An English Summer: Day Two: The Darling Doves of Devon.

 In deepest Devon, looking over into Cornwall

Never thought I'd make the train this morning. Since I stayed up all night on the plane, and then spent my first day in London with Ron at Kenwood, remaining awake so as to get on English time, I successfully passed out cold at 10:30 PM. Was troubled by having painfully tweaked my arthritic thumb on my bag, but was able to sleep soundly till 6:30 AM and woke to find that thumb was much better as well as the rest of me. Called phone company and arranged for data roaming minutes so I could send pictures (it is a most unpleasant generational sensation to have the girl LAUGH at you when you say you're not sure you'll be able to figure it out), and repacked, leaving my carry on bag at the hotel and only taking a tote. I checked out, and they said I ought to have time for breakfast though it didn't start till 8; taking the tube from nearby Kings Cross to Paddington would only take 10 minutes. My train to Devon was at 9, and I could see that would be tight but I so hated to miss the George's full English breakfast! Greed naturally won out. I told the waitress I had to catch a train, and she very obligingly hurried, and I was able to scarf my heavenly plump English sausage, bacon, fried egg, beans, tomato, and heaps of brown toast with butter and honey. Then rushed out to the station, realizing no leeway had been made for not knowing where in station were the ticket collection machines, nor how to use them, not to mention finding the platform, and running long distances! And I tend to get flustered and blinkered in such situations, but there was simply no time for that: I could not. So I focused and actually made the train with 5 minutes to spare! Even got my reserved seat with a table, and am now sitting with a lovely cappuccino, gazing out at the scenery round Taunton, feasting my eyes on delicious green landscapes, while reading the equally delicious Armorel of Lyonnesse (1890s novel set on the island of Samson in the Scilly Isles, which I visited last trip).

 

My lovely hosts

And some of their lovely flowers

(Later) My friend Dove Grey Reader (Lynne, the well known Devonshire book blogger, whom I've long known online but was meeting in person for the first time) met me at Exeter St David station and we drove to her house which is in beautiful deep green countryside, lovely on a sunny day with fluffy English clouds above. The nearest village is Milton Abbot, and the larger town is Tavistock ("Tavy"). We went to Tavistock first, to the gorgeous Bedford hotel, very old and elegant. Had a lovely lunch, shrimp and crab sandwiches, then visited the Tavistock Pannier Market, an incredible 900 years old. There was lots to see and lots to buy, notably some very pretty English china, but my constant cry had to be, "Oh the lovely Victorian pitcher - no, I couldn't carry that home in my bag, could I..."

 

Tavistock Pannier Market - 900 years old!

Then we drove to DGR's house, through meltingly lovely Devon vistas. As we approached, through glimpses in the hedgerows I could see the beautiful land and stretch of the river Tamar that has a fine private salmon stream. In the distance, there were the hills of Cornwall, seemingly only a few fields over. At the house DGR's husband Bookhound welcomed me warmly as did their three cats, one blind, one deaf, both elderly, and a young tom whom the old dowagers keep strictly in line. Bookhound so kindly made and served lovely smoked salmon and cucumber sandwiches and a gorgeous plate of scones, Devon clotted cream, and jam. And plenty of first rate tea. The embodiment of Devon hospitality! We enjoyed all this outside chatting and breathing in the Devon air.

 

 Dove Grey Cat
 

Lots of excellent book talk along with the clotted cream - so many books that I now admire to acquire! And I was most honored to be given an exquisite hand made holder that DGR thoughtfully made especially for me - out of patchwork fabric of Jane Austen's handwriting and quilt, and the quote from one of her letters:  "Have you remembered to collect pieces for the patchwork? We are at a standstill..."  One of the most perfectly appropriate gifts I've ever received:  a perfect memento of a perfect day in Devon.



 A beautiful Jane Austen handmade gift!

 

We then went out for another drive around Dartmoor but didn't walk as the weather was starting to sock in, heavy clouds descending and rain. Could see some tempting tors, but in that weather DGR most convincingly explained how the mist can come down and you'd be lost. We stopped at a lovely inn (Two Bridges) and stretched out legs on a curious old rock bridge.



