1910s

“The wild, peering glitter of the bibliomaniac”

StuckinaBook All , 11 Comments

Never let it be said that I am a spontaneous man. Over three years ago, Danielle from A Work in Progress sent me Parnassus on Wheels and The Haunted Bookshop by Christopher Morley, in exchange for Miss Hargreaves. I can’t remember whether Danielle has read Miss H yet, but I do know that I was making slow progress myself. After 16 months I read, loved, and reviewed the first title (the second is a sequel, but can equally well be read as a stand-alone novel) and promised to read the second ‘soon’. In fairness to myself, I did add the following footnote: ‘Soon is a relative term. I mean before books become obsolete.’

Fast forward another 18 or so months, and here we are… (this is why I love it when bibliophiles give me books – they don’t expect me to have read them by that time next week.)

I should start by saying that The Haunted Bookshop (1919) is a misleading title. It is quickly explained that the haunting refers to the authors who linger there through their works; for Roger Mifflin and his wife Helen (the heroine of Parnassus on Wheels) have left their travelling book wagon in a shed, and opened up shop. Mifflin is less sprightly than before; Helen less sharp – but they are older now, and contented marriage has taken the place of peripatetic solitariness, so we can happily forgive them their mellowing. But Christopher Morley is still willing and able to provide a lively character, and he does this in the form of Titania Chapman – the young daughter of one of Mifflin’s friends, who comes to work in his shop, as her father wishes her to better herself. Titania is full of enthusiastic naivety and well-meaning ignorance. Perhaps she can best describe herself, in this revealing excerpt:

“I do hope,” said Titania, “you won’t let Daddy poison your mind about me. He thinks I’m dreadfully frivolous, just because I look frivolous. But I’m so keen to make good in this job. I’ve been practising doing up parcels all afternoon, so as to learn how to tie the string nicely and not cut it until after the knot’s tied. I found that when you cut it beforehand either you get it too short and it won’t go round, or else too long and you waste some. Also I’ve learned how to make wrapping paper cuffs to keep my sleeves clean.”

Isn’t she adorable? And keen to learn – and there is nowhere better to do so than Mifflin’s shop. The first few chapters of this novel take us through some wonderful passages, where Mifflin exalts the joy of reading – nay, the necessity of it. Every bibliophile will love the discussions about the role of a bookseller, and those on the latent hunger for books among the public. It was compelling, absorbing, and utterly right-minded – from the perspective of this bibliophile, of course.

But The Haunted Bookshop has another, rather different, thread running through it – and that is where the other new character comes into play. Aubrey Gilbert (brilliant name) works in advertising and isn’t much of a reader, but wanders into the bookshop to see if the proprietor would consider using his business. Which – somehow – turns into a bizarre sort of thriller. The Haunted Bookshop was written in 1919, and the effects of the War are certainly felt. There is spying; near-kidnap; anonymous ‘phone calls; mysterious disappearing and re-appearing books. Perhaps this kind of thing is your cup of tea. It isn’t mine, and I found all this thread rather tedious. It had little of the ingenuity of Agatha Christie, and quite a lot of the gung-ho, xenophobic bombast of Bulldog Drummond.

So this review reflects the book and my reading experience, in that it seems to have a split personality. I loved, loved, loved the sections about books. Morley and Mifflin are alike bibliomaniacs, and Mifflin’s dialogue is at all times scattered with literary references high and low. The Haunted Bookshop serves almost as a literary compendium, so vast and wide-ranging are the allusions. (Some are listed on the book’s Wikipedia page.) But then… but then I would start skimming pages as the thriller story took the upper-hand. Which was frustrating, because if the novel had continued throughout in the vein it started, this would be easily my favourite book this year. Morley, Morley, Morley – what were you thinking?

In the end, which Morley novel did I prefer? I can’t decide whether the best bits of The Haunted Bookshop push it above Parnassus on Wheels for me, or whether the worst bits push it below. Mifflin and Helen are fantastic creations, but only really vibrant in Parnassus on Wheels. I don’t know – I certainly recommend reading both, and this would be a great novel to give any book lover – just make sure you are willing to skim some pages, if your tastes are the same as mine.

