Anne's object was not to be in the way of anybody; and where the narrow paths across the fields made many separations necessary, to keep with her brother and sister. Her pleasure in the walk must arise from the exercise and the day, from the view of the last smiles of the year upon the tawny leaves and withered hedges, and from repeating to herself some few of the thousand poetical descriptions extant of autumn, that season of peculiar and inexhaustible influence on the mind of taste and tenderness, that season which has drawn from every poet, worthy of being read, some attempt at description, or some lines of feeling. She occupied her mind as much as possible in such-like musings and quotations; but it was not possible, that when within reach of Captain Wentworth's conversation with either of the Miss Musgroves, she should not try to hear it... After one of the many praises of the day, which were continually bursting forth, Captain Wentworth added --
"What glorious weather for the Admiral and my sister! They meant to take a long drive this morning; perhaps we may hail them from some of these hills. They talked of coming into this side of the country. I wonder whereabouts they will upset to-day. Oh! it does happen very often, I assure you; but my sister makes nothing of it; she would as lieve be tossed out as not."
"Ah! You make the most of it, I know," cried Louisa; "but if it were really so, I should do just the same in her place. If I loved a man as she loves the Admiral, I would be always with him, nothing should ever separate us, and I would rather be overturned by him than driven safely by anybody else."
It was spoken with enthusiasm.
"Had you?" cried he, catching the same tone; "I honour you!" And there was silence between them for a little while.
Anne could not immediately fall into a quotation again. The sweet scenes of autumn were for a while put by, unless some tender sonnet, fraught with the apt analogy of the declining year, with declining happiness, and the images of youth, and hope, and spring, all gone together, blessed her memory.
Showing posts with label Jane Austen. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jane Austen. Show all posts
Sunday, 5 October 2014
An Autumn Scene
From Persuasion, chapter 10.
Saturday, 15 February 2014
'Shut Out That Moon'
Close up the casement, draw the blind,
Shut out that stealing moon,
She wears too much the guise she wore
Before our lutes were strewn
With years-deep dust, and names we read
On a white stone were hewn.
Step not out on the dew-dashed lawn
To view the Lady's Chair,
Immense Orion's glittering form,
The Less and Greater Bear:
Stay in; to such sights we were drawn
When faded ones were fair.
Brush not the bough for midnight scents
That come forth lingeringly,
And wake the same sweet sentiments
They breathed to you and me
When living seemed a laugh, and love
All it was said to be.
Within the common lamp-lit room
Prison my eyes and thought;
Let dingy details crudely loom,
Mechanic speech be wrought:
Too fragrant was Life's early bloom,
Too tart the fruit it brought!
Richard Burton recorded a number of Hardy poems, and some of them are on youtube here. My favourite moment in this poem is the second line of the third verse, where the emphasis required by 'lingeringly' trips up the rhythm, and forces you to stop, to linger, on that word.
The image conjured up of stargazing on the 'dew-dashed lawn' reminded me of one of the sweetest, saddest moments in Mansfield Park, where the recollection of past stargazing illustrates the bond of intimacy between Edmund and Fanny, from which Edmund is gradually drawing away.
Shut out that stealing moon,
She wears too much the guise she wore
Before our lutes were strewn
With years-deep dust, and names we read
On a white stone were hewn.
Step not out on the dew-dashed lawn
To view the Lady's Chair,
Immense Orion's glittering form,
The Less and Greater Bear:
Stay in; to such sights we were drawn
When faded ones were fair.
Brush not the bough for midnight scents
That come forth lingeringly,
And wake the same sweet sentiments
They breathed to you and me
When living seemed a laugh, and love
All it was said to be.
Within the common lamp-lit room
Prison my eyes and thought;
Let dingy details crudely loom,
Mechanic speech be wrought:
Too fragrant was Life's early bloom,
Too tart the fruit it brought!
Richard Burton recorded a number of Hardy poems, and some of them are on youtube here. My favourite moment in this poem is the second line of the third verse, where the emphasis required by 'lingeringly' trips up the rhythm, and forces you to stop, to linger, on that word.
The image conjured up of stargazing on the 'dew-dashed lawn' reminded me of one of the sweetest, saddest moments in Mansfield Park, where the recollection of past stargazing illustrates the bond of intimacy between Edmund and Fanny, from which Edmund is gradually drawing away.
Miss Crawford had only time to say, in a pleasant manner, “I fancy Miss Price has been more used to deserve praise than to hear it”; when, being earnestly invited by the Miss Bertrams to join in a glee, she tripped off to the instrument, leaving Edmund looking after her in an ecstasy of admiration of all her many virtues, from her obliging manners down to her light and graceful tread.
“There goes good–humour, I am sure,” said he presently. “There goes a temper which would never give pain! How well she walks! and how readily she falls in with the inclination of others! joining them the moment she is asked. What a pity,” he added, after an instant’s reflection, “that she should have been in such hands!”
Fanny agreed to it, and had the pleasure of seeing him continue at the window with her, in spite of the expected glee; and of having his eyes soon turned, like hers, towards the scene without, where all that was solemn, and soothing, and lovely, appeared in the brilliancy of an unclouded night, and the contrast of the deep shade of the woods. Fanny spoke her feelings. “Here’s harmony!” said she. “Here’s repose! Here’s what may leave all painting and all music behind, and what poetry only can attempt to describe! Here’s what may tranquillise every care, and lift the heart to rapture! When I look out on such a night as this, I feel as if there could be neither wickedness nor sorrow in the world; and there certainly would be less of both if the sublimity of Nature were more attended to, and people were carried more out of themselves by contemplating such a scene.”
“I like to hear your enthusiasm, Fanny. It is a lovely night, and they are much to be pitied who have not been taught to feel, in some degree, as you do; who have not, at least, been given a taste for Nature in early life. They lose a great deal.”
“You taught me to think and feel on the subject, cousin.”
“I had a very apt scholar. There’s Arcturus looking very bright.”
“Yes, and the Bear. I wish I could see Cassiopeia.”
“We must go out on the lawn for that. Should you be afraid?”
“Not in the least. It is a great while since we have had any star–gazing.”
“Yes; I do not know how it has happened.” The glee began. “We will stay till this is finished, Fanny,” said he, turning his back on the window; and as it advanced, she had the mortification of seeing him advance too, moving forward by gentle degrees towards the instrument, and when it ceased, he was close by the singers, among the most urgent in requesting to hear the glee again.
Fanny sighed alone at the window till scolded away by Mrs. Norris’s threats of catching cold.
Friday, 28 June 2013
A Medieval Love Poem: 'Yet would I not the causer fared amiss'
Yet would I not the causer fared amiss,
For all the good that ever I had or shall;
Therefore I take mine aventure, iwiss,
As she that hath forsaken joys all,
And to all pain is both subject and thrall.
Lo, thus I stand without words mo, [more]
All void of joy and full of pain and woe.
Now ye that are in mirth and plesaunce [joy]
Have mind on me who was sometime in ease
And had the world at mine own ordynaunce, [at my control]
Which now is turned into all dis-ease.
Now glad were she who Fortune so could please,
That she might stand in very sycurnesse, [true security]
Never to feel the stroke of unkindness!
Departing is the ground of displesaunce,
Most in my heart of any thing earthly.
I you ensure wholly in remembrance
Within myself, I think it verily,
Which shall continue with me daily,
Since that ye must needs depart me fro; [from]
It is to me a very deadly woe.
[A paraphrase: Yet I would not wish that the causer of my sorrow fared amiss, for all the good that ever I had or shall have; therefore I take my fortune, truly, like one who has forsaken all joys, and who to all pain is both subject and thrall. Lo, thus I stand without any further words, all void of joy and full of pain and woe.
Now you who live in mirth and joy, think on me who was sometime in ease, and had the world at my disposal, which now is turned into all trouble. Now glad would she be who could so please Fortune that she might stand in true security, never to feel the blow of unkindness!
Parting is the greatest cause of sorrow in my heart of any earthly thing. I keep you wholly in remembrance within myself, I think truly, and it shall stay with me daily, since you must depart from me; it is to me a very deadly woe.]
This is a poem from the Findern manuscript (Cambridge University Library Ff.1.6), a fifteenth-century anthology which belonged to a family in southern Derbyshire (named, and living in, Findern), and which contains a variety of verses by many different authors. There's some chunks of Chaucer and texts attributed to Hoccleve and Lydgate, but the more interesting poems are the anonymous ones, several of which (like this one) seem to be spoken by female voices. There are women's names written in the manuscript, and women certainly read and probably composed a number of these poems. Thus, this group of poems has got quite a bit of attention in recent years, and I've posted two of them here and here.
