A modern adaptation/project/thing of Jane Austen's Persuasion, "translated" and published chapter by chapter, probably to be read only by my sister and a couple of friends. New? Here's the link to Chapter One: http://bit.ly/2uTbdFS
timberwolfoz replied to your post “Have you seen Lucy Worsley’s Jane Austen Behind Closed Doors and if…”
It’s so frustrating because she addresses subjects I’m *very* interested in but I. Cannot. Stand. Her. to the point I can’t even analyse the content. (Someone on a Brit friend’s FB made the observation she’s basically Anne in the Famous Five. I may have made a reply consisting of OH GOD YES THANK YOU THAT’S IT EXACTLY.)
Right? Like in very small doses she seems to be great fun but then it’s like…okay, where is the meaty weight to this information, beneath the sticky-sweet gloss? And it’s just??? ABSENT???? She’s promised an epic dinner-party of haute cuisine and is serving up a bag of M&Ms somebody’s sat on.
Hey, friends! The peppy historian in question has also written a book on Jane Austen that has the meat you’re talking about. I enjoyed her written style much more than her presenting. :)
I also laughed at him totally deliberately calling attention to the fact Victor isn’t a real doctor because he dropped out of college and built a guy out of corpses
I scrolled back as far as I could on the tag for “The Cask of Amontillado” and I still can’t find a single reason why everyone’s posting about it all of the sudden
Reddit user TheABrown describes “nice guy” in literary terms and nails it:
A friend of mine who is big into English literature has described a big chunk of them as “The Mr Collinses of the world who are bewildered and angry that not even Charlotte Lucas will have them now that she has more options.”
For those who haven’t read Pride and Prejudice, Mr Collins is a character who has a decent income, isn’t vicious, but he’s annoying and unpleasant. After being rejected by the heroine, he marries another woman called Charlotte Lucas, who marries him because she’s getting older, not likely to have another proposal, and is worried about living the rest of her life as the maiden aunt in genteel poverty dependent on her father or brother. [source]
I mean, the feckless Wickhams of the world will always attract the silly Lydias; and the genuinely decent and honourable Bingleys and Darcys seem to find their Janes and Elizabeths - but the modern Charlottes - well, lots of them, now that it’s socially acceptable, and financially viable, to be single, would much prefer to spend the rest of their lives living in their own little one-bedroom flats, working their sensible, modestly renumerated jobs, and spending their evenings with friends, pizza, wine, and their pet cats if their options for marriage and partnership are Mr Collinses, regardless of whether Mr Collins has a respectable career or a nice house in the suburbs.
The Mr Collinses are (usually) not vicious or nasty or even objectively a terrible life decision (like a Wickham), but most Charlottes don’t want to spend their lives with them if there’s another option.
The other problem of course is that a lot of Mr Collinses are under some sort of delusion that they’re Mr Darcy/Mr Bingley/Mr Knightley etc.
Mind you his travelling fifty miles to…er…commiserate on Lydia’s disgrace? Is maybe not vicious in the physical sense but at BEST it’s horribly tone deaf and at worse outright gloating.
Also worth pointing out:
Collins is turned down by Lizzie and disbelieves her. She says several times in the strongest terms that she doesn’t want him but NOPE, she can’t possibly be serious. It takes her leaving the room to get it through his head.
Darcy, by contrast, is turned down and is shocked, but he doesn’t NOT TAKE HER SERIOUSLY. He’s appalled that she would ever think of turning him down, he demands to know why (and by gum does she let him have it) but he takes her at her word. At which point he leaves.
AND THEN TRIES TO DO BETTER.
Mr Collins bumbles off and proposes to the first woman who doesn’t roll her eyes at him. Darcy goes off and attempts to amend his faults, not to win Lizzie over but Because She Is Right and He Was Being An Arse.
“The recollection of what I then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of it, is now, and has been many months, inexpressibly painful to me. Your reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget: “had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner.” Those were your words. You know not, you can scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me; – though it was some time, I confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice.”
I love me some Pride and Prejudice. (points at videos)
So much Jane Austen reveals that there is nothing new under the damn sun.
