Tending to Elizabeth Bennet's petticoats

I’ve always imagined that, in a previous life, I was born a servant. When I’ve occasionally visited grand houses, I’m more drawn to the downstairs than to the sumptuous upstairs. For example, I vastly prefer the below-stairs “butler’s tour” at the Biltmore House in Asheville to viewing the upstairs of the great house. I was intrigued to learn that Biltmore had one of the country’s first electric washing machines and moisture extractors—a must to handle all the linens of visitors to the 250-room mansion—and I was charmed by the idea of an entire room, albeit tiny, devoted to making pastry.

So, the notion of Longbourn appealed to me immediately. And the novel by British writer Jo Baker didn’t disappoint.

Baker imagines the life and times of the staff who serve the fictional Bennet family of Pride and Prejudice fame. There’s Mrs. Hill, the housekeeper and main attendant to the flighty Mrs. Bennet, who refers to her simply as “Hill.” Hill’s husband combines duties of carriage driver and butler. Then, there are two maids, rescued from a life as orphans, the naïve Polly and Sarah, the book’s heroine.

Baker describes the backbreaking, soul-stealing work required of these servants to keep even a modestly middle-class family like the Bennets’ functioning. Baker’s serious research into domestic demands of the early-19th century households gives the story a convincing authenticity. She provides staggering details about, for example, the series of grinding tasks required just to do one day’s laundry. (No electric washing machine here…) London’s Guardian newspaper notes: “…the miseries of washday present a whole new perspective on Elizabeth's determination to tramp across muddy fields to Netherfield to be with Jane ("If Elizabeth had the washing of her own petticoats, Sarah often thought, she'd most likely be a sight more careful with them")

But all is not chilblains and 18-hour workdays below stairs. The staff share bonds of affection, and romance beckons, once a mysterious stranger joins the household.  Long-held secrets complicate the moral compass of some characters, and courage and integrity characterize others.

In all, Longbourn is a satisfying read. It doesn’t pander and doesn’t sentimentalize. Rather, it’s a fresh re-imagining of Jane Austen’s world where the downstairs world is every bit as fascinating as the lives of Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy.

Jane Austen at WInchester

Two days after Jane Austen died on July 18, 1817, her sister Cassandra wrote to a relative “…her dear remains are to be deposited in the Cathedral…it is a satisfaction to me to think that they are to lie in a Building she admired so much…”

That “Building” was the great Winchester Cathedral where, today, visitors can pay homage to Austen, as well as admire the stunning nave and chantry chapels. A large ledger stone set in the floor in the north aisle of the nave marks the place where Austen is buried. The inscription, probably written by her brother Henry, reflects “the blended voices of a bereaved Christian family,” surmises English scholar Michael Wheeler, who wrote a slender booklet, Jane Austen and Winchester Cathedral a decade ago.

The inscription attests to Jane Austen’s character, “sweetness of her temper and the extraordinary endowments of her mind.” However, many visitors are surprised—as I was when I visited Winchester earlier this month—to see no mention of her literary fame on her gravestone.

At the time of her death at 41 (probably caused by Addison’s disease or cancer), Austen had published Sense and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudice, Mansfield Park, and Emma; she was a recognized author, if not the acclaimed literary giant she later came to be considered. But Wheeler explains that many writers’ memorial stones did not mention their profession (Swift and Dickens, for example) at that time, and also argues that her spiritual gifts, not her worldly achievements were the focus of her tribute. Later additions to the area around her memorial stone—a brass plaque on the adjacent wall and a memorial window—do acknowledge her literary importance. The Cathedral also has erected a series of posters giving highlights of the author’s life, including her last days of illness in Winchester.

Austen probably was accorded burial in Winchester Cathedral, home also to the remains of Saxon kings and saints, because of her family connections, Wheeler speculates. It is known that her funeral took place in the early morning, to avoid conflict with morning prayer. The modest funeral party included her three brothers and a nephew, but not her beloved sister Cassandra.

