The Grand Sophy by Georgette Heyer

I love this book! I think The Grand Sophy only improved with a second reading, firmly establishing Sophy Stanton-Lacy in my mind as Heyer's most admirable female character. While Heyer created many intelligent heroines, Sophy quite casts them all in the shade, being endowed with a degree of understanding usually reserved for the heroes of these books, and then only the most exceptional. Having spent most of her life on the continent in diplomatic circles, Sophy enters her aunt's household in Berkeley Square while her father, Sir Horace Stanton-Lacy, attends a mission in the Americas. In little or no time this remarkably self-possessed young lady has not only all her cousin's dancing on her strings, but a large swath of the London Ton as well. The most remarkable aspect of her maneuvers is that she never makes a misstep, quite in the style of the Duke of Avon (read all about him in my review of These Old Shades), but with completely benevolent intentions, even if her methods are the most audacious imaginable.

Now a terribly clever lady would not be so very charming if she failed to possess a devilishly biting wit, and Sophy uses her's to infuriate when the ends justify the means. I love this early encounter with her cousin, Charles Rivenhall, who has long acted as the patriarch of the family (his father having failed in this light), and, as result, has developed rather tyrannical habits which Sophy is determined to correct:

"I must buy a carriage, and don't know whether to choose a curricle or a high-perch phaeton. Which do you recommend, cousin?"


"Neither," he replied, steadying his horses round a bend in the street.


"Oh?" said Sophy, rather surprised. "What, then?"


He glanced down at her. "You are not serious, are you?"


"Not serious? Of course I am serious!"


"If you wish to drive, I will take you in the Park one day," he said. "I expect I can find a horse - or even a pair - in the stables quiet enough for a lady to drive."


"Oh, I fear that would never do!" said Sophy, shaking her head.


"Indeed? Why not?"


"I might excite the horse," said Sophy dulcetly.


He was momentarily taken aback. Then he laughed, and said: "I beg your pardon: I had no intention of offending you! But you cannot need a carriage in London. You will no doubt drive out with my mother, and if you should wish to go on some particular errand you may always order one of the carriages to be sent round to the house for your use."


"That," said Sophy," is very obliging of you, but will not suit me quite so well. Where does one buy carriages in London?"


"You will scarcely drive yourself about the town in a curricle!" he said. "Nor do I consider a high-perch phaeton at all a suitable vehicle for a lady to drive. I should not care to see any of my sisters making the attempt."


"You must remember to tell them so," said Sophy affably. "Do they mind what you say to them? I never had a brother myself, so I can't know."


There was a slight pause, while Mr Rivenhall, unaccustomed to sudden attacks, recovered his presence of mind. It did not take him very long. "It might have been better for you if you had, cousin!" he said grimly.


"I don't think so," said Sophy, quite unruffled. "The little I have seen of brothers makes me glad that Sir Horace never burdened me with any."


"Thank you! I know how I may take that, I suppose!"


"Well, I imagine you might, for although you have a great many antiquated notions I don't think you stupid, precisely."


"Much obliged! Have you any other criticisms you would care to make?"


"Yes, never fly into a miff when you are driving a high-couraged pair! You took that last corner much too fast."

Needless to say, Sophy gets her high-perch phaeton and pair and proves herself quite the whip. Many people in this book try to curb Sophy's behavior and provide direction she is entirely without need of, in particular Mr. Rivenhall's prim and sour fiancee, Miss Eugenia Wraxton. As I often seem to be unable to resist quoting large swaths of Heyer (her dialogue is just too funny!), allow me to cite the first of many moments in which Sophy puts Miss Wraxton firmly in her place:

"I am persuaded that you must find our London ways strange at first."


"Why, I imagine that cannot differ greatly from those of Paris, or Vienna, or even Lisbon!" said Sophy.


"I have never visted those cities, but I believe - indeed I am sure! - that the tone of London is vastly superior," said Miss Wraxton.


