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Colin Carman

~ Jane Austen Scholar & Culture Vulture

Colin Carman

Tag Archives: British literature

It’s Alive…with Mary Shelley!

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Posted by colincarman in Pandemic Posts

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

bournemouth, British literature, COVID-19, english literature, frankenstein, lord byron, mary shelley, mary wollstonecraft, pandemic, percy shelley, romanticism, william godwin

In 1826, Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley published The Last Man, a three-volume novel about a close circle of friends ravaged by global pandemic. A roman à clef, the novel is a thinly veiled depiction of her late husband (who drowned at age 29 off the coast of Italy), her sister-in-law and perhaps the most famous poet of her day: Lord Byron. While we attempted to get Mrs. Shelley to speak about the genesis of her most popular work, after Frankenstein, she sounded distracted over the phone and, well, not a little drunk. Regardless, this was a big get for the blog and we were deeply grateful for her time.

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MWS: Let me start by saying you have a lock of my hair. That’s just straight-up creepy and that’s coming from me, Mary Shelley, the author of Frankenstein. I’m OG: original goth.

Preserving a lock of hair, as you know, was a custom during the nineteenth century. In Austen’s Sense and Sensibility, Willoughby cuts a lock of Marianne’s hair.

MWS: So was bear grease, used to wax men’s mustaches and beards. Let it go, already.

It was an expression of gratitude and fealty. You’re the mother of horror.

MWS: Thank you. I’d rather be the “mother of horror” than a “horrible mother.” And do not even utter the word “Austen” to me. Homegirl wrote six novels on the same damn theme: the happy marriage. Her books belong in the fantasy section, not the Classics. She was a lifelong spinster, too, so what does she know?

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That may be true. However, you and Austen remain the most popular writers from the early nineteenth century, eclipsing all of the major male canonical Romantic writers. Say what you want about the “Big Six” Romantic authors – Blake, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Percy Shelley, Keats, and Byron – but it’s the women writers that remain popular.

MWS: My mother, Mary Wollstonecraft, pretty much invented Western feminism before dying in childbirth, so I was bound to write something important.

What inspired the pandemic tragedy that is The Last Man?

MWS: Well, apart from my traumatic birth, a close second was my marriage to Percy Shelley. When you ask for six straight-jackets on your wedding registry, you know there’s trouble ahead. Not exactly husband of the year. But no one is worse than Byron. I mean, who puts their illegitimate daughter (with my half-sister, Claire, no less) in an Italian convent only for her to die of typhus in 1822? I’ll tell you who: Byron. What a man-splainer, too.

How are you staying busy during quarantine?

MWS: Well, I’ve been dead for 169 years, so death is the ultimate quarantine. Percy likens death to a “chaste cold bed” in his poem Epipsychidion and, can I just say for the record that he did me dirty in that poem? Beyond its un-pronounceable title, he refers to me as a “cold chaste Moon.” How dare he! That’s the syphilis talking.

This interview has resurrected you, Lazarus-style, so what are you doing, if you and I had to imagine?

MWS: Mommy-blogging.  Working on a one-handed handstand. I’d work on a Frankenstein sequel but Stephen King and a million bad B-movies already took care of that, and, I might add, with a total lack of imagination. Every day begins with housecleaning. Today I’m focusing on kitchen utensils. Then I binge-watch RuPaul’s Drag Race. That show is pure fire. Fun fact: I helped a cross-dressing lesbian writer Mary Diana Dods marry a single mother, Isabella Doulgas, and flee to the Continent where they were officially wed. I didn’t just flatten the curve; I stayed ahead of it. I mean, I eloped with a married man as a teenager, so…Nice pic, btw, and thanks for visiting my grave in Bournemouth. There are three of us in there.

Trip to MS Grave

Indeed you did. In 1826, you published the novel The Last Man which is about a global pandemic in which you write: “The grand question was still unsettled of how this epidemic was generated and increased. If infection depended upon the air, the air was subject to infection…the evil was so wide-spreading, so violent and immedicable, that no care, no prevention could be judged superfluous.”

MWS: Scary, right? I wrote Frankenstein in 1818, so I had to think of even scarier scenarios. One book reviewer, in 1826, referred to me as the “authoress of that monstrous literary abortion, Frankenstein.” I freely admit that The Last Man is 100 pages too long.

