The Selling of Jane Austen and the Raising of Cats

"It's Spring now, dammit"





















Spring in Santa Monica






















As Jane Austen's popularity explodes out of all propriety, I wish I could learn to like the changes that are occurring in the greater Jane Austen universe. But what was once a cozy community of people who shared an enthusiasm, has become a worldwide mass culture industry, and I feel much as I do about the disappearance of small secondhand bookshops: like a small, aging person being trodden over by a machine. Perhaps what I need is someone to preach patience and resignation to me, as Anne did to Captain Benwick in Persuasion.

No, this is not a cry out against the zombie and vampire books, or the thousand and one stunningly un-Scheherazade-like clunky sequels. It's hardly for me to object to them. After all, I was an early participant in the phenomenon - my Mrs. Darcy's Dilemma was written in 1994, and I believe was the first Pride and Prejudice sequel since the 1940s, and I've played with pastiche and committed continuations to my heart's delight, ever since. Nor is my conscience completely easy on the vampire front. Noticing several years ago that vampire novels and Austen-related books were selling gigantically, it occurred to me to pair the two, in the firm belief that connecting Transylvania and Chawton would be the way to massive best sellerdom. Unfortunately for my bank account, much as I tinkered with the idea, it never took hold, the way a book does when it's going well. My Achilles heel was the sucking of blood. I could not write vampire scenes to save my life. So I resigned myself to the knowledge that inevitably somebody else would come up with the Vampire Jane formula and make their fortune, but it wouldn't be me. And in the event, that is exactly what happened. Whoever-it-is that did it got a million dollar deal. Fair enough: if you can't make vampires come to life, no paycheck. So it's not the squalid sequels and supernatural spin-offs that really disturb me (though I must say that the cover art for Pride and Prejudice and Zombies does make me literally lurchingly sick to my stomach). No, it's the wholesale changes in the Austen world itself in the last few years, that make me sicker than even the picture of poor Austen with her teeth rotting in her bared skull. (To refresh ourselves after the sickening image, let us turn to momentarily to a soothing rather than a distressing sight: a picture of Pindar, in her nine-month-old, adolescent kitten beauty.)

Pindar, Pindy, Miss Pin, a Picture of Perfection





What are these changes in the Austen universe, and why do they pain me so? First, there is the massive spate of Austen films that have introduced millions of people to her works that never read her before. In some kind of antifeminist crucifixion, like Aslan patiently enduring torture by the evil beasts, she has been hoisted into media superstar status. It's true that universal admiration is no more than she deserves, because there is no more wonderful writer. But popular culture, in playing to the lowest common denominator, distorts and defaces the beloved object. Jane Austen is literally being loved to death, but what the masses are insensately loving, isn't her. The zombiefication of Jane is only a cheerful quirky joke. What saddens me is her not being appreciated and understood as she should be, her work being taken for something it is not. She herself is beyond caring, and most will think that commercial exploitation does no harm if it spreads the word that she is worth reading. Perhaps she should not be kept only as an elixir for the elite, but it is painful to me nonetheless to see her defaced and spread out over the English speaking world like a grotesque plasticine puppet. I confess to wishing that she could be rolled up and stuffed back into a little bit of ivory.

Jane Austen's brilliant writing, with its Johnsonian balance of prose, its endless subtle witticisms and meanings, its unsparing dark humor concealed under decorum, is no banal celluloid romance fiction. Few writers can be re-read so often, not dozens, but hundreds and thousands of times, with a new beauty, a new shade of meaning, a new foreshadowing, a new private ghostly laugh, being revealed every time. Only Shakespeare compares, and Shakespeare, though interpreted in thousands of different ways, has not been mutilated and traduced to this extent, with quite this rapine degree of glee, with vultures falling on the victim, triumphantly holding up and auctioning the gizzard. Perhaps Shakespeare's shade gets more respect, as a male shade. Perhaps it's because the framework of each of Austen's novels is that of a happy ending love story, and the majority of the present generation of filmgoers and sequel-readers take her for a romantic novelist, remaining unaware of the riches and complexity that lie beneath the surface, and take a lifetime of reading to discover. My palpitations at this point require smelling-salts: let us turn to Pindar in another glamorous pose. Does she not bring to mind the young Marilyn Monroe, nude on red crumpled silk?

