disfunctional sibling relationships in S&S. It’s pretty much “Boyfights: 1811 edition.”)
Colonel Brandon’s story, however, highlights a dynamic in Regency sibling relationships affected by laws of entailment. Because the younger siblings didn’t inherit an estate they often needed to come up with some sort of income. This usually meant a commission in the Army or the Navy, or if those were “too smart,” the law. And for the son who didn’t fit into any of those roles, there was always the clergy.
We never could agree in our choice of a profession. I always preferred the church, as I still do. But that was not smart enough for my family. They recommended the army. That was a great deal too smart for me. The law was allowed to be genteel enough; many young men, who had chambers in the Temple, made a very good appearance in the first circles, and drove about town in very knowing gigs. But I had no inclination for the law, even in this less abstruse study of it, which my family approved. As for the navy, it had fashion on its side, but I was too old when the subject was first started to enter it, — and, at length, as there was no necessity for my having any profession at all, as I might be as dashing and expensive without a red coat on my back as with one, idleness was pronounced on the whole to be the most advantageous and honourable – Edward Ferrars
Of course, Edward Ferrars’ situation was a bit different. He was an older child left waiting for the death of his mother to inherit his fortune. His younger brother’s heartless manipulations allowed Robert to triumph over Edward financially, but one cannot help pitying the man taken in by Lucy Steele.
Mansfield Park‘s Edmund Bertram is truly the younger brother left to the whims of his older brother’s financial indulgences. And like Edward Ferrars, Edmund is luckily rather happy with the idea of being a clergyman. These Austen heroes both find happiness in a life of quiet solitude and reflection – a choice reflected in both of their marriages to quiet, reflective women.
But not all of Austen’s clergymen make such sensible matrimonial decisions.
Mr. Elton, of course, finds his Augusta at a popular watering-place. They were presumably brought together by their mutual desire to impress others at all costs. I often defend my dear Emma, and in this case it’s easy to see that her being fooled by Mr Elton was due as much to her naivety as to her vanity. Elton, however, proves himself to be exactly what Mr Knightley warned Emma he was.
She remembered what Mr. Knightley had once said to her about Mr. Elton, the caution he had given, the conviction he had professed that Mr. Elton would never marry indiscreetly; and blushed to think how much truer a knowledge of his character had been there shewn than any she had reached herself. It was dreadfully mortifying; but Mr. Elton was proving himself, in many respects, the very reverse of what she had meant and believed him; proud, assuming, conceited; very full of his own claims, and little concerned about the feelings of others.
Emma expected Mr Elton to share her values. She valued a friend who would listen to her and be a submissive and pleasant companion – a role she had played for her own father her entire life. But Mr Elton’s choice of wife shows us that he’s driven almost solely by financial and social ambition. It’s easy to imagine that a man “very full of his own claims, and little concerned about the feelings of others” would choose appearance over substance not only in courtship, but likely in his his choice of profession as well. After all, what gives a more pleasant appearance than a clerical collar? A man as interested in social position as Elton would likely have seen the church as his ticket into the drawing rooms of elegant young ladies. His appearance at the Lychgate, however, would most likely expose his parishioners to the moral failings of their Shepherd.
I have to break here because it’s taken me quite a while to get this far and I’m just about to dive into my two favorite clerical characters: Mr Collins and Henry Tilney. I started this blog entry in May (the little one got over his pneumonia very quickly, thank you) but between work and motherhood I’ve been struggling to keep up with it. I’ll get the second half up as soon as possible – until then, what are your thoughts on Austen’s clergymen? Do you think any of them would make good husbands?
Every now and then we learn a lesson. For some of us it’s an old lesson, repackaged and presented in a new way, forcing us to admit that the changes we thought we’d made weren’t permanent. Hopefully we manage to avoid hurting ourselves or others while we’re figuring out exactly what needs changing.
It won’t be a surprise to most people reading this, but I grew up an Austen daughter – I was the “Marianne” and my sister the “Elinor.” (If you haven’t read Sense & Sensibility, there is a remarkably good film adaptation of it starring Kate Winslet & Emma Thompson. And you know if I’ve recommended an Austen film it’s probably good, since I have rather high standards.) I, like Marianne Dashwood, had a hard time controlling the intensity of my emotions1.