Her air of calm certainty struck Sophy as being so funny that she went into a peal of laughter. "Oh, I beg your pardon!" she gasped. "But it is so ridiculous, you know!"


"I expect it must seem so to you," agreed Miss Wraxton, her calm quite unimpaired. "I understand that a great deal of licence is permitted on the Continent to females. Here it is not so. Quite the recerse! To be thought bad ton, dear Miss Stanton-Lacy, would be very dreadful. I know that you will not take it amiss if I give you a hint. You will of course wish to attend the Assemblies at Almack's, for instance. I assure you, the veriest breath of criticism to reach the ears of the patronesses, and you may say farewell to any hope of obtaining a voucher from them. Tickets may not be purchased, you know. It is most exclusive! The riles, too, are very strict, and must not be contravened by a hairsbreadth."


"You terrify me," said Sophy. "Do you think I shall be blackballed?"


Miss Wraxton smiled. "Hardly, since you will make your debut under Lady Ombersley's aegis! She will no doubt tell you just how you should conduct yourself, if her health permits her to take you there. It is unfortunate that circumstances have prevented me from occupying that position which would have enabled me to have relieved her of such duties."


"Forgive me!" interrupted Sophy, whose attention had been wandering, "but I think Madam de Lievan is waving to me, and it would be very uncivil not to notice her!"


She rode off as she spoke, to where a smart barouche was drawn up beside the track, and leaned down from her saddle to shake the languid hand held up to her.


"Sophie!" pronounced the Countess. "Sir Horace told me I should meet you here. You were galloping ventre a terre; never do so again! Ah, Mrs Burrell, permit me to present to you Miss Stanton-Lacy!"


The lady seated beside the Ambassador's wife bowed slightly, and allowed her lips to relax into an infinitesimal smile. This expanded a little when she observed Miss Wraxton, following in Sophy's wake, and she inclined her head, a great mark of condescension.


Countess Lieven nodded to Miss Wraxton, but went on talking to Sophy. "You are staying with Lady Ombersley. I am a little acquainted with her, and I shall call. She will spare you to me perhaps one evening. You have not seen Princess Esterhazy yet, or Lady Jersey? I shall tell them I have met you, and they will want to hear how Sir Horace does. What did I promise Sir Horace I would do? Ah, but of course! Almack's! I will send you a voucher ma chere Sophie, but do not gallop in Hyde Park." She then told her coachman to drive on, included the whole of Sophy's party in her light, valedictory smile, and turned to continue her interrupted conversation with Mrs Drummond Burrell.


"I was not aware that you were acquianted with the Countess Lieven," said Miss Wraxton.


"Do you dislike her?" Sophy asked, aware of the coldness in Miss Wraxton's voice. "Many people do, I know. Sir Horace calls her the greatest intriguante, but she is clever, and can be very amusing. She has a tendre for him, as I daresay you have guessed. I like Princess Esterhazy better myself, I own, and Lady Jersey better than either of them, because she is so much more sincere, in spite of that restless manner of hers."


"Dreadful woman!" said Charles. "She never stops talking! She is known as Silence, in London."


"Is she? Well, I am sure, if she knows it, she does not care a bit, for she dearly loves a joke."


"You are fortunate in knowing so many of the Patronesses of Almack's," observed Miss Wraxton.


Sophy gave her irrepressible chuckle. "To be honest, I think my good fortune lies in having an accomplished flirt for a father!"

If any of you, dear readers, happen to be so uninitiated as to be quite in the dark regarding who the illustrious historical figures mentioned in the passage above are, let me urge you to both read this article on RomanceWiki and look at the wonderful images supplied of the exclusive club's most memorable patronesses at The Romantic Query Letter and The Happy-Ever-After blog posthaste.

