Happy Birthday, Jane

Today was the anniversary of Jane Austen's birthday, maybe you've heard?

At Jane Austen's House, we honoured the day with an open house:

mince pies, cups of tea and free admission.

For the past 18 months, I've spent most of my Thursdays in Chawton, Hampshire -- talking about Jane, thinking about Jane, and of course, reading about all things Austen.  Having said that, I'm not one of the dedicated miniaturists in life.  I don't read the six books over and over, as some of her fans do.  I'm much more likely to read a novel that's been obviously influenced by the Austen style or plot-lines.  (The Three Weissmans of Westport  comes immediately to mind.) There is one novel that I do read almost every year, though, and that's Persuasion.

It is not unusual for Austen lovers to nominate a favourite novel, and by a long chalk the front-runners are Pride and Prejudice and Persuasion.  I like and admire P & P, but without hesitation I would choose Persuasion as one of my desert island books.  I recently read an interview with Nigella Lawson and she named the following as her all-time favourite books:  Persuasion (listed first), any Nancy Mitford, Little Women by Louisa May Alcott, and I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith.  I didn't really need any other reason to adore Nigella Lawson, but discovering that we have the same short-list of favourite books did make me feel that extra bit of kinship to her.  (I would argue that being influenced and formed by the same body of books does create a sororal bond.)

Not everyone is similarly persuaded, though.  A friend recently asked for a recommendation for her Book Club and I encouraged her to choose Persuasion. 

Her feedback was not, to put it delicately, enthusiastic.

I can't remember the particulars of what she said . . . probably because I was too busy refuting them, both in mind and mouth . . . but I do recall that she didn't care for Anne Elliot, the heroine.  Something about "wimpy;" something about wanting to shake her and why didn't she take more control of her life.

I immediately went into my professor mode, trying to explain the aristocratic confines of life for an on-the-shelf and not-quite-rich-enough woman like Anne.   There is no denying, though, that Anne has a certain passive quality.  I'm quite susceptible to characters who are good and kind, but a little prone to being pushed around -- but not everyone shares that taste, I realise.

Some biographers believe that Anne Elliot was partly based on Jane's sister Cassandra, who had her own experience of "loving longest, when existence or hope is gone."  (Cassandra's fiance died, and apparently she long carried a torch for him.  At any rate, she never married -- nor even seemed to contemplate marriage.)  If so, the dénouement of Persuasian -- in which two lovers, long separated, are reunited -- was the ultimate in wish-fulfillment.  Although it is not the most obviously romantic of Austen's novels, with its slightly melancholy and autumnal tone, I think it is the most profoundly romantic.  It is the novel for every shy girl (or wallflower woman) who thinks someone will come along and see her for what she really is.  Don't we all want to be loved for our intrinsic qualities?  In a world that admires surface gloss more than ever, the idea of being seen and recognized and chosen is still heart-thrilling.

Why not seize the pleasure at once?

How often is happiness destroyed by preparation, foolish preparation.

(from Emma)

I long to be the sort of person who seizes the pleasure at once, but I have the feeling that I am too often caught planning and worrying and second-guessing myself . . . definitely more of an Anne Elliot.  Happily, Jane Austen -- who only wrote six completed novels -- provides more than one kind of heroine.

One fine day

Another sunny day.

For weeks now, I've opened the heavy bedroom curtains to brilliant sun.  This is our fourth summer in England, but the first time we've enjoyed such a long streak of fine, cloudless days.  My flimsy cotton dresses have been dragged out of the back of the closet; usually, they only get an airing when we holiday in warm places.

I love the heat of a proper good summer, but the gardener in me acknowledges that the ground could use a good soaking.  Nearly every night, I'm outside watering the borders until the light begins to ebb and I can feel the damp chill rising from the earth.

Three summers ago, when we planted the new border and the rose/herb beds, it rained and rained.  High summer is not, typically, the best time to put in new plants, but the weather conspired with my impatience.  Only the lavender, which hates being water-logged, really suffered.