The Marilyn Monroe Pose




















Perhaps I am simply mad. Who else but a madwoman reads Jane Austen over and over for a whole lifetime, and thinks every one of the films (with a grudging nod for the Emma Thompson Sense and Sensibility) is a misshapen child that would better have been smothered in the screenplay stage? It's a contrarian, minority, curmudgeonly, peculiarly sour, point of view. But I will defend my opinion until the moment when like my idol and mentor, I arrive at the point of asking for "Nothing but death." I will go down reading. Still, I don't have to buy anyone else's sequels (I don't), or go to any more of the films (never again). Why, oh why, does the popularization of Jane Austen disturb me so? Is it because she was all about the fitness of things, and the wholesale gross distortion of her work is so patently unfit?

"Two offences of a very different nature, and by no means of equal magnitude, you last night laid to my charge."

I will present two exhibits, which together give something of the flavor of the Austen universe today, and what it has become. The anecdotes come from widely different quarters, but cover the spectrum.

The Madness of Scholars



















In the April 24 edition of the Times Literary Supplement, the Australian academic Jocelyn Harris did a fairly comprehensive bashing of the last book in the Cambridge Edition of the Complete Works of Jane Austen, Jane Austen's Later Manuscripts, edited by Janet Todd and Linda Bree. It had the look of a hatchet job, making the reader wonder if there was a motive behind. Generally, with such a distinguished work of scholarship as the Cambridge Edition, a scholarly reviewer might cavil on some points, or argue the pros and cons of the publication of another edition of Jane Austen. So this review was mean spirited enough to raise suspicions. The answer was not far to seek, for the open secret in Austen academic publishing, is (as Mr. Weston said about Emma's marriage, "These matters are always a secret, till it is found out that every body knows them") that Jocelyn Harris was originally hired to edit one of the volumes of the Cambridge Edition herself, and was subsequently asked to withdraw because her work was not up to par. She was one of two editors who had to be let go during the long and arduous process of assembling this ambitious work. In their response to Harris's review, the editors Janet Todd and Linda Bree countered her criticisms point by point, and concluded by saying, "We are particularly disappointed that the review shows such little understanding of how a scholarly edition handles primary and secondary texts."

Is not something awry in the Austen studies segment of the Austen universe, when such contentious rivalries are fought out in high places? That a rejected scholar might be assigned by the TLS to trash the very project she was sacked from? Such things have always happened in book publishing and reviewing, but this comes on the heels of the still more public spitting of cross-accusations between the Austen authors Claire Harman and Kathryn Sutherland. Sutherland, an Oxford academic, charged in the London Telegraph that biographer Harman, her former student, in her new book Jane’s Fame: How Jane Austen Conquered the World, used her ideas without adequately crediting them. Why do such celebrated public literary quarrels, seem to be occurring ever more frequently in Austen studies? Because fame, riches, academic reputation, popularity, glittering prizes, are all at stake as never before. When we think of the poignant delighted collection Jane Austen made of the little scraps of reviews and commentary she received for Mansfield Park, we can imagine her wonder that such infightings were inspired by herself.

Away from the scholarly world, in the more comfortable coze of Janeite meetings, which I have attended with cheerful alacrity these three decades, there has been a disheartening downward drift of standards for such events. At a recent and otherwise delightful celebration, the main speaker, a professor, had as his topic "Jane Austen - Liberal or Conservative?", which ought to have been interesting, and he took the respectable middle-of-the-road opinion that she was probably a moderate Tory. However, his talk was disappointingly simplistic, and became dangerously close to offensive when with great condescension he lectured the audience on the "danger" of imposing modern day politics on Jane Austen's beliefs - and then turned around and proceeded to say how "we've seen all her characters before," and list how they were like George Bush, Dick Cheney, and Miss Piggy! The information he communicated was limited, and his manner was as if his listeners were freshman who might not understand his erudite points unless he spoke very slowly and with emphasis ("Excuse me for comparing Jane Austen to the Muppets!"). Too many freshmen, too many dull meetings, had evidently turned him into a Mr. Palmer, whom Elinor found to have "too great an aptitude to fancy himself as much superior to people in general, as he must feel himself to be to Mrs. Jennings and Charlotte."