Their style appeals to me: the syntax is intricate but the vocabulary is simple, and there are few poetic flourishes - or rather, they are subordinated to the sense of the text. The stylistic ornament, such as it is, lies in the repeating and negating of certain key words - ease and disease, plesaunce and displesaunce - and the play of pronouns, from me to ye (plural) and the imagined other she, until in the last verse you, 'the causer', the object of love, is finally addressed. Long sentences wind around short phrases which stab with a startling directness: 'all void of joy and full of pain'; 'departing is the ground of displesaunce'; 'it is to me a very deadly woe.' The opening in particular is strikingly abrupt, so much so that we might wonder if a previous verse has been lost - but most of the poems surrounding this one deal with similar themes and situations of parted lovers, and they almost flow into one another (only the verse form and the genders of the speakers change). Such abrupt beginnings are not unknown in fifteenth-century verse; English poets had just discovered how effective they can be! This one works because it leads into a poem whose power lies in its confronting frankness, especially in that bold first stanza, and in the proud declaration 'Therefore I take mine aventure' ('I accept my fortune', or 'I take my chance'). Brave woman!
When I first encountered a handful of the Findern poems in a modern anthology, I remember being irked because the editor insisted on repeatedly describing them as 'felt' - 'and what kind of critical vocabulary is that?' I asked myself crossly, with all the arrogance of a first-year graduate student. But now I sympathise with that editor. It's difficult to talk about these poems without pronouncing on the veracity of their 'feeling', and the experiences they purport to describe - they seem to have more truth about them than most medieval lyrics, which are such a highly conventional form. But these poems are conventional too, and of course their degree of 'truth' doesn't have anything to do with their literary quality. The best one might say is that they strongly convey an idea of heartfelt and sincere love; if it's a poetic illusion, it's a good one. In a previous post, I compared them to the sonnets of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, but I think Christina Rossetti would understand them too (read them alongside Monna Innominata...).
On another note, it's a source of satisfaction to me that if you google 'medieval love poem', among the top results is a post from this blog about the Findern poem 'Where I have chosen, steadfast will I be'. This fact pleases me for two reasons: firstly because it seems right that an actual medieval text should be presented to people looking for medieval love poems, alongside the rather odd pastiches which Google's vagaries throw up; and secondly, because the Findern poems are so untypical as medieval love poems go. In their air of simplicity and honesty, their absence of physical description, and their focus on memory, interiority and what Jane Austen would call 'retentive feelings', they have little in common with the mainstream literature of their age. Personally, I have limited patience with the majority of medieval love-literature, which set the pattern for much that is most unpleasant about educated men's behaviour towards women, even today; elaborate courtly games of flirtation are not to my taste, and Anglo-Saxon literature is all the better for having so little to say about romantic love - they had so many other things to be interested in! So if the casual Googler seeks a medieval love poem, why should he or she not encounter the plain-speaking fidelity of a Derbyshire gentlewoman, as well as the high-flown nonsense of courtly love, where men profess their adoration for women they have only glimpsed, and protest they'll die if these women don't obey their passing whims? I consider this high Google rating my own little triumph for gender parity in medieval studies ;) So go and read 'Where I have chosen, steadfast will I be', and do your bit...
And then reflect on whether the women who liked these poems would have agreed with Anne Elliot (from Persuasion, ch.23):
'We certainly do not forget you as soon as you forget us. It is, perhaps, our fate rather than our merit. We cannot help ourselves. We live at home, quiet, confined, and our feelings prey upon us. You are forced on exertion. You have always a profession, pursuits, business of some sort or other, to take you back into the world immediately, and continual occupation and change soon weaken impressions... Your feelings may be the strongest... but ours are the most tender. Man is more robust than woman, but he is not longer lived; which exactly explains my view of the nature of their attachments. Nay, it would be too hard upon you, if it were otherwise. You have difficulties, and privations, and dangers enough to struggle with. You are always labouring and toiling, exposed to every risk and hardship. Your home, country, friends, all quitted. Neither time, nor health, nor life, to be called your own. It would be hard, indeed' (with a faltering voice), 'if woman's feelings were to be added to all this.'
Or with this, one of the few points on which Anne and Chaucer's Wife of Bath (688-696) find common ground:
'Well, Miss Elliot,' (lowering his voice,) 'as I was saying we shall never agree, I suppose, upon this point. No man and woman, would, probably. But let me observe that all histories are against you - all stories, prose and verse. If I had such a memory as Benwick, I could bring you fifty quotations in a moment on my side the argument, and I do not think I ever opened a book in my life which had not something to say upon woman's inconstancy. Songs and proverbs, all talk of woman's fickleness. But perhaps you will say, these were all written by men.'
'Perhaps I shall. Yes, yes, if you please, no reference to examples in books. Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story. Education has been theirs in so much higher a degree; the pen has been in their hands. I will not allow books to prove anything.'
Sketch of a woman playing a lute, on the last leaf of BL Sloane 554
This is the text as transcribed in Rossell Hope Robbins, 'The Findern Anthology', PMLA 69:3 (June, 1954), pp.610-642:
yit wulde I nat the causer faryd a-mysse,
ffor all the good that euer y had or schall;
Ther-for y take myn auenture, I-wisse,
As sche that hath for-saken Ioyus all,
And to all payne is bothe soiet and thralle.
Lo, thus I stonde with-owten wordes moo,
All voyde of Ioy an full of payne and woo.
Now ye that bathe in myrthe and plesaunce
Haue mynde on me that was sum-tyme in ease
And had the world at myn ovne ordynaunce,
Whiche now is turned in-to al disease;
Now glad wher sche that fortune so cowde please,
That sche myght stonde in verry sycurnesse,
Neuer to fele the stroke of vnkyndnesse.
Departyng ys the grownde of dysplesaunce,
Most in my hert of eny thing erthly,
I you ensure holy in remembraunce
With-in my-self y thenke hit verryly,
Wiche schall contynu with me dayly;
Syns that 3e moste nedys departe me fro,
It ys to me a verry dedly woo.
Tuesday, 29 January 2013
Three Thoughts: 'Estrangement'
Three texts I read recently, which have one word in common.
I
An anonymous fifteenth-century carol, from the manuscript Cambridge University Library MS. Additional 5943:
Wolde God that hyt were so
As I cowde wysshe bytuyxt vs too!
The man that I loued altherbest
In al thys contre, est other west,
To me he ys a strange gest;
What wonder est thow I be woo?
When me were leuest that he schold duelle,
He wold noght sey onys farewelle;
He wold noght sey ones farewell
Wen tyme was come that he most go.
In places ofte when I hym mete,
I dar noght speke, but forth I go;
With herte and eyes I hym grete;
So trywe of loue I know no mo.
As he ys myn hert loue,
My dyrward dyre, iblessed he be;
I swere by God, that ys aboue,
Non hath my loue but only he.
I am icomfortyd in euery side;
The coloures wexeth both fres and newe;
When he ys come and wyl abyde,
I wott ful wel that he ys trewe.
I loue trywely and no mo;
Wolde God that he hyt knywe!
And euer I hope hyt schal be so;
Then schal I chaunge for no new.
In 1418 this manuscript belonged to a man named John, a Carthusian monk at the priory of Hinton, Somerset; it also contains a version of the poem ‘Ecce ancilla domini’, which features a line about another memorable 'guest'. Unusually, in the manuscript a different hand has gone through and added feminine pronouns in place of each 'he' in this poem, between the lines of every verse.
[Would to God that it were so
As I could wish betwixt us two!
The man that I loved of all the best
In all this land, from east to west,
To me he is a strange guest;
What wonder is it though I be woe?
When most I wanted him to dwell,
He would not say once farewell;
He would not say once farewell
When time was come that he must go.
In places oft when I him meet,
I dare not speak, but forth I go;
With heart and eyes I him greet;
So true of love I know no mo. [other]
As he is my heart's love,
My dearest dear, blest may he be!
I swear by God that is above,
None hath my love but only he.
I am comforted on every side;
The colours wax both fresh and new;
When he is come and will abide,
I'll know full well that he is true.
I love him truly, and no mo;
Would to God that he it knew!
And ever I hope it shall be so;
Then shall I change him for no new.]
II
'Estrangement'
William Watson (1858-1935)
So, without overt breach, we fall apart,
Tacitly sunder — neither you nor I
Conscious of one intelligible Why,
And both, from severance, winning equal smart.