 That’s demeaning and indicative of how patriarchal the world of letters was during your lifetime. “Abortion”: strong word.

MWS: Whatever, it’s the “authoress” that irks me. It’s like doctor-ess or lawyer-ess or or actress. Scratch the last part. If you want to read a real literary abortion, try Monk Lewis’s The Monk. It’s not even good-bad but just bad-bad. Here’s a line, related to Good Friday: “I was much then scandalized by seeing her eat the wing of a chicken…‘how, Madona Flora! quoth I, ‘does your mistress eat flesh upon Fridays?” Major eye roll here.

We’re living it, right now. You go on: “Nature, our mother, and our friend, had turned on us a brow of menace. She shewed us plainly, that, though she permitted us to assign her laws and subdue her apparent powers, yet, if she put forth but a finger, we must quake.”

MWS: Eat your heart out, Stephen King. Oh and happy Earth Day. But, seriously, everything works out in the end, except for the global population.

People are understandably worried about homeschooling their kids.

MWS: I was homeschooled by my father, the anarchist philosopher and novelist William Godwin, so no problems there. There was no Tik-Tok, and when the candles ran out, the night was pretty much over.

There is an argument out there, however specious, that your husband Percy Bysshe Shelley wrote the bulk of Frankenstein. Your thoughts?

MWS: Haters gonna hate, you know, especially that crank who wrote The Man Who Wrote Frankenstein. When toilet paper finally sells out in stores, you can replenish with that book. What it comes down to is simple sexism. The argument boils down to this: behind every great novel written by a woman stands a man. Percy was a poet but not a prose-writer. Have you ever read the Gothic fiction he wrote while at Oxford? My margin notes read: “When is this over?” and “Make it stop.” It’s plagiarized Monk Lewis and Anne Radcliffe.

You wrote Frankenstein when you were nineteen?

MWS: That’s right. My great-great-great-granddaughter was a first year at Harvard until COVID-19 sent her home. This pandemic has ruined many young people’s chance to slut it up at college. I grieve for them. A friend tells me the hook-up apps are all chat and no action. Tough times.

Any advice?

MWS: We got Chinese takeout last night, so here’s my fortune cookie: “Even the longest days will come to an end.” No, I’ll quote myself and The Last Man: “One solution to the intricate riddle of life; to improve ourselves, and contribute to the happiness of others.” Full stop.

Bysshe Please

 

 

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Was Austen a Holy Roller?

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Posted by colincarman in Jane Austen

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Tags

anglicanism, book of common prayer, British literature, chawton, chawton house, christianity, hampshire, incest, Jane Austen, jane austen house museum, mansfield park, sense and sensibility, south warnborough, upton grey, winchester

“Miss Austen has the merit (in our judgment most essential) of being evidently a Christian writer…by her religion not at all intrusive” – Reviewer for Quarterly Review (1821)

Before we get started, what in the photo below doesn’t belong?

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What we know for certain is that Austen was a clergyman’s daughter (and brother) and did not wear her faith on her sleeve. Nevertheless, the family attended church not once but twice on Sundays and read from the Book of Common Prayer (with its morning and evening prayers). The great biographer Claire Tomalin notes, in her fine biography (from 1997), that while Austen came from a devoutly Anglican family, there are very few scenes that actually take place in a church in her fiction. Once she realizes the error of her ways, Marianne Dashwood declares the following toward the end of Sense and Sensibility: “But it shall be regulated, it shall be checked by religion, by reason, by constant employment.” Easier said than done, and Austen scholars tend to agree that the line is under-motivated, meaning, not really earned. Marianne is merely paying her more sensible sister Elinor (and the reader) lip-service.

As for Sunday services, the church close to the author’s heart was Saint Nicholas, which was destroyed by fire, in 1871, more than fifty years after she died. The installation of a new heating unit caused a varnished dado to go up in flames. Talk about a backfire. The church that Austen worshipped in probably looked much different pre-restoration; regardless, in her day, she attended the baptisms of the Digweed and Clement children (family friends). Just prior to her death, her brother Henry was made Curate of Chawton. Inside Saint Nicholas (dating to 1270), you will find a three-paneled reredos, in an oak frame, depicting the Crucifixion. I’m of the opinion that the manor-house, Chawton, just up the driveway from St. Nick provided the inspiration for Mansfield Park. Inside there are eleven stained glass windows and a memorial for Lady Bradford whose husband, Major Bradford, lost his arm to a man-eating tiger.