Part of it was the product of being the younger child, feeling compelled to do more to gain the attention of parents & caregivers simply by the nature of my station in life. But part of it was just the way I was made. I’ve only recently started to feel comfortable with myself and able to control the way I react to overwhelming situations. This has yielded astonishingly large benefits, and I finally feel as if I am on the same social footing with my friends & family who have always been able to maintain their composure even in the most challenging situations.
Achieving this emotional well-being has involved a lot of hard work and self-examination, but it’s also a direct result of the help, advice, and mentoring of the amazingly wonderful group of friends and family I’ve been lucky enough to end up with. And when I read (or watch) Sense & Sensibility I’m always struck with Marianne’s good fortune at having ended up with a husband who will not only be her friend, but her mentor. Colonel Brandon is the perfect companion to help her learn, and re-learn, the difficult life lessons of grief and powerlessness against fate.
My most recent lesson of this nature was delivered in the midst of one of the hardest chapters of my life. A frightening family health experience left me bewildered, angry, and scared for months. In the deepest hours of the crisis, I sent updates from the hospital to a small group of friends. They were all constantly supportive, making me feel as though my concerns were theirs as well, and that they’d support me in my darkest hours of fear and loneliness. I was crying out for their support and guidance and they, like Elinor, held me (if only in their hearts) as my soul exploded in agony, striking out against my own heart and mind in senseless fear.
It wasn’t until months later that I learned one of these friends was going through a crisis much more terrifying than mine. The moment I understood the magnitude of what she was facing was a revelation for me. It was like Marianne’s realization that Elinor had also suffered greatly, only Elinor had suffered in silence. In one of the most poignant passages in the novel, Marianne responds to Elinor’s question about the conduct of the man who had so thoroughly broken Marianne’s heart:
“Do you compare your conduct with his?”
“No. I compare it with what it ought to have been; I compare it with yours.”
Although Marianne may be giving her sister undue credit – burying emotional responses as deeply as Elinor does can be just as damaging as uncontrollably letting them loose – this moment is an incredible admission on Marianne’s part that she has been abusing not only the people around her, but herself. By allowing her emotional reactions to take over her life, Marianne has spent the greatest part of the novel in a state of depression and regression. For pages and pages (in her world, months and months) she doesn’t allow her life to move forward, she isn’t able to find any joy either in solitude or in the company of those she loves.
I must also give myself as much credit as I’ve extended to Marianne; I was not wandering through rainstorms in a thin dress, or refusing sleep and food. My emotional reactions were entirely reasonable for the situation I was facing. But “reasonable” is a spectrum, and for the greater part of my life I teetered on the very edge of it. I was just, in fact, beginning to get a pretty good handle on it when my own crisis hit, and I felt my control slipping away into a deep, shattering grief. But unlike Marianne, I had the self-reflection to wonder whether my grief was justified, which only added a layer of guilt and shame to my fear and sadness.
This is the reason I don’t usually believe in comparing levels of grieving – some things hit people harder than others, and when I’m in a clear frame of mind I can see that I’ve got no need to justify my own suffering through comparison with someone else’s. That lesson was one I learned in high school, from a boyfriend who was “bad news” in almost every other way. I was moving from the school district I’d spent my life in to one in which I’d be a stranger and an outcast. I was devastated, and my devastation was compounded by my guilt for being upset over what, in the grand scheme of things, was nothing compared to the suffering of my friend whose father had just passed away, or the friends of a much-beloved teacher who had died of a brief & sudden illness. I was in a spiral of guilt, fear, shame, and anger, but he said to me (seriously, the only moment of that relationship worth remembering) “it doesn’t matter what someone else is going through. This is very hard for you, and you are allowed to be very upset by it.”
But you see, there are grief events which are immune to comparison. The loss of a child, parent, sibling, spouse, partner – these events are on their own grief scale. And when I was faced with the possibility of such an event (which **thankfully** didn’t happen), I was bewildered, terrified, desperate for help and assurances that everything would be okay. So how is it that my friends and family members who have faced these incomparably horrible losses have done so with such composure? These admirable Elinors of mine – I surround myself with the unflappable types – they are my strength even in their suffering. It is through them I have learned so much about myself. I have learned the humility that comes with the realization that my life is not over, my sun still rises. Because unbelievably, they are still living. They are still strong and in control. And even if they have moments where they are neither, they are still able to continue living in a way that honors those they’ve lost. I only hope I have learned enough from these friends and loved ones to be able to do the same if I’m ever faced with such a terrible, senseless loss.