This year the lavender is thriving . . . it must think it got transplanted to Provence.

For the first time, we aren't plagued by the black spot on the rose leaves.  But the trade-off is that the roses bloom and quickly brown and shrivel.  They come apart like an explosion of confetti when you touch them.  Last Thursday, when I was at Jane Austen's House, every gust of wind blew a shower of rose petals through the front door.  I kept looking for the phantom June wedding.

I suppose we are all influenced by seasonal rhythm and ritual more than we realize.  I still expect SUMMER to begin on that last weekend of May.  It feels strange to fret, in July, with early morning alarm bells, piano exams and school bags.  The high point of the summer has passed, and yet here we are -- still limping along, trying to adhere to a routine that has lost its relevance.  I'm sure that by the end of August I will long for routine again, but just now I'd like to lay in the grass and listen to the hum of insects.

The raspberry canes are bursting with fruit that no one has time to pick.

We need to spend a day in our pajamas . . . or bathing suits.  It seems a shame to run the sprinklers without some tow-headed child running through them.

Only one more day 'till summer vacation.

Women's Writing

a view from Persephone Bookshore
Lamb's Conduit Street, London

Yesterday, when I was at Jane Austen's House, I got into a long conversation about women's writing with one of our American visitors.  (It isn't unusual for a Jane-specific enthusiasm to lead to other bookish topics.)  By serendipitous good fortune, this American was spending a week in Bloomsbury -- the once-home of Virginia Woolf and so many other writers, and still the heart of literary London. 

I was delighted to enlighten this kindred spirit about one of my favorite London places:  Persephone, the bookshop and printing press which specializes in "rediscovered" 20th century women's writing.  Although anyone may travel there by website, if you are going to be in Bloomsbury or thereabouts you might as well visit the charming bookstore in person.

I wonder how many of Persephone's customers have been drawn there by womanly word-or-mouth?  Sarah in Oxford told Elizabeth, and Elizabeth in New York told me, and I have told all of my bookish friends about this special place.  It isn't meant to be a best-kept secret, but I'm often surprised by how many of Persephone's most obvious customers aren't aware of its existence.  The induction of an Oregonian is one thing, but some of my fellow Austenians hadn't known about it either.

I often marvel that the minute village of Chawton, Hampshire has become an homage to, not to mention resting place of, so much important women's writing.  Just down the road from Jane Austen's House is Chawton House -- which contains a library of rare works published between 1600 and 1800.  Although the Chawton House Library is well-known to academic scholars in the field, it is a best-kept secret that anyone may make an appointment to visit this unique collection.  There is a monthly reading group, too, for anyone who cares to discuss Mary Wollstonecraft or other "foremothers" of English literature.

Chawton House Library
Chawton, Hampshire

Last autumn, I went to see an exhibition called Rooms Of Our Own:  The Female Academy at Lucy Cavendish College in Cambridge.  Most of the featured historical texts, including a play called The Female Academy written by Margaret Cavendish in 1662, were borrowed from the Chawton House Library.  (It amused me, at the time, to think that I had driven all the way to Cambridge to discover something from just down the road.  Last week, I visited the Chawton House Library for the first time . . . but not the last!)

Lucy Cavendish College was established in 1965 as a women's college for students over 21, and our guide for the day was a perfect example of the college's aims.  At the age of 40, this 60ish woman had embarked on her first university degree.  Her first career, as a wife and mother, gradually developed into a second career as a student, and then an academic scholar.  At the age when most people are contemplating retirement, this inspirational woman was writing a book on Rosamund Lehmann --  a notable 20th century British writer.  (Our guide had also written a preface for one of the Persephone novels.)

The Female Academy exhibit featured two reconstructed rooms:  one of them was Virginia Woolf's writing study, that celebrated "room of one's own."  The other was a typical student's room from the 1960s -- not much more than a single bed, a simple desk, a lamp, and a pile of books.  Both rooms tugged at my heart and reminded me of my own student's room -- when I studied English literature at a university in London in the 1980s.  There has never been a year, before or since, that could match it for a truly enraptured immersion in reading and writing.

