Emma by Jane Austen: First Impressions

Emma has long been a favourite novel of mine. It was the first Austen I ever read; I have since read it about ten times. Each re-read highlights the cleverness of Austen’s characterisation, the multi layered, intricate plotting and the hilarity of her arch wit. I know some people can’t stomach Emma Woodhouse, but I absolutely love her. She is a fantastic heroine because she is so human; she makes catastrophic errors of judgement, is a dreadful snob, thinks she knows best about everything, and can be very unfeeling towards those less fortunate than herself. For me, it’s like looking in the mirror!! However, Emma manages to be all of these things and yet remain utterly endearing. This is down to Austen’s skill in drawing three dimensional characters. Emma could be insufferable; she has all the ingredients to be the most odious heroine ever created (apart from Fanny Price, obviously). However, Austen’s narrative voice is wonderful at revealing Emma’s softer side. Emma has frequent moments of doubt and regret; she never fails to recognise when she has done a wrong and she is the first to criticise herself and resolve to do better when she realises that she has stepped out of line. Her heart is always in the right place and she never intentionally means to wound; she acts in what she genuinely believes to be the best interests of others. If she occasionally has a lapse of judgement, can she be blamed? She is only ‘one and twenty’, after all, and a very sheltered and spoiled one and twenty year old at that. As the novel opens, Emma has only just lost the company of her adoring governess, who has never uttered a cross or corrective word to her in all her formative years. Her father thinks she is perfect, as does her sister. The fact that she is so self reflective and quick to admit her own faults is actually quite remarkable, considering her upbringing.

One of the greatest, if not the greatest, influence on Emma’s moral development is that of her brother in law, Mr Knightley, who is sixteen years her senior, owner of the considerably larger neighbouring estate of Donwell Abbey and a much respected and admired member of the local community. Mr Knightley does not approve of the way Emma has been pandered to all her life and is always quick to bring her up when he feels she has behaved wrongly or erred in judgement. He is sensible, forthright, clear sighted and fair, and he truly values Emma and wants to bring out the best in her. Every time I re-read this book, I see the symptoms of his love for her earlier and earlier; this time around, I could see it even in their very first dialogue, after Miss Taylor’s wedding. “Emma knows I never flatter her,” says Mr Knightley (and you can just imagine the wry smile on his face as he says it!), but this is actually a compliment rather than a criticism. He doesn’t flatter Emma because he knows flattery does her no good. He cares so much for her that he risks her displeasure in attempting to make amends for Miss Taylor and Mr Woodhouse’s indulgence. Mr Knightley sees Emma exactly as she is; a clever, warm hearted, generous and witty girl, whose tendencies for laziness and an inflated ego have been allowed to go unchecked and to marr her better qualities. The fact that he sees her faults and loves her regardless is knee-weakeningly romantic and I love how cross he gets when Emma irritates him with her inability to see her errors, and how jealous he is when Emma praises other men. Their disagreement over Harriet’s refusal of Robert Martin was particularly enjoyable to read; what a sparring match! In standing up to Emma, Mr Knightley provides her with her only true intellectual and moral challenge. I have spent pretty much the entire time I have been reading this novel with my hand pressed to my chest in glee at how much I fancy the pants off Mr Knightley. Sorry to bring down the tone, but seriously; I want one!

This time around, I have been particularly intrigued by the sheer number of periphery characters who have a key role in events. Gossip is a major player in Highbury life; news of even the most trivial nature gets passed around like wildfire and everyone knows everyone else’s business within minutes of said business occurring. There is no privacy, no escape; if Miss Bates doesn’t pin you down to talk about the latest news from Jane Fairfax, Mrs Goddard will stop you in the street to inform you of what she overheard Mr Elton telling Mr Cole in the lane that morning. There is no discretion and no real divide between the classes; Emma Woodhouse’s personal life is no more sacred than Miss Bates’ when it comes to topics for tea-time chat. This environment of gossip is actually very important, as we are able to see beyond Emma’s rather unreliable viewpoint and have events related to us by third parties on a frequent basis. This not only allows for a wider perspective, but also gives us our first clues as to Emma’s inadequacies. I am so used to the story of Emma that I can no longer be hoodwinked by her, but I remember on my first reading that I had no idea of Mr Elton liking Emma and was totally convinced that he was in love with Harriet. Mr Knightley and his brother might have seen the truth of the matter, but they had access to Mr Elton in more informal settings where they had the opportunity to learn more about his character. As such, Emma’s lack of judgement and misunderstanding of Mr Elton’s behaviour can be excused, to a point. However, when we realise that Mrs Cole had been aware of Mr Elton’s regard all along: “A Miss Hawkins! Well, I had always rather fancied it would be some young lady hereabouts; not that I ever – Mrs Cole once whispered to me – but I immediately said, ‘No, Mr Elton is a most worthy young man, but -’ ” (says Miss Bates), we begin to question Emma’s judgement. There is no smoke without fire, after all. Austen ensures that we are exposed to the wider community’s viewpoint so that we can make a balanced judgement on events. Though, like Emma herself, we are ultimately left to our own devices to make up our minds, and Austen makes it very easy for us to only see what we want to see.

The cleverness of Emma‘s plot cannot be underestimated; there are so many meanders up garden paths that it is very easy for the reader to find themselves hopelessly wrong about the intentions of the characters and shocked at the turn of events. Austen leaves enough clues for us to come to the right conclusions, but she masks them with the help of very unreliable characters. Mr Elton’s preference of Emma over Harriet is actually quite obvious on a second reading, but on the first reading, we have no idea that Emma is not to be trusted and we find ourselves unable to think outside of her reasoning. When Frank Churchill arrives on the scene, it is only with hindsight that we realise he has turned up directly after Jane Fairfax has arrived. He has been putting off his visits to Highbury for years, but all of a sudden he finds himself with two weeks to spare? Obviously he has another motive, but we don’t think about that until all is revealed much later on. This is because Mrs Weston has laid a very interesting booby trap across our path; she has sown the seed of a potential romance between Mr Knightley and Jane. In the scene at the Cole’s, Frank, again in hindsight, is quite obviously working to manoeuvre his way over to Jane at every possible interval, but we don’t see this because we are too busy trying to work out whether there is any truth in Mrs Weston’s conjecture. Emma’s shock and consternation at such a suggestion is enough to make us worry; Emma surely wouldn’t be so bothered if she didn’t see any truth in it. So, we are deliberately sidetracked, even though the romance between Jane and Frank is going on right underneath our noses. How clever Austen is; in writing the plot in this way, she creates a novel that gives much more pleasure on subsequent readings than the first, building in richness the more times we return to it.