I compare it with what it ought to have been; I compare it with yours.
As momentous as her moment of clarity is, Marianne’s lesson isn’t just learned in that moment. It will be learned again and again over her lifetime. Some Austen scholars theorize that with the extreme age difference and his deep melancholy, her marriage to Colonel Brandon is more penance than prize. While there are reasons to argue in favor of that theory, I also take great comfort in the idea that Marianne will end up with a man who has suffered so much more than she has with such greater dignity, and who can guide her through the self-discovery that becomes necessary as we age. I like to imagine that Marianne will discover, like I have, that it is not only possible but necessary to maintain at least enough composure to prevent injuring oneself & others. Sensibility of the kind Marianne and I share needs to be tempered with the Sense we are magnetically attracted to in others. Senseless indulgence in emotions – even positive emotions – can be destabilizing and counter-productive for those of us who are already intensely tuned in to our own feelings.
There are, however, some benefits to being a “Marianne.” I, like Marianne, am not afraid to speak my mind. Because I, like Marianne, am so eager to share my love and friendship with others, I have built up a lifetime of amazing friends. And since, like Marianne, I have caused myself to suffer more intensely than necessary, I have learned to value the strength of those around me who have been so willing to share their calming presences.
I would love to finish this by saying “I hope nothing bad ever happens again to me or any of my friends, so that I won’t have to test my emotional strength.” But that seems like tempting fate, doesn’t it? As I’ve written this I’ve started to understand one more thing about life, death, loss, and grieving – terribly sad things will happen, and we will all keep going. We will surround ourselves with the people who bring us back to who we want to be. And as for us Mariannes, if we are fortunate we will find Elinors to remind us that we can’t move forward if we are intent on suffering in senseless sensibility.
1. Austen describes her young heroine thus: “She was sensible and clever, but eager in everything; her sorrows, her joys, could have no moderation.” This, for modern readers, is what the title is getting at when it identifies “sensibility” as a trait that will be explored during the novel. Although the word’s meaning has evolved a bit into a description of rational thought as opposed to emotional reaction, when we identify Marianne’s emotional displays as her overindulgence of her “sensibilities,” the concept is more easily tied to the word than if we simply apply a modern definition.
I started this entry on the 15th of March, but I couldn’t figure out where it was going for quite a few days. While I’m not sure it ended up anywhere in particular, it was quite a joy to ramble on a bit about such a fascinating pair of characters.
‘The ides of March are come.’ ‘Ay, Caesar, but not gone.’
Traditionally the day on which Romans sacrificed their sheep to appease Jupiter, the “Ides of March1” is now mostly remembered for the justification of the soothsayer’s warning to Julius Caesar, that he should “beware the ides of March.” We in the audience know what fate awaits the hubristic Caesar. His ultimate sacrifice to the Roman god of power proves the lie in his boast to the Soothsayer.
PORTIA. Come hither, fellow;
Which way hast thou been?
SOOTHSAYER. At mine own house, good lady.
PORTIA. What is’t o’clock?
SOOTHSAYER. About the ninth hour, lady.
PORTIA. Is Caesar yet gone to the Capitol?
SOOTHSAYER. Madam, not yet. I go to take my stand
To see him pass on to the Capitol.
PORTIA. Thou hast some suit to Caesar, hast thou not?
SOOTHSAYER. That I have, lady. If it will please Caesar
To be so good to Caesar as to hear me,
I shall beseech him to befriend himself.
PORTIA. Why, know’st thou any harm’s intended towards him?
SOOTHSAYER. None that I know will be, much that I fear may chance.
Good morrow to you. Here the street is narrow,
The throng that follows Caesar at the heels,
Of senators, of praetors, common suitors,
Will crowd a feeble man almost to death.
I’ll get me to a place more void and there
Speak to great Caesar as he comes along.
Yet Caesar’s assassination was more than a sacrifice – each blow was a consummation of the oath taken by a circle of conspirators, and each drop of Caesar’s blood, meant to cleanse the Republic of his influence, became a stain on their hands.
