Heyer's Instead of the Thorn and Why It Isn't a Terribly Good Book

When she gained clout as a writer, Georgette Heyer had her earlier books removed from publication.

I have mixed feelings about these decisions. In Heyer's case, I put the action down to an excess of writerly fastidiousness. After all, she removed from publication books that are arguably not so good but also books that readers requested be republished once she died and her estate took over: Simon the Coldheart and Beauvallet.

Of course, now, many of those earlier books are in the public domain. I read one of Heyer's earliest contemporary romances, Instead of the Thorn, and I think I know why Heyer removed that book, at least, from publication. 

As mentioned on Votaries, in the early twentieth century, everyone--not just romance writers--was writing books that delved into the psychology of marriage, from Sinclair Lewis's Dodsworth to Katherine Mansfield's short stories.

The problem? Heyer wasn't that smart about marriage. (She was married when she published Instead of the Thorn but being in something is not the same as being smart about something.) 

Now, Heyer is a good writer. She created decent characters who within her travelogue, adventure, comedic shaggy dog stories entirely work! 

Rather than telling a story, however, Instead of the Thorn attempts to describe why a marriage went bad and then how it was repaired. And Heyer seriously has no clue. 

She tries to argue that a prim & proper upbringing equals a young woman being disgusted by sex. I knew WAY too many young women at the religious university I attended in my late teens/early twenties, many with prim & proper upbringings, who greeted sex with immense relief and satisfaction, whether or not they had the "talk" with their mothers beforehand. 

That is, they were more like Samuel Richardson's Pamela--and, for that matter, Jane Austen's heroines--than anything out of...I have no comparison. Anybody who writes realistically about young women would recognize Heyer's portrait as downright bizarre. Elizabeth, the protagonist, might imitate her aunt. She would quickly shed her aunt's influence the moment she went out into society. 

Unless she was inherently turned off by sex. In which case, no amount of "growing up" could save that particular relationship. 

To be clear, I'm not saying the wife or the husband is right or wrong in regards to Elizabeth's "love me but don't touch me" behavior. Nor am I arguing that men and women react the same to sex; overall, I don't think that they do. I am saying that so immense a gap between "I like the idea of courtship and marriage" and intimate congress would spell the end of any relationship (one young woman in college announced, when she broke her first engagement, that physical attraction and desire are important, adding emphatically, "You can't talk yourself into feeling stuff even if you admire someone"). 

In fact, weirdly enough, Heyer resorts to a kind of sitcom explanation of the central relationship in Instead of the Thorn: Elizabeth, the protagonist, cannot feel desire until she feels true love. 

Really? Because the history of teens and STDs and pregnancies also pretty much disproves that idea to the nth degree.  

Heyer's approach here can't be blamed on the romance novel genre. In one sub-genre of the romance novel, even from 100 years ago, the female protagonist would sleep with her husband and have children before she ever figured out that she actually liked him, let alone loved him. That is, many many romance heroines--including Austen's--have been perfectly capable of feeling attraction/desire as well as an emotional connection without knowing exactly what they feel. 

Heyer's approach--pairing sexual interest with so-called grown-up insight into "the other"--is an attempt at psychology, not practical observation (see Christie's novels for innocent young women who gladly leave their family homes to marry attractive ne'er-do-wells because, well, that's life!). Arguably, women are less likely to enjoy "friends with benefits" than men, but a young woman like Elizabeth would be FAR more likely to convince herself of an attachment than to run screaming to the hills because her husband wants to have sex. (And if she did run screaming, I'm not entirely convinced she would come back.) 

In fairness, Heyer makes solid points about the difficulties of a young person moving from a "helicoptered" household to one where she has to behave like an independent-thinking adult. Nevertheless, the book doesn't have enough substance to stand beside similar books from the time period.

It's entirely possible that Heyer came to despise her "modern" psychological novels for exactly the reasons I've detailed above. She was married for 54 years, had a son, who married a divorced woman, and three grandsons. As mentioned above, people can do something without understanding it. However, Heyer's own experience may have come to bear some weight in her assessment of what she wrote when she was much younger. 

And it's possible that Heyer never liked the book. She wrote Instead of the Thorn in the first place to make money/break into an industry, fiction, that had become fascinated with the problem of marriage.  

In the end, Heyer was a smart writer who ultimately figured out her genres--Georgian and Regency travelogue romances plus murder mysteries--and stuck to them.

Figuring out one's gifts: THAT is impressive.   

Romance and the Ultimate Taboo: Incest

My post about Melendy siblings reminded me of a possible fan-fiction male/male relationship between Rush and the adoptive brother, Mark. 

I immediately ran up against the sibling problem.  

The problem arises whether the siblings are male-male or male-female. And it has to do with an issue raised in my post about the guardian-lover relationship. Woody Allen and Soon-Yi emphasized that they had NOT had a father-daughter relationship prior to their relationship. 

I thought the argument was rather pointless. Why focus so much on a non-issue? They aren't biologically related. 

Turns out, I was wrong. 

According to Allan V. Horwitz of What's Normal: Reconciling Biology & Culture, the incest taboo is likely physiologically generated, not culturally imposed. 

Horwitz makes the argument because incest--unlike just about any other transgressive behavior (sexual or otherwise)--does not get its own "STOP-THINK FIRST" ads on television. Parents rarely reference it. It is barely part of everyday speech. And yet most people, including Horwitz's students, are disgusted by the idea. 

Horwitz points out that historically, even sexually permissive cultures have draw the line at incest. Moreover, cultures that have allowed it have allowed it as an exception (such as between Egyptian royalty). 

Horwitz calls on the Westermarck effect, named after Edvard Westermarck, that claims--and these claims are backed by studies--that people (and primates) raised in the same household evince sexual indifference towards each other. The effect is not determined by genetics but proximity. And it is most likely to occur between children raised together under the age of three; quite likely between children raised together under the age of ten. Sexual abuse, moreover, is more likely to occur between male stepfathers and female stepdaughters than between biological parent-child. (There are, of course, exceptions to all these observed behaviors.) 

There is a cultural component, of course. Although Victorians (sort of) accepted cousins marrying, an in-law marrying a spouse--such as a sister-in-law marrying the husband of her deceased sister--sent everyone into a tizzy. 

Part of the reason was that the relationship had been designated sister and brother. But part of the reason was that they had been living in the same house. The idea was that they would develop those sisterly and brotherly emotions towards each other. It would just, you know, happen by magic. 

Again, I was at first rather dismissive of Victorian scruples. But I suspect that the Victorians were aware--especially in a time period where youngish widowed men and women often remarried, bringing together children from two households--of the Westermarck effect (even if they never labeled it as such). 

The problem lies in assuming that an eighteen-year-old living in a household alongside others is the same as a ten-year-old raised in a household alongside others. 

And it isn't. 

In the delightful series Cherry Blossoms After Winter, Hae-bom moved into Tae Seong's home when his parents died in a car accident. Hae-bom and Tae Seong were both eight-ish. However, they never develop a brotherly relationship since Tae Seong has never seen Hae-bom that way and Hae-bom is constantly on edge, feeling like he is a guest or trespasser despite Tae Seong's mom being supportive and kind. At school, most people don't even know they share a house (this common trope in Asian manga/series is practically incomprehensible to Americans, who learn each other's bios within days of meeting), especially since they aren't on the same class track until their senior year.

But if Hae-bom had been any younger would the "brotherliness" override any other emotion? 

Regarding Mark and Rush, Mark is thirteen; Rush is fourteen. So...maybe. But considering the personalities, time period, and family vibe...likely not.

A-Z Romance! Grossman

Although the main characters of Marry Me at Midnight by Felicia Grossman didn't engage me, the book reminded me of one of the delightful side-effects of many romances...and mysteries.

Because the arcs and tropes fall into similar patterns, authors will often "change things up" by placing the couple and/or detectives in a new setting. Ellis Peters, of course, created a triumph with Cadfael. She not only captured the time period, she knew the history exceedingly well and could smoothly work it into the mysteries.

There's also Jeri Westerson's King's Fool Mysteries series, in which the real life court fool, William Sommers, investigates a crime for each of King Henry VIII's wives (Williams Sommers did, in fact, survive them all, including Queen Mary and Elizabeth I). The series captures Tudor England perfectly.

Likewise, Georgette Heyer produced some of the best contemporary romances of Regency England, in part due to her research of the time period.

Felicia Grossman's books are unique since they take place in the Jewish East End in the early 1800s.

The only snag with unique settings in romance is that often the books feel more like world fantasy--that is, the books concentrate more on all the stuff the protagonists are dealing with than their actual relationship. With something like the manga series Barbarities, I don't mind since the setting of Renaissance Europe is so entirely fun. But not all Heyers' books interest me equally and even Grossman's fascinating milieu couldn't hold my interest.

The best solution appears to be to present the milieu so seamlessly, the reader doesn't realize how much is being communicated. KJ Charles's Band Sinister comes to mind. Charles tackles the issue of individual do-you-own-thing behavior versus for-the-social-good behavior versus for-survival-in-society behavior. Maintaining the tensions between these positions is possible because Charles plays fair with the time period: it is what it is.

Jane & Tarzan: Instinctive Couple

Tarzan: The Ape Man (1932) starring Johnny Weissmuller and Maureen O'Sullivan is a good reminder that the Hays Code didn't come into being until 1934. Pre-Code Hollywood was quite provocative and steamy and fairly unfettered, putting paid to the (irritating) assumption that the mores of a culture only work in one direction. (This assumption is why modern-day Progressives can go on believing that they aren't thorough Victorians.)  

Tarzan and His Mate (1934) slipped by (barely and some stuff was cut). By the time Hollywood reached Tarzan Escapes (1936) and Tarzan Finds a Son (1939), weird anti-body attitudes were in greater play. The last movie gives Tarzan and Jane a non-biological child (and O'Sullivan was pregnant at the time!). Because, you know, biological bodies having biological needs and actually accomplishing biological ends based on things like chromosomes and biological sex is soooo shocking!

Back to Tarzan (1932): Johnny Weissmuller, Olympic gold medalist (swimming), is frankly hot stuff, even now-a-days (what constitutes "good-looking" doesn't change all that much but what gets promoted does). Despite Maureen O'Sullivan's penchant for screaming, Weissmuller's Tarzan wisely takes her body language more seriously than her demeanor. She is very tactile, handling his bare legs and arms and chest without any maidenly qualms. She's more pissed (and at one point legitimately scared) than offended. O'Sullivan's unapologetic physical affection continues unabated through the initial films.

Johnny Weissmuller succeeds in large part because he has the innocence of George of the Jungle (Brendan Fraser) though he forgoes the smirk at the camera. As Taliaferro points out in his biography of Edgar Rice Burroughs, "Americans...viewed Johnny Weissmuller as the least inhibited man alive...Weissmuller...was clean-limbed in every sense. He gave the impression that he could have sold Bibles door to door wearing nothing but a G-string. Like Adam himself, he was naturally ideal and ideally natural. There was no hint of either embarrassment or braggadocio in his comportment." 

In fact, most amusingly, Weissmuller's Tarzan initially treats O'Sullivan's Jane with the good-natured curiosity of a teenage boy towards the new kid. At one point, he takes her handkerchief and tears it to pieces in sheer "hey, look, it rips!" adolescent mindlessness. Stick him in Toy Story and he is innocently blowing up GI Joes and burning ants (and showing off to the kid next door). 

This is Rousseauian innocence, not nature's innocence. Tarzan is surrounded by apes. Apes have sex. Not exactly a mystery. 

In terms of the primal relationship, Jane's screeching in the first movie gets irritating, but her pluck--which Maureen O'Sullivan captures exceedingly well--is refreshing. When she's allowed, she lets her voice dip and go husky.

Interestingly enough, from a feminist Rousseauian point of view, one gets the impression (especially in the second film) that her sudden adoption of helplessness and swooning fear is a cultural instinct, not an inherent one (and there might be some truth in that). As soon as the protective men disappear, she demonstrates that she is fully capable of outsmarting the lions on her own. 

And Tarzan never seems to assume that she can't--he rescues her because he loves her, not because she is lacking in self-reliance.

She also increasingly loses her clothes throughout the first movie. It's the hippie version of Bruce Wayne in Die Hard: her hat, then her shoes, then half her dress...

Clean porn. 

Well, that, and a National Geographic-like (and somewhat exhausting) medley of nature images (if the studio is going to pay for the stuff...). And chimpanzees. People just love their chimpanzees. 

The elephants are fairly impressive as well. 

Shakespeare's Couples: Antony & Cleopatra

These posts examine Shakespeare's couples. For Antony and Cleopatra, however, I went to the Hollywood extravaganza rather than Shakespeare's play. Cleopatra stars Elizabeth Taylor as Cleopatra and Richard Burton as Antony.

By all accounts, the historical couple truly were that attached and tempestuous. That is, Cleopatra and Caesar slept together as high-powered political entities. They knew exactly how to use each other.

But Cleopatra and Antony were apparently that much in love and that...dumb about it. A number of historians tut-tut over Roman insularity, used by Augustus to argue that Antony was pitting a "foreign" mistress/power against Rome. They point out, correctly, that Egypt wasn't seen as a different Empire but as part of Rome. Every Roman general was occupying land outside of "Rome."

However, I think the historian's arguments are special pleading. I think any populace would look askance at Antony's behavior: a guy who leaves his wife and family to spend more time than necessary with a royal entity who has already linked herself to Caesar--who is also a problem for Rome. She is, moreover, a canny politician (not the drug-addled character in HBO's Rome) and has her own host of familial complications. And all of this during a Civil War!

In any case, the pair require smoldering passion. Elizabeth and Burton mostly deliver. Critics have accused Taylor of being too shrill and Burton as being too sour. Both criticisms are true. 

However, Taylor is far better than most Cleopatras, who far too often are too young, pretty, and pouty. Taylor, at least, comes across as self-possessed. At best, she comes across as tough while being sexy, not sexy in spite of being tough. And Burton exhibits charisma, a great man in diminishment. They are believably romantic and believably dysfunctional. 

Sir Walter Plays the Lothario

Sir Walter at Home; Mrs. Clay is to the left.

In Jane Austen's Persuasion, Mrs. Clay is trying to snare Sir Walter. When that doesn't work, she snares Mr. Elliot.

Penelope Clay's hopes for this engagement have precedence. Gentlemen--members of the gentry and the aristocracy--did occasionally marry "down." There are even cases of peers marrying courtesans, actresses, and servants. Although Pamela's marriage to Mr. B shocked Richardson's contemporaries, it didn't surprise them. It was improbable, not impossible.

Penelope is certainly not as low down the hierarchy as a servant, but she isn't as high up the hierarchy as, even, Elizabeth is to Darcy. Elizabeth argues, correctly, that since both she and Darcy are products of the gentry, there can be no objection to a marriage between them. (Note, however, that she does not argue, "Darcy can marry whomever he wants!")

Like the wife that warmed King David's bed in old age, Penelope Clay's hope (for most of Persuasion and my tribute Persuadable) has been to catch Sir Walter's interest when he is feeling his age or, more specifically, when Sir Walter is feeling abandoned.

It may seem odd that Sir Walter would experience the empty nest syndrome when his eldest daughters are nearing thirty (rather than going through it earlier), but during the Regency era, people stayed home until they married. This interesting trend has begun to reassert itself in recent years ("reassert" since children staying at home until marriage has been more common throughout history than single people living on their own).

With only one single daughter left, Sir Walter will surely wonder who is going to cosset him in his remaining years. Anne and Will Elliot both correctly foresee how Sir Walter's vulnerability might make him susceptible to the suggestion of marriage; this is not a man who manages well on his own.

If he doesn't marry, and Elizabeth does, he will probably try to move in with one of his daughters.Unfortunately, the daughter he understands the least would likely be the most willing. But Captain Wentworth would no doubt put his foot down.

Excerpt from my tribute Persuadable:

[Penelope and Sir Walter meet in the Camden Crescent residence.] 

“Ah, my dear Mrs. Clay,” he said and gave her his roguish look that made him look about as dangerous as a starling. “You’ve heard our latest news, no doubt. My daughter Anne is engaged to Captain Wentworth.”

She joined him at the head of the stairs and coyly tilted her head. “It is difficult to believe that you, Sir Walter, could have any daughter about to be married.”

She conveniently failed to mention Mary, and Sir Walter blustered in a pleased fashion. He took Penelope’s hand and patted it.

“What will I do when I lose Anne’s comforting support?” he said as if he’d ever shown a preference for Anne’s company.

Anne found her own source of comfort, Penelope thought and felt an unexpected surge of jealousy.

She had never desired the middle Elliot daughter’s life with its self-effacement and mildness in the service of others. But she wished now for Anne’s freedom—to be satisfied and respectable and secure. I have such small desires. Can't I have any of them? 

Sir Walter was still patting her hand. He looked genuinely disheartened; Penelope could guess his thoughts. He might have no interest in Anne, but before her engagement she had been available—a spare daughter to look after her father’s needs. Now there was only Elizabeth, and Sir Walter believed firmly in Elizabeth’s ability to marry well.

He was afraid of being alone.

Now’s the time. Penelope should lean in, cover his hand with hers, say, “Oh, Sir Walter, think how much more frightening life is for an unattached woman.”

He would comfort her. She’d put her head on his shoulder. He’d start thinking about his future, about how she could ease his cares.

I’m not a lady, but he’ll convince himself that the merit of his title precludes my lack of one. Sir Walter would put his desire for security above all else.

Doesn’t everybody?

She loosed her hand. She said, “I’m sure your new son-in-law will never place his needs before a father’s.”

She didn’t believe that for a moment. Captain Wentworth was definitely the type to keep his wife by his side. But Sir Walter cheered up and continued on to his bedchamber.

Penelope went to hers, shut the door, and slid to the floor, arms around her knees. From that position, all she could see through the small, square window was blazing blue sky. She might be in any room in any city. She might be in London with Will.

She smiled ruefully. I never thought I’d be such a fool to give up the opportunity to secure a baronet. She knew what happened to women who thought with their hearts.

And yet, Penelope was not like other women. She’d survived a tedious marriage and had two intelligent sons (foisted onto her parents) to show for it. She’d survived interfering neighbors, pushy creditors, and leering landlords. She’d survived Sir Walter and his family.

She could survive anything.

Review of Tsuta Suzuki's Barbarities IV

Barbarities is a manga series that takes place in a world based on late Renaissance Europe (Early Modern era).

The main characters are Joel, who doubles as his uncle, Lord Montague, an older, bearded chap--the assumed persona allows Joel to get important work done for the kingdom--and Adam Canning. Adam is a frank libertine (until he falls for Joel) from the same kingdom that supplied Joel's kingdom, Lorraine, with its queen. 

Joel is a kind of Enlightenment figure devoted to rationality and the separation of church and state. He has a tense but friendly relationship with the Cardinal of the "new" religion. Interestingly and correctly, Adam recognizes that Joel and the Cardinal--despite very different perspectives--are both humanists. In some ways, they have quite a lot  in common, rather like Renaissance Popes and their artists.

That new religion worships a goddess, which I found particularly satisfying. Patriarchy is not the issue. No matter what the religion, the same issues will arise. So, at one point when citizens attack the church, both parties accuse each other of paganism.

The story is complicated by an heir to another kingdom (Tance) visiting Joel's kingdom with his young brother, also an heir, ostensibly to protect his position but actually to do some spying with this servant, Gil. The main villain is Simon, the brother of the deceased king of Lorraine, who would like to take over the kingdom from his nephew.

That is, the series easily conveys quite complicated history. 

Book IV wraps up the arc of the nefarious king's brother. (Here's to hoping there's a Volume V!) I was curious to see how the matter would be resolved. One of the positives of complex political plots is the complexity. One of the downsides is that unraveling such complexity is never easy (see the Dune series).

For instance, one of the dumber statements I've heard in the past few years is the wish, coming from both sides of the political aisle, that some particular person would be assassinated. I find myself sighing at the whole human race. Does nobody study history any more aside from Neill Ferguson? Has nobody studied WWI?

In Blue Bloods, Frank Reagan says of suicides, "They are inherently chaotic, an act that throws all the orbits out of whack." 

The same is true of assassination--and politics. Pull on one thread...a million more unravel.

With Barbarities IV, the resolution to the current arc is a little too pat (several side stories, such as Gil's rescue of the younger prince from Tance, deserve their own volumes!) but every set-up related to that particular arc is resolved/addressed. In addition, the end of Volume IV leaves open a number of implied issues. Joel Montague's political life will never stop being a complicated one. 

At least, he now has Adam by his side!

And the ongoing appearance of different groups--insiders/outsiders/politicians/artists/military leaders/religious leaders/merchants/royalty--captures late Renaissance Europe very well!

Are Soulmates Possible in History? Yes!

On Votaries, I review Gary Corby's series in which a young Athenian man at the beginnings of Athenian democracy, which lasted about fifty years, investigates crimes. He, Nicolaos, is helped by his soulmate, Diotima. He finds her beautiful. He also likes her intelligence and her fierceness. He takes for granted certain prerogatives of his culture, but he also prefers to work with Diotima rather than treat her as an adversary whose biology makes her someone to pat on the head and/or control. 

So, is Corby being historically accurate? The books are impressively accurate in terms of setting and history and attitudes. Is his couple possible? 

Yup! 

These couples exist all over the ancient world. There are in the Bible, for one. And in myth, including Osiris and Isis. And in historical accounts which discuss husbands consulting and relying on their wives. Tiye in Ancient Egypt was "The Elder Lady" and clearly a kind of power broker. Before he locked her up, Henry II put Eleanor of Aquitaine in charge of his entire kingdom on several occasions. He locked her up because she sided with their sons, not because he ever viewed her as incompetent (quite the opposite).

The characters in Corby's series are lower middleclass (modern terms but the closest I can get) rather than high society power brokers. But in truth, high society tends to be more reactionary and conservative than classes in which men and women work side by side on a daily basis. Consider debutantes and other such roles that linger even today.

Antonia Fraser's The Weaker Vessel, which covers what we would term "middleclass" couples, points to this truth. Men and woman had as variable relationships in the past as they do now. Women in bad situations who wanted to leave and women who wanted to, say, go to college and become lawyers didn't really get those chances. But that doesn't mean that all couples were composed of a domineering man and a fragile obedient woman. That dynamic did exist. And so did many, many other dynamics! 

Lovers of Valdaro

People are people--which means that in the past in a relationship some people wanted a helpmeet. Some wanted a soulmate. Some were overwhelmed by emotion and lust. Some married because somebody told them to (both men and women married for this reason). Some because of propinquity. Some because of friendship. Some because they wanted to escape scandal. Some because they wanted money. Some because they wanted position. Some because they wanted kids. Some because they were escaping something else. Some because it was just the next thing that one did. Some because...

Nicolaos and Domitia are entirely possible!    

Joseph of Old and Romance, or, Which Character Writers Have Focused on the Most

Amazingly enough, Webber did NOT include a romance in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolored Dreamcoat.

Plenty of other people have. 

Joseph and his potential wife have provided many "between the lines" readings. In some romantic versions, he marries Aseneth, the daughter of Potipher (Genesis refers to Joseph marrying "Asenath the daughter of Potipherah priest of On"). Other versions have Joseph marry Potipher's wife--the woman who tried to seduce him--after her husband dies and she is reduced to beggary. 

There has always been humor in the tale.

Still other versions provide Gothic-like details after Potipher's wife drinks a magic potion; it takes over her mind (hence the attempt at seduction). Snakes show up at one point.

What is fascinating in all cases is that Potipher's wife receives so much attention. Even when (or if) the tale is being used to show the wantonness of a bad woman, she becomes a character in her own right and gets more "screen time" than anybody else. And a number of writers have perceived her sympathetically, a character who is battling desires and emotions she can't conquer. In early modern Europe, she became a kind of argument between libertines, anti-libertines (hugely influenced by reviving Stoicism), and those who took more nuanced views towards human desire. 

Contrite Judah

The Bible story itself is less concerned with the virginity/non-virgininity state of the hero and more with the social ramifications of adultery. Joseph resists because lying with his master's wife would be dishonorable. Consider that Judah's tale (stuck in the middle of Joseph's tale) is about a man who didn't see to the security of his daughter-in-law. His failure is condemned and the daughter-in-law who tricked him into sleeping with her is let off the hook. Fast-forward to David: Nathan's biggest problem with David is that David misused his position.

Post-ancient world, adultery becomes not (only) a violation of a social contract but a matter for the individual soul. The change of perspective elicited a great many questions and opinions. The result was a focus on the person who struggles with that issue: the wife--not Joseph.

Darcy & Babies: He was NOT Repressed

In the last chapter of my tribute to Austen, A Man of Few Words,  Darcy figures out that Elizabeth is pregnant before she does. The scene can be read below.

It is unlikely that Elizabeth wouldn't know she was pregnant. However, I wrote this ending in response to Austen tributes that I feel completely misinterpret Austen and her time period (likewise, the final chapter of Persuadable is a response to the 2007 movie).

Because Austen deliberately left out hot & heavy romance scenes as well as direct discussions of topics like reproduction (there are plenty of indirect discussions), many readers assume (1) that Austen belonged to the Victorian era; (2) that Austen, the spinster, was repressed/scared of sex, etc.

Setting aside that Victorians were far more earthy and cognizant of basic human functions than many modern people seem to be and also setting aside that Austen was not actually a Victorian but belonged to the earthy, sometimes bawdy, Regency era and setting aside that Austen was surrounded by all kinds of sex-related scandals and could have written the equivalent of salacious porn if she'd wanted (and writers of that era did), Austen deserves to be treated as what she was: a serious writer.

She didn't write what she did because she was a poor little woman with no experience; she wrote what she did from choice. Everything that is excised from Austen is excised by the author's careful craftsmanship.

So when I read Austen tributes that paint Darcy as some kind of stuck-up Victorian prig whose introversion has been translated into sexual repression, I want to scream.

Part of the problem, I believe is that many American (and some British) authors translate Darcy's wealth into American terms; they think the Darcys are the equivalent of the Vanderbilts and Rockefellers, families whose wealth originated in industrialization and who used that wealth to create ostentatious and decadent lifestyles in places like Newport, Rhode Island.

But Darcy grew up on a farm! His wealth is based on land, crops, weather, and other such earthy considerations. He would be fully cognizant of the ways of reproduction; he would likely have seen newborn babies; he would more than likely have seen tenants' wives breastfeeding (remember, Darcy rode his horse all over Pemberley when he was a youth). 

Colin Firth's Darcy likewise--and correctly--has a very easy manner with his servants. All parties take for granted that Darcy is in charge. He also interacts with them as people whom he works next to every day, not invisible entities that need to stand in corners while the upperclass indulge in frivolities (a far later custom, belonging to the late Victorian and Edwardian eras). They like him because he is a good manager. 

We moderns like to believe that we are so much more aware of things than people of the past, but the truth is, Austen doesn't talk about a lot of stuff in her writing precisely because she wouldn't have considered it quite so shocking and astonishing and hush-hush as us.

Excerpt from "Darcy Betrays a Thorough Understanding of Human Biology"--

“Maybe you’re starting a baby,” Darcy said and headed towards the door.

He was halfway across the room when Lizzy said, “Will!” and he turned back. She sat on the divan, staring at him, her face pale, eyes large.

“I think you’re right,” she said, slightly stunned.

Darcy shook his head. Why was she surprised? Her mother was fertile—she had given birth to five healthy daughters and survived.

He went back and kissed the top of his wife’s head. He was pleased, though babies at this stage always seemed rather remote to Darcy. He usually visited them in his tenants’ cottages after their births, bestowing coins, best wishes, and the occasional sapling.

Of course, this baby—his and Elizabeth’s baby—would garner far more attention and resources than Darcy had ever marshaled before. But Darcy rather liked the idea of introducing a new relation to the delights of Pemberley.

“I’ve never had a baby,” Lizzy said to his shirt, which made Darcy laugh. She grimaced up at him. “I’ve taken care of children, but this—”

“Lizzy,” Darcy said, still amused, “you can do anything.”

She laughed then and pushed him away: “Get along, you.”

Darcy went out to find the castile soap. As clever as his wife was, he thought as he ran down the stairs, there were times when she could be downright obtuse.

Great Epiphany: The Fall at Lyme

Charlotte Bronte was notoriously at odds with Austen. I personally don't feel I must choose between the two. I also consider that they have more in common with each other than many other authors, coming out of similar traditions and promoting similar types of heroines. 

However, it is true that Bronte was far more likely than Austen to use bold and dramatic moments to highlight a character's personal epiphany: a tree being struck by lightening; near death while running away from a confusing situation; a possibly supernatural whisper from a lover; a jump from a roof. 

Austen relied on somewhat quieter moments: letters, a face-to-face encounter at a ball; a sister's illness; a fall at Lyme...

In Persuasion, Louisa's fall at Lyme changes the entire momentum of the story. The 1995 film does a good job portraying this event. In some of the movies, it is far too quick and Wentworth's culpability is passed over. But the 1995 film demonstrates how Louisa's waywardness--that Wentworth has encouraged--leads to profoundly negative repercussions.

I think that too many script writers feel, secretly, that Louisa is in right--that Louisa's impetuous nature is the way to go about things, that Anne must learn to be like Louisa, not the other way around.

But as the 1995 film illustrates, impulse (what Dorothy Sayers in Gaudy Night calls, "The Doctrine of Snatch") is not a terribly good approach to major life events. Louisa's impulsive leap in Lyme is not an anomaly; rather, it is symptomatic of her philosophy: a ME-GET-THIS-NOW id-approach to the world around her.

In my tribute Persuadable, Mrs. Clay criticizes Anne for not being direct enough with Captain Wentworth, but she also recognizes in Anne, as in herself, the need to tread carefully and consider all angles. A woman's lot is not easy, and poverty ain't fun, and being a poor dead naval officer's wife is even less fun. 

Both Anne and Mrs. Clay would be more than capable of supporting themselves in the modern world--I see Mrs. Clay as a real estate broker and Anne as the person who cleans out people's houses and appraises their antiques--maybe even a forensic accountant!

However, as members of the early nineteenth century, the two women have limited options. They have to maintain positions which will enable them to snag a man while remaining unsullied and respectable. And this position has its own risks (property becomes the husband's; respectability doesn't automatically entail wealth or security).

From this perspective, Anne's wariness at marrying Captain Wentworth seven years earlier and Mrs. Clay's careful assessment of Mr. Elliot's potential become mirrors to each other. 

Captain Wentworth's epiphany at Lyme is (1) he still loves Anne; (2) that however much her restraint in the past upset him, he admires it more than Lydia's impulsiveness.

The following excerpt from Persuadable takes place when Mr. Elliot comes to Camden Place to dine. The incident at Lyme is discussed. 

“I never put down the Elliot name!” Mr. Elliot exclaimed in answer to a querulous remark from Sir Walter. “I have ever boasted of being an Elliot.” (What he had said was, “Thank God I’m an Elliot with sense.” And he’d only mocked Sir Walter to his wife’s friends when his Kellynch cousins were mentioned—which was hardly at all.)

Mrs. Clay’s mouth twitched. Will put down his utensils and gazed at her, bringing the others’ attention to her side of the table.

She said, the twitch utterly wiped out, “Of course you did, Mr. Elliot, for who would not be proud of such a connection?!”

He nearly glared at her except Sir Walter had refocused on him, uttering harrumphs of approval.

Returning to the drawing room, Will said pointedly to Elizabeth, “Your sisters will keep you company this winter?”

“Anne is coming soon with Lady Russell. I don’t know if Mary will visit.” Mary was the youngest sister. “There’s been an accident with one of our in-laws.”

“Mary’s husband’s sister, Louisa, had a bad fall,” Mrs. Clay said softly. “She struck her head, and they are still unsure if she will regain her wits.”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said. “Anne wrote something about it. She was there when it happened.”

Will barely managed to restrain his surprise. His wife Sally had been aggravating in the extreme but when her best friend was killed by a racing carriage, Will had held her while she cried. He hadn’t been so awful a husband that he couldn’t sympathize with unexpected terror and pain.

Elizabeth behaved as though Anne had witnessed a minor brawl at a local fair.

For a moment, Will’s eyes met Mrs. Clay’s. A faint wryness touched the corners of her mouth, then she leaned forward solicitously to ask Sir Walter if he was comfortable.

Will broke in: “Where did this accident occur?”

“In Lyme.”

Will had passed through Lyme on his way from Sidmouth. A collection of pretty women and soldierly-looking men had stayed at Will’s inn. No doubt, the unmarried Elliot daughter had been among them.

I should have introduced myself. I might have met the other unmarried daughter—

Will shrugged mentally. Reintroducing himself to anyone in the family but Sir Walter would have gravely offended the man. He must tread carefully, for Mrs. Clay—patting a pillow for Sir Walter, assuring him that a man of his well-maintained posture deserved a bolster—was a more subtle threat than Will had initially anticipated.

Tough Men and Women Without the Misogynism (or the Self-Victimhood)

On Votaries, I discuss raunchier fairy tales. Those fairy tales remind me of 1970s television. 

Yeah, yeah, yeah, the shows were misogynistic or whatever (and actually, yes, they sometimes were). But when I rewatch them, what strikes me is the tough individuality of the characters, especially with remarkable shows like Scarecrow and Mrs King (way ahead of its time!). They seem more likely to be independent. More likely to do their own thing. More likely to call people out because they can, not because it's some kind of "you're a label--you must" mandate.

Toughness and misogynism (fear of that toughness) is a double-edged sword in some ways. Basile presents a Sleeping Beauty who gets raped by a prince, who later chucks his current wife into boiling oil. Basile also gives us a Rapunzel, Petrosinella, who overhears her evil captor's plans and outwits her, so the captor, an ogress, is eventually eaten by a tiger. Petrosinella runs the story, as do many fairy tale heroines. 

I mention in a post somewhere that Bellisario wanted his men to be tough and attractive and in-charge...and he wanted his women to be tough and attractive and in-charge. Gibbs and Ziva truly were his go-to characters. 

Some of that moxie seems to have gotten lost these days as everyone--and I mean everyone--fights to be the top-dog victim or angsty do-gooder or negative doomsdayer or cruel protester who doesn't have to do much more than join a mob. 

I think one reason Bones is still so beloved by us fans is that Brennan-Booth solved Bellisario's scenario without going down the misogynistic route. I suggest the writers accomplished this feat by (1) the characters defending their positions without labeling; (2) the characters being themselves before they are WOMAN AND MAN; (3) humor. 

Humor always helps.

Notes from the Past: Breach of Promise Suits

Embarrassed Mr. Bennet at the Netherfield Ball.

I'll start with Darcy's interference in Bingley's life in Austen's Pride & Prejudice. Darcy is so appalled by the Bennet Family's behavior at the Netherfield ball that he maneuvers Bingley into staying away from Jane Bennet. Bingley leaves for London the next morning.

On the one hand, Darcy assuming that Jane will not be hurt by Bingley's abandonment and encouraging his friend to leave so quickly is as officious and rude as anything Emma might do.

On the other hand, Darcy is trying to save Bingley from a breach of promise suit. 

For Frasier fans, Donny Douglas--Daphne's fiance--threatens to bring a breach of promise suit when she leaves him at the altar for Niles. Breach of promise suits are not that common in our modern age although they can be filed in some states.

The problem for Bingley is that what constitutes a "promise" from him is far more subtle than what constitutes a promise from men (and women) now-a-days. In Trollope's book The American Senator (1875), the femme fatale Amanda desperately attempts to maneuver Lord Rufford into making a single compromising statement, anything that will enable her to say, "But you said you would marry me!" He is never trapped, partly because he is rather clueless and partly because he is well-protected by friends like Darcy.

Bingley is a much nicer bloke than Lord Rufford, and Jane certainly never goes as far as Amanda. But Darcy would still worry that Bingley's actions could be misinterpreted, especially after Mrs. Bennet actually claims that an engagement exists! In other words, Bingley simply paying more attention to Jane than to the other single women at the ball practically implies a proposal.

Darcy also knows his friend. Unlike Lord Rufford, Bingley would agree to an engagement--even if none existed--rather than hurt anyone's feelings. And Darcy honestly believes that Jane isn't interested in Bingley. Although Darcy never says so directly in Austen's account, he likely compares Jane unfavorably to Elizabeth. Why would Bingley want to marry this cold, seemingly passionless person when he could have lively, enchanting Elizabeth?! (And if Darcy is going to give up Elizabeth, surely Bingley can give up another one of his so-called infatuations.)

Victorian Divorce Court

Moreover, although marriage is always a big deal--then and now--a bad marriage based on a mistake was not something that anyone in the nineteenth century would be walking away from. As detailed in the fascinating book Mrs. Robinson's Disgrace by Kate Summerscale, "easy" divorce did not become possible in Britain until the mid-1800s. 

"Easy" means that while a man could get a divorce based on his wife's proven infidelity, a wife could only get a divorce for infidelity and another form of abuse. The two-fold consequences of these requirements were (1) divorce court news became an instant hit with Victorians; (2) historical romance novelists who claim that the Divorce Act was a feminist triumph should keep in mind that far more men sought divorces and got them than women. (On the other hand, not a few of the Court of Divorce judges were remarkably even-handed in their judgments.) 

Overall, Darcy is trying to protect Bingley. He is wrong in his methods and possibly wrong in his interpretation of events. But someone needs to protect Bingley. 

And Darcy eventually fixes his mistakes. 

Where are the Oddballs? Heyer's Rather Tiresome Heroine Type

In Josephine Tey's To Love and Be Wise, Inspector Grant interviews Liz, the secretary of Lavinia Finch who writes romance novels. Liz confesses that she spends her evenings doing her own writing.

"What do you write--or should I ask?" Grant asks.

"I write innocuous heroines out of my system, that's all."

"Tilda the tweeny with the hare-lip and the homicidal tendencies, as an antidote to Maureen [one of Lavinia's heroines]."

I thought of this quote recently as I finished up Georgette Heyer's romance novels. I had previously read about 1/3rd to a 1/2 of them, and I should state that I am, overall, a fan. However, a certain type of heroine takes over the novels towards the end, and I was heartily sick of that type by the time I finished, enough to wish for a homicidal maniac.

The type might be best described as "nice sorority house leader."

This type of Heyer heroine is commonsensical, entirely devoted to practical matters, level-headed, perhaps a little managing but for everyone's good, a kind of Emma but without Emma's deep flaws (Heyer's heroines never go THAT far) or Emma's acerbic sense of humor. This type of Heyer heroine has a "lively sense of humor" but it is never quite as trenchant or wry as, say, that of Austen's Elizabeth. 

She also seems to have little to no interest in religion, archaeology, writing, history, gardening, or anything else. Rather, she is a social operator. She goes to parties and goes horse-back riding and takes care of various charges dumped on her doorstep and manages a household. 

In truth, she is an entirely decent character type! 

A great deal of my annoyance with the type comes from the pretense that the woman is supposedly fighting society's conventions because she lives independently and hasn't married past the age of twenty-two. 

But the independence is entirely based on an independent income or allowance. And the character never really fights the social milieu, even by the standards of Regency England (seriously). She doesn't decamp to Egypt or start prison reform or marry a footman (Regency women did), and one can't shake the feeling that her creator would consider those things rather tacky. 

Heyer's heroine flouts "convention" by doing the equivalent of posting something "out there" on Twitter but never enough that she leaves the Anglican fold or invests in scientific discoveries or actually has affairs or enters politics (yes, women did enter politics, in their own way, in the Regency Era).

Don't get me wrong: Heyer did create heroines who made lives for themselves. Phoebe's satirical book in Sylvester creates an actual scandal (and she is planning a sequel at the end!) while Venetia deliberately seeks out a fallen woman to achieve her goals. 

But a great many of the latter books seem entirely dependent on "good" women behaving in "good" ways while a bunch of characters pretend those women aren't entirely conventional, based, I suppose, on the way such women occasionally stand up for themselves. (They attend rallies on their college campuses in between hosting society shindigs.)

Malahide's comedic timing softens the

"I'm so popular" stuff

The type reminds me of Ngaoi Marsh's Inspector Alleyn. Marsh was one of a number of writers who were quite condescending and above-it-all about "that poor Dorothy Sayers falling in love with her detective, Wimsey." Marsh prided herself on creating a thoroughly unpretentious detective without any of those, tsk tsk, affectations. 

Except Alleyn is, in essence, a good fraternity boy. Sure, he is humble and self-effacing, but Marsh never lets us forget how much people admire him whilst they are defending his humble, self-effacing self. And he never really crosses any lines. Everyone in Marsh's novels treats him as "oh, my, isn't he something else," but in fact, he would never do anything that would embarrass his creator.

In comparison, Sayers was perfectly willing to have plenty of her characters loathe Wimsey, who is quite flawed and human and does embarrassing things all the time. Sayers knew what it felt like to invite ridicule. 

I like Marsh's mysteries, and I like many of Heyer's romances. But being constantly reminded of the thoroughly tasteful and seemly (yet nonetheless strong-minded) personality of a heroine gets rather irritating after awhile. 

Give me Jane Eyre's utter disdain at high society folks (based on nothing more than her sense of self) or Catherine Morland's penchant for Gothic horrors or Jo's aggressive unhappiness at Amy's behavior. 

Don't ask me to applaud a heroine for checking all the right boxes: knows society's ways, speaks out on the right topics, dresses correctly, attracts envy and liking, lives "alone" (with aunts or siblings), shows compassion, makes fun of the people who deserve it, protects children, does just enough (but not too many) risky things to raise eyebrows, participates in all the same stuff as everyone else. 

Again--perfectly acceptable and usable character type. 

But I prefer the type (and the writing) to be honest. 

And There Goes Another Wife...Reflections on the Wives of Henry VIII

On Votaries I discuss Jeri Westerson's detective novel that takes place at the time of the Great Matter, when Henry VIII was figuring out how to divorce Queen Catherine and marry Anne Boleyn. 

I was reminded of The Wives of Henry VIII by Antonia Fraser and The Six Wives of Henry VIII, starring the great Keith Michell. 

What I find most astonishing about the events of 1500 C.E. was the willingness, the positive eagerness, with which various families backed certain matches. When any wife got shuffled off (divorced, beheaded), she didn't go alone; she took swaths of relatives with her as well as various political supporters.

And yet, oh, well, there's one down; now, who else can we promote?

Of course, a modern reader has the benefit of hindsight. We know that number three wife (Jane Seymour, who died in childbirth) is the exception to the rule. Yet, it should have been reasonably obvious by the time the king reached Katherine Howard (after he divorced Anne of Cleves, which debacle Anne survived but Cromwell lost his head over) that it might not be the best idea in the world to have a pretty niece at court who might attract the king's interest.

Of course, there are some things people have no control over, and I'm willing to bet that when Katherine Howard caught the king's eye, her uncle (Earl of Norfolk) started practicing pre-execution speeches. (As a matter of fact, he survived her, but barely.)

Nevertheless, at the same time, hangers-on to Katherine Howard emerged from the woodwork, demanding kudos, rewards, estates, etc. etc. (it was the great age of patronage). And you'd think that a certain amount of uneasiness would have crept into the picture. That rather than running to attach themselves to this new, young and wholly reckless young woman, people might have thought, "You know, I think I'll stay away from court for the next three years" (probably some did).

Because it wasn't only Henry who encouraged the divorcing and beheading of his queens. Every queen was surrounded by supporters and detractors, and the detractors spent an enormous amount of time trying to figure out how to get the queen and her supporters locked up in the Tower (think CNN and Fox News, only these historical sycophants were right in your face--you couldn't just turn the TV or computer off). Kind of like if Kenneth Starr and the Clintons, instead of holding legal proceedings and issuing press statements, had actually been trying to maneuver the other party in front of a firing squad.

But then, thinking of the Clintons and politicians in general, I've determined that politicians always believe that they are the exceptions. The belief "this time it will be different; our queen won't do anything stupid to annoy the king" is what makes politicians tick. Otherwise, why would they bother?

It makes me very grateful for us boring middleclass types who go to work and pay our taxes. Idealists and politicians may get all the credit for making history interesting, but at least the middleclass survivalists keep history going.

As for the wives, I think they were fascinating people in general--clever, erudite, sincere, political--but Katherine Howard was rather a dope. Some of these wives had no choice. Some of them deliberately set out to play a rather dangerous game and played it as well as many of the men who also lost their positions and their heads. 

However, it's hard not to see Katherine Howard as the quintessential dumb girl who even today would convince herself she was in love with a dangerous man and then convince herself that she needed a lover and then convince herself that she was living out some great drama when she was really living out a kind of ridiculous soap opera--only, more deadly. 

And perhaps that is the tragedy of her--she wasn't living the life she thought she was living. 

But then, were any of them? Including Henry?