I think Emma is the cleverest and most intricate of Austen’s novels. She really makes the reader work hard, and that is a major part of the immeasurable pleasure that I find in reading it. We must unravel the partialities and prejudices of Emma’s mind, weigh them up against the evidence we hear from the other residents of Highbury and come to our own conclusions on the myriad of mysteries and intrigues that arrive to tease us. Who does Mr Elton love? Is Emma doing right in warning Harriet off Mr Martin? Why did Frank Churchill take so long to come to Highbury? Why is Jane Fairfax so reserved? Is Frank Churchill a little too good to be true? Why has the lovely Mr Knightley never married? It’s just simply wonderful. I love every second of reading Emma, and frequently laugh out loud at the characters, who come alive off the pages with their perfectly nuanced dialogue accompanied by the always pithy narrative voice. There is so much more to discuss and explore and I’m really looking forward to digging deeper as I continue reading. I hope some of you will join me!

Some things of note

When I went ‘up North’ last week, I was surprised at just how beautiful our Northern cities are. I had the opportunity to have whistlestop tours of Bradford and Leeds, both of which were huge centres of manufacturing in the 19th and early 20th centuries, but in recent times have experienced a decline. Bradford especially has suffered; its once majestic crescents of beautiful Victorian homes are largely split into bedsits, the masonry crumbling, the paint peeling, with little about them to suggest that once upon a time, prosperous families would have been proud to live there. The city centre has pockets of majesty; mellow Victorian red brick sits alongside Belle-Epoque style pale stone, both with elaborate carvings and sculptures adorning the facades. These have now become soot blackened, their beauty practically invisible, hidden away on dingy, down at heel streets. Above the city rises the spire of Bradford Cathedral; once a parish church, it was much enlarged in the 20th century and has some stunning William Morris and Edward Burne-Jones stained glass. From the cathedral grounds you can see across the skyline to the beautiful, undulating dales that surround this once fine city, and amongst the scars of demolition and decay, you can still make out how lovely it once was. I wish I had been able to see it in its hey day.

Leeds is much more cosmopolitan and aesthetically pleasing than Bradford; there is a large central shopping area, some amazing Victorian municipal buildings, a fantastic Art Deco hotel and the most beautiful shopping arcade I have ever seen. It is a bustling university city, and there is clearly a lot of wealth around, as Harvey Nichols would certainly not have set up shop there without a guaranteed clientele. It felt like Kensington, but with fresher air, and I wish I had have had more time to explore before rushing off to catch my train. Does anyone have any suggestions if I visit again?

Thanks to Mary, I managed to catch this wonderful film at the BFI at the weekend. Do go if you have the chance; it really is magnificent and so finely acted. What I found particularly fascinating was the use of genuine wartime London as a filming location; actually being able to see buildings boarded up, sandbags everywhere, ‘Careless Talk Costs Lives’ posters pasted on every available surface and smouldering bomb sites was a real eye opener. I asked my Nan about it when I visited on Sunday, and she recalled a trip to see a friend in London during the Blitz when on leave from the WRAF; ‘I was stepping over fire hoses on my way across London Bridge; there were still fires burning from the night’s bombing.’ When I asked her whether it was scary, she laughed, and shook her head. ‘Oh no, love. We just got on with it. People still had to get around.’ I love my Nan and her matter of fact reminiscences of what to me is completely unimaginable! It’s such a gift to still have her here to ask.

Daunt Books have republished Illyrian Spring in a beautiful edition; please don’t delay in ordering a copy as I promise this book will change your life!

Finally, I have started re-reading Emma and am having a marvellous time. Mr Knightley in particular is providing me with much pleasure. Discussion post forthcoming. I happened across this wonderful Austen article in The Guardian this week; it seems a new book on reading her works will be released soon and it sounds brilliant.

Memoirs of an Infantry Officer by Siegfried Sassoon

Memoirs of an Infantry Officer is the second in Siegfried Sassoon’s trilogy of loosely fictionalised memoirs. He signed up to be an Officer just before WW1 was declared and was given a ‘safe’ job behind the front line, but was not content to take a back seat. At the end of Memoirs of a Fox Hunting Man, we see George Sherston, Sassoon’s alter ego, become an Officer in the trenches, and this is where Memoirs of an Infantry Officer picks up, in 1916. The action has started to heat up, and there are murmurings of a ‘big push’ in the near future. However, this fails to materialise for quite some time, and so most days in Sherston’s battalion are not particularly exciting, and are marked more by a sense of boredom and annoyance at being stuck in muddy, smelly and unpleasant trenches with nothing in particular to do than any military action. Much of the work, such as mending wire, sandbagging, building and repairing walls and dugouts and sentry duty happened under the cover of darkness. As such, days on end were spent hanging about, waiting for something to happen.

When things do start to hot up, there is a real sense of tension, foreboding and frustration amongst the men and the officers.  Orders are never clear, and are usually contradictory. The battalion are constantly made to risk their lives on small skirmishes and missions to capture trenches that have no real purpose and just result in needless deaths and injuries. George and his fellow officers frequently know they are being forced to go on suicide missions, but they are powerless to do anything about it and so just accept that they are part of the machine that is war and have to play their role just like everyone else, come what may. It is fascinating how Sassoon portrays the rather fatalistic attitude of the men; for many there was no sense of anger at the position they had been placed in, just sadness and acceptance.

The majority of soldiers seem to have accepted that they probably weren’t going to make it through the war alive, and took it in their stride, believing that they were making a noble sacrifice and would do their best no matter what risk to their own lives. The all pervading sense of honour and the expectation that every man would ‘do their bit’ meant that there were very few displays of cowardice or nerves, all things considered. The men were dished out their rum rations, wished each other good luck, and went over the top with as good a grace as they could muster, usually laughing and joking as they went. Sassoon’s descriptions of Sherston’s feelings of nerves before battles are just so understatedly moving; he knows he has no choice but to go, but he is terrified at the thought of dying, of becoming one of those groaning men writhing around on No Man’s Land. With a characteristic touch of humour, Sherston observes: ‘Late that night I was lying in the tent with The Return of the Native on my knee….How were things going at Bazentin, I wondered? And should I be sent for tomorrow? A sort of numb funkiness invaded me. I didn’t want to die – not before I’d finished The Return of the Native, anyhow.’ Life became reduced to the basics; pleasure in simple things, with every day without a battle, every day without being forced into danger, able to relax, read, chat, and just rest in the knowledge that today you could be safe, becoming the most enormous gift. What a world to be thrown into. And yet this existence became disturbingly normal after a time, and even enjoyable; during his leaves home Sherston began to long to be back in the trenches with his men, as this was where he had come to belong.

When Sherston is injured during a battle, he is sent home to recuperate, and gets to spend time luxuriating in a bright and flower filled officer’s hospital, and then the home of an elderly Lord and Lady in the Sussex countryside. While he recovers, Sherston is infuriated by the ignorance shown by the general public towards what is really happening at the front, and their lack of anger at the waste of life. Having witnessed the blunders and ill advised orders of office bound superiors anxious to make names for themselves by bringing about a ‘good show’, Sherston knows just how pointless much of the action is, and he also knows how many lies were being printed in the newspapers. Seeing his friends reduced to names in casualty lists and the frivolity and idealism of the clueless civilians at home sends Sherston into a total about-face in his previously rather conventional and patriotic public schoolboy attitude towards the war. Why should all these men like him be forced to live in trenches and risk their lives every day for a country of people who were living the life of riley just miles from the front line? Profiteers were drinking champagne and eating lobsters in fancy hotels while the men at the front hunched over chipped mugs of lukewarm tea and ate tinned stew in dugouts that smelled of decomposing bodies. Where was the justice, where was the glory, in that? Sherston decides that he is not going back; he is going to make a stand. But will anyone actually listen to what he has to say?

I love Siegfried Sassoon’s writing; he is so warm, engaging, humorous and self deprecating. He makes it clear that Sherston’s experiences are not representative of everyone’s, and he is very aware of his own privilege as an Officer rather than a Private. He doesn’t consider himself to have been brave – more reckless than anything – and the pain of the many losses of friends he experienced and the horror of what he saw is raw and moving without needing to be shocking or sensationalised. The slow emergence of his doubt and anger towards the war is fascinating to read; while he is part of the machine, Sherston never questions why he is there or whether it is right for him to be shooting at other men. This echoes Graves’ account in Goodbye to All That. The war became a strange, self contained world where the primary motivator was survival, not ideals. However, once Sherston has a chance to reflect and has been disillusioned by spending time with seemingly ungrateful civilians, he begins to break free of the unquestioning bonds of loyalty and honour that have been drummed into him from his youth, and think for himself. Is there ever a right or a wrong when you are looking another human being in the eyes with a gun in your hand? Is there such a thing as a ‘noble cause?’ Sassoon raises plenty of questions without being hectoring or didactic, and his honesty and openness are refreshing and enlightening to read. Memoirs don’t get better than this; for a gripping and human account of what it was really like to live through war, you have to read Sassoon’s writing. I loved every minute, and am already looking forward to the third instalment.

Return to Bronte Country

A couple of weeks ago, I was asked to go to Bradford for a work meeting. Not a problem, said I, ever keen to spend a day out of the office. I google mapped the location of said meeting; it was a stone’s throw from Haworth, home of the Brontes. I haven’t been in a few years and I’ve been itching to go back, but the train fare is exorbitant and there never seems to be the opportunity. So, I hatched a plan; if work would pay for the train, I would pay to stay in Haworth overnight and therefore could conveniently mix business with pleasure. They agreed, and I was over the moon! A whole two days to myself to roam the Yorkshire countryside that I adore so much! What bliss! And, as it happened, the day I went was the day after I found out about my teaching course as well, so it was a perfectly timed little celebration trip!

I boarded the train to Leeds with high spirits; I love train journeys. As tired as I was, I marvelled at how quickly the ugly straggle of London suburbs is left behind and the countryside unfolds before you, richly green and seemingly endless. The London-Leeds line runs via Peterborough and Doncaster, so the train goes through several counties, from Hertfordshire to Cambridgeshire, Lincolnshire and then into West Yorkshire. The make up of the countryside alters dramatically, going from predominantly flat to very hilly, and as you get more northerly, the industrial nature of many of the towns gives the landscape a much more gritty, smoky aspect. Seeing England flash by through a train window is fascinating, and I always find myself glued to the glass as the scenery goes by, musing about how different life is for people living just a few miles apart. By the time we were an hour outside of London, the accents of people boarding the train had changed, their vowels flattening the further north we travelled. It’s amazing how diverse we are for such a tiny island!

So, I got to Bradford, met my colleague Jo, who drove me around the city – more in another post – and then took me to our meeting. Afterwards she drove me to my Youth Hostel in Haworth, via the scenic route so that I could see more of the delicious countryside and the house in the village of Thornton where the Brontes were born. I so enjoyed being able to see the surrounding villages, with their soot and age blackened stone houses, disused mills and steep, cobbled streets, all set amidst the scrubby moorland that stretches as far as the eye can see. This was the landscape the Brontes would have known; wild, rugged, and hauntingly beautiful, it is unsurprising that it inspired them to such heights of passion. In Haworth itself, much has changed; it is a bigger town now, and the many disused mills would not have all been there in their time. However, the main street is largely the same, and so are the views; once you are beyond the Bronte’s parsonage there is nothing to see but the moors and you do feel a little as though you are on the edge of civilisation, and that the realities of village life are far away.

The Bronte Parsonage Museum is wonderful, and unlike many similar ‘author’s house’ museums, the majority of what is on show did genuinely belong to the Brontes, so you do get a very good idea of what the house would actually have been like for them to live in. It is not a large house, and though it was well furnished, it is clear the Brontes were not overly prosperous. It is easy to see how close the siblings must have been, living on top of one another, sharing bedrooms, using the same parlour to write in and sharing the same circle of friends and acquaintances. It is also easy to appreciate how devastated Charlotte must have been to lose Emily and Anne so quickly in succession, and return home to the house that was once so lively with voices, so full of women rushing around, writing, working, talking, now silent and empty.

Having been before, I knew all this, so I focused my attentions on exploring the church and the churchyard for more clues as to life in Haworth. Many of the graves date to the time the Brontes lived there, and I was amazed at how young so many of the people were when they died. Some headstones marked baby after baby, child after child, lost before the age of 10; many adults seemed to barely reach their 35th birthdays. Hardly anyone made it to what we would consider an old age, and I was intrigued as to why. A display in the Parsonage Museum explained that a board of health report in 1850 revealed the shocking sanitary conditions of Haworth at the time. Due to the hilly nature of the town, many houses had poor drainage and were damp. There were open drains leaking sewage, only 4 1/2 toilets per house and a highly polluted water supply. With several thousand people buried in the overcrowded churchyard and no drainage, decomposing bodies added even more to the pollution of the water. Nearly half of all children died before the age of 6 and the average life expectancy was 24. Tuberculosis, typhoid, cholera and smallpox were rife. In this environment, the Brontes would have been used to death. Their house overlooked the graveyard; with the life expectancy being what it was, there must have been a burial most days. We consider it to be a tragedy that Emily and Anne died so young, but they actually lived to a good age compared to many of their fellow villagers. With death ever present and a long life hardly to be expected, it sheds more light on the extraordinarily passionate, intense, almost desperate prose of the Bronte sisters; they knew from experience that life was short, and that there may be no tomorrow. Why waste time on writing about quiet courtships and balls when wild romance on the moors and passionate embraces were all they had time for?!

The Yorkshire countryside is breathtaking, but much of the once majestic, optimistic Victorian architecture in its towns and cities is now crumbling due to the poverty that set in after the closure of the manufacturing industries that once made this corner of England so prosperous. The Youth Hostel in Haworth is a huge Victorian mansion once owned by a Victorian industrial magnate who owned several mills in the area; the interior is breathtaking, with handpainted stained glass, huge marble fireplaces,  intricate mosaic tiled floors and elaborately carved railings and banisters. I saw many magnificent homes like this, now derelict, as I travelled around, and it made me so sad that for a place with so much natural beauty, and so much history, that there is so little opportunity and hope for so many of its inhabitants. I wonder whether, from this environment, a new generation of Brontes will arise, giving a voice to the spirit of this beautiful but bleak landscape once again.

You can call me Miss….

I got home tonight, dripping wet after being caught in a rather unexpected hailstorm, to find a letter on my doormat. This was the letter I have been waiting for ever since I applied to start teacher training seven very long months ago. It therefore contained within it all of my hopes and dreams for the future and despite my desperation to know my fate, I found myself absolutely terrified to open the envelope. What if this was the end of the road? What if my dream of being a teacher was never going to come true? I gave myself a minute before ripping the letter open; then, with shaking hands, I read the line ‘We are pleased to inform you…’. I can’t even begin to describe what happiness and what intense relief I felt as those words sunk in. I jumped for joy, I whooped out loud; to be able to have a career I love, to get to teach a subject that has enriched my life beyond all measure, to get to give children the gift of an education! What greater vocation could there be?! And now it is mine!!!

I have no illusions, and I am no idealist. I know enough teachers to know that my classroom will not be a live version of Dead Poet’s Society. I know full well that it will be hard work, with incredibly long hours, and often little thanks. However, if I can give just one child the confidence and encouragement that my best teachers gave me, I know all the hardships will be worth it. Ever since I was at primary school, I benefited from teachers who spotted my love for literature and writing and encouraged me to develop it as much as possible. In my last year of primary school, my class teacher always read my pieces of creative writing out loud to the class, as examples of excellence. My heart would swell with pride at the thought that something I had created was considered worthy of attention and praise. The greatest joy for me, though, was being asked to read the story to the class on Friday afternoons. I remember the atmosphere in the winter most vividly; school was one of those red brick Victorian affairs, with huge gothic windows, parquet floors and rusty cast iron radiators. We would sit, warm and cosy in our overheated classroom, the big windows dark and steamy, with rain tapping at the glass, while I would read out loud. I don’t think my teacher ever truly knew what that meant to me.

Moving on to secondary school, I became a small fish in a big pond, and my confidence suffered. I was used to being the best at everything and, all of a sudden, I wasn’t. That’s where my English teacher stepped in. She noticed the books I chose to read were rather more advanced and she’d give me reading lists to take to the library to expand my horizons. She too would read out my creative writing to the rest of the class and encourage me to push myself further. As I moved up the school, I became known for my writing and my talent was nurtured, encouraged and given every opportunity to shine. I lived for my English lessons, where I could steep myself in words. In those classrooms I was made to feel special and that I had a great future ahead of me. Obviously my parents told me all this too, but somehow when you hear it from someone who’s not related to you, it means so much more because they have no obligation to find you wonderful! It was my English teacher who pushed me to apply to Cambridge, and gave me the confidence to believe that I could be good enough to study there. I wasn’t, as it turns out, but that’s where another favourite teacher saved the day, recommending her alma mater which she thought would suit me perfectly. She was right; I followed her advice and had a marvellous three years. Without her, I don’t know where I would have ended up.

Teachers are often vilified, criticised for working too little and complaining too much, told that they are not ‘cut out’ for the ‘real world’ and haven’t got two brain cells to rub together. The decline of respect for the teaching profession in England is incredibly disappointing when you consider that really, there is nothing more vital to society than teachers. I am enormously grateful to the good teachers I had, who dedicated themselves to their pupils with a passion and always had time for those of us who needed that little extra encouragement to reach our potential. I owe them so much and I hope to be able to emulate them as I strive to do my best for my own pupils. School is about so much more than exams and grades; it’s where children grow into young adults and lay down the foundations of their futures. To be a part of that process in a child’s life is an immense privilege and I absolutely cannot wait to have a role in it.