Jane Austen was certainly familiar with Shakespeare. And contrary to the beliefs of those who would class her fiction as simple romances or “chick lit,” her books are powerhouses of subtle references to the world around her – one in which war, intrigue, assassination, and espionage were facts of life. At the 2002 JASNA AGM in Toronto, Professor Li-Ping Geng presented his theories2 that Mansfield Park is partly a story of England’s wars superimposed upon a traditional English country manor. Other scholars have theorized that Emma‘s Frank Churchill is a representation of France – his disruptive return to Highbury an attempt to conquer the quintessential English homeland even though they shared familial ties. And of course, Henry Tilney confounds us with his admonition to Catherine that ghastly things could not happen in England, what with every neighborhood being filled with “voluntary spies.”
Austen’s writing is notably free from the violence and gruesome imagery of her Gothic predecessors. She chooses to plumb the depths of human nature through everyday relatable social situations. So where a Lewis or Radcliffe would have placed a terrifying remote castle populated by a brutish thug, Austen demonstrates the real devastation of loneliness, isolation, and grief in ways we can recognize as even modern readers. Though he at least has a choice in the matter, Mr Woodhouse and Miss Bates are both social prisoners in Highbury. Anne de Bourgh’s got a gilded cage. Charlotte Lucas walls herself off from the world of sensible companionship. And of course, young Fanny Price is taken from her family and thrown into the little cramped dungeon of an attic at Mansfield Park, where she spends solitary hours without heat or company.
Austen’s genius, however, is not merely in the portrayal of the victims of loneliness and despair. While her villains are seemingly not as terrifying as a monstrous uncle or raping Monk, they are somehow more troubling due to their all-to-real ability to cling to their positions of social power.
Some Austen villains are able to continue their abuses due to their rank in society. Lady Catherine is an obvious example – perhaps the only statement of Wickham’s we can trust is his description of her: “her manners [are] dictatorial and insolent. She has the reputation of being remarkably sensible and clever; but I rather believe she derives part of her abilities from her rank and fortune, part from her authoritative manner…” General Tilney is another character in which we see rank obscuring what would otherwise be obvious defects in temper. But not all of the villains have the shelter of rank – Mrs Norris, arguably the most evil of Austen’s creations, is in fact a widow with an income dramatically smaller than those whose lives she attempts to control. The others use their rank to grow or retain their power over others; Aunt Norris’s power comes from almost unearthly manipulative control over Sir Thomas Bertram.
On the surface, Mrs Norris doesn’t seem to share many similarities with a fallen Roman Dictator. But her story is (hilariously) similar (seriously, stop here and read the bit from Suetonius3) – like Caesar, who had early potential but was placed into a position with the church, Aunt Norris’s early beauty seems to mark her for something higher than her ultimate betrothal to a Reverend. Once free from the ties that bind them to their clerical responsibilities – Caesar’s position as high priest of Jupiter lost in the upheaval of a civil war involving his uncle, and Aunt Norris’s lost in merry widowhood – they are both free to pursue power as the ultimate end of their means.
Aunt Norris conquers even her allies, bending the Bertrams to her will. She ruthlessly assassinates the character of anyone unfortunate to end up on her bad side (including the carpenter’s son). Yet when called on by Sir Thomas to take on real power, perhaps by lodging the motherless Fanny in the Parsonage, she demures. Upon the death of her husband and her removal to a home even more suitable to the company of a young companion, she again defers her claim to the title of “guardian,” even though she has actively assumed the role since before Fanny’s arrival at Mansfield. Though not remotely as averse to being in the spolight as Mrs Norris, Julius Caesar resigned less than two weeks after being appointed Dictator for the first time. But like Mrs Norris, once he finally assumed ultimate power without oversight, his downfall was inevitable.
For like Caesar, Aunt Norris’s mistakes grew out of self-indulgence and a sense of invincibility. Her repeated “assassination” attempts against Fanny’s character finally undermined her authority with Sir Thomas – especially when contrasted with her encouragement of the truly outrageous behavior of his own daughters – much like Caesar’s overstepping of his powers angered the Senators and powerful Romans he had supplanted through murder or political maneuvering.
In the end, both were destroyed by the very people they’d stepped on in their pursuit of power and control. Some witnesses reported that with Caesar’s last words he lamented Marcus Brutus’ role in his murder, which was inspirational for William Shakespeare in his adaptation of Caesar’s life. Aunt Norris, too, at the last cursed and lamented the role of her trodden-upon niece in her downfall. “Mrs. Norris, instead of having comfort from either, was but the more irritated by the sight of the person whom, in the blindness of her anger, she could have charged as the daemon of the piece. Had Fanny accepted Mr. Crawford this could not have happened.”