The political theme continued at lunch, where attendees were urged to discuss the question: "If Obama is Mr. Darcy, then what character is like what politician?" This made me writhe, feeling it inappropriate and unfunny, and I did not play the game, but talked about my cats instead. (Always the safest refuge.) At the end of lunch someone from each table read their answers. I was completely confounded when no less than three groups of people spontaneously came up with the absurd conclusion that not only was Obama very like Mr. Darcy, but Elizabeth Bennet was like Michelle Obama! The company was pleasant, and as Jane Austen said, "much was said, and much was ate" - but little was learned, and I came away feeling depressed, despairing, and alienated.

Perhaps I have lived too long in the Jane Austen world, and am suffering the old fogey's distress at the generations moving on and the young ones liking different things in Austen than the old ones, but I think not. I know there must be young ones who are even now discovering the subtleties and rich wit in Austen instead of taking the movies themselves as representations of Jane Austen, or revelling in illiterate retellings of Mr. Darcy's every orgasmic groan. But the big time scholastic bickering, the heavy duty commercial pitches, and the dumbing down of even the cheeriest Austen meetings, produces a changed landscape in which I, like Fanny looking out at the starry night, sigh alone at the window.

The changes in my cats have been noticeable as well, but they are, by contrast, of a natural and normal growth. Allow me to illustrate. Here are Pindar and Martial in a Staples xerox paper box, at about five months old:


Little Boxes




















And here they are today, in reverse order, but the same size box:






















They are bigger, and growing bonnier, every day. In proof of this I will now celebrate Catullus, who as a kitten was the ugliest little black goblin ever abandoned. She was underweight when we got her, three and a half pounds at four months old, so thin her shoulder blades stuck out like knives and she seemed hunched and oddly put together.

Baby Goblin



















Peter educates the baby Catullus





















She was always sweet, but a very needy, clingy little cat, who often tried to suckle on her sisters, particularly Pindar, who bore it with patience. But of late, Catullus has bloomed! Her coat is thick and glossy, and she is so large and fine that at times it's even hard to tell her apart from the gynormous Martial: we do it by remembering that Martial is the color of milk chocolate while Catullus is the dark chocolate one. Like all tortoiseshells, their lush brown fur is shot through with streaks of red and white and black.

Catullus, in her youthful beauty, reminds me of the young Elizabeth Taylor in National Velvet:



Glamour Queen


















And here are two pictures that show our beauties' variegated and glossy coats, to send you on your way as happy as they make me.

The glossy-coated cats



















Dark chocolate and milk chocolate

Cats and Daffodils, or, Arch Duchess Knurry-murry-purry-hurry-skurry

I never liked Southey. It was his letter to Charlotte Bronte that did the business. When she was twenty-one, she wrote to ask the then Poet Laureate (1837) for his advice on a writing career, and he responded with, "Literature cannot be the business of a woman’s life, and it ought not to be. The more she is engaged in her proper duties, the less leisure she will have for it, even as an accomplishment and a recreation. To those duties you have not yet been called, and when you are you will be less eager for celebrity.” Charlotte wrote back, politely but not without sarcasm, "I trust I shall never more feel ambitious to see my name in print; if the wish should rise, I'll look at Southey's letter, and suppress it."

Daffodils at Ullwater






















Yet I came across a quote about Southey that was positively endearing, and won me to him, for the man had a nicer side. He liked cats! Yes, he did, and he sounds quite as silly about them as I am. This catly quote comes from the excellent book by Kathleen Jones, A Passionate Sisterhood: The Sisters, Wives and Daughters of the Lake Poets:

"Southey once remarked that a home was not complete unless it contained a three-year- old child and a six-week-old kitten. [He had] a whole tribe of cats with names like Pulcheria, Madame Bianchi, Lord Nelson, Bona Fidelia, Baron Chinchilla, Rumpelstilzchen, Hurlyburlybuss and the Arch Duchess Knurry-murry-purry-hurry-skurry. Prester John gave birth to a litter of kittens and had to be renamed Pope Joan. Their lineages, escapades and 'cat-astrophes' were recorded by Southey in 'Memoirs of Cats Eden,' an essay written for Edith May and subsequently published in The Doctor. Cats Eden was often given as the address on his letter-headings. Southey loved children and became a benevolent father-substitute to his niece and nephews. He regularly wrote stories and poems for them, the most famous of which is the tale of the Three Bears."
