As I said when the Google Memo hit: If there’s a story about gender out there, there’s probably an Austen quote for it.
From Persuasion:
Captain Harville:”I won’t allow it to be any more man’s nature than women’s to be inconstant or to forget those they love or have loved. I believe the reverse. I believe… Let me just observe that all histories are against you, all stories, prose, and verse. I do not think I ever opened a book in my life which did not have something to say on women’s fickleness.”
Anne Elliot: “But they were all written by men. ”
Collins is turned down by Lizzie and disbelieves her. She says several times in the strongest terms that she doesn’t want him but NOPE, she can’t possibly be serious. It takes her leaving the room to get it through his head.
Darcy, by contrast, is turned down and is shocked, but he doesn’t NOT TAKE HER SERIOUSLY. He’s appalled that she would ever think of turning him down, he demands to know why (and by gum does she let him have it) but he takes her at her word. At which point he leaves.
“Louisa had once opened her eyes, but soon closed them again, without apparent consciousness. This had been proof of life, however, of service to her sister; and Henrietta, though perfectly incapable of being in the same room with Louisa, was kept, by the agitation of hope and fear, from a return of her own insensibility. Mary, too, was growing calmer. The surgeon was with them almost before it had seemed possible. They were sick with horror while he examined; but he was not hopeless. The head had received a severe contusion, but he had seen greater injuries recovered from: he was by no means hopeless; he spoke cheerfully.”
Persuasion, Chapter 12
Diagnosis: Cerebral Contusion
I have no idea how you could definitively diagnose a head injury without CT scanning, but we’re just going to stick with the surgeon’s assessment of Louisa having a cerebral contusion, or in plain language, a bruised brain. Just like a bruise anywhere else in the body, a bruise in the brain means that injured blood vessels are leaking, causing blood to collect in the surrounding tissue. And just like anywhere else in the body, the blood vessels have the potential to repair themselves, and the pooled blood has the potential to get degraded and reabsorbed. The series of CT images above show the progression of a contusion between 1-14 days.
The one big difference though is that the brain is confined to a closed space within the skull. If the bleeding and consequent swelling is significant enough, the pressure within the skull can become elevated. In life-threatening instances, the increased pressure can start to push part of the brain out of the skull (through the big hole at the bottom of your skull that allows your brain to connect to your spinal cord), producing a cerebral herniation. This is as bad as it sounds. It can cause compression of all kinds of important structures at the base of the brain (aka brainstem) that control cardiorespiratory drives.
In Louisa’s case, she had an injury significant enough to lose consciousness, but not severe enough to be life-threatening. The treatment for such an injury today is the same as it was back then: watch and wait. As long as the intracranial pressure remains normal, the injury is self-healing. The blood vessels repair themselves, and the pooled blood eventually gets broken down. And all in just enough time to begin to relish for morbid poetry.
An amazing explanation for smudged ink I came across in an October 1, 1897 letter from Rachel (a teenage girl in finishing school in Philadelphia) to her cousin Jack at Yale.
When Anne had re-entered the Elliot household, there was one thing that would have made her more relieved than seeing Sam’s renewed interest in her sister: finding her father far away from the charms of Liz’s friend, Penny. After a few hours in the house, she felt uneasy about it. There was nothing specific Anne could put her finger on, just a sampling of looks that lasted a moment too long, and the churning that started in her mind whenever she watched them together. The senator was not the sort of person any more to fall in love, but he was an easy target for infatuation, if his ego could benefit. The morning after Anne arrived, before stepping out into the open for breakfast, she hesitated in the shelter of her small hallway.
She thought she had caught her name in Penny’s voice. Something about her being concerned about staying in a big bedroom while Anne was in the small room downstairs only meant for weekend guests, and how she did not want to overstay her welcome. Liz said in a stage whisper,
“There is no reason for you to go. I promise I don’t think there’s any reason at all. You should never feel uncomfortable, just because Anne’s here now. She’s nothing to me, compared with you.”
