"My idea of good company, Mr. Elliot, is the company of clever, well-informed people, who have a great deal of conversation; that is what I call good company." "You are mistaken ... that is not good company; that is the best. Good company requires only birth, education and manners, and with regard to education is not very nice." Persuasion, chapter 16
This conversation takes place between Anne Elliot and her cousin Mr. Elliot as a result of Anne's disgust over the extreme deference shown to Lady Dalrymple (a viscountess) and her daughter. We are told that the women in question possess no superiority of manner, accomplishment, or understanding deserving special attention, and that their presence would be barely tolerated (let alone their favor curried) but for their rank.
In theory at least, most of us would probably agree with Anne that a person's value should be based on something more substantial than an accident of birth. In the US, we may pride ourselves on our supposedly "class-free" society, feel superior for our democratic constitution which states that "all men are created equal" (even though, when those words were penned, "all" didn't include women or minority races). And, of course, the system of government in the UK has evolved in the past two hundred years as well. Power is no longer exclusively in the purview of white, male land-owners.
Yet, have you noticed that if we don't have a system of aristocracy already in place, we tend to create one? We elevate people to celebrity status (movie, TV, music, and sports stars, along with other rich and famous), we pay them outrageous sums of money, and then treat them with the same special deference Lady Dalrymple enjoyed. Celebrity watching (our American version of royal watching) has achieved cult status. If you don't believe me, check "the news" on your Internet home page. I bet you'll find it's at least two-thirds gossip about what star is dating what other star, who's showing off her bikini bod or baby bump, and how some mighty person has fallen from grace.
I'm reminded of a line in the prologue to my novel The Darcys of Pemberley. Considering that the Bennets, as the most prominent family in the area, were celebrities of sorts, it fits: Developments in the Bennet family and amongst their connections always provide a fertile source of conversation for those in the neighborhood whose own lives hold little excitement and few distinctions to celebrate.
We say we believe in equality, but we don't always behave that way. I guess that means we're a bit hypocritical, Jane Austen (my favorite celebrity) included. Her stories rail against the unfair plight of her heroines - usually well-bred young women discriminated against for their lack of fortune - as if rank and financial status shouldn't matter. Yet she sheds no tears for the servants who make the gentry's lifestyle possible, and sees to it that most of her heroines marry rich men! Not a criticism; just an observation. In truth, I don't want to read (or write) stories about true poverty and misery. There's plenty of that in real life. I'll admit it; I, like Jane Austen, prefer the a fairy tale ending.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
The Indignities of a Heat Wave
What dreadful hot weather we have! It keeps one in a continual state of inelegance.
So wrote Jane Austen in a letter - a bit of simple wisdom as true now as it was when she set it down on paper two hundred years ago. On second thought, perhaps it was truer then since baths were few and far between. No running water, hot or cold. Every gallon needed for a bath had to be heated on the kitchen stove and hauled up two flights of stairs. Afterward, one couldn't simply pull the plug and let the tub drain either. Presumably, the water had to be scooped out and hauled back down (or maybe they bailed it out the window!).
When I found the quote above, it reminded me of a line from my first novel - the sequel to Pride and Prejudice titled The Darcys of Pemberley. Add the barnyard smell of hundreds of horses and other animals to thousands of overly fragrant people, pack them all close together, and turn up the heat. That was London in the dog days of summer. I suppose the sewage ran straight into the Thames too. Sounds lovely, doesn't it?
The simmering heat only served to intensify the more unpleasant aspects of living in close quarters with so much humanity and horseflesh. If one dared open the windows in hopes of some relief from the stifling air indoors, one quickly closed them again against the noise and odors emanating from the streets. For those who had the option of somewhere else to go, the advent of such conditions began turning thoughts toward getting out of town ...
For this reason, among others, I would have preferred retreating to the quiet and fresh air of the country, as did the Darcys. But then, if you owned the finest estate in Derbyshire, why would you want to be anywhere else?
So wrote Jane Austen in a letter - a bit of simple wisdom as true now as it was when she set it down on paper two hundred years ago. On second thought, perhaps it was truer then since baths were few and far between. No running water, hot or cold. Every gallon needed for a bath had to be heated on the kitchen stove and hauled up two flights of stairs. Afterward, one couldn't simply pull the plug and let the tub drain either. Presumably, the water had to be scooped out and hauled back down (or maybe they bailed it out the window!).
When I found the quote above, it reminded me of a line from my first novel - the sequel to Pride and Prejudice titled The Darcys of Pemberley. Add the barnyard smell of hundreds of horses and other animals to thousands of overly fragrant people, pack them all close together, and turn up the heat. That was London in the dog days of summer. I suppose the sewage ran straight into the Thames too. Sounds lovely, doesn't it?