So, with resigned and acquiescent heart,
Whene'er your name on some chance lip may lie,
I seem to see an alien shade pass by,
A spirit wherein I have no lot or part.
Thus may a captive, in some fortress grim,
From casual speech betwixt his warders, learn
That June on her triumphal progress goes
Through arched and bannered woodlands; while for him
She is a legend emptied of concern,
And idle is the rumour of the rose.
III
From Persuasion, ch.8:
From this time Captain Wentworth and Anne Elliot were repeatedly in the same circle. They were soon dining in company together at Mr Musgrove's, for the little boy's state could no longer supply his aunt with a pretence for absenting herself; and this was but the beginning of other dinings and other meetings.
Whether former feelings were to be renewed must be brought to the proof; former times must undoubtedly be brought to the recollection of each; they could not but be reverted to; the year of their engagement could not but be named by him, in the little narratives or descriptions which conversation called forth. His profession qualified him, his disposition lead him, to talk; and "That was in the year six;" "That happened before I went to sea in the year six," occurred in the course of the first evening they spent together: and though his voice did not falter, and though she had no reason to suppose his eye wandering towards her while he spoke, Anne felt the utter impossibility, from her knowledge of his mind, that he could be unvisited by remembrance any more than herself. There must be the same immediate association of thought, though she was very far from conceiving it to be of equal pain.
They had no conversation together, no intercourse but what the commonest civility required. Once so much to each other! Now nothing! There had been a time, when of all the large party now filling the drawing-room at Uppercross, they would have found it most difficult to cease to speak to one another. With the exception, perhaps, of Admiral and Mrs Croft, who seemed particularly attached and happy, (Anne could allow no other exceptions even among the married couples), there could have been no two hearts so open, no tastes so similar, no feelings so in unison, no countenances so beloved. Now they were as strangers; nay, worse than strangers, for they could never become acquainted. It was a perpetual estrangement.
Charles Fairfax Murray, 'The Last Parting of Helga and Gunnlaug'
I
An anonymous fifteenth-century carol, from the manuscript Cambridge University Library MS. Additional 5943:
Wolde God that hyt were so
As I cowde wysshe bytuyxt vs too!
The man that I loued altherbest
In al thys contre, est other west,
To me he ys a strange gest;
What wonder est thow I be woo?
When me were leuest that he schold duelle,
He wold noght sey onys farewelle;
He wold noght sey ones farewell
Wen tyme was come that he most go.
In places ofte when I hym mete,
I dar noght speke, but forth I go;
With herte and eyes I hym grete;
So trywe of loue I know no mo.
As he ys myn hert loue,
My dyrward dyre, iblessed he be;
I swere by God, that ys aboue,
Non hath my loue but only he.
I am icomfortyd in euery side;
The coloures wexeth both fres and newe;
When he ys come and wyl abyde,
I wott ful wel that he ys trewe.
I loue trywely and no mo;
Wolde God that he hyt knywe!
And euer I hope hyt schal be so;
Then schal I chaunge for no new.
In 1418 this manuscript belonged to a man named John, a Carthusian monk at the priory of Hinton, Somerset; it also contains a version of the poem ‘Ecce ancilla domini’, which features a line about another memorable 'guest'. Unusually, in the manuscript a different hand has gone through and added feminine pronouns in place of each 'he' in this poem, between the lines of every verse.
[Would to God that it were so
As I could wish betwixt us two!
The man that I loved of all the best
In all this land, from east to west,
To me he is a strange guest;
What wonder is it though I be woe?
When most I wanted him to dwell,
He would not say once farewell;
He would not say once farewell
When time was come that he must go.
In places oft when I him meet,
I dare not speak, but forth I go;
With heart and eyes I him greet;
So true of love I know no mo. [other]
As he is my heart's love,
My dearest dear, blest may he be!
I swear by God that is above,
None hath my love but only he.
I am comforted on every side;
The colours wax both fresh and new;
When he is come and will abide,
I'll know full well that he is true.
I love him truly, and no mo;
Would to God that he it knew!
And ever I hope it shall be so;
Then shall I change him for no new.]
II
'Estrangement'
William Watson (1858-1935)
So, without overt breach, we fall apart,
Tacitly sunder — neither you nor I
Conscious of one intelligible Why,
And both, from severance, winning equal smart.
So, with resigned and acquiescent heart,
Whene'er your name on some chance lip may lie,
I seem to see an alien shade pass by,
A spirit wherein I have no lot or part.
Thus may a captive, in some fortress grim,
From casual speech betwixt his warders, learn
That June on her triumphal progress goes
Through arched and bannered woodlands; while for him
She is a legend emptied of concern,
And idle is the rumour of the rose.
III
From Persuasion, ch.8:
From this time Captain Wentworth and Anne Elliot were repeatedly in the same circle. They were soon dining in company together at Mr Musgrove's, for the little boy's state could no longer supply his aunt with a pretence for absenting herself; and this was but the beginning of other dinings and other meetings.
Whether former feelings were to be renewed must be brought to the proof; former times must undoubtedly be brought to the recollection of each; they could not but be reverted to; the year of their engagement could not but be named by him, in the little narratives or descriptions which conversation called forth. His profession qualified him, his disposition lead him, to talk; and "That was in the year six;" "That happened before I went to sea in the year six," occurred in the course of the first evening they spent together: and though his voice did not falter, and though she had no reason to suppose his eye wandering towards her while he spoke, Anne felt the utter impossibility, from her knowledge of his mind, that he could be unvisited by remembrance any more than herself. There must be the same immediate association of thought, though she was very far from conceiving it to be of equal pain.
They had no conversation together, no intercourse but what the commonest civility required. Once so much to each other! Now nothing! There had been a time, when of all the large party now filling the drawing-room at Uppercross, they would have found it most difficult to cease to speak to one another. With the exception, perhaps, of Admiral and Mrs Croft, who seemed particularly attached and happy, (Anne could allow no other exceptions even among the married couples), there could have been no two hearts so open, no tastes so similar, no feelings so in unison, no countenances so beloved. Now they were as strangers; nay, worse than strangers, for they could never become acquainted. It was a perpetual estrangement.
Wednesday, 29 August 2012
Derbyshire and Darcy
I'm currently researching 'things to do in Derbyshire' as preparation for a holiday in Matlock next week, and one link leading to another led me, as usual, to Jane Austen. A trip to Derbyshire plays a key role in Pride and Prejudice as it is, of course, the location of Pemberley; and while I doubt that chance encounters with Mr Darcy will be on my holiday schedule, it was a pretty good excuse to go back to the relevant chapters of the novel. You know how it is when a book is so well-known to you that you realise you haven't actually read it in a long time? And then when you go back to the actual words of the text, it startles you with the mixture of what's familiar and what's forgotten? That's what the following extract is like for me. The line "What are men to rocks and mountains?" is imprinted on my brain - but I had forgotten Lizzy's swipe at silly travellers who can't remember what they've seen. You can just imagine Jane Austen listening to people recounting their holidays and privately rolling her eyes...
From Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 27 (a conversation between Lizzy and Mrs Gardiner):
"...I should be sorry, you know, to think ill of a young man who has lived so long in Derbyshire."
"Oh! if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men who live in Derbyshire; and their intimate friends who live in Hertfordshire are not much better. I am sick of them all. Thank Heaven! I am going tomorrow where I shall find a man who has not one agreeable quality, who has neither manner nor sense to recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones worth knowing, after all."
"Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of disappointment."
Before they were separated by the conclusion of the play, she had the unexpected happiness of an invitation to accompany her uncle and aunt in a tour of pleasure which they proposed taking in the summer.
"We have not quite determined how far it shall carry us," said Mrs. Gardiner, "but perhaps to the Lakes."
No scheme could have been more agreeable to Elizabeth, and her acceptance of the invitation was most ready and grateful. "My dear, dear aunt," she rapturously cried, "what delight! what felicity! You give me fresh life and vigour. Adieu to disappointment and spleen. What are men to rocks and mountains? Oh! what hours of transport we shall spend! And when we do return, it shall not be like other travellers, without being able to give one accurate idea of anything. We will know where we have gone—we will recollect what we have seen. Lakes, mountains, and rivers shall not be jumbled together in our imaginations; nor when we attempt to describe any particular scene, will we begin quarreling about its relative situation. Let our first effusions be less insupportable than those of the generality of travellers."