 “…Women were not expected to attend funerals,” Wheeler remarks.

Without words

Well, at least, without many of them…

I was reminded the other day of a haunting movie I saw this fall: Museum Hours. It is a small, quiet film. There’s some dialogue between the two main actors—a guard at the Kunsthistorisches Art Museum in Vienna and a visiting Canadian woman—but mostly, the film is about looking. Much of it is set within the walls of the museum, the camera panning over famous paintings, pausing, giving us a chance to really see. And, in some cases, to almost enter the life of the paintings, especially the Brueghels.

Generally, I’m a word person. I read a lot, write some. Increasingly, though, I am drawn to the visual world, a world where images instead of words speak to me. Museum Hours gently pulls us into the world of images—and shows, that to have an impact, you can speak softly. Or not at all.

My thanks to British writer John Harvey whose recent blog post reminded me about this lovely little film. Perhaps best known in this country as an outstanding crime writer, Harvey is also a poet, jazz aficionado, and art lover. His blog (http://mellotone70up.wordpress.com) ranges widely and is always worth following, often combining words and images in an appealing way.

Who's your favorite author?

That’s not a theoretical question for me these days.

A maddening glitch occurred when I recently updated my iPhone and entered my password information for one of two email accounts. The email works just fine for the phone (and for my iPad—am I too Mac-happy?), but I lost connectivity (as they say) on my main computer, the iMac.

Basically, I kept getting the message that I was entering the wrong password. I wasn’t, but who’s going to argue with a computer?

The situation got more frustrating when I asked to have my password sent to me. The “security question” was—you guessed it—Who’s your favorite author?

Good grief! Who knows?

I’ve read a gazillion books over my lifetime, loved many, liked a lot more. But which, of all the possible authors, was my favorite?

I’m pretty compulsive about keeping a list of my passwords, but never bothered to jot down answers to security questions. Dumb, I know.

So, I tried. First, Trollope. No dice. (Maybe if the security question had been “Who’s your favorite 19th century author?”)

Next, I tried Harper Lee (for family reasons). Nothing.

At this point, I realized that guessing my “favorite author” was an exercise in futility. So I gave up and now am dreading the hours-long call to so-called help desk so I can be assigned a new password.

In the meantime, I’m using my alternate email address and left to ponder, who, really is my favorite author? Have I failed him/her by failing to remember? Is it even possible to name a single favorite?

Ruminations aside, I vow to write down answers to my security questions from now on. And I’m hoping I can remember where I put that piece of paper….

The mystery of reading

My daughter Rachel recently recounted this anecdote about her son Henry. He’s crazy about books, has always loved being read to, always asks for more at bedtime, enjoys going to the library and picking out new books every week.

         But, at 5 ½ years and just beginning kindergarten, Henry is not reading on his own yet.

         Or so we thought.

         Last week, he pulled out a copy of Walker Percy’s The Moviegoer from their living room bookshelf. He started walking around the house with the book open, to all intents “reading” it. The first night, he took the book to bed, curled up with it, still “reading.”

         The next night, Rachel peeked in his room to make sure he was asleep—there he was, under his blanket with his flashlight "reading" The Moviegoer again.

         Who can explain this attraction? The Moviegoer is not exactly what you’d choose for a first book to read independently! Certainly, it lacks the rhyming and easy words of, say, The Cat in the Hat. If Henry is pretending to read, why this book? Was it just a random choice? The jacket cover is not especially enticing, so that’s not likely the appeal.

         Rachel and I want to ask him about his reading adventure—in a way. In another way, we like having this mysterious story unfold as it will...

         But we’ll really begin to wonder if he starts on Ulysses next!

Under the Skin

 Vicki Lane captures the atmosphere and history of remote mountain areas in her mystery series featuring amateur sleuth, Elizabeth Goodweather. The review below, first printed in Our State magazine, features her book, Under the Skin.

