North and South, or, Nobody Expects the Industrial Revolution

When you’re right, Austenacious readers, you are right.

We talked a bit about Elizabeth Gaskell earlier in the summer (check the comments!), and here I am, about a third of the way through North and South. And, you guys, it’s awesome.

I know: this site is not called Gaskellacious. But! The Jane is strong in this one: it’s like a bridge, chronologically and thematically, between Austen and the Victorians. Published by Charles Dickens in his periodical Household Words, I like to think of North and South as a handy metaphor for (early-to-mid-) 19th-century British literature as a whole: drawing room romance, drawing room romance, drawing room romance, and then—BAM!—Industrial Revolution.

(At least, I think this is how it goes. A word about the edition I’m reading: it is one of exactly two copies in the possession of my local public library system, and I am pretty sure somebody—DigiReads, apparently—printed it off the internet and hand-glued it into a vaguely Victorian-print paperback cover, in much the way my junior-high self used to print out X-Files fanfiction and store it in three-ring binders for optimum access at key future moments. It’s riddled with errors, mostly missing punctuation. GoodReads tells me it’s a professional edition, but Penguin Classics, where are you and your air of publishing legitimacy when I need you? [Answer: Checked out.])

Anyway, North and South starts like Austen—in the titular South, with a stroll in a country garden and a surprise proposal. Its heroine is decidedly Austenian: eighteen and a clergyman’s daughter, a lover of nature, unprepared for romantic love and sometimes socially misunderstood. Its primary love story is built around a clearly Pride and Prejudice-esque relationship, in a “Boy, she’s haughty”/”Boy, he’s mean to the poor”/”Wellll, maybe we had it all wrong I love you I love you”  kind of way. (I assume I know where this is going. OR DO I?) Then comes the North, and things change. Suddenly the subject matter is far more Dickensian—smoky air, factory girls, death by industrial accident—but only the subject matter. The voice remains all post-Austen, all the time: it’s the third-person narrative of a young lady and her parents, a couple of not-very-interesting suitors, one very interesting eventual-suitor, some impoverished neighbors, and her lucky girl cousin who got married and moved to Corfu instead of the gross but unexpectedly nuanced industrial town. And this is why I like North and South: it isn’t the urban melodrama of Dickens (though I like a wackily-named poorhouse as much as the next girl) and it isn’t the moody saga of the moors, like Gaskell’s pal and biography subject, Charlotte Bronte (though not much beats a crazy wife in the attic). It’s early Victoriana—the voice of the Regency confronted with a whole new modern world, and still working through the repercussions. Do we know what Jane would have done in the face of factory labor and slavish working conditions? We do not. But Gaskell might give us a hint.

Further reports as the story progresses; watch this space.

Better yet, go find yourself a nice social novel/romance and call me in the morning.

Welcome to Jane Austen Country

. . . as the sign for Hampshire County proclaimed! Action Jane and I have been having a jolly time here, with her showing me all the sights. In London, we stopped at the British Library. My dear friends, I cannot even describe to you the treasures in their little gallery. Even the sight of one of Jane Austen’s handwritten volumes of juvenalia was overwhelmed by the sheer physical presence of so many manuscripts handwritten by her, by Wordsworth, by Chaucer, and, yes, by Charlotte Brontë (and that was just part of one display case). In the spirit of Brontë/Austen relations, I’ll admit that seeing “Reader, I married him.” in Charlotte’s own hand was simply stunning. And that her writing was more legible than Miss Austen’s. We’ve talked before about how indescribable it is to see handwritten copies of Jane’s work. I think, more than anything, the proof that she and these other were all real people, is overwhelming.

Jane frowned on my friend Mr. Coles’ suggestion that I sit on her tomb and sing New Age chants, so we headed on to her last house, where she lived from 1809 to 1817.

Chawton is a lovely little village, and Jane Austen’s House Museum quite worthy of pilgrimage. Really ridiculously so, given the number of things that were hers and that clearly inspired something in one of the books. I found the lock of her hair another shocking proof that she really lived. Some other highlights:

The sacred writing table. It is, as mentioned, very small! In fact, I can’t see how Jane’s writing desk, which was at the British Library, actually fit on it. I’ve heard people say that everything in Austen’s life was small: her paper, her table, the rooms in her house. Paper and table, yes, but to this apartment dweller, the rooms in her house seemed plenty commodious! Not huge, but nothing I’d turn my nose up at.

The actual dress worn by Kate Winslet as she fell down the hill in Sense and Sensibility! Really! Squee!!