Then in Chapter 42:
The time fixed for the beginning of their northern tour was now fast approaching, and a fortnight only was wanting of it, when a letter arrived from Mrs. Gardiner, which at once delayed its commencement and curtailed its extent. Mr. Gardiner would be prevented by business from setting out till a fortnight later in July, and must be in London again within a month, and as that left too short a period for them to go so far, and see so much as they had proposed, or at least to see it with the leisure and comfort they had built on, they were obliged to give up the Lakes, and substitute a more contracted tour, and, according to the present plan, were to go no farther northwards than Derbyshire. In that county there was enough to be seen to occupy the chief of their three weeks; and to Mrs. Gardiner it had a peculiarly strong attraction. The town where she had formerly passed some years of her life, and where they were now to spend a few days, was probably as great an object of her curiosity as all the celebrated beauties of Matlock, Chatsworth, Dovedale, or the Peak.
Elizabeth was excessively disappointed; she had set her heart on seeing the Lakes, and still thought there might have been time enough. But it was her business to be satisfied—and certainly her temper to be happy; and all was soon right again.
With the mention of Derbyshire there were many ideas connected. It was impossible for her to see the word without thinking of Pemberley and its owner. "But surely," said she, "I may enter his county without impunity, and rob it of a few petrified spars without his perceiving me."
[I'd forgotten that line too - isn't it great? I'm struck by the comment that it's in Lizzy's character to tend towards happiness even when she's disappointed; it's part of what makes her such an attractive heroine, and it's emphasised in the paragraph below as well - 'temper to bear inconvenience, cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure'. It reminds me of that thing about cheerfulness as a moral quality - something of a theme in Pride and Prejudice, when you think how, as responses to adversity, both Mrs Bennet's petulance and Mr Bennet's cynicism are shown to be failings of character.]
The Gardiners stayed only one night at Longbourn, and set off the next morning with Elizabeth in pursuit of novelty and amusement. One enjoyment was certain—that of suitableness of companions; a suitableness which comprehended health and temper to bear inconvenience— cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure— and affection and intelligence, which might supply it among themselves if there were disappointments abroad.
It is not the object of this work to give a description of Derbyshire, nor of any of the remarkable places through which their route thither lay; Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenilworth, Birmingham, &, are sufficiently known. A small part of Derbyshire is all the present concern. To the little town of Lambton, the scene of Mrs. Gardiner's former residence, and where she had lately learned some acquaintance still remained, they bent their steps, after having seen all the principal wonders of the country; and within five miles of Lambton, Elizabeth found from her aunt that Pemberley was situated. It was not in their direct road, nor more than a mile or two out of it. In talking over their route the evening before, Mrs. Gardiner expressed an inclination to see the place again. Mr. Gardiner declared his willingness, and Elizabeth was applied to for her approbation.
"My love, should not you like to see a place of which you have heard so much?" said her aunt; "a place, too, with which so many of your acquaintances are connected. Wickham passed all his youth there, you know."
Elizabeth was distressed. She felt that she had no business at Pemberley, and was obliged to assume a disinclination for seeing it. She must own that she was tired of seeing great houses; after going over so many, she really had no pleasure in fine carpets or satin curtains.
Mrs. Gardiner abused her stupidity. If it were merely a fine house richly furnished," said she, "I should not care about it myself; but the grounds are delightful. They have some of the finest woods in the country."
Elizabeth said no more—but her mind could not acquiesce. The possibility of meeting Mr. Darcy, while viewing the place, instantly occurred. It would be dreadful! She blushed at the very idea, and thought it would be better to speak openly to her aunt than to run such a risk. But against this there were objections; and she finally resolved that it could be the last resource, if her private inquiries to the absence of the family were unfavourably answered.
Accordingly, when she retired at night, she asked the chambermaid whether Pemberley were not a very fine place? what was the name of its proprietor? and, with no little alarm, whether the family were down for the summer? A most welcome negative followed the last question—and her alarms now being removed, she was at leisure to feel a great deal of curiosity to see the house herself; and when the subject was revived the next morning, and she was again applied to, could readily answer, and with a proper air of indifference, that she had not really any dislike to the scheme. To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go.
Elizabeth, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance of Pemberley Woods with some perturbation; and when at length they turned in at the lodge, her spirits were in a high flutter.
The park was very large, and contained great variety of ground. They entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some time through a beautiful wood stretching over a wide extent.
Elizabeth's mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and admired every remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually ascended for half-a-mile, and then found themselves at the top of a considerable eminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by Pemberley House, situated on the opposite side of a valley, into which the road with some abruptness wound. It was a large, handsome stone building, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of high woody hills; and in front, a stream of some natural importance was swelled into greater, but without any artificial appearance. Its banks were neither formal nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. They were all of them warm in their admiration; and at that moment she felt that to be mistress of Pemberley might be something!
They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the door; and, while examining the nearer aspect of the house, all her apprehension of meeting its owner returned. She dreaded lest the chambermaid had been mistaken. On applying to see the place, they were admitted into the hall; and Elizabeth, as they waited for the housekeeper, had leisure to wonder at her being where she was.
The housekeeper came; a respectable-looking elderly woman, much less fine, and more civil, than she had any notion of finding her. They followed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large, well proportioned room, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after slightly surveying it, went to a window to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with wood, which they had descended, receiving increased abruptness from the distance, was a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was good; and she looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its banks and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it, with delight. As they passed into other rooms these objects were taking different positions; but from every window there were beauties to be seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable to the fortune of its proprietor; but Elizabeth saw, with admiration of his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of splendour, and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings.
"And of this place," thought she, "I might have been mistress! With these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and aunt. But no," recollecting herself—"that could never be; my uncle and aunt would have been lost to me; I should not have been allowed to invite them."
This was a lucky recollection—it saved her from something very like regret.
...
In the gallery there were many family portraits, but they could have little to fix the attention of a stranger. Elizabeth walked in quest of the only face whose features would be known to her. At last it arrested her—and she beheld a striking resemblance to Mr. Darcy, with such a smile over the face as she remembered to have sometimes seen when he looked at her. She stood several minutes before the picture, in earnest contemplation, and returned to it again before they quitted the gallery. Mrs. Reynolds informed them that it had been taken in his father's lifetime.
There was certainly at this moment, in Elizabeth's mind, a more gentle sensation towards the original than she had ever felt at the height of their acquaintance. The commendation bestowed on him by Mrs. Reynolds was of no trifling nature. What praise is more valuable than the praise of an intelligent servant? As a brother, a landlord, a master, she considered how many people's happiness were in his guardianship!—how much of pleasure or pain was it in his power to bestow!—how much of good or evil must be done by him! Every idea that had been brought forward by the housekeeper was favourable to his character, and as she stood before the canvas on which he was represented, and fixed his eyes upon herself, she thought of his regard with a deeper sentiment of gratitude than it had ever raised before; she remembered its warmth, and softened its impropriety of expression.
When all of the house that was open to general inspection had been seen, they returned downstairs, and, taking leave of the housekeeper, were consigned over to the gardener, who met them at the hall-door.
As they walked across the hall towards the river, Elizabeth turned back to look again; her uncle and aunt stopped also, and while the former was conjecturing as to the date of the building, the owner of it himself suddenly came forward from the road, which led behind it to the stables.
They were within twenty yards of each other, and so abrupt was his appearance, that it was impossible to avoid his sight. Their eyes instantly met, and the cheeks of both were overspread with the deepest blush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed immovable from surprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced towards the party, and spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least of perfect civility.
She had instinctively turned away; but stopping on his approach, received his compliments with an embarrassment impossible to be overcome. Had his first appearance, or his resemblance to the picture they had just been examining, been insufficient to assure the other two that they now saw Mr. Darcy, the gardener's expression of surprise, on beholding his master, must immediately have told it. They stood a little aloof while he was talking to their niece, who, astonished and confused, scarcely dared lift her eyes to his face, and knew not what answer she returned to his civil inquiries after her family. Amazed at the alteration of his manner since they last parted, every sentence that he uttered was increasing her embarrassment; and every idea of the impropriety of her being found there recurring to her mind, the few minutes in which they continued were some of the most uncomfortable in her life. Nor did he seem much more at ease; when he spoke, his accent had none of its usual sedateness; and he repeated his inquiries as to the time of her having left Longbourn, and of her having stayed in Derbyshire, so often, and in so hurried a way, as plainly spoke the distraction of his thoughts.
At length every idea seemed to fail him; and, after standing a few moments without saying a word, he suddenly recollected himself, and took leave.
The others then joined her, and expressed admiration of his figure; but Elizabeth heard not a word, and wholly engrossed by her own feelings, followed them in silence. She was overpowered by shame and vexation. Her coming there was the most unfortunate, the most ill-judged thing in the world! How strange it must appear to him! In what a disgraceful light might it not strike so vain a man! It might seem as if she had purposely thrown herself in his way again! Oh! why did she come? Or, why did he thus come a day before he was expected? Had they been only ten minutes sooner, they should have been beyond the reach of his discrimination; for it was plain that he was that moment arrived—that moment alighted from his horse or his carriage. She blushed again and again over the perverseness of the meeting. And his behaviour, so strikingly altered—what could it mean? That he should even speak to her was amazing!—but to speak with such civility, to inquire after her family! Never in her life had she seen his manners so little dignified, never had he spoken with such gentleness as on this unexpected meeting. What a contrast did it offer to his last address in Rosings Park, when he put his letter into her hand! She knew not what to think, or how to account for it.
They had now entered a beautiful walk by the side of the water, and every step was bringing forward a nobler fall of ground, or a finer reach of the woods to which they were approaching; but it was some time before Elizabeth was sensible of any of it; and, though she answered mechanically to the repeated appeals of her uncle and aunt, and seemed to direct her eyes to such objects as they pointed out, she distinguished no part of the scene. Her thoughts were all fixed on that one spot of Pemberley House, whichever it might be, where Mr. Darcy then was. She longed to know what at the moment was passing in his mind—in what manner he thought of her, and whether, in defiance of everything, she was still dear to him. Perhaps he had been civil only because he felt himself at ease; yet there had been that in his voice which was not like ease. Whether he had felt more of pain or of pleasure in seeing her she could not tell, but he certainly had not seen her with composure.
At length, however, the remarks of her companions on her absence of mind aroused her, and she felt the necessity of appearing more like herself.
They entered the woods, and bidding adieu to the river for a while, ascended some of the higher grounds; when, in spots where the opening of the trees gave the eye power to wander, were many charming views of the valley, the opposite hills, with the long range of woods overspreading many, and occasionally part of the stream. Mr. Gardiner expressed a wish of going round the whole park, but feared it might be beyond a walk. With a triumphant smile they were told that it was ten miles round. It settled the matter; and they pursued the accustomed circuit; which brought them again, after some time, in a descent among hanging woods, to the edge of the water, and one of its narrowest parts. They crossed it by a simple bridge, in character with the general air of the scene; it was a spot less adorned than any they had yet visited; and the valley, here contracted into a glen, allowed room only for the stream, and a narrow walk amidst the rough coppice-wood which bordered it. Elizabeth longed to explore its windings; but when they had crossed the bridge, and perceived their distance from the house, Mrs. Gardiner, who was not a great walker, could go no farther, and thought only of returning to the carriage as quickly as possible. Her niece was, therefore, obliged to submit, and they took their way towards the house on the opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction; but their progress was slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to indulge the taste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much engaged in watching the occasional appearance of some trout in the water, and talking to the man about them, that he advanced but little. Whilst wandering on in this slow manner, they were again surprised, and Elizabeth's astonishment was quite equal to what it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy approaching them, and at no great distance. The walk here being here less sheltered than on the other side, allowed them to see him before they met. Elizabeth, however astonished, was at least more prepared for an interview than before, and resolved to appear and to speak with calmness, if we really intended to meet them. For a few moments, indeed, she felt that he would probably strike into some other path. The idea lasted while a turning in the walk concealed him from their view; the turning past, he was immediately before them. With a glance, she saw that he had lost none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his politeness, she began as they to admire the beauty of the place; but she had not got beyond the words "delightful," and "charming," when some unlucky recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise of Pemberley from her might be mischievously construed. Her colour changed, and she said no more.
Mrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing, he asked her if she would do him the honour of introducing him to her friends. This was a stroke of civility for which she was quite unprepared; and she could hardly suppress a smile at his being now seeking the acquaintance of some of those very people against whom his pride had revolted in his offer to herself. "What will be his surprise," thought she, "when he knows who they are? He takes them now for people of fashion."
The introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named their relationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to see how he bore it, and was not without the expectation of his decamping as fast as he could from such disgraceful companions. That he was surprised by the connection was evident; he sustained it, however, with fortitude, and so far from going away, turned his back with them, and entered into conversation with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased, could not but triumph. It was consoling that he should know she had some relations for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most attentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every expression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelligence, his taste, or his good manners.
The conversation soon turned upon fishing; and she heard Mr. Darcy invite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as often as he chose while he continued in the neighbourhood, offering at the same time to supply him with fishing tackle, and pointing out those parts of the stream where there was usually most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was walking arm-in-arm with Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of wonder. Elizabeth said nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the compliment must be all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was extreme, and continually was she repeating, "Why is he so altered? From what can it proceed? It cannot be for me—it cannot be for my sake that his manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could not work such a change as this. It is impossible that he should still love me."
After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the two gentlemen behind, on resuming their places, after descending to the brink of the river for the better inspection of some curious water-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration. It originated in Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found Elizabeth's arm inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred her husband's. Mr. Darcy took her place by her niece, and they walked on together. After a short silence, the lady first spoke. She wished him to know that she had been assured of his absence before she came to the place, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been very unexpected—"for your housekeeper," she added, "informed us that you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed, before we left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected in the country." He acknowledged the truth of it all, and said that business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours before the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling. "They will join me early to-morrow ," he continued, "and among them are some who will claim an acquaintance with you—Mr. Bingley and his sisters."
Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley's name had been the last mentioned between them; and, if she might judge by his complexion, his mind was not very differently engaged.
"There is also one other person in the party," he continued after a pause, "who more particularly wishes to be known to you. Will you allow me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance during your stay at Lambton?"
The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too great for her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She immediately felt that whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of being acquainted with her must be the work of her brother, and, without looking farther, it was satisfactory; it was gratifying to know that is resentment had not made him think really ill of her.
They now walked on in silence, each of them deep in thought. Elizabeth was not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was flattered and pleased. His wish of introducing his sister to her was a compliment of the highest kind. They soon outstripped the others, and when they had reached the carriage, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were half a quarter of a mile behind.
He then asked her to walk into the house—but she declared herself not tired, and they stood together on the lawn. At such a time much might have been said, and silence was very awkward. She wanted to talk, but there seemed to be an embargo on every subject. At last she recollected that she had been travelling, and they talked of Matlock and Dovedale with great perseverance. Yet time and her aunt moved slowly—and her patience and her ideas were nearly worn our before the tete-a-tete was over. On Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's coming up they were all pressed to go into the house and take some refreshment; but this was declined, and they parted on each side with utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy handed the ladies into the carriage; and when it drove off, Elizabeth saw him walking slowly towards the house.
And thus begins... well, I'm sure you know! I wonder what they said about Matlock and Dovedale 'with great perseverance' (doesn't that perfectly capture the nature of the conversation?). And I wonder what I shall find there myself...
From Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 27 (a conversation between Lizzy and Mrs Gardiner):
"...I should be sorry, you know, to think ill of a young man who has lived so long in Derbyshire."
"Oh! if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men who live in Derbyshire; and their intimate friends who live in Hertfordshire are not much better. I am sick of them all. Thank Heaven! I am going tomorrow where I shall find a man who has not one agreeable quality, who has neither manner nor sense to recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones worth knowing, after all."
"Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of disappointment."
Before they were separated by the conclusion of the play, she had the unexpected happiness of an invitation to accompany her uncle and aunt in a tour of pleasure which they proposed taking in the summer.
"We have not quite determined how far it shall carry us," said Mrs. Gardiner, "but perhaps to the Lakes."
No scheme could have been more agreeable to Elizabeth, and her acceptance of the invitation was most ready and grateful. "My dear, dear aunt," she rapturously cried, "what delight! what felicity! You give me fresh life and vigour. Adieu to disappointment and spleen. What are men to rocks and mountains? Oh! what hours of transport we shall spend! And when we do return, it shall not be like other travellers, without being able to give one accurate idea of anything. We will know where we have gone—we will recollect what we have seen. Lakes, mountains, and rivers shall not be jumbled together in our imaginations; nor when we attempt to describe any particular scene, will we begin quarreling about its relative situation. Let our first effusions be less insupportable than those of the generality of travellers."