Then DGR drove me to her friend Rosie's farm where I was to sleep. Ancient stone buildings, a working dairy farm. Rosie a lovely lady and she kindly set me up with internet in her office so I could check mail before bed. Met her sweet husband, tired after his long day on the farm. The quietest place I ever slept, I think - lovely thick mattress, perfect duvet, big bathtub. I slept like a log from 10:30, as well I might!

 

Rosie's farm



Crocosmia, which was growing all over Devon

 

 

Dove Grey Reader's justly famous blog can be found here:

 

http://dovegreyreader.typepad.com/dovegreyreader_scribbles/

An English Summer: My visit, day one

I arrive in England - Kenwood House

 

Monday, August 4, 2014

Since I have moderate fear of flying, the flight dragged hour by hour as I kept my eye glued on the trip map. Air New Zealand flew well, but that was all they did (granted, it's enough). Although I was supposed to have a window seat so I could keep my eyes on the ground, they gave me my bete noire, a seat smack in the claustrophobic middle of the plane. This agony I had to endure for 10 hours, with only the nastiest of food, no internet, and not a single watchable movie (Nemo? Juno? Hobbit?). But then I got up and went to a window to see, and there at last were the foggy islands. The first sight of them never fails to bring tears to my eyes, on this my 33rd trip, just as it was on my first.

Cartwright Gardens - where I usually stay in London

 

 And then I was on the direct tube (Piccadilly Line) to Russell Square, looking out in the above-ground sections on a perfect London day. Low 70s, sunshine, fresh breezes, English greenery, the flowers of summer, buddlia and rosebay willow herb, oh so beautiful, and I have ten days of it stretching out before me! Reached my hotel, the George b & b in Cartwright Gardens, Bloomsbury, and had half an hour to wash up and get settled in my room before friend Ron Dunning (genealogist, musician, Austen family member) arrived. There's nothing lovelier than seeing a friend after a long journey, you feel welcomed and oriented straight away.  

 

Guide, philosopher, friend - Ron at Kenwood 

Ron, like the knight he is, promptly whisked me away on a lovely drive to Kenwood House on Hampstead Heath - a more glorious greeting to England can scarcely be imagined! There I was, just like that, in the midst of Constable landscapes come to life. We had tea first, in the garden, iconic delicious English delicacies, egg mayonnaise sandwich and Victoria sponge. The house was simply beautiful, a stunning Adam house filled with Rembrandts and Constables and beauties as far as the eye could see. We followed this with a refreshing walk on the Heath, more views across grass and landscape over the city in the long distance. Then Ron drove me back to the hotel. Lovely drive too, through fascinating London neighborhoods, and there's no better companion than Ron for such a journey, for he has "the knowledge." We had a spot of Tandoori at my favorite neighborhood Indian place, and then I staggered back to the George, for some much needed and sound sleep!

 

 

Egg mayonnaise and Victoria sponge!

The Dairy at Kenwood

 

Tandoori at Motijheel in Marchmont Street

"A Beautiful Statue" - Waxing Wicked on the Waxwork

"...she gave one the idea of a beautiful statue, and even now, in her coffin, there is such a sweet, serene air over her countenance as is quite pleasant to contemplate."



 

"If I must give my opinion, I have always thought it the most insipid play in the English language." - Jane Austen, Mansfield Park

 