Miss Osborne and other aspiring Regency chefs: Here is the recipe book Jane’s friend Martha Lloyd kept when she lived with them. I couldn’t read it, unfortunately, but I have no doubt it’s for jugged hare or some other delight.

And here is Action Jane in the kitchen. To the left of the fireplace is the safe that Miss Austen had the keys of, where the sugar and tea were kept.

In reward for our pilgrimage, we had an amazing cream tea at Cassandra’s Cup across the street. Cream tea consists of tea, plus one or two scones with jam and clotted cream to spread on. Clotted cream! Heavenly. Then, because I am a thorough pilgrimess, we headed down to Lyme Regis.

Lyme is the seaside resort on the south coast where Louisa Musgrove falls down the Cobb steps in Persuasion. (Falling down things is a favorite among Austen girls, isn’t it?)

We arrived in Lyme at sunset, and went to the sea first, as Jane says “lingering, as all must linger and gaze on a first return to the sea, who ever deserve to look on it at all.” Believe it or not, we actually stayed at the Cobb Arms, and next morning, we walked along the lower Cobb.

Jane wanted to walk along the upper Cobb, but I wouldn’t let her. Indeed, considering that it’s a sloping stone walkway, with no handrails, 8 feet above the lower Cobb and probably 20 feet above the harbor, and very windy, I’m surprised the ladies were walking there at all.

I liked Lyme Regis, but then I do have a weakness for seaside resort towns. And Lyme has some commercialism, but not too much. I don’t think Jane would be displeased, were she to return. However, as far as I know, I didn’t see any unknown cousins who will later be charmed by my beauty. One can always hope.

Next up: Bath!

Photo credits: ©2011 by Heather Dever. All rights reserved.

No more Jane on Jane mud wrestling?

the Austen haters

My fellow Austenites, you may have seen that there’s a new Jane Eyre movie out. I can’t honestly say I’ve seen the movie, though at least, unlike some reviewers, I’ve read the book. What I did see was this article from the Washington Post, which neatly pits the title “Jane Eyre Movies Rekindles Austen vs Bronte, the Battle of the Bonnets” against the plaintive cry of “can’t we all just get along?!” Way to play both sides against the middle, Monica Hesse!

It’s been noted that Ms. Hesse’s pacifistic tendencies sound a little ironic after 1 1/2 pages of warmongering, but I do think she has a point. We can like more than one female author at a time. Even more than one English 19th century female author. Just because Charlotte Brontë talked smack about Jane Austen doesn’t mean we have to pit Team Brontë against Team Austen for all eternity. Mark Twain talked smack about Miss Austen too, but you don’t hold a grudge against him, do you? (at least until now . . . 😉 ) Partly, I think, it’s that Austenites SO WISH Jane had had a chance to return fire. What would she have said about Charlotte? Minds can be devoured by this thought! We want to say it for her, something, anything!, but none of us are Jane Austen, alas, so we really can’t.

I’m really of many different minds on this topic.

1. Of course we can like both Austen and Brontë if we want, and George Eliot too! It’s probably less weird than liking both Oscar Wilde and J.R.R. Tolkien (which I do).
2. But it’s fun to get into literary fisticuffs with the ladies and gentlemen of Team Brontë. People caring passionately about literature, especially without killing each other, how cool is that?! (Just ask Jasper Fforde.)
3. On the other hand, if the moichendisers want to make Brontë consumerism the new thing and give us a break, it would be a relief. (Jane Eyre party games! Burnination for all!)
4. Clearly, this means that in addition to taking Action Jane to Chawton and Bath in my upcoming England trip, I’ll have to take her to Haworth as well. To DOMINATE . . . er, see how the other half lives. Yeah, that’s right.

By the way, the moratorium on Jane on Jane mud wrestling in the title of this post does not refer to Jane Austen clones. We reserve all rights to the Jane Austen clone wars. Just so you know.

Jane Austen and the Brontes: On the having and eating of cake

Okay, this really isn’t about cake at all. It’s just, well, we’ve seen lots of reports lately that the ship called Jane’s Popularity has sailed. Apparently, the well has run dry—we’re fresh out of original texts to adapt, reinterpretations and new ideas to build on, and embarrassing Colin Firth memorabilia to buy. So…I guess that’s it! We’re moving on! Who’s up for paintball? Pottery? Roller derby?

But hark! Who are these magical sisters called Bronte, sent to save us from our delusions about snappy dialogue and sexy Regency necklines?