‘Et tu, Fanny?’
This is all, of course, silly and speculative. I am not in the least bit convinced that Austen set out to make Aunt Norris in the image of Julius Caesar. Rather, her masterful portrait of a person whose hunger for power overtakes all other pursuits, even friendship, is recognizable in other similar characters whether literary or historical. It’s not hard to find parallels with other personalities, or even with one’s own personality. I certainly have a bit of Aunt Norris in me, even if that bit is tiny and wrapped up and buried in a heck of a lot of layers of “don’t be a jerk.” But I see in myself the same need to feel in control, the same desire to be the one making the Big Decisions, and especially the desire to do so when the risk involves someone else’s resources instead of mine. That’s part of what makes the “bad” characters so much fun to read; they allow us to see the dark parts of our psyches blown out to proportions that make them easier to identify and tear down in our own lives. Unless of course we’re beyond the reach of morality. In which case – I’d advise sticking close to home around March 15th or so…
1. I realize I make frequent use of links to Wikipedia. While there is quite a worthy debate about its accuracy and its standards, as well as other glaring issues, I find it’s a good starting point for really basic background information, and a good jumping-off point for learning more about a topic. (The key is to go down to the bottom of the page and dig through the links in the footnotes.) Still, if all you need is a refresher on the overall plot of The Monk, I don’t see how a few misspellings or inaccuracies are going to keep you from seeing that Ambrosio is a really nasty dude.
2. From JASNA’s Toronto AGM website: Li-Ping Geng: “The Siege of Mansfield: Jane Austen’s Art of Political Manoeuvring.” The myth that Jane Austen was politically naive and less-than-well-informed has been blown away. This paper will examine Jane’s art of politics in her late novel, Mansfield Park (1814), and will focus on its “siege” by “foreign legions”, even as England was waging successful military campaigns across the Channel. It will ponder the moral destruction of a seemingly secure stronghold in the peaceful English countryside, and try to explain why and how the battle was lost. Li-Ping plans to illustrate some of the dramatic and poignant acts of political manoeuvring which typically reflect Jane’s art of irony and humour but, more importantly, reveal Jane’s political viewpoint towards the historic events of her day.
I. Julius Caesar, the Divine , lost his father  when he was in the sixteenth year of his age ; and the year following, being nominated to the office of high-priest of Jupiter , [appointed by allies of his uncle] he repudiated Cossutia, who was very wealthy, although her family belonged only to the equestrian order, [Can’t we picture young Miss Ward “repudiating” Sir Thomas because he was only of the “equestrian order”] and to whom he had been contracted when he was a mere boy. He then married (2) Cornelia, the daughter of Cinna, who was four times consul; [politically convenient marriage which allows him to move closer to the seat of power] and had by her, shortly afterwards, a daughter named Julia. [Julia? Hmmm…] Resisting all the efforts of the dictator Sylla to induce him to divorce Cornelia, [Maria?] he suffered the penalty of being stripped of his sacerdotal office, his wife’s dowry, and his own patrimonial estates; and, being identified with the adverse faction , was compelled to withdraw from Rome. [Perhaps to an establishment “formed for him in another country, remote and private”] And: We are assured that when Sylla, having withstood for a while the entreaties of his own best friends, persons of distinguished rank, at last yielded to their importunity, he exclaimed—either by a divine impulse, or from a shrewd conjecture: “Your suit is granted, and you may take him among you; but know,” he added, “that this man, for whose safety you are so extremely anxious, will, some day or other, be the ruin of the party of the nobles, in defence of which you are leagued with me; for in this one Caesar, you will find many a Marius.”
I haven’t really read Shakespeare since I was in high school. I read very quickly in a bit of a weird way – I tend to just breeze through sentences by sort of “getting a feeling” of what they say – which can be a problem if something unexpected pops up. I don’t know if there’s a name for my style of reading, but as I’ve gotten older I tend to get a bit bored when I have to put in even a tiny bit more than the barest minimum of effort in order to extract plot, dialogue, character, etc. So while I had a lot of fun reading the Bard in my teenagerhood, I find my adult self glazing over and finding off-page distractions due to the extra effort that goes into following the rhyming meter and the “enter“s and “exeunt“s.