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The novel’s heroine, Fanny, described as “well-principled and religious,” winds up marrying her first cousin Edmund, a chatty clergyman. Students are usually discomforted by the fact that (1) the happily-ever-after ending involves two cousins tying the knot and, more troublingly, that (2) Fanny and Edmund are raised as siblings from the age of ten onward. If you want to go there, cousin-coupling wasn’t unheard of, especially amongst the landed gentry who didn’t leave their own social class, but if it had to happen, families preferred that the bride and groom were not of the same matrilineal line. In other words, uterine incest (or a couple whose mothers are sisters) was best to be avoided. Even nineteenth-century people sensed that inbreeding could result in genetic abnormalities. Ah well, it’s all relative.

Speaking of Henry Austen, below is the memorial plaque for Austen found in Winchester Cathedral. Famously it makes no mention of her authorship and it’s believed that Henry, the most pious of her older brothers, had to amplify her identity as a Christian in order to secure her a spot in the cathedral. I’ll spare you the details but in the summer heat of 1817, a body would not be returned to its original chapel. For this reason, Austen is interred in Winchester while the two Cassandras (her mother and sister) are buried in the St. Nicholas churchyard. Later, in 1923, prayers by Austen were published though, again, the authorship is sometimes questioned. Below is my awkward selfie taken in Winchester. I’m going to delay the details of my pilgrimage to the grave until my final post next week, however.

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Yesterday I walked from South Warnborough to the quiet hamlet of Upton Grey. All of the animals below give you an indication of just how rural this area is. That being said, a few Mercedes zipped by on the country road, so it’s not exactly slumming it.

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“Upton” is derived from the Anglo-Saxon for “homestead upon the hill.” The church, Saint Mary’s, has been there for over a millennium! The Norman arch and knave date back to 1120. Note the “King & Country” dedication. There’s a fine memorial for a nineteenth-year-old lieutenant John Henry Beaufoy who fell, in 1809, at the Battle of Talavera in Spain. Over the past month, I’ve been delighted to find that village parishes are left open. The bigger church here in Alton, St. Lawrence, still has a damaged front door from the Civil War in the 1600s.

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There is no escaping history in England. And, in the countryside, there is no escaping the centrality of the church and the natural world. Having gone to the capital this week, I can safely say that Hampshire smells like manure whereas London smells like s**t. And there’s a big difference!

 

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Welcome to Austenland

02 Tuesday Jul 2019

Posted by colincarman in Jane Austen

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

British literature, chawton, colorado mesa university, england, frankenstein, Jane Austen, lord byron, mary shelley, pride and prejudice

Ah, l’aimable Jane!

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This is a blog where, recipe-by-recipe, I re-create the famous French meals popularized by Julia Child, including her Chef Boyardee. Oh wait, that’s been done before! Instead, this is a blog where I leak top-secret government files and document my time spent inside the Ecuadorian embassy while on roller-skates. Rats, it’s all been done before!

No, no, this is a blog where I document a four-week research trip to Austenland in Hampshire, England. Please don’t tell me to “keep calm” — tranquillity is overrated — but I’ll allow this, just this once:Read Austen

If you’re still reading, you haven’t clicked away because you’re (1) a fan of Austen, (2) a close family member of mine, or (3) someone with a browser that froze. If you fall into the third category, and especially if you own a PC, just throw a heating blanket over the monitor and hope for the best.

Welcome to Austen-Leaks or, better yet, Wiki-Darcy. What do you call a cat-lover’s version of an Austen novel? Answer: Purr-suasion.

Whatever you call it, this is a blog that begins on the Butts, the Butts Road in Alton, England, that is. This is the only English-speaking country on the face of the earth — didn’t they invent English, after all, with the help of Beowulf, or was it Virginia Woolf? — that can label a street “Butts Road” without a hint of self-consciousness. Please do not wake up the Butts! They need their rest. The Butts family tree is available upon request. It’s in my back pocket.