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One quote that precedes Vicki Lane’s latest novel suggests the book’s subtle theme: “A Sister can be seen as someone who is both ourselves and very much not ourselves — a special kind of double,” Toni Morrison says.

The two sisters who shape this story couldn’t be more different. Elizabeth Goodweather is a sensible, hard-working woman who operates an herb business from her Appalachian farm. By contrast, her sister, Gloria, is a city girl, a “ditz in high heels, a poster child for conspicuous consumption.”

Claiming that her husband (her fourth) wants to murder her, Gloria flees her Florida home and charges into Elizabeth’s life seeking sanctuary. The timing couldn’t be worse. Elizabeth is balancing the demands of her farm with those of her upcoming wedding to Phillip Hawkins. And even under the best circumstances, she and Gloria have a prickly relationship.

Gloria swans around the Appalachian farmhouse in full makeup and negligee, complaining about the “primitive” conditions (no dishwasher or cable TV). Acknowledging that Gloria brings out her “whiny inner child,” Elizabeth grits her teeth and tries to sympathize with her sister, but she wonders if the murder plot is just a way to gain attention. Meanwhile, Elizabeth wrestles with her nagging doubts about Phillip’s past and his connection to her late husband.

Overall, the question is whether people are who they seem to be. The answer unspools in surprising ways. Gloria reveals unpredictable virtues of generosity and courage, and Elizabeth discovers her own inner sybarite. A parallel story, set in the late 1880s, tells of two other sisters who produce séances to fleece innocent people in the mountain resort of Hot Springs. The two story lines intersect when the modern-day sisters attend a seminar at that same resort.

Lane’s brisk narrative draws the reader along, and she provides vivid details of mountain farm life. (Lane lives and works on her own small farm in Madison County.) Best of all, her character development gives rich layering to this tale of different sisters — who are, in the end, sisters under the skin.

-- Katie Baer

“Our State Magazine, December 2012, reprinted with permission”

Mysteries, North Carolina style

    I occasionally review books for the monthly magazine, Our State: North Carolina. As most of my blog readers aren't North Carolina residents, I thought it might be worth re-printing a couple of recent reviews--as it happens, both are mysteries set in North Carolina and both convey a strong sense of place.
    The first review, reprinted here, is is an appreciation of Margaret Maron's latest novel. Maron captures the sense of the Piedmont region, both the fast-disappearing rural areas and urban/suburban sprawl. Her mysteries are wonderful entertainments that also address social issues.
    The next review will focus on the Western part of the state and Vicki Lane's evocative stories of mayhem in the mountains.
    Both reviews are reprinted with permission.

The Buzzard Table

By Margaret Maron

The opening scene in Margaret Maron’s latest mystery may startle fans expecting a North Carolina setting. The preface of The Buzzard Table describes a tense scene in a Somali hut where two journalists are held hostage. Not to worry — by the first chapter, we’re back in Colleton County, North Carolina, home to Judge Deborah Knott and her family. Part of the pleasure of this novel is discovering the links between the Middle Eastern adventure and Deborah’s domestic life.

Multiple plots emerge and tantalize the reader. An ornithologist shows up, claiming to be a relative of a local grand dame. A real estate agent is murdered, and a young boy is shot. An airfield may be the site for rendition flights carrying prisoners out of Guantánamo Bay.

Helping untangle these mysteries is Deborah’s husband, Deputy Sheriff Dwight Bryant, and her cousin, detective Lt. Sigrid Harald. Dwight and Deborah met Sigrid during their honeymoon in Maron’s previous book Three-Day Town. Now their relationship deepens as Sigrid returns to Colleton County to visit her ailing grandmother.

Family and community always figure in Maron’s stories. In The Buzzard Table, Deborah’s relationship with her stepson, Cal, takes center stage as she and Dwight explore whether she should officially adopt him. Will that cement his place in the family? Or is it premature?

Maron is at the top of her form, engaging readers with wit, complex plots, social commentary, and moving depictions of family ties.

--Katie Baer

"Our State magazine, April 2013, reprinted with permission."