 Since I, too, must give my opinion, here is what I think of the new waxwork figure of Jane Austen recently unveiled at the Jane Austen Centre in Bath. I don't actually dislike it; I like the dark, soft, intelligent eyes, and it is a sweet and thoughtful image. However, it looks too modern, with a suspicious nod to Keira Knightley. I do think they (sculptor Mark Richards and forensic artist Melissa Dring) did properly consult the existing photographs of Jane Austen's brothers Frank and Henry (the latter whom she was most especially said to resemble), and that was certainly the most logical place to start. Consequently the shape of the nose and eyes have a chance of being reasonably right, though of course all must really be guesswork. I question the narrowness of the face, for where are the round cheeks not only of contemporary description, but of Cassandra's own portrait? Poor though that portrait is, Cassandra probably at least had an idea of her sister's face shape, and showed it as rounded and nothing like as elongated as in this waxwork. Similarly, she really must have known how her sister wore her hair, and the tight short round curls of Cassandra's portrait are made nonsense of by the stylish Jean Shrimpton fringe of the waxwork! A woman of JA's day would not have worn her hair loosely falling in her eyes like a basset hound. That, despicably, is the movie influence again.

Cassandra's portrait

 

A friend mentioned the late Joan Austen-Leigh, one of the founders of JASNA, who inherited, through five generations, the exact nose of Jane Austen's mother, evidenced in a portrait silhouette. It was rather larger and more hooked than the noses of the brothers as seen in their photographs, but there is no reason to think that Jane Austen herself had her mother's very prominent nose; I'd accept that it was straighter, though still long, like the brothers', and like the silhouette of her sister Cassandra. I like the sculptor's version of the nose quite well.

Henry Austen

 

What irritates me most about the waxwork, however, is that sweet serene Mona Lisa expression. Maybe Jane Austen had a prettified insipid serenity after she was dead, and the spirit was all out of her. That's when Cassandra described her as looking like "a beautiful statue." The sculptor states that he was trying to make her appear like the woman who wrote all those wonderful books, and Melissa Dring says that Cassandra's portrait "really doesn't reflect the fun, witty, amusing person that all written accounts of her seem to portray." Well, true, but we may remember that Melissa Dring's own forensic drawing of Austen was absolutely appalling, making her look like a red-cheeked barmaid. She got so much abuse for it that no wonder the color has been toned down in this image, which is as pale as waxwork indeed, even though contemporary descriptions did say Austen had a high color. (Not like Melissa Dring's idea of high color I am sure, which was brick red alcoholic poisoning.)

Portrait by Melissa Dring

Although Dring made Jane Austen look almost cartoonish with her extreme coarse smirk, at least she has some expression (and she got the curls more accurately close to Cassandra's version). The waxwork has erased almost all expression except that of an elegaic, disappointed purity, and that arranged, composed mouth and lower face, in particular,  remind me of nothing so much as a laid-out corpse. I was very strongly reminded of an anecdote choreographer Agnes de Mille tells in her memoirs, Dance to the Piper:

"One day [Marie] Rambert explained to me why I did not give the appearance of beauty and ease which, she added, was the basis of all attraction. Standing before the great studio mirror (this interview was mercifully held in private), she arranged my face as she had so often arranged my members, pulling the eyebrows long, folding down the lids to look languid (the Sylphide expression - the expression of detached absorption which, Rebecca West once said, always reminded her of light constipation), twirling up the corners of my mouth. When she had done she said, 'There, that is my idea of relaxed serenity.' I raised the drooping lids and peeked without altering the tilt of my head. Stark amazement and shock stared back. It was the arranged face of a corpse."

Is that not reminiscent of what Richards and Dring have done here? The composed arrangement, the folded mouth, the demure maidenly ballet preparatory position of the arms (which may have brought to my mind the ballet reference above), may be forensically accurate, but this is a mild image of a still and silent presence, tinged with sadness rather than wit. A number of Janeites have called it "placid," and indeed there's no suggestion of Jane Austen's indomitable humor, keenness, subversiveness, or vibrancy.  It may have some spurious forensic accuracy, but "The letter killeth, and the spirit breatheth life." Really there ought to be a medium between Tring's barmaid smirk and this sculptor's posed composed arrangement. A little subacid humor maybe?  But no.  This is a pale vanilla waxwork.  A picture of perfection, such as makes me sick and wicked.  