Thanks again Danielle for these lovely gifts!

Pulling No Punches

StuckinaBook All , 9 Comments

Ok, now that my internet is behaving most of the time, I’ll explain why I asked about Punch – and thanks for all your interesting responses. I recently re-read A.A. Milne’s book Once a Week (1914). It’s in a series of books by Milne that Methuen published, mostly collections of sketches and essays which had previously appeared in Punch. Although Punch ran from 1841-1992, and again from 1996-2002, in my mind it is completely associated with the 1910s, ’20s, and ’30s – when A.A. Milne was assistant editor, for instance. All my knowledge of Punch comes from Ann Thwaite’s brilliant biography A.A. Milne: His Life and Milne’s own autobiography It’s Too Late Now.

Which is why I wanted to ask you all what came to mind when you thought of Punch – and was interested to hear the differing answers. Cartoons obviously came up – and yes, you were all right that the cartoon I posted gave rise to the expression ‘curate’s egg’. It was drawn by George du Maurier, grandfather of Daphne, and is an expression/joke I’ve always found inexplicably popular. To me, it’s just not that funny. BUT, having said that, I absolutely don’t agree that certain humour is dated or of its time. Certain humour appeals to certain people, and that’s that, really. Perhaps more of those people were around in the 1910s, or whichever decade you choose, but – well, put it this way: I’d hate for anyone to think in 2060 that everyone in 2010 found Frankie Boyle funny. Just as I find him farcically unamusing now, so I find the whimsical humour of 1910s’ Punch delightful.

But Punch had quite an odd status. It was incredibly popular in its heyday, and in some ways represented the tone of the time, but even then was looked down on by many. Here’s an excerpt from Civilisation (1929) by Clive Bell (husband of Vanessa Bell – i.e. Virginia Woolf’s brother-in-law):
And obviously an Englishman who cares for beauty, truth, or knowledge, may find himself more in sympathy with a Frenchman, German, or Chinaman who shares his tastes than with a compatriot who shares those of Punch and John Bull.Q.D. Leavis – the country’s most famous snob after Margot Leadbetter – put it like this in Fiction and the Reading Public (1932):
For the crude power of the bestseller the literary novelists substitute a more civilised tone; the temperature of their writing is slightly below instead of a good deal above normal; they deal in the right kind of humour (the Punch kind), and are the best fellows in the world.And yet it was Punch magazine which came up with this rather scathing definition of the middlebrow: ‘It consists of people who are hoping that some day they will get used to the stuff they ought to like.’ (1925)

Which is all a rather convoluted way of saying that Punch doesn’t – and didn’t – really conform to any one type, or position in the national consciousness! I hope you don’t mind a meander through various books like this – it’s the bit of my research which I thought might be least dull to share.

And all this is an introduction to Once A Week by A.A. Milne! About which I am not going to say all that much about it, because the tone of Punch is more or less the same as the tone of this collection. If you love the sort of whimsy that skirts around Diary of a Nobody, or that is a very toned down Wodehouse, or… well, a grown-up Winnie-the-Pooh perhaps – then you’ll love this. It’s a collection of stories and sketches about people having fun together – arguing over cricket, or who has to order the coal. Lots of silliness, nothing too serious ever encroaching. Rereading it this time – and I read all Milne’s Punch books back in 2001 – I can see how it might wear thin for some people. The lighthearted way which the characters treat even the infancy of their child is perhaps a step too saccharine – but, on the whole, this is the sort of humour I will happily dive into.

Is it escapism? Perhaps – but I don’t really believe there is such a thing. I don’t think gritty realism is actually any more real than people being daft in a holiday cottage. It reminds me of an A.A. Milne quotation I somewhat overuse:
People are always telling me I should write about Real Life – preferably in a public house or brothel, where Life is notoriously more Real than elsewhere.If you fancy a taste of life that is real, but rather more fun and whimsical than most portrayals of it, then I think A.A. Milne’s superbly-crafted stories and sketches can scarcely be beaten. You can even read it online here. Just one word of warning – Once A Week could be considered a curate’s egg.

A Taste of Saki

StuckinaBook All , 8 Comments

I was chatting to Elaine from Random Jottings the other day (in person, no less!) about short stories and suchlike, and I discovered that she hadn’t read any Saki. I’d recently been reminded of him via Kirsty‘s Facebook page (thanks, Kirsty!) Quick as a quite-contemplatively-slow flash, I emailed Elaine a link to a Saki short story. Any would do, but I went with ‘The Schartz-Metterklume Method’. Saki’s stories are very short, very funny, and rather biting – but always on the right side of malicious. Very spikey, though, and exactly my sort of thing. I’m sure he’ll work for some of you too (and doubtless not for others, but such is life) – and since he’s long out of copyright, I feel no qualms in reproducing ‘The Schartz-Metterklume Method’ for your delectation and delight. If you like it (and, indeed, if you don’t) it’s from a collection called Beasts and Super-Beasts, which is well worth getting.


The Schartz-Metterklume Method

Lady Carlotta stepped out on to the platform of the small wayside station and took a turn or two up and down its uninteresting length, to kill time till the train should be pleased to proceed on its way. Then, in the roadway beyond, she saw a horse struggling with a more than ample load, and a carter of the sort that seems to bear a sullen hatred against the animal that helps him to earn a living. Lady Carlotta promptly betook her to the roadway, and put rather a different complexion on the struggle. Certain of her acquaintances were wont to give her plentiful admonition as to the undesirability of interfering on behalf of a distressed animal, such interference being “none of her business.” Only once had she put the doctrine of non-interference into practice, when one of its most eloquent exponents had been besieged for nearly three hours in a small and extremely uncomfortable may-tree by an angry boar-pig, while Lady Carlotta, on the other side of the fence, had proceeded with the water-colour sketch she was engaged on, and refused to interfere between the boar and his prisoner. It is to be feared that she lost the friendship of the ultimately rescued lady. On this occasion she merely lost the train, which gave way to the first sign of impatience it had shown throughout the journey, and steamed off without her. She bore the desertion with philosophical indifference; her friends and relations were thoroughly well used to the fact of her luggage arriving without her. She wired a vague non-committal message to her destination to say that she was coming on “by another train.” Before she had time to think what her next move might be she was confronted by an imposingly attired lady, who seemed to be taking a prolonged mental inventory of her clothes and looks.

“You must be Miss Hope, the governess I’ve come to meet,” said the apparition, in a tone that admitted of very little argument.

“Very well, if I must I must,” said Lady Carlotta to herself with dangerous meekness.

“I am Mrs. Quabarl,” continued the lady; “and where, pray, is your luggage?”

“It’s gone astray,” said the alleged governess, falling in with the excellent rule of life that the absent are always to blame; the luggage had, in point of fact, behaved with perfect correctitude. “I’ve just telegraphed about it,” she added, with a nearer approach to truth.

“How provoking,” said Mrs. Quabarl; “these railway companies are so careless. However, my maid can lend you things for the night,” and she led the way to her car.

During the drive to the Quabarl mansion Lady Carlotta was impressively introduced to the nature of the charge that had been thrust upon her; she learned that Claude and Wilfrid were delicate, sensitive young people, that Irene had the artistic temperament highly developed, and that Viola was something or other else of a mould equally commonplace among children of that class and type in the twentieth century.

“I wish them not only to be TAUGHT,” said Mrs. Quabarl, “but INTERESTED in what they learn. In their history lessons, for instance, you must try to make them feel that they are being introduced to the life-stories of men and women who really lived, not merely committing a mass of names and dates to memory. French, of course, I shall expect you to talk at meal-times several days in the week.”

“I shall talk French four days of the week and Russian in the remaining three.”

“Russian? My dear Miss Hope, no one in the house speaks or understands Russian.”

“That will not embarrass me in the least,” said Lady Carlotta coldly.

Mrs. Quabarl, to use a colloquial expression, was knocked off her perch. She was one of those imperfectly self-assured individuals who are magnificent and autocratic as long as they are not seriously opposed. The least show of unexpected resistance goes a long way towards rendering them cowed and apologetic. When the new governess failed to express wondering admiration of the large newly-purchased and expensive car, and lightly alluded to the superior advantages of one or two makes which had just been put on the market, the discomfiture of her patroness became almost abject. Her feelings were those which might have animated a general of ancient warfaring days, on beholding his heaviest battle-elephant ignominiously driven off the field by slingers and javelin throwers.

At dinner that evening, although reinforced by her husband, who usually duplicated her opinions and lent her moral support generally, Mrs. Quabarl regained none of her lost ground. The governess not only helped herself well and truly to wine, but held forth with considerable show of critical knowledge on various vintage matters, concerning which the Quabarls were in no wise able to pose as authorities. Previous governesses had limited their conversation on the wine topic to a respectful and doubtless sincere expression of a preference for water. When this one went as far as to recommend a wine firm in whose hands you could not go very far wrong Mrs. Quabarl thought it time to turn the conversation into more usual channels.

“We got very satisfactory references about you from Canon Teep,” she observed; “a very estimable man, I should think.”

“Drinks like a fish and beats his wife, otherwise a very lovable character,” said the governess imperturbably.

“MY DEAR Miss Hope! I trust you are exaggerating,” exclaimed the Quabarls in unison.

“One must in justice admit that there is some provocation,” continued the romancer. “Mrs. Teep is quite the most irritating bridge-player that I have ever sat down with; her leads and declarations would condone a certain amount of brutality in her partner, but to souse her with the contents of the only soda-water syphon in the house on a Sunday afternoon, when one couldn’t get another, argues an indifference to the comfort of others which I cannot altogether overlook. You may think me hasty in my judgments, but it was practically on account of the syphon incident that I left.”

“We will talk of this some other time,” said Mrs. Quabarl hastily.

“I shall never allude to it again,” said the governess with decision.

Mr. Quabarl made a welcome diversion by asking what studies the new instructress proposed to inaugurate on the morrow.

“History to begin with,” she informed him.

“Ah, history,” he observed sagely; “now in teaching them history you must take care to interest them in what they learn. You must make them feel that they are being introduced to the life-stories of men and women who really lived – “

“I’ve told her all that,” interposed Mrs. Quabarl.

“I teach history on the Schartz-Metterklume method,” said the governess loftily.

“Ah, yes,” said her listeners, thinking it expedient to assume an acquaintance at least with the name.

* * * *

“What are you children doing out here?” demanded Mrs. Quabarl the next morning, on finding Irene sitting rather glumly at the head of the stairs, while her sister was perched in an attitude of depressed discomfort on the window-seat behind her, with a wolf-skin rug almost covering her.

“We are having a history lesson,” came the unexpected reply. “I am supposed to be Rome, and Viola up there is the she-wolf; not a real wolf, but the figure of one that the Romans used to set store by – I forget why. Claude and Wilfrid have gone to fetch the shabby women.”

“The shabby women?”

“Yes, they’ve got to carry them off. They didn’t want to, but Miss Hope got one of father’s fives-bats and said she’d give them a number nine spanking if they didn’t, so they’ve gone to do it.”

A loud, angry screaming from the direction of the lawn drew Mrs. Quabarl thither in hot haste, fearful lest the threatened castigation might even now be in process of infliction. The outcry, however, came principally from the two small daughters of the lodge-keeper, who were being hauled and pushed towards the house by the panting and dishevelled Claude and Wilfrid, whose task was rendered even more arduous by the incessant, if not very effectual, attacks of the captured maidens’ small brother. The governess, fives-bat in hand, sat negligently on the stone balustrade, presiding over the scene with the cold impartiality of a Goddess of Battles. A furious and repeated chorus of “I’ll tell muvver” rose from the lodge-children, but the lodge-mother, who was hard of hearing, was for the moment immersed in the preoccupation of her washtub.

After an apprehensive glance in the direction of the lodge (the good woman was gifted with the highly militant temper which is sometimes the privilege of deafness) Mrs. Quabarl flew indignantly to the rescue of the struggling captives.

“Wilfrid! Claude! Let those children go at once. Miss Hope, what on earth is the meaning of this scene?”

“Early Roman history; the Sabine Women, don’t you know? It’s the Schartz-Metterklume method to make children understand history by acting it themselves; fixes it in their memory, you know. Of course, if, thanks to your interference, your boys go through life thinking that the Sabine women ultimately escaped, I really cannot be held responsible.”

“You may be very clever and modern, Miss Hope,” said Mrs. Quabarl firmly, “but I should like you to leave here by the next train. Your luggage will be sent after you as soon as it arrives.”

“I’m not certain exactly where I shall be for the next few days,” said the dismissed instructress of youth; “you might keep my luggage till I wire my address. There are only a couple of trunks and some golf-clubs and a leopard cub.”

“A leopard cub!” gasped Mrs. Quabarl. Even in her departure this extraordinary person seemed destined to leave a trail of embarrassment behind her.

“Well, it’s rather left off being a cub; it’s more than half-grown, you know. A fowl every day and a rabbit on Sundays is what it usually gets. Raw beef makes it too excitable. Don’t trouble about getting the car for me, I’m rather inclined for a walk.”

And Lady Carlotta strode out of the Quabarl horizon.

The advent of the genuine Miss Hope, who had made a mistake as to the day on which she was due to arrive, caused a turmoil which that good lady was quite unused to inspiring. Obviously the Quabarl family had been woefully befooled, but a certain amount of relief came with the knowledge.

“How tiresome for you, dear Carlotta,” said her hostess, when the overdue guest ultimately arrived; “how very tiresome losing your train and having to stop overnight in a strange place.”

“Oh dear, no,” said Lady Carlotta; “not at all tiresome – for me.”

Parnassus on Wheels by Christopher Morley

StuckinaBook All , 3 Comments

If you can cast your mind back to 27th November 2007 and this post (yes, that is 16 months ago) you’ll remember Danielle and I did a book swap. Miss Hargreaves sailed across the Atlantic, and in return I got two books by Christopher Morley – Parnassus on Wheels and The Haunted Bookshop, both featuring Southern farmer’s-sister Helen McGill and travelling bookseller Mr. Mifflin. And earlier this month I got around, finally, to reading… er, one of them. But it was rather brilliant so I will be reading the second one soon.*

Parnassus on Wheels, which is nice and short, was written in 1917 and has that unmistakable early-20th century tang to it. Wise, straight-talking women of the sort people like Ethan Frome probably stumbled over all the time. Helen McGill, said straight-talking woman – at one pointshe measures a length of time as ‘about as long as it takes to peel a potato’ – lives a life of domestic routine on a farm, and is disgruntled rather than delighted when her brother someone writes a book which becomes famous. She burns letters from publishers and tries to distract him from this high-falutin’ life, which seems insignificant compared to finding all the eggs in the farmyard.

Until Mr. Mifflin comes along, in his Parnassus. A travelling wagon, the sides come down to reveal shelves of books, which he travels the countryside selling. His patter is wonderful; he truly believes in the power of good literature for anyone and everyone (often his only competition is the man who has been around the area previously, selling everyone bound funeral orations). Known as The Professor to most, he is a firecracker, but one with an utterly infectious love of books.
“No creature on earth has the right to think himself a human being if he doesn’t know at least one good book. The man that spends every evening chewing Piper Heidsieck at the store is unworthy of to catch the intimations of a benevolent Creator. The man that’s got a few good books on his shelf is making his wife happy, giving his children a square deal, and he’s likely to be a better citizen himself.”