Complete & Unabridged has some good things to say on the subject today, but this isn’t the first we’ve heard of the masses moving on to Bronte territory: with the coming of next year’s adaptations of Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights, rumor has it that Haworth and the moors are the new place to be, literarily speaking. Cue midnight Thornfield attic tours, Team Rochester t-shirts, and a sudden interest in that severe center part in five, four, three…

Trust us. We know how these literary fandom things go. If you need some pointers, Bronteites, we’d be happy to help.

Here’s the awesome thing about books, though: You don’t have to choose. This isn’t a competition, and it isn’t a comment on your character. You can love Austen and the Brontes! You’re allowed to love the sparkling wit and domestic wisdom of Austen even as you sweat over Jane Eyre’s impending homelessness in the north country! You can long for a ball while also pondering therapeutic options for the residents of Thrushcross Grange! The only one who cares is probably Charlotte Bronte, and—I do hate to be the bearer of bad news—she’s dead.

Furthermore, readership—even new readership—is not a zero-sum game. A rise in Bronte popularity does not equal an Austenian fall from grace. Even if nobody ever adapts another Austen novel (oh, IMDB rumor snap!), Jane probably has more fans—dedicated, passionate fans—at this point in history than ever before. Nobody here is in danger of losing much of anything, except maybe a bit of the spotlight and a puzzling spot on the chick lit shelf. Whatever happens, the work isn’t diminished; we can afford to be generous. After all, how amazing would it be if everybody read Austen and the Brontes? And Eliot and Dickens and Elizabeth Gaskell and all the rest of the greats, right down the line? Surely a revived reading culture, whether it begins with a truth universally acknowledged or with a little girl hiding in the library, is worth a little getting along?

Seriously, people. You should hear my “Kum ba ya.”

Jane Austen Not-Fight Club: Rochester vs. Darcy?

Well, Charlotte, you’ve won.

The Brits—who, of course, invented romance, what with all that sweeping around the moors, plus Charles/Diana and the classy trysts we see in Hello! magazine—have voted Jane Eyre‘s Mr. Rochester the most romantic man in literature, bumping our Mr. Darcy down to number-three status. In an impressive display of gracious victory, Andrew McCarthy of the Bronte Parsonage Museum at Haworth called Darcy (and everybody else in Jane’s world, which is a nice touch) “irritating.” We love you, too, Bronteites!

They’re not wrong, of course. As a romantic hero—and especially as a Romantic hero—Rochester’s brooding and breathy ways wipe the floor with Darcy, who is only awkward and devoted and does not lie about keeping a crazy wife locked in the attic. Rochester, after all, has the choice of wealthy and accomplished ladies, and turns his back on all of them to marry the plain and earnest governess—and acts as if she’s everything he’s ever wanted, singlehandedly turning her from dreary and dutiful orphan to love-story heroine. Darcy comes around eventually, but the grand gesture and love for the sake of love (flying in the face of social convention) isn’t what he’s about—and I’d propose that Jane (Austen, not Eyre; this is getting confusing) wouldn’t have him any other way, not being one for the Brontes’ brand of gushiness in the first place. In any case, does Lizzy hear Darcy’s supernatural voice echoing through the Lake Country, calling her back to her true love when she’s homeless and sleeping under a bush? No. No, she does not. So case closed, really.

Incidentally, Jane Austen’s contemporary Lord Byron comes up a lot in these conversations, which I suppose is all well and good if you want a “mad, bad, and dangerous-to-know” Sixth Baron poking about in your love life. Personally, I’m on the fence about this.

What I’m not sure about is whether they should be asking us about romance at all—if this list is any indication, we sure know how to pick ’em. Clearly, we like the bad boys, and not without—let’s just say it—a bit of a masochistic bent. Rhett Butler? Heathcliff? I’m almost surprised Darcy’s ranked so highly–the good guys, the ones you’d eventually take home to meet your parents, are most definitely towards the bottom of the list (this, of course, being the crux of the issue—if they’d do okay at brunch with Mom and Dad, to paraphrase Harry Burns, perhaps “humpin’ and pumpin’ is not [their] strong suit”). What do we think about this, readers? Does romance generally equal a certain sense of choosing to be dominated? Is our love of exotic literary men our safe way of indulging the desire for a romantic (but not particularly kind or respectful) hero in our lives? Do we really think Heathcliff is that hot?

In any case, Bronte fans, congratulations—truly. But if we catch you outside our windows, moaning our names in the night, we’re taking the trophy back. You’ve been warned.