 

 

Visit to the Getty to see "A Royal Passion: Queen Victoria and Photography"

I waited until rather late in its run (it closes June 8) to visit the exhibit "A Royal Passion: Queen Victoria and Photography" at the Getty, figuring I'd go to the lecture by the exhibit's curator, Anne M. Lyden, formerly of the Getty and now curator of international photography at the Scottish National Portrait Gallery. Getting anywhere in L.A. is penitential these days - the 405 is being reconstructed and there are complicated detours, plus Sunday turned out to be not the best day to be at the Getty, which was a mass of tourists. I got there gnashing my teeth with tension, as I always do after encounters with Freeway L.A., and it takes some soothing to come down from that state. When I arrived at the screening of "Belle" feeling that way, the film quickly took me into another world, and made the expedition worth it. I'm not sure the Victoria exhibit came up to that. I'm all for museums and lectures in London and New York, but the reasons why I try never to go anywhere in L.A. all revolve around the exasperating tensions that come with being cut off by Mercedes tanks at 75 mph.

 

And after all, the lecture itself was rather disappointing. It introduced and accompanied the photographs but was a very basic overview.  I was familiar with most of the images shown in the slideshow, though I did enjoy several domestic scenes I'd never seen before, such as the one (below) of Victoria holding a picture of Albert she intended as a gift for him. Yet I must admit I came away feeling I hadn't learned very much. Despite the familiarity of the material, there was still plenty of room for intelligent observations and commentary that would have helped us to see more, but this was not given. You can tell when a lecturer is only too aware she's talking to Californians, and says things like, "Westminister - that's the seat of government, you know," and includes pictures of Kate and Wills. Really?

 

Still, when I visited the exhibition rooms afterward it was an impressive collection of picture indeed, and nice to see them in their "real" form, shape and size. The commentary had at least placed them in time sequence, yet it was hard to actually study the pictures to try to discern more for myself, as many were so small and not easy to see, hung high in some cases. It wasn't the best arrangement for small photographs, which a single other observer can block completely. 

What I ended up liking most was the related exhibits, such as pictures from the Great Exhibition and the Manchester art exhibition of the 1850s. Some of the faces shown - poor people, military, ordinary families - were fantastic, a true revelation of the past. It was also wondrous to see rare photographs of famous London sites and buildings as they looked in the mid-19th century, empty spaces without cars. These panoramas were adjacent and incidental to the Victoria exhibit, with no connection  pointed out in any comprehensible way, but at least they were there for the eye to see.

 

 My favorite picture in the exhibition: the monkey face of the man in the center is so arresting!

Yet no elating, elevating impression exuded from this exhibit.  Noisy Sunday strollers wandered through, talking not of Michelangelo. The guards were so militant you felt unpleasantly that they were waiting to pounce, barking at everyone who pulled out a cell phone camera as if they were planning destruction. (I thought of the lovely Metropolitan in New York which not only permits you to take pictures of anything in their permanent collection, but has even released hundreds of thousands of images!)  The many familiar photographs of Victoria and Albert were repetitive, though it was nice to see them in the original, and the array of cartes de visites was particularly impressive, containing shots I'd never seen.

The exhibit didn't seem to have made up its mind if it was about Victoria and Albert as photographic subjects or about early photography itself; there was no clear thematic unity that I could discern. I was feeling vaguely dissatisfied until I noticed the book of the exhibition, A Royal Passion, Queen Victoria and Photography, by Anne M. Lyden. And there was what I'd been wanting to see - stunningly perfect reproductions of the photographs, much easier to see and examine, all the rare pictures you wanted to linger over, with some explanatory text. Since this was selling at half price, I nabbed a copy, and I think this is where I will finally find my exhibit satisfaction.  Passion was the exact element that was missing from the lecture and exhibition, but it may be on the page.

 

I took notes on the lecture and reproduce them below.

The slide show began with the 1857 Osborne picture of the whole Royal Family, baby Princess Beatrice six weeks old, and an earlier photograph from the mid 1840s with the Princess Royal as a baby. Victoria and Albert were acknowledged for having grasped the archive concept so that there were 20,000 pictures in their private collection by the end of the reign. Most of these family photos were meant to be private, or only shared with friends and family (like the Duchesse de Nemours, or Prince Leopold), and they are intimate and homely. For public consumption there were portraits like those by Winterhalter, presenting the Royal Family in a far more glamorous and regal light; some photographs were used as the basis for paintings.