I have so many other distractions now, but there are still some places which remind me of the pleasures of a shelf of unread books and a comfortable chair and the well-lit silence to read by.

Jane Austen's House
Chawton House Library
Lucy Cavendish College
Persephone Bookstore

Dispatches from Jane Austen's House

Last May, I visited Jane Austen's house for the first time. The roses 'round the door weren't in bloom yet; but bee that I am, the place had an irresistible lure for me.

As luck would have it, the place was undergoing an expansion/renovation (kitchen, reading room, bookstore . . . yes, all of my favorite places) and they needed more volunteers. It seemed a tailor-made opportunity for me, and believe me, I'm not one to look a gift-house in the mouth.

One of the reasons that I adore my blog-friends is that they seemed to think that this was a splendid idea. And because I have received many emails asking if I did indeed ever go to work at Jane Austen's house, I thought that I'd throw a little light on the subject . . .

One of the delights and privileges of being a "steward" to the house is opening it up before the guests arrive. Although Jane lived here 200 years ago, she must have risen in the morning to open the same sash windows that I do. As she looked out of her bedroom window, she must have gazed with pleasure at the greenness of her garden. As she folded back the shutters of the dining parlour windows, she must have watched, with keen interest, as the little village of Chawton came to life.

Each window has wooden shutters that fold back, each in their own idiosyncratic way. Behind the shutters in Mrs. Austen's room, you can still glimpse traces of the 18th century green and white wallpaper.

After we open the windows and turn on the lights, we put vases of fresh flowers in the deep windowsills. Jane had her own morning routine: She kept the keys for the tea caddy, and it was her task to carefully spoon out the precious leaves. After breakfast, she practiced the piano for two hours . . . at least that is what we tell the children who visit.

When Jane's father retired from the rectory at Steventon, in 1800, he sold most of the house's contents -- including much of his extensive library, and Jane's piano and sheet music collection. For nine years, Jane and her sister and parents drifted from rental houses in Bath to the homes of friends and family. In 1809, after Mr. Austen's death, Mrs. Austen and her daughters moved to the house in Chawton -- and Jane began to write and make music again.

Although the piano in the drawing room didn't belong to Jane, it was made in 1810 by Clementi. (We like to think that she played on something quite similar.) Surprisingly, house visitors are allowed to play on it. Yesterday, this young man from Germany opted for some Mozart. You never know when you are going to be treated to an impromptu concert. A few weeks ago, a group of W.I. women gathered around the piano to sing Jerusalem.

There are three kinds of visitors, really: those who want a private experience; those who ask questions of the stewards; and those who want to share their own knowledge, opinions and feelings about Jane. That latter category is certainly the most entertaining.

Although I have spent the summer boning up on all things Jane Austen and Regency period, I'm rarely asked to show off my command of the subject. (Annoyingly, when I am asked a question, it is often something obscure about the house and I am flummoxed. I wonder when that learning curve will start flattening out?)

Jane Austen's fans are notably possessive of their idol; unusually, for a historical figure, she is almost always referred to as "Jane" -- hardly ever "Austen" or Miss Austen.

Interestingly, the house allows for the really personal relationship. Unlike most historical homes, which are circumscribed by velvet ropes, Jane Austen's house is warm and welcoming. Visitors are allowed to wander around on their own, and may even take pictures (with the flash off, please).

Yesterday I had a memorable encounter with an irascible man who reminded me a bit of Squire Western, from Tom Jones -- one of the first English novels. As soon as he entered the house, he pounced: "Jane Austen would have been part of my family if she hadn't done a runner!" (Further questioning revealed that he was related to Harris Bigg-Wither -- the unlucky man who proposed to Jane, and was accepted, only to have her change her mind during the night.) Although the almost-relation had never read any of the Austen novels, and kept insisting that his wife had a shelf of them as long as your arm, he was awfully proud to be related to the man who has gone down in history as being jilted by Jane.