I am afraid I cannot complete a review of this book without touching on a sensitive topic. As many readers of this blog have probably deciphered, I am Jewish, and there is a scene in this novel where Sophy visits about the most disreputable member of those money-lenders referred to at the time as "the Jews" imaginable. I did not think much of it, or take the slightest offense, when I first read the book - no more than I did upon reading The Merchant of Venice or Oliver Twist - but shortly afterward I read a very interesting review of the book by a fellow blogger, for whom I have the utmost respect, in which she expressed extreme and legitimate discomfort with Heyer's portrayal. We engaged in a bit of healthy debate over the issue, which I do not believe resulted in either of us changing our mind's on the subject, but in light of the recent controversy raging over Mark Twain's Huckleberry Finn, and I feel the need to reiterate my perspective on this subject. Political correctness is a very modern notion, and while it does indeed help to foster a more civil discourse, I feel it often inhibits our ability to discuss the very real racism that continues to flourish in our society and to understand both the present and historical consequences of such intolerance. I urge readers to not allow this episode of The Grand Sophy to undermine their enjoyment of this otherwise delightful novel, but to use it as a means of understanding a very real aspect of 19th century society. The reason Jews historically functioned as money-lenders was because of ancient religious prohibitions against Christians acting in this capacity. Money-lending allowed a marginalized sect to carve a useful place for themselves inside a hostile society, and, as in any profession, there were those who abused their position. Heyer depicts the very worst of these, and I admit to thinking that her feelings on Jews were probably not what most of us would deem acceptable, but it does not change the fact that she was a marvelous and extremely historically accurate writer, and by expressing her own, relatively modern prejudices (this book was first published in 1950), she has inadvertently provided us with an opportunity to understand hatred and intolerance. Not reading this book because of this scene is like removing a very offensive word from a masterpiece of American literature because we are too timid to confront the reality it highlights, and on that note, I will bring an end to both my rant and to this post. Enjoy the remains of the weekend everyone!

Bit of a Rant Regarding Mark Twain and Jane Austen

Earlier this week, Vic of Jane Austen Today quoted a Times Online review of Emma 2009 from last October by A.A. Gill, in which this gentleman (not sure that is the correct term) says some rather scathing things about our dear, beloved Jane:

Last week in this newspaper, I read that Mark Twain had said if he knew where Jane Austen was buried, he’d dig her up and beat in her skull with her own femur. My sentiments entirely. The world can be, and indeed should be, split between those for Jane and those for Twain.

Upon reading this, my first thought was, "Who is to say that fans of Mark Twain cannot be fans of Jane Austen?" I greatly enjoy Twain, though I am certainly not obsessed with his work to the degree I am with Austen's. Why must admirers of an author agree with all that said author had to say? Just because Twain, or Charlotte Bronte for that matter, didn't care for Austen, are their tastes to dictate what others enjoy? Certainly not. What would possess a writer to record such an inane proposal?

I am house/dog sitting for my parents this week, providing me with the novel and dubious luxury of not just a television, but digital cable. I woke up this morning to a TMC broadcast of The Adventures of Mark Twain (1944), a film I had never seen before but really enjoyed (once I overcame the extremely dated and offensive characterizations of African-Americans). An extremely moving portrayal of the great humorist, the movie reminded me of the great joy his work imparts to the reader. Known for his wit, cynicism, and hyperbole, I must ask if Twain really despised Austen as much as he professed. He is known, after all, to have read her books repeatedly and, based upon his character, it seems quite believable that he derided Austen in hopes of wrangling his audience.

Let's examine some of what the man had to say about Austen, beginning with this quote Mr. Gill refers to:

I haven't any right to criticise books, and I don't do it except when I hate them. I often want to criticise Jane Austen, but her books madden me so that I can't conceal my frenzy from the reader; and therefore I have to stop every time I begin. Everytime I read 'Pride and Prejudice' I want to dig her up and beat her over the skull with her own shin-bone.