One photograph by William Kilburn showing the Queen and five of her children in 1852 was disliked by the Queen because she had her eyes closed, and she defaced the picture, rubbing herself out. Another version of it has her turned to the side, wearing a bonnet so you can't see her face. "Mine was horrid but the children were pretty," she wrote about it.

The first picture of the Queen after her accession in 1837, addressing her council, showed her wearing virginal white, and she disliked the picture as inaccurate. A full length Winterhalter of 1859 was made her official likeness, "full length of me in grand costume," she wrote. For a bust by Alexander and William Brodie at the National Galleries of Scotland she wanted to "look Scottish," and wore a thistle, but the sculptor committed suicide and his brother had to complete the work. Then there's the Roger Fenton photograph of 1854, with Victoria in a plaid shawl, scissors hanging from her chatelaine; and a family group with her mother, which was sent to Leopold. Another 1854 photograph, by Bryan Edward Duppa, shows Victoria in profile, holding a picture of Albert, meant as a surprise for him. Fenton became a favorite family photographer and Victoria commissioned him to hand colour some of the pictures for a natural look.

One Fenton photograph people often take for a wedding picture, as it shows Victoria in white looking soulfully at Albert, but it was actually taken in 1854, and they were dressed for a Drawing Room. Edward Henry Corbauld did the painted, idealized version, an early example of Victoria creating her own image. In 1857 the carte de visite became popular, with the famous (Dickens, Nightingale, Winterhalter) having cards made, and Victoria commissioned cartes of her and Albert circa 1860, that sold like hot cakes. These images made her look very domestic and maternal, not threatening, as a female monarch might be taken to be. Though when Queen Isabella of Spain sent a grand portrait of herself, Victoria competitively had one made in very stately royal gown.

After Albert died in 1862 she asked William Bambridge to take images of the family in mourning around his bust, and for Bertie's wedding to Alexandra the family stood by the bust again. These images were released to the public, though not idealized. Such photographs became her public face. The famous one of her on her horse with John Brown near her, had the image of a second ghillie cut off, to make it seem that she was more intimate with him than perhaps she was. Later, after the Prince of Wales's illness in 1872, Victoria appeared in a thanksgiving portrait, in a startling costume with fur trim, quite unlike her familiar black mourning crinolines.

After becoming Empress of India in 1876 her portraits grew more imperial; the Bassano image of 1882 retouched her wrinkles, jowls, and slimmed her down. "God knows there is nothing to admire in my ugly old person," she told Vicky. Downey's Diamond Jubilee portrait of 1893 (painted in 1897), showed her all in lace and diamonds with a fan; the copyright was removed, and this image went viral - all over soap, chocolate, dishes.

One interesting image that was not in the slide show, I found in the exhibit itself, a daguerrotype where you looked through a scope, of Victoria in 1854, photographed by Antoine Claudet, in which she has ringlets and unusually has a rather pretty, almost Spanish look.

Here's the link to the exhibit:  http://www.getty.edu/art/exhibitions/victoria/victoria_photography.html

 

Meet My Main Character by Diana Birchall

 



For the fun and honor of the thing, I'm taking part in a game started by author Debbie Brown of the English Historical Fiction Authors Blog.  (I'm sorry I can't link to the site; any kind reader want to teach me how to link, I'd be grateful!)

The game is called "Meet My Main Character," and writers around the world are answering a series of questions about the main character of their work in progress. They then post these to their blogs, and tag others to follow. So, now here's me answering the questions. 

 

1) What is the name of your character? Is she fictional or a historic person?

Well, yes and no!  For she is Jo March, of Little Women fame, who was her real life originator Louisa May Alcott's alter ego.  If not precisely an historical figure, Jo Marsh is a fictional character who has taken on a unique and timeless reality.

2) When and where is the story set?

Ah, there's the rub.  The story takes place around 1907.  Jo March, who was 15 years old at the start of Little Women, during the Civil War, will, I hypothesize, be about sixty years old at the time of my novel.  For many years, of course, she  has been "Mrs. Jo" Bhaer.

3) What should we know about her?

I am assuming that my readers know pretty much everything about Jo.  I could have done it two ways:  write a novel about a sixtysomething Jo for people who don't necessarily have any clear memory of Little Women (or may never have even read it), or a literal imagining, for those who not only know and love the world of Little Women but are probably also acquainted with its sequels, Little Men and Jo's Boys. 

4) What is the main conflict? What messes up her life?

What messes up Jo's life is, in truth, a very sad event. Being in her sixties, and married to a much older man, it is natural that in the course of time she would become a widow.  And so, yes readers, I had to kill off dear old Professor Bhaer.  The book opens with Fritz's death, and with Jo facing a new life alone. 

5) What is the personal goal of the character?

Always active, eager, imaginative, original, on fire to help others and to throw herself into causes, it is inevitable that "Mrs. Jo" would take a great interest in women's suffrage, as Louisa May Alcott herself did.  And 1907/8 was the height of the dramatic suffragist movement in England.  So Jo, soon after being widowed, travels to England with her two nieces, and joins the movement - as a suffragette, marching, organizing, writing, and speaking alongside the likes of the Pankhursts. Jo's goal is to help women: and in doing so, she also helps herself.

As an older heroine may not be exciting to many readers, we also have the adventures of Jo's two nieces.  Josie, whom Alcott aficionados will remember as the theatre-mad teenager from Jo's Boys, is now a famous and dedicated stage actress in her 30s, who travels to England on a theatrical tour, at the same time as her aunt's suffragette mission.  Will she find the kind of success, and love, she hopes for?  The third heroine (for my "Meet My Main Character" is a triumverate!), is young Lulu, based on the real-life daughter of Louisa May Alcott's sister May ("Amy" in Little Women), whom Alcott adopted after May's death.  Lulu and her father Laurie are also in the traveling party, and Lulu embarks on some bluestocking adventures at Cambridge.  As for Laurie - well, you'll have to read it and see.  But I can tell you he's pretty worried about his older daughter, beautiful Bess, who is part of a very louche, bohemian, artistic Paris set, that includes Colette and Proust...

 Young actress Josie in an illustration from Jo's Boys
 



Lulu Niericker, Louisa May Alcott's real-life niece

6) Is there a working title for this novel, and can we read more about it?

It is called Jo on the March.  A short excerpt is at the bottom of this post.

7) When can we expect the book to be published?

As soon as I can find a publisher!  Suggestions are very welcome.  I'm not sure if it should have a Young Adult publisher, for not many modern young readers are likely to have the requisite knowledge of Alcott's background and characters. A literary publisher who thinks a Little Women sequel might find some interested readers and fans, is what I seek.

The 1908 Suffragette march that Jo goes on

Thank you for reading!  The author I've tagged who will publish her answers to "The Questions" on (or soon after) 15th April is:  Lyndsy Spence, author of The Mitford Girls Guide to Life.  Damn, sorry I can't link to her either.  Will somebody PLEASE come and help technically challenged author already?!

I can't even make a link to an excerpt, but must copy it entire.  Here it is:

At Sea 

Aboard the Mauretania.

Here we are, my dear Meg, writing Ship’s Letters. We will do a good old-fashioned Round Robin, so be sure to circulate to all at home.

I confess to having a little weep when we left; and another when your Demi bid us farewell at the dock in New York and we saw the last of the dear family faces. It is so hard to part, when who knows what dangers may come between us; but we are off to the Old World, which will be new in Lulu’s eyes, at least. Josie and I, old hands, have no romance about the discomforts and inconveniences of life aboard ship, and we are thankful to have such a gallant gentleman as Teddy to play escort. 