“You can’t go yet, Penny!” the senator added. “You haven’t really seen the area, or met anyone who’s anyone yet.” At this point Anne stepped into the open, met vaguely by a short nod from the speaker. “You’ve only been here to work, and you’ve gotten almost no leisure time. You can’t just run away from us now. We’re just discovering the beauties of this place, even though it isn’t exactly in the center of things. And I know you, with your mind, appreciate the aesthetically pleasing things.” His spoke with such unusual earnestness that Anne was not surprised Penny stole quick, almost watchful glances at Liz and herself. Liz saw nothing out of the ordinary, and Anne tried to keep her thoughts away from her face. The senator’s arguments were too strong for Penny to resist, so it was settled that she would stay through the summer.
That same morning, while Anne settled at the granite island for work, the senator floated through, looking for caffeine of some sort. He stood still, then almost toppled Anne off her barstool by complimenting her.
“You’ve been looking really nice since you came back from Uppercross, Anne. Less pale, a clearer complexion...just -” he flapped his hands at her general person, “Better. Did you switch moisturizers or something?”
“No, I just use a makeup remover sometimes,” Anne said slowly.
“Not Gowland’s coconut oil? Liz gave her sample to Penny, and it’s completely helped with all those dry spots and freckles. It’s made her even better-looking.”
‘Back to normal.’ Anne thought. She felt that when it came to Penny, she had to let things run their course; her father was still his own person, and Penny was an adult. She knew her father would not be the first politician to marry for the sake of acquiring a trophy, and Penny would not be the last smart girl to marry an older man for status and security. Even though Penny was aware of their financial situation, a potentially bankrupt politician is still more stable than a freshly graduated girl with a heavy load of student debt. Anne’s chief worry (and there was a whole tribe of them) was that Penny’s lifestyle would spark a chain reaction that would cause her father to backslide with his problems. If the overt flirtation did lead anywhere serious, Anne and Liz would have to move out, leaving him to fend for himself and be accountable to her.
Mrs. Russell’s composed mind and almost unnerving politeness was put to the test on this point, whenever she visited the cottage on Camden Hill. Seeing Penny in such a favored place and Anne in an overlooked corner irritated her constantly while she was there, and bothered her while she was away - as much as a person who lives on the Cape, walks every day, boats many afternoons, and has a large circle of friends has time to be bothered. As she got to know Sam Beckett better, her thoughts on the others softened, or at least became more indifferent. His mannerisms and easy smiles were an immediate recommendation, and talking to him made her think the solid supported the superficial. Talking to Anne after their first encounter at the clam dig, Mrs. Russell said,
“I almost couldn’t believe he was the same person! He was so surly when he was around the first time, so I just thought he was Liz’s bad boy phase. Now he’s this clean-cut lawyer! I heard he’s aiming to be the state’s attorney general in the next ten years.” Mrs. Russell could not picture a more admirable male specimen. All the things that are good and right were somehow a part of him: a decent mind, correct opinions (or at least the same opinions that she held), a broad knowledge of the world, and a warm heart. As Virginians are wont to have, he had a strong sense of his family dynasty but without too much pride, or dependence on that history to make him somebody. He lived with the liberality of someone who is well-off, but without being too showy. He thought for himself without defying public opinion on anything of great importance. Even his shirt was never wrinkled, and his nose was never sunburnt. He was steady, observant, mild, and candid. Feelings of any sort never seemed to run away with him. He also seemed to value the contentedness a home can have, which shady characters with too much unfocused, spastic energy cannot have. Mrs. Russell was convinced he had not been happy in his first marriage, despite all his wife’s frozen waffle dollars. However, this unhappiness did not sour him on marriage in general. She could tell from watching him, and Steven Wallis had told her so. To Mrs. Russell, the satisfaction in Sam outweighed all the plague of Penny.
It had been years since Anne had first discovered she and her mentor could think differently, so it was not surprising to her that Mrs. Russell did not find any unsettling inconsistencies, or require any further explanations about his sudden reconciliation. Mrs. Russell thought there was no further ulterior motive than him maturing through his silly phase, and wisely trying to get back to a good thing. Her thought was that years of struggling on your own can make you want all the connections and goodwill you can get.