See, I used to read for enjoyment. I’d have a few hours to myself, and I’d use them to get every last bit of substance out of whatever was in front of me. But now with two loud, boisterous, insane, interrupting young children, and a job, and lots of things to do, I end up reading in that half hour window between my face hitting the pillow and my eyes closing. What I’m saying here is that lately prose is my thing. It’s a lot easier to fall asleep to a nice, flowing narrative than something requiring that tiny bit of extra work. This is why my big fat heavy copy of the Complete Shakespeare, a gift from my mom for my 18th birthday, has been gathering a bit of dust.
Oh I’ve tried adaptations, but I don’t handle audiobooks well, (zzzzz) and many of the Shakespeare films & plays I’ve seen are poncy & overwrought. Having said that, I generally enjoy live performances, and I’d really love to go to the Globe next time I get to London. (Maybe I could catch an “Original Pronunciation” performance! And I love that these guys agree with my “poncy & overwrought” bit.) But lately I’ve been finding myself diving into some of the more obscure bits in Austen – many of which involve references to Shakesperian works – so I got that itch to read him again. Only it didn’t itch badly enough for me to pull that big heavy book of my shelf. So I decided to think like a Regencian(?) and take the easy way out. Enter:
Charles and Mary Lamb were interesting characters. Charles was born in the same year as Jane Austen (1775) and later became close friends with Samuel Taylor Coleridge, whose main claim to fame is, I believe, being mentioned in Douglas Adams’ Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency1. Their family was not overly poor during their childhood, but as the children grew older the Lambs fell on hard economic times. But through Charles Lamb’s attendance at a boarding school for low-income children (which he unfortunately attended during the reign of a brutally violent headmaster) he was able to earn an education that would eventually allow him a mostly middle-class lifestyle.
His sister Mary was a voracious reader and, being 11 years Charles’ senior, treasured her father’s stories of meeting Samuel Johnson and a childhood memory of spotting Oliver Goldsmith in the street. As a woman she was unable to escape to a school or work outside the home, so she worked as a seamstress while simultaneously caring for three incapacitated family members. Unfortunately, though she was highly intelligent and rational, Mary suffered from a mental illness which rendered her occasionally violently unstable. She had a breakdown in 1796 during which she stabbed her mother to death. She was ruled as suffering from “lunacy,” and was institutionalized on and off during the rest of her life.
Mary’s life stabilized quite a bit after her brother became financially secure enough to take her in. They lived together as bachelor siblings, each offering the support that neither had found in anyone else. Their social circle expanded to include the Wordsworths, William Godwin, and William Hazlitt. (If you’re not familiar with these names, that’s okay – it just means you’re not as gigantic of a nerd as I am.) Mary, having been encouraged by a friend to write fictions aimed at young people, began a project with her brother to adapt Shakespeare’s works for young readers. And thus, Tales from Shakespeare was born.
As I mentioned above, I have a great fondness for prose. This made Tales from Shakespeare a quick and enjoyable read for me, and I highly suggest it to anyone wanting a fast and simple refresher on the more popular plays. But, dear reader, you may notice things about the Lambs’ adaptation which may tickle a funny bone or two.
In true chivalrous style, Charles adapted the tragedies and left Mary the comedies. The true comedy, however, begins in the preface: (pardon me for the huge quote, but this whole bit is hilarious.)
…For young ladies, too, it has been the intention chiefly to write; because boys being generally permitted the use of their fathers’ libraries at a much earlier age than girls are, they frequently have the best scenes of Shakespeare by heart, before their sisters are permitted to look into this manly book; and, therefore, instead of recommending these Tales to the perusal, of young gentlemen who can read them so much better in the originals, their kind assistance is rather requested in explaining to their sisters such parts as are hardest for them to understand: and when they have helped them to get over the difficulties, then perhaps they will read to them (carefully selecting what is proper for a young sister’s ear) some passage which has pleased them in one of these stories, in the very words of the scene from which it is taken; and it is hoped they will find that the beautiful extracts, the select passages, they may choose to give their sisters in this way will be much better relished and understood from their having some notion of the general story…
The “manly” plays included for the elucidation of weak young feminine minds are as follows:
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’s DREAM
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING
AS YOU LIKE IT
TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA
MERCHANT OF VENICE
ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL
TAMING OF THE SHREW
COMEDY OF ERRORS
MEASURE FOR MEASURE
TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL
TIMON OF ATHENS
ROMEO AND JULIET
HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK
PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE
I find it rather entertaining to see the bawdy Bard’s best bits through the hyper-moralizing lens of the early 19th century. Though it was not nearly the wet-blanket-prim-and-perfect-party of the later Victorian age, bookshelves of the Regency era (especially in homes with ladies in them) were rife and teeming with morality.