We are snugly set up in our stateroom. Snug as in small, for we women unanimously insisted that Teddy must not be allowed to pay for us to have a first class cabin; he did try, but we were too many for him, and he was properly foiled. So here we are installed, all ship-shape, in our neat little second class cabin, with four rather cramped bunk beds bolted to the floor. Lulu takes the upper, I the lower, and Josie has the other lower one, while the upper is taken by a little governess, Miss Marks, who is going out with an American family, the Parchers. We don’t know them, the father is a New York merchant, rather vulgar I fancy, judging by the demands they make upon our cabin mate; and they are all installed in first class, even the children. Miss Marks is a shy, quiet little person, and will be on the upper deck with her charges much of the time, so she is no encumbrance, poor thing, and we are quite by ourselves most of the time.

Not that we can expect to see Lulu in our stateroom very often; that child is all over the ship, poking her nose into everything, and I have had to remonstrate with her more than once. It is tiresome to have to play governess myself, at my age, but Teddy assures me that it will do her no harm to explore the ship to her heart’s content, and Josie looks out for her too, so with three pairs of eagle eyes upon her, our little eaglet can’t get into much mischief. Propriety is not what it used to be, in the year of our Lord 1908, not at all the same system that we knew under our dear Marmee. Lulu is an advanced young woman of the twentieth century and is quite as capable of climbing the riggings as of buttonholing the captain with questions. I hope we have not undertaken too much in bringing the child to England. I do know the gracious chaperonage Amy would have wished for her is alas beyond our united power to provide, and I only hope we can keep her from getting into outright scrapes from one moment to the next!

It is our third day out; I was a trifle unwell yesterday, but have my sea legs now, and am sitting in my own deck chair, books around me, sipping broth and nibbling biscuits like a squirrel. The food aboard ship is as usual far too abundant: dinners with endless courses, squab and forced meats and creations of angelica and fallals all set out in the most ostentatiously grand wood-panelled dining room. There is no end of dressing up for dinner, and that I find more trying than the motion of the ship, so for the most part I am contenting myself with apples and bread and milk. That is the diet for shipboard, and I have advised Lulu not to stuff, though it is like talking to the wind, and she is too old for me to forbid her sweeties. At any rate, being at sea seems to suit her as well as Josie and they are both in fine fettle. None of us are the worse for some slight pitching during the night, and Teddy is in capital form: he is in the saloon now, smoking a cigar, I am sorry to say, but I do believe the sea breezes are breathing new life into him, and he is quite brisk. We are to have a regular old-folks promenade on deck shortly. So do not worry about us, dear Meg. I hope all is well back at home, that Nat is doing better, and that Daisy is not too much distressed about him. 

Your loving old salt of a sister,

Jo

Pictures from New York

Washington Irving's house Sunnyside in Tarrytown, NY

I flew to New York with friend Jane all unaware that I was seated next to a man with the dreaded New York Lurgy which dropped its bomb on me a week later, thus accounting for the flaccidity of my present prose.  So there will be little writing and much lethargic uploading of pictures.

Jane and me at Tarrytown House

First event was a very nice weekend Austen conference put on by JASNA-NY in Tarrytown. We stayed at attractive Tarrytown House, listened to some pleasant speakers and had a side trip to Washington Irving's historic house at nearby Sunnyside.

Winter aconites at Tarrytown

A solemn procession of costumes at Tarrytown

 

The Regency Doctor

 

Marsha Huff, Susan Allen Ford, and me

 

In Central Park (the pretty coat is an $8 Salvation Army find!) 

 

My view from the Larchmont on 11th Street, between Fifth and Sixth

 

Next event, a lovely Turkish dinner on the Upper West Side with some of my Hunter friends, always a warm and welcoming and intensely New Yorkish delight.

Hunter friends in fine form 



Spent much time with my father-in-law, but also ventured out for my cousin Anne's art exhibit, and a lovely time spent with her and another cousin, Alice.  Also saw Anne's daughter Joanna, soon to turn 17, and their Comical Kitties.

Anne's exhibit at St. Peter's Church

 



Three cousins. Alice, Anne and me.