I've been asked, more than once, if the stewards dress in Regency costume. Sadly, the answer is no; we are not so picturesque.

(pictures from the Heritage Day at Chawton House)

Visiting Jane

One half of the world
cannot understand
the pleasures of the other.

Jane Austen

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that few people are bothered to visit the historical landmarks on their doorsteps.

Jane Austen's final home, in Chawton, Hampshire, is less than an hour's drive from West Berkshire -- where I live -- and yet as far as I can tell, none of my English acquaintance have ever heard of it, much less visited. I have a good friend who lives almost next door to Basildon Park, which served as Netherfield for the 2005 film of Pride and Prejudice, but has she ever toured this grand house? In a word, no. The Vyne, Winchester Cathedral, Steventon, Bath: all of these Jane Austen haunts are within the close vicinity, but do any of my neighbors bother to make the brief pilgrimage? Not as far as I can tell. Presumably, one values a place a great deal more if one has to travel many miles to see it.

Of course, there might be another explanation -- much as I don't like to entertain the thought. When I asked a close friend if she would visit Chawton with me, she wrinkled her nose slightly, and muttered something about having been scarred by reading Pride and Prejudice for her O-levels. Attempts to cajole my daughters into visiting the house with me were met with outright hostility; (unfortunately, I think we may have exposed them to National Trust properties before they were ready.) Surprisingly, not everyone seems to think that looking at an author's relics is jolly good fun.

Jane Austen's home in Chawton, Hampshire

The gravestones of Jane Austen's

mother and sister, both called Cassandra

at St. Nicholas's Church in Chawton

Jane's sister, Cassandra, is about to be smothered

by Lady's Mantle (alchemilla molis)

late-blooming lilac looms overhead

Jane Austen was buried

in Winchester Cathedral

on July 24, 1817

This is a Winchester Cathedral rose currently blooming in my garden

Jane Austen's desk

It gave me chills to think of her

composing Persuasion in this simple spot

Happily, I do have one bookish friend who was willing to indulge me in my pursuit of all things Jane.

Last May, during the half-term holiday we visited the Jane Austen Centre in Bath. (Frankly, it was a bit disappointing and tourist-trappish. Except for an interesting display of the costumes from Miss Austen Regrets, there was little to inform, please or excite.)

For a good supply of Austen memorabilia, though, the house in Chawton is outstanding. Although I would encourage visitors to go to the house on a Wednesday through Saturday (when Cassandra's Tea Room across the street is open for business), we practically had the house to ourselves on the Tuesday after the recent Bank Holiday. (Although, strangely enough, the famous children's author Jacqueline Wilson entered just as we were leaving.) We were able to admire family jewellery, a quilted bedspread that the Austen women made, copies of letters and manuscripts, and pieces of period furniture without any jostling or jockeying for position. I was also able to debate the merits of various Austen film productions with one of the volunteers there, and learned of an expansion which is currently taking place. In the next six weeks, a period kitchen and research library will be added to the house museum -- and thus, there will be a need for more volunteers.

Without pausing to reflect, I found myself lobbying for the (unpaid) job. Surely my qualifications are impeccable! I'm a teacher, graduate student of English literature, former museum docent, and mostly importantly, lover of all things Jane Austen.

Later, as I shared this exciting news with my husband, a peculiar half-grimace appeared on his face.

My friend Jenni said something along the lines of I wish that I could put into words the expression on your husband's face.

Indulgent ridicule, said I?

Yes, I think that's probably it, said Jenni.

Spotted across the street from

Jane Austen's house in Chawton

When we arrived at the Chawton house, I was positively transfixed by the sight of this elderly woman and her pack of rough collie dogs. Apparently, (and if you know me, you won't be surprised to know that I asked), she and her equally elderly husband are driving around England with their beloved pets. What you can't actually see in the picture, though, is that there were actually eight of these sizeable dogs. Only later did I pause to wonder at the vehicle which was transporting this pack all over greater Hampshire.

As the incomparable Jane Austen said . . .