While the Regency era was rather more “englightened” than Elizabethan times, both had their issues with female autonomy. I’ve pulled out some fun quotes from the Lambs’ “modern” interpretations of Shakespeare’s expressions of femininity, and of their general comments concerning customs of his day: (again, emphasis mine)
“…she was, with weariness and hunger, almost dying; for it is not merely putting on a man’s apparel that will enable a young lady, tenderly brought up, to bear the fatigue of wandering about lonely forests like a man…”
“…Imogen delighted them with her neat housewifery, assisting them in preparing their supper; for, though it is not the custom now for young women of high birth to understand cookery, it was then.”
As You Like It:
In those times wrestling, which is only practised now by country clowns, was a favorite sport even in the courts of princes, and before fair ladies and princesses.
“It was a strange fancy in a young lady to put on male attire and pass for a boy; but the forlorn and unprotected state of Viola, who was young and of uncommon beauty, alone, and in a foreign land, must plead her excuse.”
(And here’s a big spoiler in the next paragraph, thanks Mary!)
“When she was dressed in her manly garb she looked so exactly like her brother that some strange errors happened by means of their being mistaken for each other, for, as will afterward appear, Sebastian was also saved.” (Dude! Not cool!)
“Orsino, forsaking the sports of the field and all manly exercises in which he used to delight, passed his hours in ignoble sloth, listening to the effeminate sounds of soft music, gentle airs, and passionate love-songs.”
I wonder if the Lambs ever giggled over archaic phrasing or outdated morality when updating these plays for their contemporary audience. Having read the whole selection, I do feel that there was a concerted effort made to censor not only scenes of violence, but also scenes of sexual excitement or gender ambiguity. I can see why parents of the age would have felt more comfortable exposing their delicate daughters to such a stylized and narrow reading of a set of fiction that was such a vital part of the “Englishman’s constitution.”
“…Shakespeare one gets acquainted with without knowing how. It is a part of an Englishman’s constitution. His thoughts and beauties are so spread abroad that one touches them everywhere; one is intimate with him by instinct. No man of any brain can open at a good part of one of his plays without falling into the flow of his meaning immediately.” –Henry Crawford
I also wonder if Jane Austen ever got her hands on a copy of Tales of Shakespeare. I wonder what her thoughts would have been on the quality of the adaptation. Would she have been pleased with the increased accessibility of works which even Edmund Bertram, the nerdiest of nerds, admits are rather complicated?
Or would Austen have bristled at the moralizing tone which Mary Lamb seems to have taken fully to heart in her adaptations of the comedies? Surely there are morals to be learned in Shakespeare’s plays, but I’m not entirely sure “always listen to your husband or father, and never dress like a man” are the main ones.
Anyway, I had a great deal of fun reading the Lambs’ “update” to that Daddy of Drama, that Padre of Poetry, that Cardinal of Comedy, Mr. S. It left me wanting to get back into the plays again, which is a good feeling. Between the children and the purely Austenian day job it’s been a while since I’ve felt inspired to read something for pleasure instead of as a nightcap. Even if their occasional goofy preachies got me giggling, I really appreciated how easy the Lambs’ work made it for me to remember old favorites and assimilate the plots of as-yet unread masterpieces.
Now, I just need a little help getting this giant book down off my shelf. Hmmm, should I start with the tragedies and then move on to histories & comedies? Maybe I should start with the sonnets and then read the plays chronologically? Or… maybe I’ll just play angry birds tonight and leave that big Bard book for tomorrow.
I did something crazy last week. Well, crazier than the things I usually do. I joined Toastmasters International. People who know me may have a hard time accepting the fact that I’m absolute crap at getting up in front of a group of people and talking. Or playing an instrument. Or breathing.