So, starting in September, I will be a trainee English teacher. I’m doing a route that involves being thrown in at the deep end by training in a school rather than at university, so it’s going to be quite the challenge. However, after several years of dull office jobs that I can’t wait to see the back of, I’m ready!! Woohoo!!!! Thank you all for your kind words and encouragement while I have been waiting…it has really helped to be able to share the process with you, and I have appreciated your support and faith in me enormously!

Farewell Leicester Square by Betty Miller

This is a rather under-read Persephone; I received it as a present and didn’t really know what it was about, and presumed it must be something to do with WWII. I was wrong, and much surprised to read the opening chapter, which describes a 1930s London film premiere in exquisite detail. The arrival of the cars, the swish of silk and furs, the rising of the curtain, the hubbub of excited voices, the popping and flashing of camera bulbs; Miller writes it all as if we could see it on a big screen before us. The film being premiered is ‘Farewell Leicester Square’, directed by Alexander Berman. The following chapter takes us back to Alexander’s (known throughout the novel as Alec) youth in Brighton, living in a rundown house with his parents and siblings and harbouring those intense and secretive dreams that characterise the emotive heights of adolescence.

The Bermans are Jewish, and this Jewish identity pervades everything they do. Alec’s father is overbearing and difficult, with ‘the characteristics of the English Victorian father…and the Lithuanian-born Jewish patriarch’; a successful businessman, he never fails to remind his children of how hard he has worked for them since coming over from Lithuania in his teens with nothing but the clothes on his back. Alec’s mother is a soft, passive presence: ‘she was very short-sighted: perhaps because the radius of her interests was utterly narrowed down to the confines of home’ – she lives for nothing but to make life comfortable for her family. Jewish traditions are upheld religiously; the big meals on Fridays, readings from the Torah, the wearing of a kippah. Alec and his brother Sydney help out in their father’s tobacco shop, and Alec’s father has no doubt that they will continue to do so once they have left school. Life is all rather stiflingly mapped out, hemmed in by traditions and expectations, with no accounting for individuality.

Alec has bigger dreams than this, however; he is in love with the movies, and longs to go and work in a studio. He buys film magazines with his pocket money and goes to the cinema whenever he can; his father ridicules this habit and makes it clear to Alec that pursuing a career in the film industry is not an option. However, Alec is gutsy and determined; he writes to every studio he can find an address for. After plenty of crushing rejections, he finally gets an invite to see Richard Nicolls, head of a London film studio. Alec goes to his home, and is intimidated by the big old English house, and by the cool, studied glare of Richard’s children, Basil and Catherine. For the first time Alec is made aware of his outsider status; he is a Jew, with no right to belong in England; Basil and Catherine possess the land they walk upon with an unthinking arrogance that demonstrates clearly to Alec how vulnerable, how alien he will always be, even in the country of his birth. Thankfully the movie industry is not bothered by race, and Richard Nicolls gives Alec his first chance. However, Alec will never forget what his encounter with Basil and Catherine has shown him about the inherent anti-semitism in British society, and this will prove to haunt him for the rest of his life.

Alec becomes a highly successful film director, making his fortune.  He marries and has a child, and lives in a beautiful London home. He has everything that most people consider to be the trappings of a successful and happy life, but Alec is never truly content. Constantly seeing prejudice wherever he goes, constantly feeling insecure and inferior, constantly afraid that he will one day be forced to leave the country he loves so dearly, he is never at ease with anyone. His wife doesn’t understand his feelings, and he is estranged from his family since he left to pursue his dream as a teenager. Apparently surrounded by love and accolades, Alec is actually very alone, and his desire to be accepted and anger that he never truly will be slowly and sadly tarnishes everything he has worked for.

Miller was 25 when she wrote this, and this is absolutely remarkable considering the degree of insight she has into the mindset of a grown man struggling with his place in the world and the effects of being an outsider in a society that is unthinkingly racist. Some of Alec’s thoughts and feelings are temptingly easy to dismiss as paranoid or oversensitive, but Miller challenges this by showing how racism is everywhere; subtle, insidious, unthinking. It is in the sneer of Alec’s brother in law on hearing of his proposed marriage to his sister, in the careless, unthinking, casually racist remarks made by Alec’s friends, in the stereotyped depictions of Jewish life, in the hurried apology of someone who says ‘but of course, you’re not like the rest of them, Alec…’.  It is the white elephant in Alec’s marriage; Alec’s wife says she doesn’t care about his Jewishness, but her almost self congratulatory praise of her own lack of racism is racist in and of itself. Alec’s race is something he is never allowed to forget, and this is something Alec’s British friends and wife can never understand or appreciate. This was hugely thought provoking for me, as someone who has never had to think about my race or my nationality or how I fit in. That in itself is really quite horrific to think about.

Farewell Leicester Square is an intriguing novel. Aside from her sensitive exploration of race, Miller’s use of language is exquisite. The structure of the book, with its disjointed scenes that fade out into ellipses at the end of chapters, flashbacks and non linear chapters is cleverly done to echo Alec’s profession as a film maker. She is superb at describing the often stifling atmosphere of home for a teenager who doesn’t feel understood or supported, and the beginning of the novel is rather Dickensian in its portrayal of Alec’s plucky determination to make something of himself. I loved the evocative description of the 1930s film industry, and the range of ‘characters’ who peopled it, and Miller is also very good at looking at the nature of family, and how complicated and fraught familial relationships can be. However, I often felt like there was too much going on, and overall the novel felt a little messy. This is essentially a novel about identity and the growth of a boy into a man; while Alec’s role as a film director and the exploration of the fledgling film industry is undoubtedly fascinating, it feels extraneous and confusing. I think that this would be a better and more impactful novel if Alec’s relationship with his family, with his wife, and with himself had been the only focus. Despite this slightly muddled nature, however, it is still a daring and thought provoking novel in many ways, and it is beautifully and perceptively written with flashes of real artistic brilliance and some wonderful observations. It’s not your typical Persephone, but it’s definitely well worth a read. I know it’s going to stay with me for quite some time.