- Letter to Joseph Twichell, 13 September 1898

So he wants to criticize Austen, but somehow just can't manage to? I take this as an admission of not actually hating her. Could this mad frenzy be the result of an internal conflict - did he want to hate her but just couldn't quite manage it? Some ten years ago, The Virginia Quarterly Review published a fascinating essay entitled "A Barkeeper Entering the Kingdom of Heaven": Did Mark Twain Really Hate Jane Austen? in which Emily Auerbach makes the argument that Twain was really closeted Austenite by exploring one of these unfinished criticisms of Austen. She says:

Twain obviously enjoyed taking verbal pot shots at "classic" authors. In his famous essay "Fenimore Cooper's Literary Offenses," Twain lambasted Cooper for scoring "114 offenses against literary art out of a possible 115" and committing "a crime against the language" through his stilted diction and sentimentalized characterizations. Perhaps Twain planned a similar essay to pillory the much-praised Jane Austen: an incomplete and unpublished fragment called "Jane Austen" is now housed in the Mark Twain papers at the University of California-Berkeley Library. Why might Twain have become uncomfortable with a vitriolic attack on the "impossible Jane Austin"? Could it be that he found too much common ground?

It is very hard to imagine that Twain would not agree wholeheartedly with Austen's famous statement, from a letter to her niece, Fanny Knight, "Pictures of perfection, as you know, make me sick and wicked ...", but as her letters were not published until well after his death, it is doubtful he had the benefit of wholehearted agreement on this point. Still, is it possible that someone with his wry sense of humor could not see through the morality of Austen, which he professed to despise, and perceive the satire behind it? In fact this seems to be exactly what he is hinting at in this fragment of an essay analyzed by Auerbach:

Whenever I take up "Pride and Prejudice" or "Sense and Sensibility," I feel like a barkeeper entering the Kingdom of Heaven. I mean, I feel as he would probably feel, would almost certainly feel. I am quite sure I know what his sensations would be -- and his private comments. He would be certain to curl his lip, as those ultra-good Presbyterians went filing self-complacently along. ...

- from "Jane Austen", 1909

It is the images of perfection that irritate him and, as all careful reader's of Austen know, her characters are never so perfect as they might, on the surface, appear.

This is exactly what Gill doesn't get. It pains me to print this, but let's look at what he goes on to say about Emma:

There is nobody to like. There is nobody you could even bear. The eponymous heroine is the most worthlessly loathsome in all fiction. She is manipulative, vain, selfish, arch, shallow, insensitive, capricious and a bully. Her only mitigating feature is a vaunting snobbery so absurd and overweening, so hopelessly eugenic, that it could only be a medical condition. It’s not even that she can claim to be naive or misunderstood or well meaning. She’s a knowing, arrogant little bitch, and we’re supposed to watch and care about her until she reaches a wholly undeserved happy ending and marries that wet bloke who argues with her all the time, as if you hadn’t already guessed. If you hadn’t already guessed, then I’ve just given you a reason to go and do something useful instead. Nobody in this confection of simpering is likeable or forgivable, because none of them has the guts to hack Emma’s leg off and beat her brains out with the bloody stump.

Like the most seasoned Washington politicians, Mr. Gill takes a quote out of context, spins it in an outrageous direction, and produces something completely inconsistent with the original intent. I have to imagine that his description of Emma would have left Mr. Twain aching to read the book.

Twain also said:

Jane Austen? Why I go so far as to say that any library is a good library that does not contain a volume by Jane Austen. Even if it contains no other book.

- quoted in Remembered Yesterdays, Robert Underwood Johnson

And:

Jane Austen's books, too, are absent from this library. Just that one omission alone would make a fairly good library out of a library that hadn't a book in it.

- Following the Equator

Yet he obviously read and reread at least Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility, making it hard to believe these novels were not a part of his personal library. It seems there is far more common ground between the two authors than haters of Austen would like to admit. Like Elizabeth Bennet, it Twain was apt to "find great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which in fact [were] not [his] own."





















Twain also said: