On Sense and Sensibility

I have to confess that I enjoyed this one less on this reading. It seems to me the most bitter and most editorialising of all her books. They all have an argument of sorts to make, but this one involves more direct and repeated attack than the others. Marianne and her mother's sensibility is not always allowed to expose itself, but draws the ire and commentary of the author time after time. Though Elinor can sometimes appear unfeeling, and principled to the point of pedantry, there is no acknowledgement from the author of these faults. She is  held up, and the others put down, more than is necessary or agreeable to the reader.  Marianne's repentance and conversion is perhaps a little too total to retrieve the novel from the realms of a morality tale.

However, the minor characters in this novel are so well and simply drawn that there is no arguing with them. Lady Middleton “had nothing to say one day that she had not said the day before” - how damning! yet how commonplace.  Mrs Jennings and Sir John make an endearing team: “With the assistance of his mother-in-law, Sir John was not long in discovering that the name of Ferrars began with an F. and this prepared a future mine of raillery against the devoted Elinor.” 

But in Robert Ferrars I think we have one of the finest comic creations of all. We meet him first when he is ordering a jewelled toothpick case, and naming “the last day on which his existence could be continued without the possession” of it. When Elinor dances with him, he talks of his enthusiasm for cottages, and the valuable architectural assistance he rendered to a friend:

“My friend Lord Courtland came to me the other day on purpose to ask my advice, and laid before me three different plans of Bonomi's. I was to decide on the best of them. ‘My dear Courtland,’ said I, immediately throwing them all into the fire, ‘do not adopt either of them, but by all means build a cottage.’” And finally, when he learns of Edward's intention to take orders, he laughs “immoderately.” “The idea of Edward's being a clergyman, and living in a small parsonage-house, diverted him beyond measure;—and when to that was added the fanciful imagery of Edward reading prayers in a white surplice, and publishing the banns of marriage between John Smith and Mary Brown, he could conceive nothing more ridiculous.” Austen's contempt for such a fop is palpable and delicious.

I should also mention how much I love the 1995 Ang Lee movie, for which Emma Thompson wrote the screenplay. Though it contains many additions and departures, it is a gorgeous realisation, made with more art and insight than many of the more faithful adaptations. Kate Winslet as Marianne is simply perfect.

 

A brittle heaven

Enough of Christmas - the new year is upon us, and Christmas is again a year away. I thought this poem by Emily Dickinson was apt for anyone meditating new year's resolutions as I am.  This time of year always fills me with hopes, always convinces me that there is a centre toward which my life will at last converge. Usually lasts till about March.

Each life converges to some centre
Expressed or still;
Exists in every human nature
A goal,

Admitted scarcely to itself, it may be,
Too fair
For credibility's temerity
To dare.

Adored with caution, as a brittle heaven,
To reach
Were hopeless as the rainbow's raiment
To touch,

Yet persevered toward, surer for the distance;
How high
Unto the saints' slow diligence
The sky!

Ungained, it may be, by a life's low venture,
But then,
Eternity enables the endeavoring
Again.

All the king's men

And here's how Shakespeare celebrated Epiphany.  Twelfth Night (or What you Will) was written to mark the twelfth night of Christmas, and the end of Christmastide. The first recorded performance was 1602, just three months before the death of Queen Elizabeth.  The play itself doesn't have much to say about the incarnation, but plenty about love, revelry and cross-dressing mayhem. Feste the clown is one of Shakespeare's most memorable characters, and his wit and music have a melancholy streak that colours the whole play. Here's what he sings when Sir Toby Belch and the ridiculous Andrew Aguecheek beg him for a love song - not exactly what they were after.

O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O stay and hear, your true love's coming,
That can sing both high and low.

Trip no further, pretty sweeting,
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.

What is love? 'Tis not hereafter,
Present mirth hath present laughter.
What's to come is still unsure.

In delay there lies no plenty,
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty.
Youth's a stuff will not endure.

 

Of all kings king

Today is Epiphany. Not being Anglican, Catholic, Orthodox or any other 'high' church goer (my tradition is the lowest of the low) I have never observed this particular feast, or indeed any other feast - and certainly not lent. But having grown up without them, I now find them intriguing occasions for reflection. Without having observance forced on me, I can enjoy them as novelties, fresh and strange, as a calendar that curiously overlaps my usual one without imposing on it. What I like best about them is the opportunity they afford poets to produce variations on a theme, improvisations on very familiar tunes.  Since my 12 Lays included only one woman poet, I thought I'd make up the deficiency with the eminently 'high' Christina Rossetti. Here's her poem "Epiphany."

‘Lord Babe, if Thou art He
We sought for patiently,
Where is Thy court?
Hither may prophecy and star resort;
Men heed not their report.' –
'Bow down and worship, righteous man:
This Infant of a span
Is He man sought for since the world began!' –
'Then, Lord, accept my gold, too base a thing
For Thee, of all kings King.' –

'Lord Babe, despite Thy youth
I hold Thee of a truth
Both Good and Great:
But wherefore dost
Thou keep so mean a state,
Low-lying desolate?' –
'Bow down and worship, righteous seer:
The Lord our God is here
Approachable, Who bids us all draw near.' –
'Wherefore to Thee I offer frankincense,
Thou Sole Omnipotence.' –

'But I have only brought
Myrrh; no wise afterthought
Instructed me
To gather pearls or gems, or choice to see
Coral or ivory.' –
'Not least thine offering proves thee wise:
For myrrh means sacrifice,
And He that lives, this Same is He that dies.' –
'Then here is myrrh: alas, yea woe is me
That myrrh befitteth Thee.' -

Myrrh, frankincense, and gold:
And lo from wintry fold
Good-will doth bring
A Lamb, the innocent likeness of this King
Whom stars and seraphs sing:
And lo the bird of love, a Dove,
Flutters and coos above:
And Dove and Lamb and Babe agree in love: –
Come all mankind, come all creation hither,
Come, worship Christ together.

Star-led wizards

Have I saved the best for last? Depends how much you like Milton I suppose. I like his poem “On the Morning of Christ's Nativity” chiefly because it is so far a cry from plastic gyrating Santas and erratic lurid lights entwined about inane scenes of snowy European twee. Milton's heavenly muse is at work here, as in Paradise Lost, to lend grandeur, gravitas, mystery, and even fantasy to the familiar story. Instead of a humble, homely tale, the nativity here is a matter of thrones, dominations, princedoms, virtues, powers. The stage is cosmic, the event cataclysmic. The characters are kings and their squadrons, wizards and ancient sages. The birth of Christ is a sacred and solemn compact among the hosts of heaven. It's only four stanzas, but it feels like an epic.

This is the month, and this the happy morn
Wherein the Son of Heav'n's eternal King,
Of wedded Maid, and Virgin Mother born,
Our great redemption from above did bring;
For so the holy sages once did sing,
That he our deadly forfeit should release,
And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.

That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable,
And that far-beaming blaze of Majesty,
Wherewith he wont at Heav'n's high council-table,
To sit the midst of Trinal Unity,
He laid aside, and here with us to be,
Forsook the courts of everlasting day,
And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.

Say Heav'nly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein
Afford a present to the Infant God?
Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain,
To welcome him to this his new abode,
Now while the heav'n, by the Sun's team untrod,
Hath took no print of the approaching light,
And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?

See how from far upon the eastern road
The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet:
O run, prevent them with thy humble ode,
And lay it lowly at his blessed feet;
Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet,
And join thy voice unto the angel quire,
From out his secret altar touched with hallowed fire.