"The Three Bears" illustration by Arthur Rackham (with a suspicious resemblance to my three cats)

A Passionate Sisterhood is a good companion piece to Janet Todd's Death and the Maidens, which is about the life of Fanny Imlay and gives much insight into the Shelley/Byron circle, and the way the not-so-Romantic poets treated their women. Jones's book shows that Coleridge and Wordsworth, like Shelley and Byron, were social idealists in theory, but the lives of their women tell another story. Typically, Coleridge wrote, "I can neither retain my Happiness nor my Faculties, unless I move, live, & love, in perfect Freedom..." A woman did not have the right to expect a man to love only one woman, and Coleridge does not say what is to happen to a woman's need for "perfect freedom." He also wrote, "The perfection of every woman is to be characterless. Creatures who, though they may not always understand you, always feel you and feel with you."


A very private love: Martial on my lap






















Sara Hutchinson, whom Southey loved, took a different view. "Old Maid as I am, don't think that, though I firmly believe that the balance of comfort is on our side, I am a favorer of a single life - comfort is but a meagre thing after all - but I have seen such misery in the marriage life as would appal you if you had seen it. Such millstones about the neck of worthy men! Of course you will not suppose that I think all the fault belongs to the women."

Coleridge's daughter, Sara Coleridge, was a literary lady, and wrote of her favorite authors: "The profundity of Mme de Stael, the brilliancy of Mrs. Hemans (though I think her over-rated), the pleasant broad comedy of Miss Burney and Miss Ferrier, the melancholy tenderness of Miss Bowles, the pathos of Inchbald and Opie, the masterly sketching of Miss Edgeworth (who like Hogarth paints manners as they grow out of morals, and not merely as they are modified and tinctured by fashion); the strong and touching, but sometimes coarse pictures of Miss Martineau...and last not least the delicate mirth, the gently-hinted satire, the feminine decorous humour of Jane Austen."

But when Sara Coleridge married her cousin, Henry, and gave birth to two children in two years, becoming extremely ill, she begged her husband to allow her two or three years' respite from child-bearing. "This assurance Henry felt himself unable to give. They were newly married - he had an ardent nature; abstinence was unthinkable."



















An Elegant Caged Female


Against this background, Jane Austen's decision to remain single looks more attractive. Or there was the option of taking up a place on the sofa as an invalid, like Elizabeth Barrett Browning. (I really am getting to like Mary Wollstonecraft more and more.) I don't know any pair of books that have taught me more about women's condition in the 18th and early 19th century than A Passionate Sisterhood and Death and the Maidens.

Reading them led me, naturally, to ponder how familiar Austen was with Wordsworth and Coleridge, and how their work affected her. The perfect book to answer this question is Jane Austen and the Romantic Poets by William Deresiewicz. Certain it was that Austen was as familiar with Lyrical Ballads as any reading person in England. Deresiewicz points to the Tintern Abbey reference in Mansfield Park, where Fanny Price's room is described:

"...its greatest elegancies and ornaments were a faded footstool of Julia’s work, too ill done for the drawing–room, three transparencies, made in a rage for transparencies, for the three lower panes of one window, where Tintern Abbey held its station between a cave in Italy and a moonlight lake in Cumberland, a collection of family profiles, thought unworthy of being anywhere else, over the mantelpiece, and by their side, and pinned against the wall, a small sketch of a ship sent four years ago from the Mediterranean by William, with H.M.S. Antwerp at the bottom, in letters as tall as the mainmast."























Tintern Abbey by Turner


Deresiewicz's book provides illuminating springtime food for thought. He theorizes that the difference between Austen's first three novels and her last three reflects the influence of Wordsworth and Coleridge. He reasons that in the later novels Austen opens her imagination to the whole world of economic realities that lie below the lives of the country gentry, more than she did before. Showing a more Wordsworthian sense of time and change, she does not bring her later novels to full closure (to the rejoicings of future sequellists).

But this is not taking us to the subject of cats, even after Southey's promisingly cattish quote. So I will proceed forthwith to my monthly Cat Report. The darlings are getting Larger, as they approach nine months in age; they are fatter, and their coats so glossy and luxuriant, they positively gleam. My proper study, in addition to Austen and the Romantic poets, continues to be the psychology and interaction of cats. It is invaluable to have constant exposure to three such fascinating moggies as ours. They alternate between wildness and somnolence, playfulness and bickering, secret love and public disdain. I wish I'd been able to photograph their funniest fight, but it would have come across as only a blur. These problems will soon be solved, and my cat pictures should much improve, because I've just bought a new camera - a Panasonic Lumix DMC FZ28s (s for silver). It was a particularly diverting fight, too: Pindar and Catullus both stood on their hind legs on the high back of a chair; I don't know how they balanced so long, a full five minutes, while trading blows with their little paws, interspersed with bared teeth and nips. They stood there punching each other rather ineffectively, like little feline boxers, until finally (and inevitably) Catullus conceded by jumping down from the chair. Only then did Pindar majestically make her own descent (mind you, at seven pounds she is by far the smallest cat, a sleek sparrow among huge crows), and began deliberately licking her paws. Martial, who had been watching the proceedings intently, then went over to her, bowed low, and licked her paw, in as obvious a gesture of fealty and obeisance as has ever been given in a medieval court.



















Pindar, Queen of the Cats: Nothing gets between me and my...


The only other news of the cats is of their extreme suffering in the late heat wave. Fortunately it lasted only two days, but the temperature spiked to 93 Fahrenheit, and that's too warm if you're wearing a thick floor length sable coat, boots, Russian hat and mittens. Which is what our two poor, long-haired cats were wearing. Short-haired Pindar was as frisky as ever, but the two longhairs were lying flat out on the floor like mink throws, looking so miserable! Having been born only last August they had never endured hot weather with full heavy manes before. I put up a fan, which they disdained, and we couldn't have them in the air-conditioned bedroom (not putting a litter box in there). They lay out on the terrace, but in the afternoon it baked, and they tried to take shade beneath the scraggly bougainvillea, looking so pathetic. I tried forcing them to drink more water, but they were too stupid to make the connection, and I don't know how they will ever fare this summer!

Catullus on a hot day




















I WANDER'D lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretch'd in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:
I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

By William Wordsworth (1770-1850).

















Daffodil pictures from the First Daffodils 2009 site and the Wordsworth Trust

Silas Marner in Malibu

On Sunday, our reading group drove merrily up the Pacific Coast Highway to member Jane's lovely Malibu home, to discuss a most serious, weighty matter: a comparison of Silas Marner to Mansfield Park, and incidentally, George Eliot to Jane Austen. Seated around the sunny light living room, directly over the crashing waves, eating home baked treats (lemon cake, pound cake, flourless chocolate cake, brownies, caramel brownies, and more) and drinking tea from delicate heirloom Japanese cups, we first brought up the matter that was most urgently on all our minds: Why, in our youth, was Silas Marner inflicted upon high school students? I remember being completely unable to read it at sixteen, though I had read Sartre, Dostoyevsky, and Margaret Mitchell. I thought it the most awful, prosy, boring, sentimental book in the world.



















Sheila and Susan



















Table

Reading it again at sixty, I found the first pages were indeed almost impenetrably written in stilts-and-bladder, convoluted prose, but once you got past that blockage, the story was readable enough and had many finenesses and beauties. The evocation of pastoral England "in the early years of this century," nineteenth that is, when Jane Austen still walked the earth, was beautiful, and reminded me of the rural quietude and superstitious legends of Mary Webb's Precious Bane, as when Eliot writes, "Such strange lingering echoes of the old demon-worship might perhaps even now be caught by the diligent listener among the grey-haired peasantry."



















Japanese Plate




















Phyllis and me

Silas Marner has a kind of mythic feeling, with the golden treasure disappearing, and the golden-haired Shirley Temple of an Eppie appearing, as if by magic; its fairy tale aspect reminded me of Rumplestiltskin. Or Heidi, with the old man and the winsome blonde. The book didn't turn out to have a great deal in common with Mansfield Park, though our guest Gracia Fay of the Ventura reading group, who suggested the topic, had some comparisons; the theme of adoption is the main similarity. The sense of moral nemesis is much stronger in Silas Marner, which examines the idea that "Heaven shows the right," and that people get the fates they deserve, based on the choices they make. It's interesting that its characters, mostly simple country folk, do not even understand the words of the religion they hear in church; it is like superstition to them. It's a surprisingly moralistic book for an atheist to write, at the time when she was living in sin with George Lewes.




















The Group



















This discussion of course led to a comparison of Austen's life and Eliot's: the sadness of childlessness runs through Silas Marner, whereas Austen shows no trace of any longing for children in her novels. Austen was the Christian and her characters get their just deserts too, but more realistically than in Silas Marner. And although we are now old enough to appreciate some beauties in Marner, there is no question which book we love more, and can reread endlessly. Old Silas was very, very lucky to get even this second chance.
























George Eliot. She went "rockpooling" in North Devon, and her scientific interests influenced Silas Marner. So she might have enjoyed a visit to Malibu

Two tiny bits I liked very much in the book: Eliot describes a small but vital thing I've never seen described in fiction before. "That quiet mutual gaze of a trusting husband and wife is like the first moment of rest or refuge from a great weariness or a great danger." She has caught the exact significance of that moment when you first come home and meet your mate's eyes.

And then, of course, Eliot has won me over by her inclusion of two tortoiseshell cats. Aha, what an excellent opportunity for me to show you some more cat pictures!



















Martial at Eight Months and God knows how many Pounds

"The sharp bark was the sign of an excited welcome that was awaiting them from a knowing brown terrier who, after dancing at their legs in a hysterical manner, rushed with a worrying noise at a tortoise-shell kitten under the loom, and then rushed back with a sharp bark again, as much to say, "I have done my duty by this feeble creature, you perceive," while the lady-mother of the kitten sat sunning her white bosom in the window, and looked round with a sleepy air of expecting caresses, though she was not going to take any trouble for them."




















Catullus, black beauty with a white bosom




















Sweet Pindar

Eliot writes, "The presence of this happy animal life was not the only change which had come over the interior of the stone cottage." It signals a very great change, Silas's home coming to life, and we have seen in my own household how anmals do bring a home to new life, where three cats frolic and make aging people feel much younger.




















Catullus and Martial




















Boxed Set: Martial and Pindar

The Cats' Debut into Literary Society

Catullus Ascendant

The latest adventures of the Cats began with the trials and tribulations of Martial, who had a scratched cornea - probably something from her abandoned youth, that flared up lately when she rubbed it. The vet put an Instrument of Torture upon her, known as an Elizabethan Bonnet. It was the saddest sight to be seen for many a day. The poor creature could not walk. She could not see. She could only stumble backwards and slither sideways, like a lame raccoon. And she slid into alarming depression - she became completely limp, lying there, mute, except for when she emitted her signature plaintive cries of "Squee! Squee! Squee!"




















Martial Agonistes

If you are one of those who think cats cannot feel compassion and sympathy, disabuse yourself. Martial's sisters gave up all squabbling and play-fighting. They were visibly disturbed by the sad plight that had come to her. Valiant little Pindar never left her side; she sat by her at all times, wherever poor Martial stumbled, and when she was in misery because she could not wash, Pindar washed and licked her all over, with many kisses. Catullus was not so valiant, but equally disturbed: she hid away terrified by the awful sight of her sister with the horrible object on her head. After some hours, she crept out, and tentatively advanced toward her, looking for all the world like a small child approaching its mother on her deathbed. She patted her once, and retreated again. My picture of the moment should put paid to the idea that cats don't care about each other.



















Sisterly Feelings

Martial's ordeal was somewhat enlivened by my cousin Anne's husband Jim, an artist, who sent a get-well drawing. I thought at first the drawing was done by their daughter Joanna, 11, but it was explained to me that the image of Martial was wobblified on purpose to make it look like the work of a cat.




From a Secret Admirer



On the third morning, Martial could endure no more. She was sitting on my desk, when suddenly she started to shake all over, and pull and scratch at her Iron Maiden with astonishing violence. "What are you doing, you silly thing?" I asked, just as the torture device was fiercely ripped off, and Martial outburst with joy! She spent the next hour washing her entire self and scratching particularly where the collar had confined her. I knew I ought to replace the device - be cruel to be kind - Peter and Paul and I talked it over - but it was impossible. None of us could bring ourselves to do it. The poor little animal had been so miserably depressed; she had no idea the thing wasn't forever, and she was so purely blissful in her freedom. So we took her back to the vet, and she was pronounced doing well and in no more need of torture.

Now that she was recovering, the serious spoiling began. We bought the cats shearling beds:




















"What, no satin sheets?"


And toys, and toys, and more toys: the house is so strewn with feathers and shocking pink pompom sticks that it looks like the Copacabana. American cat decor is not tasteful. Possibly they do things better in Japan, or Paris.




















Midnight at the Copacabana




















The three little queens lie on the floor, like Eastern Crescents


Then came the most wonderful purchase of all: A Lazy Cat Kitty Window Ledge Seat (um, are you keeping a running tab on the expenses here? By all means include the vet). You know how they love sitting together looking out of Peter's study window at the birds and the squirrels. How much better to have a shearling window seat and look out in luxury? But we did not reckon on the degree to which Martial had become spoiled and entitled. Immediately after I installed the seat, she took command of it, and lay there at her sprawled-out ease, like Cleopatra on her barge. The look on the face was a silly, cross-eyed cat version of "Look at me, I deserve this throne."

In emphasis of this, when hapless Pindar tried to hop onto the ledge with her, she firmly pushed her off, even bit her (not hard) on her little striped leg! She repeated this performance with Catullus. We were appalled. Instead of giving the three cats more comfort in their window, we had deprived two of them of even climbing up to look out of the window at all!




















The Shelf of Contention: Martial Ascendant






















Cleocatra's Barge

Matters had to change, so Peter firmly laid down the law to Martial, removed her from the shelf and placed the other two upon it. Martial learned her lesson, and a somewhat sadder and wiser cat learned to share with her sweet sisters.



















In Sober Sadness: Martial Learns to Share























Then it was time to celebrate, so we had a party. Actually, it was a meeting of my reading group, to discuss Parallel Lives by Phyllis Rose, a slightly dated but still interesting examination of several varyingly dysfunctional Victorian marriages among literary figures, such as Carlyle and Jane, Ruskin and Effie, Dickens and his wife, George Eliot and Lewes. I decided that this would be an appropriate occasion for a coming-out party, the Debut of the Cats into Good Literary Society. It would not be necessary for them to talk, for as Mary Crawford said in Mansfield Park,

"A girl not out has always the same sort of dress: a close bonnet, for instance; looks very demure, and never says a word."

Of course, Martial's bonnet was gone, but I could answer for it she would say nothing more objectionable than "Squee." So, I commissioned editor friend Jennifer, who has a penchant for baking and has been turning out wonders (the espresso shortbread cookies with butterscotch glaze were my favorite) to make chocolate cat-shaped cookies, and cupcakes with cats on top. She produced some delightful treats, though afterward allowing that cupcake designs were fiendishly difficult and she wouldn't attempt that again. Here's what she baked:

























Susan with cat, and Jennifer























Chocolate Shortbread Cats


The party was a great success, and the three debutantes behaved themselves perfectly. It turns out that they are very sociable animals. I thought they'd retreat into the back of the house, or be annoyingly underfoot, but they did neither. They preened on their rug, showing off their lovely selves; they hopped onto laps and made love; and they allowed Paul to put them through their jumping paces, as at a circus. They did not interfere with the food either when I was preparing it or when we were eating, and in short, they showed very fine manners indeed.

The menu:

Little mini-bagels, lox and cream cheese for the Goyim
Hot sausage rolls for the Jewish guests
Devilled eggs
Strawberries
Jennifer's chocolate shortbread cat cookies
Jennifer's cat-themed cupcakes
Queen Anne Tea, and Martinelli's

Much was said, and much was ate.























Forsythia for spring, to remind us of Central Park



















My Martial and Me
























Daffodils, White Iris, and Pindar


We decided that at our next meeting, on March 29th, we will compare and contrast Mansfield Park and Silas Marner, as the Ventura Jane Austen reading group has done that and it seems like an interesting idea; and for our April 26th meeting we will read Passionate Sisterhood: Women of the Wordsworth Circle by Kathleen Jones.

In other news, I've been asked to appear as a guest on the MLA's (Modern Language Association) radio show, "What's the Word?", talking about the Eaton sisters. I'll have to read my own book again, it's been so long!

Meanwhile, the Miscreant Martial has silently and stealthily taken up possession of her Ledge again, biting all comers...