“That pressed suit, and you think he’s struggling?” Anne smiled. “I doubt he has ever eaten Ramen noodles. But I think he’s been hovering around for Liz.”
“Liz?” Now Mrs. Russell was a little surprised. Then she said cautiously, “Well, time will tell.” It was a reference to a possible future that Anne did not feel she could sway, not yet. In the Elliott household, Liz always came first, in beauty and preference and consideration. The idea that someone could know them both and give Anne the preeminence seemed impossible. It also had to be noted that Sam’s wife had died only a year before - a little delay on his part would be more than excusable. Anne could not see the black band he still wore on his suit-coat sleeve without thinking that maybe she was the inexcusable one for imagining some interest on his side. Even if his marriage hadn’t been totally happy, there had been enough to keep him there for many years - Anne could not wrap her brain around the idea of someone recovering from their spouse’s death so quickly.
However that situation would end, Sam was hands down their best acquaintance in New England; Anne could not find his equal there. They talked about their meeting on the coast, maybe to revisit their initial reaction when they saw each other for the first time. He made sure to tell her how she had caught his eye, even in the early morning light, and she believed it. She remembered the look in his eye, and also the expression on another person’s face. Sam and Anne did not always agree, as she found out over the days of talking and socializing. He placed a higher value on rank, connections, and authority without supporting merits than she did. For instance, he joined Liz and the senator in being excited about a subject Anne would have thought was beneath him. On the fateful morning after Anne arrived, their phones informed them that the Dalrymple entourage had taken up residency in a sumptuous estate on the edge of the golf course (in the heart of Martha’s Vineyard, of course). The inhabitants on Camden Hill - including Mrs. Russell and Sam, who were there for brunch - were thrown into a tizzy trying to figure out the best way to get into their circle of society. The Dalrymples were (unfortunately, in Anne’s opinion) distant friends from Washington. Mrs. Dalrymple had hired them to position their son’s quitting school in a positive way, and occasionally had them for Christmas parties. Years ago, her husband had leveraged a career in television to be elected to one term in the Senate, on name recognition rather than talent or merit. As Hollywood royalty, he barrelled through logic with more zeal than understanding, and yet he somehow managed to gather influence and power. His party decided that a seat in the House was a little too much real-world power, and so when the presidential cycle came around they put him in the Vice President’s seat. It kept him rather busy, but with minimal impact. Still, there was ‘president’ in the title, and movie and TV credits to his name, so he somehow commanded importance. The Christmas and New Year’s Eve cocktail invitations had dried up within the last year, and so the question was how to find out which fence had been broken, and more importantly how to mend it. Mrs. Russell and Sam had a more rational, pragmatic view of the situation:
“Connections with old friends - and clients - are always worth preserving,” Mrs Russell noted, spreading strawberry jam on her toast. Sam nodded in agreement. “And they will make for good company. I’ve heard they rented that house through September, and will be living in style. Even when the VP has to be in Washington, he’ll commute for the weekends, and Lady will be here all the time. I’ve heard she’s a lovely woman herself.” Mrs. Dalrymple nicknamed herself Lady in an attempt to sound more regal than she actually was, and to harken back to Lady Bird Johnson. Depending on the company, the name could be used with an aggressive genuineness, or sarchasm. “If you can patch things up without looking desperate, I think you should,” Mrs. Russell concluded.
“We’re just lucky they decided to vacation here, not on Long Island, like last year,” the Senator remarked. He typed up an email then and there at the breakfast table, apologizing for any misunderstanding, and welcoming Lady to the neighborhood. Although Mrs. Russell and Sam could not give it their full endorsement, the email did the trick: that very afternoon they all were having bloody marys mixed by Lady herself. The tough labors were over, and now the sweet rewards had begun. New profile photos were had (selfies, with the Dalrymple’s glittering white smiles in the middle), and whenever they got the chance, they talked about their ‘dear friends, the Dalrymples’. Anne was embarrassed by the whole situation. Even if the Vice President and his family were actually pleasant, intelligent people, she still would have been ashamed of her family flaunting their high-up connections. Mrs. Dalrymple had gotten her reputation as a lovely person by always wearing a vacant smile, and having empty but polite (ish) things to say to everyone. And their daughter? When talking about her passions (mainly swimming, a little golf) she could barely be bothered to string two sentences together. Everything else brought on monotone, one-word answers. If she hadn’t been a Dalrymple, her presence would never have been tolerated, much less sought-after. Mrs. Russell admitted that she had been expecting more, but maintained that it was a connection worth keeping up.
