First Impressions Now Available on Kindle!

For all those who have been asking me about this since the publications of First Impressions: A Tale of Less Pride and Prejudice (and there have been several of you), I am very pleased to announce that you can now buy the book in Kindle format from Amazon. I am sorry about the delay, but as my final drafts of the book were written in InDesign, a publishing program, I needed to transfer the text back into Word before I could upload it to Amazon. This proved easier said than done, but with the help of my good buddy the designer, the task was eventually accomplished. Enjoy!

Ward No. 6 and Other Stories by Anton Chekhov

I messed up. Even though I have had the date of my Classics Circuit review of Ward No. 6 and Other Stories by Anton Chekhov for the Imperial Russia tour posted in my side bar for a month, I was so sure it was supposed to be for today, the 9th, but it was yesterday, the 8th! See what my erratic blogging has lead to! I am heartily ashamed of myself, even more so as this review will be far shorter than I would like to make it. I'm out of town and there just isn't time for more.

The twenty three short stories that are collected in this Barnes & Noble Classics edition are beautiful examples of Chekhov's mastery of the form. Yes, we are a long way from Jane Austen, but like all masters of fiction, she and Chekhov do share this in common - their writing illuminates truths about the human condition. Chekhov's stories are vignettes, glimpses of late 19th century Russian life, in which he dwells on the purpose and futility of life, the distances between one human mind and another, and the moral condition of our species. Like most Russian writing of this time (which is amongst my very favorite literature, by the way), it feels remarkably modern to the reader, especially when compared with contemporary British literature. Chekhov anticipates the themes of 20th century fiction, with all its existential isolation and psychological influences.

For example, in the story "Typhus" a young soldier becomes ill on a home bound train. Chekhov captures beautifully the disorder of a fevered nightmare as we follow him, stop after stop, through his sufferings, feel his longing for his mother, sister, and the comforts of home, follow him in a daze into his home where he collapses, and watch as he battles the disease. Finally he wakes, healthy and happy, only to learn that his dear sister, who he has been pinning for throughout his illness, has died in nursing him. In "Ward No. 6" a doctor finds himself as mercilessly put into a mental ward as he has mercilessly consigned inmates there before him. In "The Dependents" an old man must sacrifice his faithful dog and horse or go hungry himself. In "A Dead Body", the living watch over an unknown corpse. This story is perhaps the best parallel to Chekhov's overall theme - the individual is subservient to life which will continue on incessantly, never stopping to consider our individual triumphs and hardships.

This sounds rather depressing, but Checkhov simultaneously glories in the capabilities of the human mind and the individual experience. In "Grisha" a young boy discovers the world outside his home for the first time. In "The Grasshopper" he rakes us through the joys of new love. In  "The Kiss"  a shy soldier find all the delights of romance in a single, mistaken kiss. These are glorious moments, in which Chekhov celebrates imagination, emotion, and experience, but the boy is overwhelmed by the world, the newlyweds' marriage falls apart, and the soldier experiences the inevitable sorrows of love. His story ends with these melancholy contemplations:

The water was running, he knew not where or why, just as it did in May. In May it had flowed into the great river, from the great river into the sea; then it had risen in vapour, turned into rain, and perhaps the very same water was running now before Ryabovitch's eyes again.... What for? Why?

And the whole world, the whole of life, seemed to Ryabovitch an unintelligible, aimless jest.... And turning his eyes from the water and looking at the sky, he remembered again how fate in the person of an unknown woman had by chance caressed him, he remembered his summer dreams and fancies, and his life struck him as extraordinarily meager, poverty-stricken, and colourless....

Here is the essence of Chekhov: life is glorious, amazing, capable of lifting humans into ecstasy, but still meaningless. Joy is checked with sorrow, which can be counted on to dominate. The doctor from "Ward No. 6" declares:

Prisons and madhouses there will not be, and truth, as you have just expressed it, will triumph; but the reality of things, you know, will not change, the laws of nature will remain the same. People will suffer pain, grow old, and die just as they do now. However magnificent a dawn lighted up your life, you would yet in the end be nailed up in a coffin and thrown into a hole.

Nevertheless, though Chekhov promises pain, overall he embraces life. For, though our actions might be futile, what else have we to do? He recommends making the best of it which, though the message might be conveyed in a rather dark manner, is one I can easily wrap my head around. These stories are beautiful explorations of humanity which I highly recommend to anyone interested in Russian literature and/or the short story form. I only wish I was at leisure to review the collection in far greater detail.     

The Unknown Ajax by Georgette Heyer

I am beginning to detect patterns in my responses to Georgette Heyer's work. Sometimes she focuses all her energy on endowing one of the main characters, be it hero or heroine, with the bulk of the personality: the eccentricities, brilliance, and suavity that makes her best creations shine. Characters like Sir Walter Hawkridge (The Nonesuch), Captain John Staple (The Toll-Gate), and Miles Caverleigh (The Black Sheep) are more memorable than their female counterparts (Ancilla Trent, Nell Stornaway, and Abigail Wendover, respectively), not that these ladies aren't "up to snuff", as Heyer herself might say. Other characters I always remember as duos - Leonie and The Duke of Avon  from These Old Shades, Cotillion's Kitty Charing and Freddy Standen, Hero Wantage and Lord Sherrington of Friday's Child. These are her best books, in my opinion, and I am sad to say that The Unknown Ajax is not one of them.

This does not mean that The Unknown Ajax isn't a very enjoyable read, it just means that the hero, Major Hugh (commonly Hugo) Darracott, is the force that drives the story, not the heroine, Anthea Darracott. She is a very enjoyable character - smart, expressive, and determined - but it is Hugo who I will remember. It is one of Heyer's country house novels, with a bit of mystery thrown in. The story begins with grumpy and cantankerous Lord Darracott who, following his eldest son's death, is forced to acknowledge that the son he disinherited long ago, upon his marriage to a woman of low birth from Yorkshire, conceived a son who is now the rightful heir to the baronetcy. Not only is this quite shocking to the members of the family who thought they were now next in line to inherit, but all are prepared to meet a rough countryman, raised in squalor, and fully unprepared for society life. Though Hugo's initial appearance is much better than they expected, he instantly realizes what they think of him and proceeds to do his best to fulfill their expectations. See how he responds to his Aunt's apologies over the dilapidation of the house, caused by the frugality of Lord Darracott:

"Nay, don't fidget yourself on my account, ma'am!" Hugo said, laughing. "I'm not so nesh as my cousin! I've been used to sleep in a room that had a fire in the middle of the floor, and not so much as a vent to take off the smoke, so it will need more than a puff or two blown down the chimney to make me uncomfortable!"


His voice, which was a deep one, had a carrying quality. His words were heard by everyone in the room, and were productive of a sudden, shocked silence. He glanced innocently round the table, and added: "A mud floor, of course."


"How - how horrid for you!" said Mrs. Darracott faintly. 


Chollacombe, with great presence of mind, refilled the Major's glass at this moment, contriving, as he did so, to give him a warning nudge. The Major, not susceptible to hints, said cheerfully: "Oh, it was noan so bad! I was glad to have a roof over my head in those days!"


Mrs. Darracott looked wildly around for help, and received it from an unexpected quarter.


"Don't look so dismayed, my dear aunt!" said Vincent. "The locality of this dismal dwelling-place was not, as I apprehend, Yorkshire, but Spain."


"Portugal," corrected Hugo, as impervious to insult as to hints.


"Most interesting!" renounced Lady Aurelia majestically. "No doubt you have seen a great deal of the world during the course of your military service?"


"I hand and-all!" agreed Hugo.


"The billeting arrangements in the Peninsula," stated her ladyship, "left much to be desired."


"Aye, sometimed they did, but at others, think on, they were better nor like," said Hugo reflectively. "After Toulouse I shared quarters with the Smiths in a chateau, and lived like a prince. That was in France, of course, A chateau," he explained, "is what the Frogs call a castle - though it wasn't a castle, not by any means. You might call it a palace."


"Our ignorance is now enlightened," murmured Vincent.


"We all know what a chateau is!" snapped Lord Darracott.


"Aye, you would, of course," said Hugo, on a note of apology. "eh, but I thought myself in clover! I'd never been in such a place before - except when I was in prison, but you can't reetly count that."


James, the first footman, let a fork slide from the plate he had just removed from the table, but Charles, deftly nipping away the plate before Lady Aurelia, maintained his equilibrium. James was shocked, but Charles was storing up these revelations with glee. A rare tale to recount to his dad, no niffy-naffy as he was about the Quality! Properly served out was old Stiff-Rump, with a jail-bird for his grandson!


"What?" thundered his lordship, glaring at his heir. "Do you tell me that you have been in prison?"


"Aye, but it wasn't for long, sir," replied Hugo. "Of course, I was nobbut a lad then, and it seemed a terrible thing to me. I had the fever. too, mortal bad!"


Claud, perceiving that the rest of the company was deprived of speech, made a gallant attempt to respond. "Nasty thing, jail-fever," he said chattily. "Not had it myself, but so they tell ,e! Very glad you recovered from, it, coz!"


"It was being transported set me to reets," said Hugo. "A rare, tedious voyage we had of it, but-"


"Transported?" interjected his lordship, gripping the arms of his chair till his knuckles shone. "You were transported, sir?"

Of course, in fine Heyer style, Hugo proves to be the cure for all that ails Darracott Place. Lady Aurelia and Claud Darracott (who reminds me of the aforementioned Freddy Standen of Cotillion), are amongst my favorite characters in the book, and they prove some of Hugo's staunchest supporters.

An aspect that I particularly enjoyed is that Heyer incorporates more of an upstairs-downstairs perspective in this story. Frequently, she will spend time developing a nurse, valet, or abigail's character as they interact with their master, but this book goes farther, delving into the the rivalries between valets and the career plans of the footmen. These scenes are a source of great comedy, as in this one which greets Hugo as he retires to his chambers at Darracott Place for the first time:

Two gentlemen of the same calling, but of different cut, were confronting one another in a manner strongly suggestive of tomcats about to join battle. Each wore the habit of a private servant; but whereas the elder of the two, a middle-aged man stocky build and rigid countenance, was meticulous in his avoidance of any ornament or touch of colour to relieve the sobriety of his raiment, the younger not only sported a pin in his neckcloth, but added an even more daring note to his appearance by wearing a stripped waistcoat which only the most indulgent of masters would have tolerated. As the Major paused, in some astonishment, on the threshold, he heard, in mincing accents: "Vastly obliging of you, Mr. Crimplesham, I am sure! Quite a condescension indeed!"


"Do not name it, Mr. Polyphant!" begged Crimplesham. "We are all put on this earth to help one another, and knowing as I do what a labour it is to you to get a gloss on to a pair of boots - something that passes for a gloss, I should say - it quite went to my heart to think of you wearing yourself out over a task that wouldn't have taken more than a couple of minutes of my time. It is just a knack, Mr. Polyphant, which some of us have and other don't."


"And very right you were to cultivate it, Mr. Crimplesham! I vow and declare I would have done the same if I'd had only the one talent!" said Polyphant. "For, as I have often and often remarked, an over-polished boot may present a flash appearance, but it does draw the eye away from badly got-up linen!"


"As to that, Mr. Polyphant, I'm sure I can't say, but nothing, I do promise you, will distract the attention from a spot of iron-mould on a neckcloth!"


"I will have you know, Mr. Crimplesham," said Polyphant, trembling violently, "That it was a spot of soup!"


"Well, Mr. Polyphant, you should know best, and whatever it was no one feels for your mortification more than I do, for, as I said to Mr. Challacombe, when the matter was being talked of in the Room, if I had been so careless as to let Mr. Vincent Darracott go down to dinner wearing a neckcloth that wasn't perfectly fresh I could never hold up my head again."


"When Mr. Clause Darracott left my hands, Mr. Crimplesham, that neckcloth was spotless!" declared Polyphant, pale with fury. "If Mr. Chollacombe says other, which I do not credit, being as only a perjured snake would utter those lying words-"


"What the devil are you doing  in my quarters?" demanded the Major, bringing the altercation to an abrupt end.


This deep-voiced interruption was productive of a sudden transformation. The disputants turned quickly towards the door, guilt and dismay in their countenances, but only for an instant was the Major permitted a glimpse of these, or any other, emotions. Before he had advanced one step into the room, all trace of human passion had vanished, and he was confronted by two very correct gentlemen's gentlemen, who received him with calm and dignity, and, after bowing in a manner that paid deference to his quality without diminishing their own consequence, deftly relieved him of his hat, his whip, and his gloves.


"If you will permit me, sir!" said Crimplesham, nipping the hat from the Major's hand. "Having been informed that you have not brought your man with you, I ventured, sir, to give your boots a touch, young Wellow, though a painstaking lad, being but a rustic, and quite ignorant of the requirements of military gentlemen.

"If you will permit me, sir!" said Polyphant, possessing himself of the whip and the gloves. "You will pardon the intrusion, sir, I trust, being as my master, Mr. Claud Darracott, desired me to to offer my services to you."

"I'm much obliged to you both, but I don't need either of you, "said the Major, pleasantly, but in a tone that was unmistakably dismissive.

In many ways, this book reminded me of an earlier Heyer novel, The Quiet Gentleman, which is also about an unknown heir taking his place amongst a hostile family. I have to wonder if The Unknown Ajax isn't an improved version of the same story, having enjoyed it much more. I recommend this book to all who already enjoy Heyer. Because it is not her best, it is not the novel for the Heyer novice.     

Janeicillin Shortage

I hate putting up these posts. I feel horrible that once again I have failed to provide my fellow Austen addicts with their much needed dose of Janeicillin, but I just can't focus on it right now. It's hanging over my head like a noose. The perils of writers block - so like vertigo, as if you are falling into your blank computer screen - are too much to suffer, leaving me no choice but to shelf this project until inspiration returns. I hope it wont be too long. Perhaps freeing myself of the obligation will help. I'm very sorry and will not refer to the subject again until I can show something for it. Please accept my deepest apologies.

Agnes Grey by Anne Bronte

I did it! I finished all the books I committed myself to when signing up for the All About The Brontes Challenge last year. Fortunately, Agnes Grey proved a much quicker read than the other novels, allowing me to complete the challenge. How little I perceived the life events that would hinder my attempts to finish the challenge on time when I signed up last fall! How happy I am to have reached my goal in spite of those life events! I thoroughly enjoyed rediscovering Anne and Charlotte's lesser known novels but, in the future, I will think twice before committing myself to any similar challenges, as it has proven rather stressful.

Though Agnes Grey is Anne Bronte's best known novel, I think The Tenant of Wildfell Hall a far better read. The story of Agnes Grey, while it contains some romance to hold the plot together, is more a documentary on the life of a governess than a novel. It is, therefore, a perfect companion piece to Jane Eyre, and that is probably why it is so much better known than The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. However, Anne indulges in none of the Gothic extravagances of her sisters. Though her books are marked by female suffering, born out of social limitations, they are always relieved by a happy ending in the form of a loving marriage. In this way, her books are far more akin to Jane Austen's than to her sisters'. Both writers are concerned with marriage as the one true haven for the educated lady of the19th century and the anguish that ensues when it is entered into lightly. Of course, Anne is a Bronte, so we cannot expect anything light, bright, and sparkling (as is Austen's style) from her. Still, I like to imagine that she both read and loved Austen. There are moments in the book that seem to be direct parallels to Austen's work. For instance, one of Agnes' charges is a spoiled and flirtatious young woman named Miss Murray. Let's look at a scene in which she rejects the proposal of a pompous clergyman:

‘I proudly drew myself up, and with the greatest coolness expressed my astonishment at such an occurrence, and hoped he had seen nothing in my conduct to justify his expectations.  You should have seen how his countenance fell!  He went perfectly white in the face.  I assured him that I esteemed him and all that, but could not possibly accede to his proposals; and if I did, papa and mamma could never be brought to give their consent.’

‘“But if they could,” said he, “would yours be wanting?”

‘“Certainly, Mr. Hatfield,” I replied, with a cool decision which quelled all hope at once.  Oh, if you had seen how dreadfully mortified he was - how crushed to the earth by his disappointment! really, I almost pitied him myself.

‘One more desperate attempt, however, he made.  After a silence of considerable duration, during which he struggled to be calm, and I to be grave - for I felt a strong propensity to laugh - which would have ruined all - he said, with the ghost of a smile - “But tell me plainly, Miss Murray, if I had the wealth of Sir Hugh Meltham, or the prospects of his eldest son, would you still refuse me?  Answer me truly, upon your honour.”

‘“Certainly,” said I.  “That would make no difference whatever.”

‘It was a great lie, but he looked so confident in his own attractions still, that I determined not to leave him one stone upon another.  He looked me full in the face; but I kept my countenance so well that he could not imagine I was saying anything more than the actual truth.

‘“Then it’s all over, I suppose,” he said, looking as if he could have died on the spot with vexation and the intensity of his despair.  But he was angry as well as disappointed.  There was he, suffering so unspeakably, and there was I, the pitiless cause of it all, so utterly impenetrable to all the artillery of his looks and words, so calmly cold and proud, he could not but feel some resentment; and with singular bitterness he began - “I certainly did not expect this, Miss Murray.  I might say something about your past conduct, and the hopes you have led me to foster, but I forbear, on condition - ”

‘“No conditions, Mr. Hatfield!” said I, now truly indignant at his insolence.

‘“Then let me beg it as a favour,” he replied, lowering his voice at once, and taking a humbler tone: “let me entreat that you will not mention this affair to anyone whatever.  If you will keep silence about it, there need be no unpleasantness on either side - nothing, I mean, beyond what is quite unavoidable: for my own feelings I will endeavour to keep to myself, if I cannot annihilate them - I will try to forgive, if I cannot forget the cause of my sufferings.  I will not suppose, Miss Murray, that you know how deeply you have injured me.  I would not have you aware of it; but if, in addition to the injury you have already done me - pardon me, but, whether innocently or not, you have done it - and if you add to it by giving publicity to this unfortunate affair, or naming it at all, you will find that I too can speak, and though you scorned my love, you will hardly scorn my - ”

‘He stopped, but he bit his bloodless lip, and looked so terribly fierce that I was quite frightened.  However, my pride upheld me still, and I answered disdainfully; “I do not know what motive you suppose I could have for naming it to anyone, Mr. Hatfield; but if I were disposed to do so, you would not deter me by threats; and it is scarcely the part of a gentleman to attempt it.”

‘“Pardon me, Miss Murray,” said he, “I have loved you so intensely - I do still adore you so deeply, that I would not willingly offend you; but though I never have loved, and never can love any woman as I have loved you, it is equally certain that I never was so ill-treated by any.  On the contrary, I have always found your sex the kindest and most tender and obliging of God’s creation, till now.”  (Think of the conceited fellow saying that!)  “And the novelty and harshness of the lesson you have taught me to-day, and the bitterness of being disappointed in the only quarter on which the happiness of my life depended, must excuse any appearance of asperity.  If my presence is disagreeable to you, Miss Murray,” he said (for I was looking about me to show how little I cared for him, so he thought I was tired of him, I suppose) - “if my presence is disagreeable to you, Miss Murray, you have only to promise me the favour I named, and I will relieve you at once.  There are many ladies - some even in this parish - who would be delighted to accept what you have so scornfully trampled under your feet.  They would be naturally inclined to hate one whose surpassing loveliness has so completely estranged my heart from them and blinded me to their attractions; and a single hint of the truth from me to one of these would be sufficient to raise such a talk against you as would seriously injure your prospects, and diminish your chance of success with any other gentleman you or your mamma might design to entangle.”

‘“What do your mean, sir?” said I, ready to stamp with passion.

‘“I mean that this affair from beginning to end appears to me like a case of arrant flirtation, to say the least of it - such a case as you would find it rather inconvenient to have blazoned through the world: especially with the additions and exaggerations of your female rivals, who would be too glad to publish the matter, if I only gave them a handle to it.  But I promise you, on the faith of a gentleman, that no word or syllable that could tend to your prejudice shall ever escape my lips, provided you will - ”

‘“Well, well, I won’t mention it,” said I.  “You may rely upon my silence, if that can afford you any consolation.”

‘“You promise it?”

‘“Yes,” I answered; for I wanted to get rid of him now.

‘“Farewell, then!” said he, in a most doleful, heart-sick tone; and with a look where pride vainly struggled against despair, he turned and went away: longing, no doubt, to get home, that he might shut himself up in his study and cry - if he doesn’t burst into tears before he gets there.’

‘But you have broken your promise already,’ said I, truly horrified at her perfidy.

‘Oh! it’s only to you; I know you won’t repeat it.’

That was rather long, I know, but there is a bit of a point to this. Miss Murray is precisely the kind of young lady who aspires "to that kind of elegance which consists in tormenting a respectable man", which no Austen heroine would ever do, but it feels like there are several parallels in this scene to both Mr. Collins' proposal to Elizabeth and even more so to Mr. Elton's proposal to Emma. Mr. Hatfield's situation is very much like Mr. Elton's in that he has good reason to believe he has been given encouragement. His anger and disappointment, too, remind me of "Mr. E". He too is quick to marry another lady of less distinction than his first aspiring choice. 

Anne Bronte's tale is far from a lighthearted romance, but like Austen she is a studier of character and her books teach their readers to judge people by their actions, not their words. Perhaps Agnes is the type of heroine who would laugh, along side Lizzy and Emma, at the foibles of her neighbors, but as life has put her in the power of characters like Caroline Bingley, Lady Catherine, and Mrs. Elton, her circumstances are no laughing matter. Agnes Grey might be seen as a companion piece to Jane Eyre, but I also find it a valuable supplement to Austen's work, reminding us that while many characters are unpleasant to interact with socially, they must be far more intolerable to work for.

Read my other All About The Brontes Challenge reviews:

The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
The Professor
Villette
Shirley

Persuasion Mashup

Another mashup for your imaginitive indulgence! Having already committed such foolishness of behalf of Mansfield Park, Emma, and Pride and Prejudice, I have moved on to my next victim, my very favorite Austen novel which, unfortunately, doesn't really seem to transfer to the screen as well as some of the others. I have great issues with the available Persuasion adaptations - the 1971 BBC mini-series is my favorite (yes, in spite of bad cinematography), largely because it is the only one that doesn't include, for some unfathomable reason, the chapter Austen deleted in which Captain Wentworth asks Anne on behalf of Admiral Croft if she will be wanting to reside at Kellynch following her rumored marriage to Mr. Elliot. I cannot fathom what possesses film makers to include this. The 1995 film is very good, other than that scene, and the 2007 version is fabulous up until the last fifteen minutes, at which point I start screaming every time I see it. Warning to the weary - I shall now indulge myself in a bout of ranting, for I really HATE the end of this film. Anne would not run ramshackle through the streets of Bath (let alone Mrs. Smith, who is supposed to be an invalid), that super prolonged prelude to a kiss in which Sally Hawkins looks as if she is about to eat Wentworth's face turns my stomach, and even if the estate weren't entailed onto Mr. Elliot, Captain Wentworth's 20,000 pounds still wouldn't buy him Kellynch Hall! Ahhhh! That felt good to get off my chest, and now I believe I am ready to engage in an extremely partial and prejudiced exercise, mixing and mashing my favorite actors from each role into my ideal Persuasion cast. Who would you pick?

Anne Elliot - This was very difficult, as all three actresses who have played the part have their strengths. Ann Firbank (1971) looks the most like I envision Anne, and though I cannot fairly blame the choices of the director on Sally Hawkins, I still can't forgive her for the end of the 2007 film, so the prize goes to Amanda Root, who really does do an exquisite job representing my favorite heroine in all of English literature.

(image - tumblr.com)

Captain Wentworth - I typically prefer dark haired men to blonds, and actors who played beloved historical figures in Rome, but I have to give this one to Rupert Penry-Jones for his 2007 performance, which was exquisite! He captures the passion and emotion of Wentworth better than the other actors who have played this role - no easy feat, as anyone who has read that letter can attest to.

(image - Becoming Jane Fansite)

Sir Walter Elliot - I think Basil Dignam's performance, though dated in style, is the only one to have accurately captured the role (it might have something to do with him being the only one to quote the Baronetage). It is amusing that all three gentlemen who have played the part resemble each other physically. Unfortunately, there is not an image to be found.

Lady Russell - I prefer Susan Fleetwood in this role, from the 1995 production, but I must mention Alice Krige's rather sinister, 2007 portrayal, as she was also the Borg Queen (a rather terrifying personage) in the Star Trek movies. How very creepy she is, but certainly not the Lady Russell Austen created.

(image - Ellen and Jim have a Blog, Too)

Mary Musgrove - I prefer Morag Hood in this role, as she is both charming when appropriate and whinny the rest of the time (I wish I had an image to share). I cannot help myself but must comment on Amanda Root's sniveling 2007 interpretation, which I loathed. Stand up straight woman! You are the daughter of a baronet!

Charles Musgrove - I like Simon Russell Beale, 1995. There is a look in his eye that perfectly captures the awkwardness of Charles predicament, torn between a high-maintenance wife and family. Today, he would live in his man cave instead constantly going off shooting. What a real character! We've all known one. Unfortunately, I could only find a picture of his back.

(image - Jane Austen em Portugues)

Louisa Musgrove -I prefer Emma Robert's 1995 performance the best. Hers is the most likeable portrayal of Louisa. This rather unsatisfying image is the only one I could find. Louisa is to the left of Harriet, and you can see Mary and Charles in the background en route to Winthrop.








(image - Photobucket.com)

Henrietta Musgrove - I must go back to '71, when Mel Martin took this role. As Louisa is the Musgrove who tempts Captain Wentworth (though only due to her availability), film makers seem to have a difficult time remembering that it is Henrietta who is generally reckoned the most handsome. As I had not even the slightest hope of finding an image, I escaped disappointment.

Elizabeth Elliot - This was another hard call, but again I think I must go back to 1971 and Valerie Gearon's portrayal. It is the most natural, later performances tending towards caricature. Again, no picture ...

Mr. Elliot - Here the Rome bias plays out. Tobias Menzies (who played Brutus) is by far my favorite Mr. Elliot. He treads that charming but sinister line terribly well. 

(image - PBS.org)

Mrs. and Admiral Croft - I've paired them together as Fiona Shaw and John Woodvine were picture perfect in 1995, just like they had stepped off of the streets of Bath as Austen described them right into my living room.







(image - Each Little World)

Mrs. Clay - Mary Stockley from the 2007 production. Frankly, she's the only one pretty enough for me to believe could really perceived as a serious threat to Mr. Elliot's succession, though it would be better if she had freckles, which none of the actresses in this role seem to have. What to do with all that Gowlands?

(image - PBS.org)

Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove - Again, I must commend the casting in 1995, for Judy Cornwell and Roger Hammond look every bit their parts as do the Crofts - large and jolly, just as they should be. I have no patience with undersized Musgroves, and even less patience with my inability to locate an image of the fat and proper ones.

Captain Harville - Robert Glenister, 1995. He looks so much the sailor (which you can't see as I again am pictureless) and delivers those lines on woman's constancy very well.

Captain Benwick - I prefer Richard McCabe (1995) in this role. Here he is pictured behind Anne and Wentworth, right after Lousia's fall from the Cobb.





(Image - imdb.com)

Quickly, just in the name of thoroughness, I like Mr. Shepherd as portrayed by Michael Fenton Stevens (2007), Helen Schlesinger as Mrs. Smith (1995), Sally George as Mrs. Harville (also 1995) and Paul Alexander as Charles Hayter (1971), who had very little competition (not sure who that Henry fellow in 1995 was supposed to be - are Austen fans so stupid that we can't handle two characters having the same name without being thrown into confusion? Certainly not!). I have no opinion on Lady Dalrymple and her daughter, who are as much non-entities to me as Colonel Wallis.


So there you have it. Are we in agreement or have I slighted your favorite actor? Please tell me all about it! And for those of you who haven't seen the 1971 version, check out this short clip from the very beginning of the film. You'll get a glimpse of all the Elliots, quite useful since I couldn't find images of Mary or Sir Walter. This is when the latter quotes the Baronetage - my favorite intro to my favorite book! Enjoy.

Cassandra and Jane by Jill Pitkeathley

I was so excited when I won this book on Fly High, when Laurel Ann of Austenprose was featured as one of Maria Grazia's "Blogger Buddies" and offered an amazingly generous giveaway, listing several Austen based books from which the winners could choose. I was only vaguely familiar with Casandra and Jane, so it was particularly gratifying to get my hands on a book that had pretty much slipped beneath my radar. Based on Austen's biographical information, Jill Pitkeathley (a real live Baroness, so I can relish all the joy and affectation of calling her Lady Pitkeathley throughout the remainder of this post) creates a fictional account of Jane's life, told from Cassandra's perspective. Overall I found the book rather more charming than not, particularly as it is structured around Cassandra's decision to burn most of Jane's letters (an action that will continue to torment  Janeites ad infinitum). However, anyone with the vaguest familiarity with Austen's bio will quickly realize that the entire tale is fantasy - modern fantasy, at that - portraying Jane as a determined feminist with abolitionist leanings.

Much has been made in recent years of the "real" Jane: not the kind and devoted maiden aunt her family wanted to portray, but an artistic genius struggling discontentedly against the strictures of her society. Lady Pitkeathley fully endorses this modern take on the great authoress, taking clues like the presence of The Vindication of the Rights of Woman in Mr. Austen's library and using them to endow Jane with modern sensibilities. The problem is that she goes too far, at least from my perspective. Of course, as the entire exercise is speculative (and done in a very loving and respectable manner, I should add), there is plenty of room for creative license, but Lady Pitkeathley attributes such remarkably modern notions to both Jane and Cassandra that it almost undermines the validity of the project. Some of this can be accounted for by her profession - Lady. Pitkeathley was at least trained to be a "counsellor", what we here in the States would probably call a therapist - which particularly comes through in her depiction of the troubled relationship between Jane and her mother. It is amusing, no doubt, to consider the dysfunctional aspects of the Austen family, to paint Jane as a repressed feminist, and credit her with those sympathies that modern political correctness demands of our heroes, but the result is not a better understanding of Jane's life and times, just a flight of fancy (which is not necessarily a problem).

The structure of the book is also problematic. While I find the idea of exploring Cassandra's motivation for destroying Jane's letters intriguing, there is something unsettling, almost hypocritical, about beginning a story with that act of destruction and then presenting the entire tale - exactly what she was trying to keep from public knowledge - with Cassandra in the place of a first person narrator. It just feels inconsistent, for in one moment Cassandra is cast as the stalwart defender of Jane's privacy and in the next she is exposing all the most intimate secrets they shared. I know this is a fictionalization of Cassandra's character, but let's just say that I found very little to like in Lady Pitkeathley's depiction. Her portrait of Jane is far more appealing.

But you know what? I'm really just struggling here to come up with some rationalization for the prejudice I have taken against this work. Shall I admit the real reason why I am dwelling on the problems with this book, when I am usually far kinder in my reviews, even to far worse books? The truth is that Lady Pitkeathley set my back up against the wall. Yes, there were bits and pieces of text here and there that I found lacking, but it wasn't until this line that I began to get angry, spoken by Cassandra after Jane's death:

"Someone else complete her work? Have you taken leave of your senses? Is the work she laboured over when she knew herself to be dying to be so treated, offered for completion by an amateur writer whom, however high his opinion of himself, she did not value?" 

To all of those out there who have had the audacity to pick up the pen and make something new, or continue, or rewrite Austen's novels, do you not feel like this is a rebuke for those efforts? In other moments in the book I felt the same sense of disapproval from the author, who obviously sees her own attempt as an academic endeavor, of far superior worth than the mere scribblings of fan fiction writers. As she states in the afterward: "Initially, I dismissed the idea of writing a fictional account through Cassandra's eyes, as that would mean devising words to put into the mouths of both Cassandra and Jane." Obviously, she realizes that she too is trespassing on Jane's legacy, but somehow finds this "fictional memoir", as she calls it, a more legitimate medium than JAFF, providing insight into "the wonderful interaction, devotion and the occasional problems between Cassandra and Jane Austen." This just strikes me as infuriatingly arrogant. She also says, "Some of the conversations I have suggested could have taken place, may indeed have happened; others may not have done." Have humble of Lady Pitkeathley to acknowledge that her suppositions may not be accurate!

I think I am now officially ranting. I will stop and school myself into more positive thoughts. For Austen fans, Cassandra and Jane offers a new perspective on the events of her life, but just like when watching Becoming Jane, it behooves the reader to remember that this is fiction and not in any way a substitute for a real biography. It was, overall, a fast and easy read. The prose are not of a style to enthrall, but all lovers of Jane will find Lady Pitkeathley's speculations intriguing. I usually avoid star rankings, but I will say on this occasion that Cassandra and Jane warrants about a three out of five in my book, just to balance out the enormous amount of criticism I have heaped on it. Overall, I really did enjoy the book, but it sure did rankle.

Note: If you would like to read a less partial and prejudiced review of this book, I refer you to my friend Meredith's at Austenesque Reviews.