 

Cat by Joanna


Joanna's Cat
 

 

The young artist
 

 
Girl with Cat, Jan Cornelisz Vermeyer, 1545 (at the Met)
 



Then a visit with my old friend Laurie, who once was a movie studio story analyst like me but now is the Cardinal Lady of the Central Park Ramble.  When you walk through the Ramble alone, you'll see nary a red bird, but when Laurie appears, there are suddenly 15 of them. 



 





Snowdrops in the Ramble

Finish off with some nice New York food...and then home again to work and lurgy.

Matzoh Ball Soup, Katz's

 

 Cafe Sabartzky, Neue Gallery

The Cats Go to the Vet (Alert the Media!)

Pindy being examined - a study in beautiful resignation

 

It was high time. It was past time. It was two and a half years since we took the three cats to the vet. We kept putting it off and off and off, because they were quite well, and because wrangling the three of them into their three cat carriers is a chore beyond the three of us humans - we are no match for them. Peter recuses himself, because he is so tender-hearted where the cats are concerned, he can't bear hearing even an unhappy squeaklet. And it had to be done, because Paul starts a new librarian job tomorrow and won't be available to help me wrestle moggies for months.

 

Help me? He did the whole thing. I tried a feeble method, putting treats in the carriers, and when Marshy stuck her head in to get one, I tried shoving her in, but that ended in the cat being twenty feet away and on full alert. We turned a carrier on end, Paul picked up Pindar in his arms, dropped her in and slammed down the door. One down. Somehow he swooped Marshy up in his arms too, and once he had her firmly, he gave her the same treatment. Two down.

 

Paul and cats in waiting room

 

That left Catullus. After being chased all around the house, she cagily took refuge behind the couch. I moved the couch, she ran out onto the terrace, and Paul trapped her there. Already exhausted, we carried the cats down to the car, and drove to the vet's, less than a mile, with Pindy crying hard all the way. It's a cute little cabin-like office, a sort of Venice hippie place, that's been in business forty years, and is full of souvenirs of the vet's travels. They're very nice people and charge very little. They also don't take appointments; you bring in the animals and wait. We've always been lucky going in late afternoon; no one was ahead of us, and we brought the three catties into the examining room right away.



They never scratch anybody, but just assume poses of pained but passive resignation. Limply, they were weighed, and to our surprise, the short haired but firmly muscled Alpha, Pindy, out-weighed fat furball Marshy, at 14.9 pounds to Marshy's 13.10. Tully looks nearly as big, but it's all fur - she only weighed 11.12. Their nails were cut, and then one of the vets, a pleasant woman, came in to examine them one at a time. She pronounced them all very healthy, and only carrying a little too much weight! We were pleased that she was so impressed with Pindar, whom she called a very unusual cat, a perfect Torbie, and gorgeous. That's a tortoiseshell tabby, but she has swirls rather than the usual tabby pattern, and lovely streaks of red, as well as that exquisite face. The other two are standard Tortoiseshells, and she complimented them on their gentle good nature, since there's not much that's polite to say for their clownish faces!

 

A bohemian vet's office with lots of personality!

 

The trouble came when the assistants realized they hadn't taken Marshy's temperature. She had to be pulled out of her box again, but when they tried to use the thermometer she let out a scream. Afraid there might be something wrong with her bottom, they called back the vet. Three people had to hold her down, and there emerged from that cat a noise I never heard from her or any other cat before. Not the high yowling scream you hear when they mate in the street at night; no, more like the foghorn of the Queen Mary right in the room with you. The doctor quickly noted there was nothing wrong with her bottom, it was just that Marshy had reached that moment when it was All Too Much. Back she was allowed to scuttle into her box.

 The drive home was serene, compared; Pindy sat on Paul's lap in her box and enjoyed looking out the window. They couldn't get out of their boxes fast enough, and spent the rest of the day lying around the house in poses of limp, subdued exhaustion. So did we. 

 

Pindy cowering in her box, with that "Et tu, Brute?" look