That evening, Anne floated her opinion of the illustrious Dalrymple clan past Sam. Everyone else was still outside finishing desert in the large adirondack chairs, and she was washing the dishes while Sam dried.
“I mean, I agree that they’re nothing great in and of themselves,” he said, turning around to see her better and leaning against the counter. “But as old friends, and good company, and as people who will collect other people worth knowing around them, I think they have some value.” Anne smiled, but her eyebrows drew together.
“My definition of good company is different from yours,” she said, handing him a pair of tongs. “I think good people to be around are smart, well-informed individuals who can participate in an intelligent conversation. Not that it requires a degree - just people who are always learning, and want to exchange ideas.”
“You’re all mixed up,” he said quietly. “That’s not good company - it is the best. Good company only requires knowing the right people, having money, and some education. Money and connections are the real essentials; a little quality learning can be dangerous in these parts. If you know too much, you might be tempted to think for yourself, or even express your opinions. Seriously, though, I wouldn’t expose the fact your lofty education gave you big ideas. Oh, and now the serious Anne shakes her head. She is not satisfied. She is fastidious.” She was wondering when he would stop referring to her in the third person. While she was handing him a platter for drying, he placed his hand over hers, just for a few seconds. “Anne,” he appealed, “You have more reason than anyone I know to be fastidious. But is it worth it? Will it make you happy in the long run? Why not just grin and bear the patio parties, and then enjoy the advantages as much as you can? You can depend on them having influencers all around them this summer, and as position is position, being known as their friends will have benefits we could all hope for.” Anne drained the suds from the sink and turned around, leaning against the cabinet.
“We will certainly be seen as their friends. I don’t think we can avoid it, really. All of the East Coast will probably know by the end of the night,” she said, nodding to the three faces outside, illuminated by the blue light of small, slender screens. “I just think we’ve all been tripping over ourselves too much to renew this relationship. I guess,” with a wry smile, “I have a little more pride than any of you. I’ll admit it bothers me, chasing so hard after having a relationship acknowledged that is apparently so important for us, and they have no need for.”
“I think you underestimate your family’s place here. In New York or L.A. you might need the relationship, but as long as you are in and around the Vineyard, I think the Elliots will always be sought after.” He had somehow gotten closer without her noticing; her cardiganed shoulder brushed his, and she stepped out to put melting ice cream in the freezer.
“Well,” she said, “I certainly have too much pride to be able to enjoy a welcome that depends so much on place and position. I think maybe some people call it self-respect.”
“Look who’s getting fiery!” Sam smiled, seeming to enjoy the pushback. “I love your indignation. And, with all of the lectures we’ve received about American can-doerism, building yourself with nothing but your bare hands and God-given gifts, it is completely natural. But you have actually believed the lectures, when I don’t think the business moguls or politicians who delivered them really did. And you talk about being proud - I know that people around here would call me the same thing, and I don’t have a problem with that. So even if the way it expresses itself is different, I think we share the same general spirit.” After checking over his shoulder to make sure the kitchen was still empty, “And I’m sure we think similarly on at least one point: at least all of these higher-ups will distract the senator from those...less worthy of his attention.” He looked pointedly outside, where Penny was sitting draped over the back of the senator’s chair. Although Anne could not agree that they shared the same kind of pride, she was pleased with him for seeing through Penny’s plot, and not applying his opportunism to her situation. The family came trooping in at this point, to recap the afternoon and plan a small dinner party to which they could invite the Dalrymples.
Sometimes fact is stranger than fiction, is it not? Happy 4th of July to all my fellow Americans.
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
snowghoul
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