Canterbury Tales

Over the bank holiday weekend, my mum and I went on a mini break to Canterbury. I had an interview at the university (I know, this teacher training business is proving to be very long winded…I wish someone would just make a decision!!) early in the morning, and rather than get up at the crack of dawn to catch the train from London, I thought, why not make a holiday out of it instead? So we did. We boarded the train in Sevenoaks, and settled down for the hour or so journey to Kent’s beautiful, historic county town.

The train rushed through a patchwork of fields, some lush and green, studded with white dotty sheep, others vibrant with the almost neon yellow of rape, shining gloriously in the sunlight. Every now and then the white tip of an Oast house would appear, then a few Victorian red brick farm cottages, or older, stone built dwellings, straggling along lanes that curved off into the distance. As we got nearer to Canterbury, the train thundered through ancient villages, huddled against the tides of time, with their castle-like grey flint churches, tumble down wattle and daub cottages and village greens, that had me longing to jump off and explore. All of a sudden the train left the fields behind and slithered into Canterbury; a short walk and a right turn later and we found ourselves passing under the original 1300s city gate into the main High Street.

Canterbury feels rather Dickensian; it is full of little winding streets with ancient, leaning timber buildings and tiny whitewashed cottages rambling off the main drag, with secret passages, bits of ancient walls and windows, mysterious gates and hidden courtyards meeting you at every turn. It is the sort of place that you wouldn’t want to be wandering in after dark; I could just imagine the sound of horses’ hooves, the smells of sewage, the swishing of ladies’ dresses and nasty creatures lurking in the misty shadows that would have made these streets the perfect setting for a Victorian sensation novel. At almost every point you can see the towers of the magnificent Cathedral loom overhead, and there are tantalising views of some fascinating pieces of architecture down every street. One of my favourite views is of the Old Weaver’s House, built in the 1500s, which overhangs the little river that runs underneath the High Street. You can go on a boat trip down here, and you will pass directly underneath the old ducking stool, which was used to duck witches to see if they sank or swam (the current stool is a reconstruction, not the original!). I also love this leaning house, which was mentioned by Dickens in one of his novels, and this beautiful house dating back to the 12th century, said to be where the Knights who murdered Thomas a Becket met before doing their evil deed…

What is so wonderful about Canterbury is that it has evolved over time and is now a beautiful mishmash of architectural styles and a real piece of living history. There is so much to see and do and I love spending time there. This trip was a little more special than others, though, because Mum found this hotel situated in the grounds of the cathedral, and we jumped at the chance to stay somewhere so wonderful. Walking under the 16th century gates into the cathedral courtyard is a breathtaking experience; the gorgeous 900 year old cathedral rises above you, its towers piercing the clouds and its magnificent architecture reducing you to amazement at what a feat its construction must have been. Surrounding the cathedral are a range of pretty buildings and gardens, and one of these is a purpose built hotel. The hotel is set around a peaceful courtyard, which is mercifully quiet after the chattering of exchange students outside the cathedral! Right by reception was a cosy library, and then on our way up to our room we found a door onto a secret garden overlooking the cathedral; I was enchanted! The best was yet to come, though; I assumed our room wouldn’t have a view as we had wandered through such a maze of corridors to get there, but on opening the door I was delighted to find that we had a window seat and large window that gave us a direct view of the entire front of the cathedral. How lucky we were!!! As night fell and the cathedral was lit up, I sat on the windowsill and gazed at the beautiful sight; if only my own bedroom’s view could be so amazing!

Aside from wandering and shopping, we spent some time exploring the cathedral, whose magnificence never ceases to amaze me. The stained glass is so beautiful, the height and majesty of the interior is awe-inspiring, and the sheer complexity and detail in every aspect of its design really is fantastic. I didn’t know where to look, there was so much to see! I especially enjoyed some of the highly romantic Victorian memorial tablets, one of which mentioned someone dying ‘at the hand of an assassin’, and I also loved looking at the graffiti etched into the stonework; the oldest date I found was 1864. When the sun finally came out just before we were due to leave, Mum and I managed to find time to have a scenic walk along the river. Some lucky person has a house on a sort of island in the middle of the river, overlooking the glorious public gardens that are on both banks; I would love to wake up to that view every day! All in all we had a brilliant time and let’s hope that the interview went as well as the trip!

Eric Ravilious: Sussex and the Downs by James Russell

I love Eric Ravilious’ paintings. They are so evocative of time and place; their bold and joyful style is charming and cheerful, a representation of a cosy, comfortable world where all is undulating green hills, endless views and traditional, pastoral activity. You can’t help but look at his paintings and feel uplifted; their gentle, domesticated settings frame the world in a colourful and delightful bubble of buoyant spirits, celebrating all that it is to be British. However, on closer inspection of his work, there is much more to his seemingly innocent scenes than meets the eye. Snaking across those undulating green hills is barbed wire; looping high in the air above the gently meandering country roads are electricity wires; puffing along beneath an ancient landmark is a speeding stream train; above the peaceful scenes of men working in fields are looming, cross-hatched, grey clouds.

As full as Ravilious’ paintings are of a confident, light hearted pre war world, they are also evocative of the tensions chipping away at the peaceful horizon; political unrest, growing industrialisation and mechanisation that would soon see an end to the scenes of horse drawn ploughing he so tenderly depicts, the fast expansion of urban life into the surrounding countryside, punctuating those green vistas with cement and bricks and steam. Ravilious was not a naive, idealistic painter; his portraits of 1930s England are not just akin to the common patriotic depictions of the Green and Pleasant Land in popular use in advertising posters of the time.  They are clever, intriguing, bold and lovely embodiments of an age that was both looking back and looking forward; stuck in a limbo between peace and war, innovation and traditionalism and a nostalgia for an idealised pastoral past and a relentless drive for a new, modern, technological future. Ravilious captures all of this while managing to retain his own, unmistakeable style that is really quite haunting, and offers much to think on. I’m no Art Historian, and I have no idea of how he fits in with the other artists working at the time, but Ravilious is to me the embodiment of 1930s Britain, and I can’t get enough of his work.

Thankfully, neither can The Mainstone Press, who specialise in printing beautifully produced books on Ravilious and his circle. I came across their books on Ravilious in the V&A shop, and they were a little outside of my budget, so I spent a happy half an hour browsing through and soaking up as much of their delights as I could before leaving empty handed. I knew I wanted to write about Ravilious, but with no book to hand, I couldn’t do much good. So I wrote to The Mainstone Press and asked them for some images from their series on Ravilious to use on my blog; they kindly said that they could do better than that, and sent me the first in the series, which is this beautiful book depicting Ravilious’ paintings of Sussex and the Downs. Each painting is reproduced in full colour on its own page, accompanied by an essay explaining the inspiration for it, points of interest, and biographical details. I was totally absorbed and read it in one sitting; it’s a truly fascinating book. James Russell doesn’t write in a dry style or go overboard on the art history; instead, he describes Ravilious’ life and that of his circle of family and friends, how and where they found inspiration, and provides insightful pointers for each painting so that you can appreciate them on a deeper level than just aesthetics but not have them reduced to mere objects. Through Russell’s eyes, the paintings came to life; before when I had just seen a lovely panorama of the countryside, now I noticed those ominous fences, those disconcerting clouds, those clashes of modernity, and was able to draw my own conclusions.

Ravilious lived amongst an eclectic group of artists who bought ramshackle cottages in the middle of nowhere, had hordes of people to stay every weekend, and took great pleasure in the new vogue for ‘touring’ Britain in their cars. Life was a round of raucous pleasure and good humour, but with a deep appreciation of and for the natural landscape and the traditions of the country they felt hugely patriotic about. Sadly, this idealistic life was not to last forever. Ravilious later became an official war artist and painted some magnificent and unusual imagery of war both at home and abroad. Sadly he died during a trip to Iceland in 1942; his plane disappeared en route and was never found. What a great tragedy this was, both to his friends and family, who described him as a chronically cheerful, light hearted and free spirited man, and to the world of art, to which he could and should have contributed so much more. I loved reading more about his portrayals of the Sussex countryside, which, as his birthplace, was etched so deeply on his heart. I now can’t wait to read the next three books in the series! The books aren’t cheap, but they are truly objects to treasure, and worth the investment for the pleasure and fascination they will bring for years to come. I think a little obsession with Ravilious is beginning!

Harriet by Elizabeth Jenkins

I always look forward to the new Persephone books; the glee of opening the pristine dove grey cover to reveal the beautiful endpapers and a story that I know I will find fascinating, entertaining and thought provoking is second to none. These are books written with a solid craftmanship rarely found in the modern novel. Unlike today’s bestsellers, they are not attempts to be controversial, flashy or clever. They are not the product of authors who have been on expensive creative writing courses and write with one eye on a prize depressingly sponsored by a corporate giant who has nothing to do with the world of literature.  They have no agenda; they are purely and simply good stories, written with passion.  I have never been disappointed by one yet.

The latest Persephone is Harriet (1934) by Elizabeth Jenkins, whom many of you will know as the author of the superb The Tortoise and the Hare. It is a fictionalised account of the life of Harriet Staunton, a woman with learning difficulties who died from neglect at the hands of her husband and siblings-in-law in the 1870s.  Harriet, who becomes Harriet Woodhouse in the novel (many people have argued that this is a nod to Harriet Woodhouse in Emma, which I am intrigued by and there is a very good analysis here), was brought up in the comfortable surroundings of wealthy middle class suburbia by a kind and indulgent mother who sought to protect and help her beloved only daughter as much as she possibly could.  Harriet loved luxury; she especially loved fine clothes, fine food and fine surroundings. Her limited intelligence meant that she could be difficult, but by and large she was a sweet and good girl who was totally dependent on her mother into adulthood. In return, her mother was determined to ensure that she lived as fulfilling a life as possible, and never denied her anything that brought her pleasure.

From time to time Harriet’s mother, Mrs Ogilvy, sent Harriet off to various relatives to stay for a short while. Mrs Ogilvy only trusted Harriet with family; she was due to gain a substantial inheritance on the death of her late father’s sister, and Mrs Ogilvy did not want Harriet taken advantage of.  As such, she thought nothing of sending her off to Penge, in South East London, to stay with a cousin for a few weeks when Harriet was in her early 30s. Mrs Hoppner was living in genteel poverty with her beautiful, selfish and sulky teenaged daughter Alice, and the money she received for Harriet’s bed and board came in very handy, especially as she needed some extra cash to help out her older daughter Elizabeth and her husband Patrick, who lived a hand to mouth existence nearby with Patrick’s brother Lewis Oman (Staunton).

Patrick and Lewis were devoted to one another; Patrick especially was in awe of his older brother and would have done anything for him. Both the Hoppner sisters had been captivated by the enigmatic but penniless brothers, who thought the world owed them a favour and despised their poverty. Elizabeth lived for her husband, and thought he could do no wrong; Alice adored Lewis and couldn’t wait for the day when they would marry. The brothers and Alice especially had a desire for fine things and a sense of entitlement that outstripped their meagre backgrounds; Elizabeth resented the fact that Patrick could not have everything he wanted. Poor Harriet unwittingly stumbled into this family group of desperate, selfish individuals, whose love for and dependence upon one another excluded consideration for any other human being. As soon as Lewis found out about Harriet’s money, he hatched a plan to marry her; artfully, he insinuated himself into her affections, lavishing her with attention and praise. Harriet was soon under his spell, and Mrs Ogilvy was powerless to intervene. Within weeks of meeting Lewis, Harriet was his wife.

With Harriet’s money in his pocket, he packed her off to live in the country with Elizabeth and Patrick, setting Alice up in a house nearby. At first Harriet is treated with some decency, but as her mind degenerates from lack of care, and her imperious, demanding and fractious behaviour becomes a real burden, the four conspirators turn on her. She is an inconvenience and has ‘no right’ to what they think she cannot appreciate; her behaviour and inability to communicate properly lead them to believe that she has no feelings and no ability to love as they do. Alice especially resents her beautiful clothes; why should ugly, simple Harriet get to swan around in sumptuous dresses while she is forced to wear rags? Elizabeth initially feels guilty, but seeing Patrick inconvenienced by Harriet ignites her anger, and her desire to make Patrick happy overrides her morals. After a while, it all seems so sensible, so natural, so right, to deprive Harriet…it is never an active decision, but by mutual unspoken agreement, they all abdicate their moral obligations and turn a blind eye to the suffering that is under their noses in order to further their own interests. Consequences are never considered…until it is far too late.