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New to the area, I originally thought that a family with the most unfortunate of surnames resides in this house but, alas, the Butts takes you toward Chawton Village where one of the world’s greatest storytellers lived for the last eight years of her life. Her name was Mary Shelley – oh wait, Mary Shelley was the subject of my first book. This blog, and germinating second book, is about Jane Austen (1775-1817). Thanks to the sponsorship of The Jane Austen Society of America, I was awarded the international visitor position for a research trip. That’s the academic version of solitary confinement but the cuisine is better. But this is England, folks, so just barely.

Today the lovely and welcoming people at Chawton even made me a name tag – Colin Carman, Ph.D. J.A.S.N.A. I.V.P. (yeah, you know me) – so it’s official. (The more abbreviations after your name, the more useless you are in everyday life. Once my car broke down, so I sold it to the roadside assistant and just drove off in his; it was a Geo.) There’s even a slight discount on sandwiches and tea in the dining room.

Today, I offered a potato chip to the house dog – Toby (photo-ready below) – who came by the table where I was taking notes, but he didn’t want the chip. Could he be cuter? Having two Labrador Retrievers back in the States, I was shocked to meet a dog that actually refused a table scrap. Our dogs will eat anything that doesn’t eat them first. I also had a clearer head today, on my second day in Hampshire, than I did on my first day: jet-lag, a discount on Cornish ales in the pub just down the road from the room I rented, et cetera. Toby remains unimpressed.

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Before I got a real job at the univ, I maintained this blog and wrote film reviews. I also taught yoga, which means your life is pretty much going nowhere fast. I take that back: you can achieve nirvana but also bankruptcy. You see, watching films and reading literary fiction are my two favorite past times but to really drum-up traffic, on Twitter or in the blogosphere, you have to really (and contentiously) engage with other bloggers and Tweeters and I haven’t the time. This is called “dragging,” as in “Oooh, don’t drag me, bro.” You won’t find me in many comments sections as it’s a rather giant W.O.T. (or, waste of time). That was five or so years ago, before I taught a course on Jane Austen at my home university, Colorado Mesa University, and before I wrote a book about Mary Shelley, her poet-husband Percy Bysshe Shelley, and their engagement with the natural world. Thank you to my alma mater for providing me with unlimited shower caps for life.

Having spent a lot of time reading and thinking about the English Romantics, I thought it might be wise to shift my focus to another Romantic heavyweight, Jane Austen, and sustain my interest in environmentalist philosophy. Austen is generally thought to be a “social” writer and chronicler of nineteenth-century courtship and marriage. She is still unfairly pegged as a “woman writer” with “feminine” interests but we’ll return to that misconception later on. I can’t help myself, so here is a Shelleyan collage from last summer when I visited Mary Shelley’s grave in Bournemouth. Check out the guy who photobombed my pic. He actually growled at me to get out the way. The only requirement at the Shelley gravesite is that you don’t rob it, and that’s not a lot to ask! Oh and don’t plug the corpse into any available outlet.

MS GraveFor now, here are four important facts about Jane Austen, her life and works.

#1. Jane Austen was the seventh of eight children and her only sister Cassandra’s junior by two years. They had five brothers, which meant sizable Tesco bills for their father, the Reverend George Austen and his wife Cassandra. Three sons in three years: good grief! Here is Mrs. Austen’s grave in the churchyard just below the manor house owned by the Austen sisters’ older (and considerably richer) brother Edward. Every good writer needs a benefactor, after all! The third eldest of the Austen boys, Edward was adopted by the very wealthy cousins of his father, the Knight family, which meant that his financial situation went from black to white, or day to Knight, in the blink of an eye. I have a pretty wealthy uncle myself — he invented the surgical glove two centuries ago — but he hasn’t yet put me on the payroll. Uncle Nathan, stop acting like you have a new phone and responding: “Who dis? New phone.” You can only use that excuse twice.

Saint Nicholas

The year 1808 was a bad year for Edward’s wife, who died, but a good year for the unmarried Austen sisters who wasted no time in moving from Southampton to Chawton. The former place is the port city where a little-known vessel called the Titanic embarked on its fatally frosty voyage. The Titanic, as you know, did not live up to its illustrious name but that’s the just the tip of the iceberg. Two years prior to the death of Edward’s wife, the Austens gathered in Chawton and by 1809, they made this tiny village in the west country their home.