Then in Chapter 42:
The time fixed for the beginning of their northern tour was now fast approaching, and a fortnight only was wanting of it, when a letter arrived from Mrs. Gardiner, which at once delayed its commencement and curtailed its extent. Mr. Gardiner would be prevented by business from setting out till a fortnight later in July, and must be in London again within a month, and as that left too short a period for them to go so far, and see so much as they had proposed, or at least to see it with the leisure and comfort they had built on, they were obliged to give up the Lakes, and substitute a more contracted tour, and, according to the present plan, were to go no farther northwards than Derbyshire. In that county there was enough to be seen to occupy the chief of their three weeks; and to Mrs. Gardiner it had a peculiarly strong attraction. The town where she had formerly passed some years of her life, and where they were now to spend a few days, was probably as great an object of her curiosity as all the celebrated beauties of Matlock, Chatsworth, Dovedale, or the Peak.
Elizabeth was excessively disappointed; she had set her heart on seeing the Lakes, and still thought there might have been time enough. But it was her business to be satisfied—and certainly her temper to be happy; and all was soon right again.
With the mention of Derbyshire there were many ideas connected. It was impossible for her to see the word without thinking of Pemberley and its owner. "But surely," said she, "I may enter his county without impunity, and rob it of a few petrified spars without his perceiving me."
[I'd forgotten that line too - isn't it great? I'm struck by the comment that it's in Lizzy's character to tend towards happiness even when she's disappointed; it's part of what makes her such an attractive heroine, and it's emphasised in the paragraph below as well - 'temper to bear inconvenience, cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure'. It reminds me of that thing about cheerfulness as a moral quality - something of a theme in Pride and Prejudice, when you think how, as responses to adversity, both Mrs Bennet's petulance and Mr Bennet's cynicism are shown to be failings of character.]
The Gardiners stayed only one night at Longbourn, and set off the next morning with Elizabeth in pursuit of novelty and amusement. One enjoyment was certain—that of suitableness of companions; a suitableness which comprehended health and temper to bear inconvenience— cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure— and affection and intelligence, which might supply it among themselves if there were disappointments abroad.
It is not the object of this work to give a description of Derbyshire, nor of any of the remarkable places through which their route thither lay; Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenilworth, Birmingham, &, are sufficiently known. A small part of Derbyshire is all the present concern. To the little town of Lambton, the scene of Mrs. Gardiner's former residence, and where she had lately learned some acquaintance still remained, they bent their steps, after having seen all the principal wonders of the country; and within five miles of Lambton, Elizabeth found from her aunt that Pemberley was situated. It was not in their direct road, nor more than a mile or two out of it. In talking over their route the evening before, Mrs. Gardiner expressed an inclination to see the place again. Mr. Gardiner declared his willingness, and Elizabeth was applied to for her approbation.
"My love, should not you like to see a place of which you have heard so much?" said her aunt; "a place, too, with which so many of your acquaintances are connected. Wickham passed all his youth there, you know."
Elizabeth was distressed. She felt that she had no business at Pemberley, and was obliged to assume a disinclination for seeing it. She must own that she was tired of seeing great houses; after going over so many, she really had no pleasure in fine carpets or satin curtains.
Mrs. Gardiner abused her stupidity. If it were merely a fine house richly furnished," said she, "I should not care about it myself; but the grounds are delightful. They have some of the finest woods in the country."
Elizabeth said no more—but her mind could not acquiesce. The possibility of meeting Mr. Darcy, while viewing the place, instantly occurred. It would be dreadful! She blushed at the very idea, and thought it would be better to speak openly to her aunt than to run such a risk. But against this there were objections; and she finally resolved that it could be the last resource, if her private inquiries to the absence of the family were unfavourably answered.
Accordingly, when she retired at night, she asked the chambermaid whether Pemberley were not a very fine place? what was the name of its proprietor? and, with no little alarm, whether the family were down for the summer? A most welcome negative followed the last question—and her alarms now being removed, she was at leisure to feel a great deal of curiosity to see the house herself; and when the subject was revived the next morning, and she was again applied to, could readily answer, and with a proper air of indifference, that she had not really any dislike to the scheme. To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go.
Elizabeth, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance of Pemberley Woods with some perturbation; and when at length they turned in at the lodge, her spirits were in a high flutter.
The park was very large, and contained great variety of ground. They entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some time through a beautiful wood stretching over a wide extent.
Elizabeth's mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and admired every remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually ascended for half-a-mile, and then found themselves at the top of a considerable eminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by Pemberley House, situated on the opposite side of a valley, into which the road with some abruptness wound. It was a large, handsome stone building, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of high woody hills; and in front, a stream of some natural importance was swelled into greater, but without any artificial appearance. Its banks were neither formal nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. They were all of them warm in their admiration; and at that moment she felt that to be mistress of Pemberley might be something!
They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the door; and, while examining the nearer aspect of the house, all her apprehension of meeting its owner returned. She dreaded lest the chambermaid had been mistaken. On applying to see the place, they were admitted into the hall; and Elizabeth, as they waited for the housekeeper, had leisure to wonder at her being where she was.
The housekeeper came; a respectable-looking elderly woman, much less fine, and more civil, than she had any notion of finding her. They followed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large, well proportioned room, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after slightly surveying it, went to a window to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with wood, which they had descended, receiving increased abruptness from the distance, was a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was good; and she looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its banks and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it, with delight. As they passed into other rooms these objects were taking different positions; but from every window there were beauties to be seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable to the fortune of its proprietor; but Elizabeth saw, with admiration of his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of splendour, and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings.
"And of this place," thought she, "I might have been mistress! With these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and aunt. But no," recollecting herself—"that could never be; my uncle and aunt would have been lost to me; I should not have been allowed to invite them."
This was a lucky recollection—it saved her from something very like regret.
...
In the gallery there were many family portraits, but they could have little to fix the attention of a stranger. Elizabeth walked in quest of the only face whose features would be known to her. At last it arrested her—and she beheld a striking resemblance to Mr. Darcy, with such a smile over the face as she remembered to have sometimes seen when he looked at her. She stood several minutes before the picture, in earnest contemplation, and returned to it again before they quitted the gallery. Mrs. Reynolds informed them that it had been taken in his father's lifetime.
There was certainly at this moment, in Elizabeth's mind, a more gentle sensation towards the original than she had ever felt at the height of their acquaintance. The commendation bestowed on him by Mrs. Reynolds was of no trifling nature. What praise is more valuable than the praise of an intelligent servant? As a brother, a landlord, a master, she considered how many people's happiness were in his guardianship!—how much of pleasure or pain was it in his power to bestow!—how much of good or evil must be done by him! Every idea that had been brought forward by the housekeeper was favourable to his character, and as she stood before the canvas on which he was represented, and fixed his eyes upon herself, she thought of his regard with a deeper sentiment of gratitude than it had ever raised before; she remembered its warmth, and softened its impropriety of expression.
When all of the house that was open to general inspection had been seen, they returned downstairs, and, taking leave of the housekeeper, were consigned over to the gardener, who met them at the hall-door.
As they walked across the hall towards the river, Elizabeth turned back to look again; her uncle and aunt stopped also, and while the former was conjecturing as to the date of the building, the owner of it himself suddenly came forward from the road, which led behind it to the stables.
They were within twenty yards of each other, and so abrupt was his appearance, that it was impossible to avoid his sight. Their eyes instantly met, and the cheeks of both were overspread with the deepest blush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed immovable from surprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced towards the party, and spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least of perfect civility.
She had instinctively turned away; but stopping on his approach, received his compliments with an embarrassment impossible to be overcome. Had his first appearance, or his resemblance to the picture they had just been examining, been insufficient to assure the other two that they now saw Mr. Darcy, the gardener's expression of surprise, on beholding his master, must immediately have told it. They stood a little aloof while he was talking to their niece, who, astonished and confused, scarcely dared lift her eyes to his face, and knew not what answer she returned to his civil inquiries after her family. Amazed at the alteration of his manner since they last parted, every sentence that he uttered was increasing her embarrassment; and every idea of the impropriety of her being found there recurring to her mind, the few minutes in which they continued were some of the most uncomfortable in her life. Nor did he seem much more at ease; when he spoke, his accent had none of its usual sedateness; and he repeated his inquiries as to the time of her having left Longbourn, and of her having stayed in Derbyshire, so often, and in so hurried a way, as plainly spoke the distraction of his thoughts.
At length every idea seemed to fail him; and, after standing a few moments without saying a word, he suddenly recollected himself, and took leave.
The others then joined her, and expressed admiration of his figure; but Elizabeth heard not a word, and wholly engrossed by her own feelings, followed them in silence. She was overpowered by shame and vexation. Her coming there was the most unfortunate, the most ill-judged thing in the world! How strange it must appear to him! In what a disgraceful light might it not strike so vain a man! It might seem as if she had purposely thrown herself in his way again! Oh! why did she come? Or, why did he thus come a day before he was expected? Had they been only ten minutes sooner, they should have been beyond the reach of his discrimination; for it was plain that he was that moment arrived—that moment alighted from his horse or his carriage. She blushed again and again over the perverseness of the meeting. And his behaviour, so strikingly altered—what could it mean? That he should even speak to her was amazing!—but to speak with such civility, to inquire after her family! Never in her life had she seen his manners so little dignified, never had he spoken with such gentleness as on this unexpected meeting. What a contrast did it offer to his last address in Rosings Park, when he put his letter into her hand! She knew not what to think, or how to account for it.
They had now entered a beautiful walk by the side of the water, and every step was bringing forward a nobler fall of ground, or a finer reach of the woods to which they were approaching; but it was some time before Elizabeth was sensible of any of it; and, though she answered mechanically to the repeated appeals of her uncle and aunt, and seemed to direct her eyes to such objects as they pointed out, she distinguished no part of the scene. Her thoughts were all fixed on that one spot of Pemberley House, whichever it might be, where Mr. Darcy then was. She longed to know what at the moment was passing in his mind—in what manner he thought of her, and whether, in defiance of everything, she was still dear to him. Perhaps he had been civil only because he felt himself at ease; yet there had been that in his voice which was not like ease. Whether he had felt more of pain or of pleasure in seeing her she could not tell, but he certainly had not seen her with composure.
At length, however, the remarks of her companions on her absence of mind aroused her, and she felt the necessity of appearing more like herself.
They entered the woods, and bidding adieu to the river for a while, ascended some of the higher grounds; when, in spots where the opening of the trees gave the eye power to wander, were many charming views of the valley, the opposite hills, with the long range of woods overspreading many, and occasionally part of the stream. Mr. Gardiner expressed a wish of going round the whole park, but feared it might be beyond a walk. With a triumphant smile they were told that it was ten miles round. It settled the matter; and they pursued the accustomed circuit; which brought them again, after some time, in a descent among hanging woods, to the edge of the water, and one of its narrowest parts. They crossed it by a simple bridge, in character with the general air of the scene; it was a spot less adorned than any they had yet visited; and the valley, here contracted into a glen, allowed room only for the stream, and a narrow walk amidst the rough coppice-wood which bordered it. Elizabeth longed to explore its windings; but when they had crossed the bridge, and perceived their distance from the house, Mrs. Gardiner, who was not a great walker, could go no farther, and thought only of returning to the carriage as quickly as possible. Her niece was, therefore, obliged to submit, and they took their way towards the house on the opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction; but their progress was slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to indulge the taste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much engaged in watching the occasional appearance of some trout in the water, and talking to the man about them, that he advanced but little. Whilst wandering on in this slow manner, they were again surprised, and Elizabeth's astonishment was quite equal to what it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy approaching them, and at no great distance. The walk here being here less sheltered than on the other side, allowed them to see him before they met. Elizabeth, however astonished, was at least more prepared for an interview than before, and resolved to appear and to speak with calmness, if we really intended to meet them. For a few moments, indeed, she felt that he would probably strike into some other path. The idea lasted while a turning in the walk concealed him from their view; the turning past, he was immediately before them. With a glance, she saw that he had lost none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his politeness, she began as they to admire the beauty of the place; but she had not got beyond the words "delightful," and "charming," when some unlucky recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise of Pemberley from her might be mischievously construed. Her colour changed, and she said no more.
Mrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing, he asked her if she would do him the honour of introducing him to her friends. This was a stroke of civility for which she was quite unprepared; and she could hardly suppress a smile at his being now seeking the acquaintance of some of those very people against whom his pride had revolted in his offer to herself. "What will be his surprise," thought she, "when he knows who they are? He takes them now for people of fashion."
The introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named their relationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to see how he bore it, and was not without the expectation of his decamping as fast as he could from such disgraceful companions. That he was surprised by the connection was evident; he sustained it, however, with fortitude, and so far from going away, turned his back with them, and entered into conversation with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased, could not but triumph. It was consoling that he should know she had some relations for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most attentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every expression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelligence, his taste, or his good manners.
The conversation soon turned upon fishing; and she heard Mr. Darcy invite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as often as he chose while he continued in the neighbourhood, offering at the same time to supply him with fishing tackle, and pointing out those parts of the stream where there was usually most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was walking arm-in-arm with Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of wonder. Elizabeth said nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the compliment must be all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was extreme, and continually was she repeating, "Why is he so altered? From what can it proceed? It cannot be for me—it cannot be for my sake that his manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could not work such a change as this. It is impossible that he should still love me."
After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the two gentlemen behind, on resuming their places, after descending to the brink of the river for the better inspection of some curious water-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration. It originated in Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found Elizabeth's arm inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred her husband's. Mr. Darcy took her place by her niece, and they walked on together. After a short silence, the lady first spoke. She wished him to know that she had been assured of his absence before she came to the place, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been very unexpected—"for your housekeeper," she added, "informed us that you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed, before we left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected in the country." He acknowledged the truth of it all, and said that business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours before the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling. "They will join me early to-morrow ," he continued, "and among them are some who will claim an acquaintance with you—Mr. Bingley and his sisters."
Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley's name had been the last mentioned between them; and, if she might judge by his complexion, his mind was not very differently engaged.
"There is also one other person in the party," he continued after a pause, "who more particularly wishes to be known to you. Will you allow me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance during your stay at Lambton?"
The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too great for her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She immediately felt that whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of being acquainted with her must be the work of her brother, and, without looking farther, it was satisfactory; it was gratifying to know that is resentment had not made him think really ill of her.
They now walked on in silence, each of them deep in thought. Elizabeth was not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was flattered and pleased. His wish of introducing his sister to her was a compliment of the highest kind. They soon outstripped the others, and when they had reached the carriage, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were half a quarter of a mile behind.
He then asked her to walk into the house—but she declared herself not tired, and they stood together on the lawn. At such a time much might have been said, and silence was very awkward. She wanted to talk, but there seemed to be an embargo on every subject. At last she recollected that she had been travelling, and they talked of Matlock and Dovedale with great perseverance. Yet time and her aunt moved slowly—and her patience and her ideas were nearly worn our before the tete-a-tete was over. On Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's coming up they were all pressed to go into the house and take some refreshment; but this was declined, and they parted on each side with utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy handed the ladies into the carriage; and when it drove off, Elizabeth saw him walking slowly towards the house.
And thus begins... well, I'm sure you know! I wonder what they said about Matlock and Dovedale 'with great perseverance' (doesn't that perfectly capture the nature of the conversation?). And I wonder what I shall find there myself...
Sunday, 15 April 2012
A Corner of Jane Austen's Kent
There are two lovely churches in Kent which have special connections to Jane Austen. They have similar names: Godmersham and Goodnestone (pronounced 'Gunston', and not to be confused with the Goodnestone which is near Faversham and which has its own delightful church). I've been to Godmersham only once, Goodnestone many times, most recently this time last year - and it was so lovely that the return of Easter has reminded me of it, and made me want to post about it.
But Godmersham first, because I have a little less to say about that. The house at Godmersham, which is about half way between Canterbury and Ashford, was the residence of Jane Austen's brother Edward. The house now belongs to the Association of British Dispensing Opticians (which always sounds to me like the beginning of a joke) and you can't visit it, though you have to drive through their drive, as it were, to get to the church.
The church (dedicated to St Lawrence) is a Saxon foundation; Godmersham belonged to the Archbishop of Canterbury at the time of Domesday Book, and that's usually a guarantee of an ancient, well-built church. Which this is. It's got some interesting medieval things, including this blocked doorway:
And a twelfth-century carving of a bishop who is probably Thomas Becket, given that every bishop in the vicinity of Canterbury tends to be identified as Thomas Becket:
But we came here for the Jane Austen connection, and here it is:
"In the family vault beneath are deposited the remains of Edward Knight of Godmersham Park and of Chawton House in the county of Southampton, Esq., who departed this life Nov. 19th 1852, in the 86th year of his age. Mr Knight, whose paternal name was Austen, succeeded by will in 1794 to the estates of his cousin Thomas Knight Esq., and on the death of his widow in 1812 assumed the name and arms of Knight."