This is an incredibly disturbing and gripping tale of how selfishness and prejudice can overpower reason and morality and turn perfectly ordinary people into monsters. Jenkins does not blame and she does not vilify; she presents an impressively even-handed picture of the minds of people who have thoughts and reactions that really do seem quite reasonable under the circumstances. It is frightening to read because there are glimmers of things we all think underneath the surface of the Omans’ reasoning; we are all very good at turning a blind eye to the distasteful, after all. We avert our eyes when asked for money by the homeless, we turn over the television when the images of starving children get too distressing; we don’t want to have such unpleasantness encroach on our nice, safe little lives. We don’t actively plan to be cruel; we just choose to look away. Just as everyone does in Harriet.

So, was it murder? Well, I can’t answer that, and neither does Jenkins. Instead, in her sympathetic and fair portrayal of both Harriet’s difficult nature and the grinding poverty and possessive love of the Omans, she leaves us with the highly unsettling impression that perhaps we wouldn’t have behaved all that differently. Despite the subject matter, this really is unputdownable, and incredibly thought provoking. It’s become one of my absolute favourite Persephones. You can read the afterword here, in The Observer. If I haven’t convinced you, that will!

Save it for a Rainy Day

I know everyone thinks it rains all the time in England. No one’s skipping about in the sunshine in those Hugh Grant romantic comedies set in an idealised London where everyone lives in Kensington town houses and has a motley crew of eccentric and attractive friends with very interesting jobs. No, rather than picnicking in the park, they’re cowering under umbrellas, running through rain storms, getting caught short in unexpected showers, or looking longingly out of rain covered train windows. Apparently it would seem that we’ve all been labouring under a misapprehension, however, as we are officially in a drought. There are slightly patronising WWII style informational posters on the tube talking about being ‘all in this together’ alongside phone numbers you can call to shop your neighbour if you see them using a hosepipe. It’s like we’re living in Stalinist Russia. Or McCarthy’s America. But someone upstairs is having a laugh, because ever since the drought was announced the heavens have opened, non-stop. Apart from a brief respite yesterday afternoon, the rain came down thick and fast all weekend. I had planned to go shopping in Hampstead and mooch around on the Heath, but who can be bothered when leaving the house involves getting soaked to the skin?  So here’s what I did instead.

1. I went to see The King’s Speech – the play! – with my mummy in this very beautiful theatre. It was amazing – arguably better than the film, as it explores much more of the back story of Lionel Logue, the King’s speech therapist, and the reasons why he came to England in the first place. The actor who played the Archbishop of Canterbury was dreadful but everyone else was wonderful, and the set was brilliant too. The King’s Speech was a play before it was a film, but sadly this production has come too hot on the heels of the film’s success and will be closing early for lack of ticket sales. If you’re in London or its environs, see it while you can – you won’t regret it.

2. I made cookies from this wonderful recipe. Felicity Cloake always does brilliant recipes in The Guardian – she takes things that you actually want to cook/bake, tries loads of different versions, then comes up with an ‘ultimate’ that is easy to make and doesn’t involve you buying loads of random jars of spices/raising agents/dried/grated/ground fruits and nuts that you’ll never use again and cost a fortune. I have never made good cookies before – not for want of trying! – but this recipe really took the (pardon the pun) biscuit. There will be a scary moment when you add the flour because it seems like there is far too much of it to ever work its way into the dough but persevere – all will be well. Whatever you do, resist the temptation to add milk. I was very close to succumbing, but I kept beating with my spoon and eventually it all worked out. Felicity knows best! However, Felicity says to chill the cookie dough for at least 24 hours before baking the cookies but I totally ignored this as WHO ON EARTH is sufficiently prepared to decide what they want to eat 24 hours beforehand?! I wanted cookies and I wanted them now so I baked half the dough immediately and left the rest in the fridge for the following day. Felicity says chilling the dough makes them taste better, but I noticed no difference in taste whatsoever – both batches were absolutely delicious and I’ll be making more this week!

3. I cut my hair. My flatmate was away this weekend and whenever I am left to my own devices I get up to no good. After reading a book, cleaning my flat and eating my weight in cookies I was at a loose end. I couldn’t go outside, there was nothing on TV, and I was restless. I’ve been thinking of having a proper fringe cut into my hair for ages, but always panic at the last minute and get a side fringe instead. I was going out in the evening (yes I did brave the rain) and had nothing nice to wear, so in lieu of buying a new outfit, I changed my hairstyle. A quick tutorial video on YouTube made me feel I had sufficient knowledge to do a half decent job, and armed with my sewing scissors, I got cutting. I’m pretty happy with the result. The last time I cut my hair, I plaited it and cut the end off – not a great look. Before that, I used a hole punch, thinking I’d end up with an amazing pattern running through my hair that would be the envy of all my school friends. Logic has never been my strong point, but I’ve got better. At least this time I thought to get some instruction first!

4. I learned more about pre-war British art and got the inspiration for a new reading project. I have been reading the wonderful Ravilious in Pictures: Sussex and the Downs, which the magnificent Mainstone Press kindly sent me (more on this later in the week), and marvelling at the gorgeous paintings of the British countryside and the fascinating juxtaposition between traditional country ways and the encroachment of modern technology. I have had Romantic Moderns sitting by my bed for months, so I desperately need to start reading that to get more of a context for Ravilious and his contemporaries. I have also discovered the work of Brian Cook and the Batsford publishing house he worked for, which published a series of books in the 1930s and 1940s called ‘The Face of Britain’, exploring the soon to be forever changed landscape, architecture and cultural traditions of pre-war Britain. It’s not hard to pick some of these up, with their original, beautifully designed dustjackets, fairly cheaply from ebay. I have some winging their way to me as we speak. I can’t wait to get stuck in!