I’m someone you’d think would be great at speaking. In one-on-one interactions I’m relaxed and comfortable – occasionally too comfortable. But once there is a quiet room full of eyeballs focused on me, my hands start to shake and I forget – I’m serious – how to breathe. (Just a note – if you ever happen to look at me and I’m yawning, it’s probably NOT because I’m bored or tired. It’s probably because I’m trying not to hyperventilate. It might be a good time to ask me if I’m ok.)
The real reason I decided to try Toastmasters is because of a talk I did last September at a meeting of the Jane Austen Society of Metropolitan DC. Apparently everyone enjoyed it, but I have a secret to tell you: I messed up my notes. Badly. It’s a very good thing I had slides, because it turned into a much less formal and more conversational talk than I had intended. But don’t let “less formal” and “conversational” deceive you, unless you think it’s totally relaxing to have a conversation with someone who is 30 seconds from bursting into tears and running out the door. But what do I know, I got a good review! Apparently I’m just naturally talented.
That experience was terrifying enough that I decided I would either never do another talk, or I’d figure out a way to do a better job the next time. Then I was asked to speak in Chicago this spring. *gulp* I knew I had to make up my mind.
I decided to jump in to Toastmasters with both feet. I’ll be doing my “Ice Breaker” speech next Thursday night (my husband’s birthday – happy birthday dear, I passed out in front of a room full of strangers!) and right now I’m planning to do a sort of “Parallel Lives” thing1, telling the story of my life along with the life of my Dear Jane – how reading and education were vital parts of our childhood, how each of us almost took the wrong path (poor Harris Bigg-Wither) (poor NMT), how each of us finally found ourselves in a situation where, with the kindness and support of our closest family, we were given the freedom to pursue our passions… yeah, I think it’ll be okay. I just have to be able to get through it without passing out.
Turns out these Toastmasters people are everywhere. There’s a club here in town, so I showed up last Thursday unannounced and unexpected. I was wearing the Chuck Nagy jersey I got for free at a game we went to last year, so there was quite a bit of “Oh, is your last name Nagy?” and “So do you play baseball?” nonsense. Sort of like a room full of Christmassy aunts trying to figure out how to talk to a niece they haven’t seen since Easter. I actually enjoyed the meeting quite a bit. It’s kind of like a game show – two people get up and do speeches that are between 5 & 7 minutes, and then the next part is called “Table Topics,” where one person stands up and asks questions to a random attendee and that person has to get up and do a 1-2 minute speech based on the random question or topic.
I went again last night and had my swearing-in ceremony. Wait – let me tell you how it really happened:
I ran into the building, slipping and crunching and almost falling on the snow outside, at 6:31. I burst through the door just as they were finishing reciting the Pledge. Before I could catch my breath I had to take my place at the front of the room and undergo an induction ceremony. I’m sure I was beet red, especially after I realized halfway through the ceremony that I was chewing gum. At some point in the next few days I’m sure I’ll show up on their facebook page getting sworn in as a Toastmaster. Now you know my secret – there was a little ball of Eclipse WinterfrostTM in my left hand.
Then I was told I’d be running the timer that night! Wow, nothing like a trial by fire. But though I may have been all shaky & sweaty the whole time, I did it! Oh, and – one cool thing that happens with this club is that you’re given a “mentor.” Turns out mine is kind of interesting. And to be sure, if Sir Walter’s “man might have had the arranging of his hair, he should not be ashamed of being seen with him any where.”
In case you hadn’t guessed, another “new beginning” for me is this site. I’ve often thought about having a nice, clean, professional place to share my thoughts about writing, reading, Austen, Shakespeare, etc. I hope I can live up to that level of intellectual stimulation. However, don’t be surprised if I occasionally slip in some football or stories about kids.
Thanks for reading. Please feel free to comment with suggestions, questions, or anything else that’s on your mind.
1. …inspired of course by Plutarch’s Parallel Lives, something I started reading after watching Richard Burton & Elizabeth Taylor burn up the screen – and much of the ancient Hellenistic word – in Cleopatra. I just wanted to get a little better feel for poor, long-suffering Marc Antony. Yeah, he was pretty much a drunken letch, but we all have faults.2
2. Plutarch’s work is also known as Lives of the Noble Greeks and Romans or simply Plutarch’s Lives – and unlike Cleopatra, it’s available for free at Gutenberg.org.