"In the same vault is buried Elizabeth his wife, third daughter of Sir Brook Bridges of Goodnestone Park".
That nicely explains how the two churches of this post fit together. Jane Austen often visited her brother in Kent and worshipped at this church while staying at Godmersham. The interior would have looked a little different in her day, pre-Victorian restoration:
And before the adding of curtains and tasteful blue cupboards (which create a pretty, light kind of effect when you enter):
The day I went there the church was full of flowers, because a wedding had just finished. What's more Jane Austen-like than a wedding? Everyone looked very happy; and Jane did say after all that "Kent is the only place for happiness; everybody is rich there."
This certainly feels like a well-cared for, prosperous kind of church. I was taken with this little tribute to Chaucer's pilgrims, of course:
Godmersham's past vicars include the antiquary Samuel Pegge, who is known to me for being the first person to question the historicity of Guy of Warwick. Good work, Pegge. But that was before Jane's day.
And now to Goodnestone, which has a special place in my heart. The connection with Jane Austen is arguably weaker than at Godmersham - though she certainly did stay at the house and visit the church - but it would still be one of the most delightful spots on earth even if Jane Austen had never set foot there.
You can't visit the house (except for special events) but the gardens are open to the public. And when I say 'open to the public' I don't mean in a National Trust way, with slick gift shops and busy cafes and staff rushed off their feet - I mean in the most charming, low-key, personal way possible. It's utterly uncommercial and yet the best value for money you'll get anywhere in Kent. Let's imagine I'm taking you on a tour. So we wander around, and look at the house from various angles:
And wonder from which direction Jane Austen approached it, and which Austen house it's most like (too small for Rosings, too grand for Longbourn, but I always imagine Hartfield or Mansfield Park being just like this):
These pictures were from a visit in June (of 2008), which explains the blue sky and the abundance of flowers in the walled garden:
Isn't 'walled garden' one of the most enchanting phrases in the English language?
From this garden the tower of the church, just beyond the garden wall, forms the perfect backdrop to the scene:
This may be the most English vista you will ever see!
I know approximately nothing about flowers (I can usually identify a rose and a lily, and that's about it). Gardeners seem to approve of Goodnestone's, though I can only tell you that they're very bright and very pretty, and surrounded by green lawns and hedges and other lovely things.
So we wander around among the flowers for a while, and then we find a bench and sit down, and reflect that 'To sit in the shade on a fine day and look upon verdure is the most perfect refreshment'.
Then we leave the walled garden, and find ponds with dragon-flies:
We try to think of something to connect Jane Austen and dragon-flies, and fail to find anything...
The walled garden is best in the summer, but if we happen to be here in spring, there's plenty in the way of blossom and bluebells:
These pictures are from last Easter, during a Bank Holiday heatwave, when the pink blossom (of some kind... I'm not much better with trees than with flowers) fell scattered across the formal garden at the front of the house.
The house looks out over parkland, and the village cricket pitch, where you'll sometimes see a game going on.
Mention of the village reminds me that this post was supposed to be about the church. House and church and estate cottages all sit cosily together, and when we've finished our leisurely stroll through the gardens we wander over to the church, by which time the sun is probably beginning to slant into the west.
I used pictures from Goodnestone church to illustrate my post on Thomas Hardy's 'A Church Romance', with its 'sinking sad tower window light', but there's nothing sad about the afternoon light at Goodnestone; it's quiet and calm and contented, a happy church taking its peaceful rest.
The nave, restored in the nineteenth century (after Jane's time), is elegant and light, with 'frozen fountains playing' of pillars and arches.
Some things Jane would recognise: presumably this memorial to local philanthropist Gabriel Richards, who died in 1672, was there when she came.
I like this because you don't see much Greek on church monuments! 'The Charity of Gabriel Richards, otherwise known as Goodnestone Hospital' seems to exist to this day.
Other ancient things include some medieval stained glass:
St Michael, of course, and a bishop who always looks to me as if he's waving:
(It's actually a gesture of blessing). More bishops:
And the light they cast:
A recent memorial in the north aisle tells of the generosity of the last owner of Goodnestone Park in 'restoring and beautifying this ancient church'. This seems to me a perfect illustration of the ideal relationship between village and great house, between Colonel Brandon at the hall and Elinor and Edward at the parsonage - or the idyll which Fanny and Edmund would have made for themselves at Mansfield Park.
Since our tour takes place after Easter, there are flowers here too.
Friday, 16 December 2011
Church-Visiting: Jane Austen Edition
It's Jane Austen's birthday today, and since I was in Winchester last week and took a couple of Austen-related pictures, here they are, with some additions from Bath last year. Happy birthday, Jane! You got to me when I was ten years old, and no writer has had such lasting influence on me; I owe you a very great debt.
This is the house where Jane Austen lived in Winchester, in the last few months of her life:
It's right next door to Winchester College, which for some reason I find amusing. I wonder how the Austens got on with the little Wykhamists, whose motto 'Manners makyth man' might be an appropriate epigraph for some of Austen's own work.
(Because it does not mean, as some internet sites claim, 'good manners are all that count', but something much less shallow: Middle English manere has a broad range of meanings, and should really be translated 'conduct' or 'behaviour'. William of Wykeham, the founder of Winchester College and New College, Oxford, who chose this motto for himself and bestowed it on his educational institutions, had risen from humble origins himself and certainly did not intend to say that etiquette was all that mattered in the world! The motto could be paraphrased, 'It is a man's actions (and not his birth, wealth, breeding or anything else) that make him a good man'. And wouldn't Jane Austen agree with that? If that's not the theme of Mansfield Park, I don't know what is.)
The house and Winchester College:
This is Jane Austen's grave in Winchester Cathedral:
The side-aisle where she is buried:
A later memorial to her, on the wall by the grave:
"She openeth her mouth with wisdom, and in her tongue is the law of kindness." I have to say that kindness is not the first virtue one would connect with Jane Austen's sharp tongue, but never mind...
This picture was taken from her grave (sadly it doesn't show the splendid Christmas tree which is only just out of shot, in front of the west window):
And here's the nave; the grave is on the left-hand side, though not visible in this picture:
Here are some pictures from Bath. 'Jane Austen lived here', in Sydney Place:
Winchester Cathedral's most famous saint is, of course, St Swithin, and this church, St Swithin's, Walcot, in Bath, is where Jane Austen's parents were married in 1764:
Jane Austen's father George was also buried in the churchyard in 1805. The church was rebuilt in 1777, and in 1828 my own great-great-great-great-grandparents were married there.
We may lament the loss of the medieval church, but the Georgian replacement is an elegant building with lots of light:
And some lovely windows:
This is the house where Jane Austen lived in Winchester, in the last few months of her life:
It's right next door to Winchester College, which for some reason I find amusing. I wonder how the Austens got on with the little Wykhamists, whose motto 'Manners makyth man' might be an appropriate epigraph for some of Austen's own work.
(Because it does not mean, as some internet sites claim, 'good manners are all that count', but something much less shallow: Middle English manere has a broad range of meanings, and should really be translated 'conduct' or 'behaviour'. William of Wykeham, the founder of Winchester College and New College, Oxford, who chose this motto for himself and bestowed it on his educational institutions, had risen from humble origins himself and certainly did not intend to say that etiquette was all that mattered in the world! The motto could be paraphrased, 'It is a man's actions (and not his birth, wealth, breeding or anything else) that make him a good man'. And wouldn't Jane Austen agree with that? If that's not the theme of Mansfield Park, I don't know what is.)
The house and Winchester College:
This is Jane Austen's grave in Winchester Cathedral:
The side-aisle where she is buried:
A later memorial to her, on the wall by the grave:
"She openeth her mouth with wisdom, and in her tongue is the law of kindness." I have to say that kindness is not the first virtue one would connect with Jane Austen's sharp tongue, but never mind...
This picture was taken from her grave (sadly it doesn't show the splendid Christmas tree which is only just out of shot, in front of the west window):
And here's the nave; the grave is on the left-hand side, though not visible in this picture:
Here are some pictures from Bath. 'Jane Austen lived here', in Sydney Place:
Winchester Cathedral's most famous saint is, of course, St Swithin, and this church, St Swithin's, Walcot, in Bath, is where Jane Austen's parents were married in 1764:
Jane Austen's father George was also buried in the churchyard in 1805. The church was rebuilt in 1777, and in 1828 my own great-great-great-great-grandparents were married there.
We may lament the loss of the medieval church, but the Georgian replacement is an elegant building with lots of light:
And some lovely windows:
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