The two Cassandras, Jane’s sister and mother, are interred adjacent to the sanctuary of Saint Nicholas, which you can see jutting out from the trees below. This is a stone-built chapel dating from the thirteenth century. Jane’s father officiated for thirty years at Saint Nick’s, which is 870 fewer years than the yew tree has stood outside and, at one time, held the keys to the front door inside. Remember to lock the doors tightly, so the swallows don’t conduct their own service. But don’t be such a cassandra about it! Not the end-of-the-world. Why are mother and daughter buried side-by-side? I’ll look into that. What do you call a cremated Romantic? (I don’t have a punchline for that one, so feel free to contribute in the comments.) Are you asleep already? For the textual equivalent of Melatonin, here is my book on the Shelleys.

Mother Sister Graves

#2. A tad more biography: before Christmas in 1775, Jane was born to her clergyman father during a bitterly cold stretch of winter, so cold, in fact, that lambs froze in the fields. Lamb shoulder is a thing in the UK, btw. Do they have shoulders, really? Were lamb shoulder pads a thing in the 1980s? Reverend Austen, who had forfeited his scholarship at Oxford University, because he wished to start a family with Cassandra, walked in the snow to lay holly at Saint Nicholas and to serve the sacrament. This was soon after his second and youngest daughter was born at home, without the aid of a physician (common for the time period), and christened at Steventon Rectory. Jane Austen’s birthplace has been since torn down. I was born and raised in New Jersey, which means that my baptismal font served a dual function as a punch bowl at Dunkin’ Donuts.

#3. Jane Austen isn’t simply a proper English writer but, by now, an industry unto herself. In fact, her novels could easily rival that single work of her contemporary, Mary Shelley, in terms of screen time. There are more than one hundred Frankenstein-inspired films – “Frankenweenie” anyone? – and nearly that many loosely based on Austen’s fiction. There’s even Pride and Prejudice with Zombies, a book that can be judged by its cover since the title is the most memorable part. I’m currently re-writing a work of J.D. Salinger’s, tentatively called The Catcher in the Rye with Zombies, so Brian Grazer or other Hollywood producers, if you’re out there, just shoot me an email and it’s yours. It’s too bad she predates movie royalties. She and Cassandra would travel by donkey — no joke — to Alton to get groceries; had she lived to see her novels’ success on screen, the sisters would have traveled by Tesla and thrown their candy wrappers out the window.

#4. Jane Austen only saw real success during the last seven years of her short but productive life; she likely died of Addison’s Disease but the cause of death remains a debate in medical history. Adrenal failure is certainly no fun; what is fun is this little tidbit: when Austen completed a draft of what would become her most popular novel, Pride and Prejudice, she was just twenty years old (only one year older than Mary Shelley when she composed Frankenstein) though she would not see the novel in print for another thirty seven years! And you thought your pointless doctoral dissertation on apiarian promiscuity in the works of Margaret Atwood was taking forever! This means that Austen was same age as her classic heroine, the strong-willed Elizabeth Bennet, when she wrote it and nearly as old as Eliza’s mother when it finally reached the reading public in 1813. From there, she lived like a Romantic-era rock star: sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll. Actually, no, that was Lord Byron’s job and the unmarried Austen lived out her days without children, or, as I like to say, “child-free.” In fact, she regarded her novels as her children and, having gotten a taste of success, remarked that the success of Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility “only makes me long for more.” Get it, girl!

Speaking of longing, I need some much-needed sleep and that Cornish ale I mentioned before, so, for now, c’est moi inside the private reading room in the Chawton Library. I’m sensitive about my big shiny forehead because I keep my brains in there. Thus, there is no comments section. This place has really gone to the dogs if they (Toby, included) let the likes of me in! I kid, of course, as this blog is at times irreverent. It’s the Shelleyist in me to not respect authority. And it’s the Janeite in you that, I hope, will keep you reading about this research trip. Toby will also be contributing.

Thanks again to the lovely people at Chawton House! They seem so happy, and as my uncle Jim put it, why wouldn’t they be!? As we stupidly reply to obvious statements, in the States, “Right?!?”

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Onward! PS: What does Morrissey think of Jane Austen? His far-right stances as of late have me worried for his mental health and, worse yet, I bought tickets to see him in Utah in September. But back to Jane…

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