The simmering heat only served to intensify the more unpleasant aspects of living in close quarters with so much humanity and horseflesh. If one dared open the windows in hopes of some relief from the stifling air indoors, one quickly closed them again against the noise and odors emanating from the streets. For those who had the option of somewhere else to go, the advent of such conditions began turning thoughts toward getting out of town ...
For this reason, among others, I would have preferred retreating to the quiet and fresh air of the country, as did the Darcys. But then, if you owned the finest estate in Derbyshire, why would you want to be anywhere else?
Saturday, September 11, 2010
The Pleasure of a Good Novel
"The person ... who has not pleasure in a good novel must be intolerably stupid. I have read Mrs. Radcliffe's works, and most of them with great pleasure. The Mysteries of Udolpho, when I had once begun it, I could not lay down again. I remember finishing it in two days, my hair standing on end the whole time." (Henry Tilney, Northanger Abbey)
Is this Jane Austen's way of tooting her own horn? Sure, but it's probably her honest opinion as well. She and her family were enthusiastic novel readers, and, according to one of her preserved letters, "not ashamed of being so." The idea of being ashamed to admit reading novels sounds absurd. In Austen's day, however, when that literary form was in it's infancy, the novel did not yet enjoy wide social acceptance. Plays and poetry were considered more the thing. Shakespeare, probably the most revered English author of all time, never wrote a novel, after all.
Because of the above reference in Northanger Abbey, I became curious about The Mysteries of Udolpho. It's a real book, one Jane Austen read. Much to my surprise, I discovered it available through my local public library. I checked it out and read it. It took me at least a couple weeks (not two days like Henry Tilney), and I didn't feel my hair standing on end even once, which was a disappointment. Tame by today's standards and painfully long-winded. Wordy. Isn't it somehow ironic to accuse a book of having too many words? Yet it's a common criticism of "the classics." Even in Jane Austen, who was not as given to exhaustive descriptions as most, you can find enormously long paragraphs and speeches compared to the soundbites we're used to now.
That older style isn't inferior; it was appropriate for the time. When books were one of the few sources of entertainment, I imagine readers wanted their treasured novel to last as long as possible. Precise, detailed descriptions were a plus for anyone not able to easily visualize other times, places, and social strata by simply turning on a television. Add the fact that writers (Dickens, for instance, with his serialized works) were sometimes paid by the word and the phenomenon is explained.
Nowadays, we have a lot to choose from, dozens of different mediums competing for our entertainment time and dollar. But I hope the novel never goes out of style (and not just because I write them). Come on, people! Turn off your digital devices and pick up something that's stood the test of time: a good, honest read. Be reminded how reassuring the weight of a book feels in your hand, how satisfying it is to turn the pages one by one. Don't be "intolerably stupid." Read a novel!
Is this Jane Austen's way of tooting her own horn? Sure, but it's probably her honest opinion as well. She and her family were enthusiastic novel readers, and, according to one of her preserved letters, "not ashamed of being so." The idea of being ashamed to admit reading novels sounds absurd. In Austen's day, however, when that literary form was in it's infancy, the novel did not yet enjoy wide social acceptance. Plays and poetry were considered more the thing. Shakespeare, probably the most revered English author of all time, never wrote a novel, after all.
Because of the above reference in Northanger Abbey, I became curious about The Mysteries of Udolpho. It's a real book, one Jane Austen read. Much to my surprise, I discovered it available through my local public library. I checked it out and read it. It took me at least a couple weeks (not two days like Henry Tilney), and I didn't feel my hair standing on end even once, which was a disappointment. Tame by today's standards and painfully long-winded. Wordy. Isn't it somehow ironic to accuse a book of having too many words? Yet it's a common criticism of "the classics." Even in Jane Austen, who was not as given to exhaustive descriptions as most, you can find enormously long paragraphs and speeches compared to the soundbites we're used to now.
That older style isn't inferior; it was appropriate for the time. When books were one of the few sources of entertainment, I imagine readers wanted their treasured novel to last as long as possible. Precise, detailed descriptions were a plus for anyone not able to easily visualize other times, places, and social strata by simply turning on a television. Add the fact that writers (Dickens, for instance, with his serialized works) were sometimes paid by the word and the phenomenon is explained.
Nowadays, we have a lot to choose from, dozens of different mediums competing for our entertainment time and dollar. But I hope the novel never goes out of style (and not just because I write them). Come on, people! Turn off your digital devices and pick up something that's stood the test of time: a good, honest read. Be reminded how reassuring the weight of a book feels in your hand, how satisfying it is to turn the pages one by one. Don't be "intolerably stupid." Read a novel!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)