However, he’s come to the farm to sell Parnassus on Wheels to Helen’s brother, Andrew. His literary reputation makes him a potential seller – and Mr. Mifflin wants to retire. Simply to prevent the distraction to her brother, Helen decides to buy it – leaving a note for her brother:

Dear Andrew, Don’t be thinking I’m crazy. I’ve gone off for an adventure. It just came over me that you’ve had all the adventures while I’ve been at home baking bread […] I’m going off for a little while – a month, maybe – to see some of this happiness and hayseed of yours. It’s what the magazines call the revolt of womanhood. Warm underwear in the cedar chest in the spare room when you need it. With love, Helen.

How can you not like a woman like that?
So, off she goes. Mr. Mifflin shows her how, and soon Helen’s off selling the books herself – though as exuberantly wonderful a creation as Mr. Mifflin can’t stay out of the narrative for too long, and he’s back soon, and in the sequel. This short novel isn’t filled with ‘exciting adventures’ (though there are one or two) – rather it is a paean to the love of books in whatever shape or size they come, and a good-humoured, sensible depiction of a slightly bizarre couple of people pursuing a slightly bizarre aspiration. Utterly wonderful, it’s one of my books of the year already, and I encourage any and every book-lover to give it a go.

*Soon is a relevant word. I mean before books become obsolete.

Literary Lapses

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26. Literary Lapses – Stephen Leacock


The post title looks like I’ve broken my Lentern fast, doesn’t it? Well, I haven’t, I can assure you. Rather, it’s another book in my 50 Books You Must Read etc. etc. In fact, it’s one of the ones which came to my mind first when thinking about compiling this list two years ago, but somehow he hasn’t appeared until now. As the list is in no particular order, this is no indictment of Mr. Leacock…

I don’t know how well known Stephen Leacock is nowadays. It was my Aunt Jacq who first pointed me in his direction (though I had unwittingly already read something by him in my indispensable Modern Humour (1940) which was my introduction to EM Delafield) – I suspect, if anybody has heard of him, it will be any Canadian readers of Stuck-in-a-Book, for Canadian Leacock was. Any Canadians out there? According to Wikipedia, it was said in 1911 that more people had heard of Stephen Leacock than had heard of Canada.

Intrigued? Essentially, Stephen Leacock is a humorist par excellence. If I utter his name in the same breath as PG Wodehouse, it is not because their styles are all that similar (though both make fantastic use of stylistic exaggeration) but because Leacock is the only writer I would dare hold up to Wodehouse. Two comic genii. Most of Leacock’s works are little sketches or stories, though there is the odd longer narrative – his speciality is the slightly absurd, usually well-to-do, experiencing the odd and the mundane, finding humour and absurdity in both. Difficult, as always, to pinpoint why I love him so much – little tricks of style bound to make you laugh without realising quite why.

Jacq introduced me to Stephen Leacock back in 2002 or 2003, when I didn’t have such a backlist of books to be read – consequently I ‘did an Elaine’ (a reference to Elaine from RandomJottings!) and read lots and lots of his in one fell swoop. My choice of Literary Lapses (1910) is perhaps arbitrary, but it was the first one I read and remains my favourite. What’s more, there are lots available through Amazon. It’s even all online at this link, if you wish to read it that way. I’ll leave you with a taster, the little tale ‘Borrowing a Match’:

You might think that borrowing a match upon the street
is a simple thing. But any man who has ever tried it will
assure you that it is not, and will be prepared to swear
to the truth of my experience of the other evening.

I was standing on the corner of the street with a cigar
that I wanted to light. I had no match. I waited till a
decent, ordinary-looking man came along. Then I said:

“Excuse me, sir, but could you oblige me with the loan
of a match?”

“A match?” he said, “why certainly.” Then he unbuttoned
his overcoat and put his hand in the pocket of his
waistcoat. “I know I have one,” he went on, “and I’d
almost swear it’s in the bottom pocket–or, hold on,
though, I guess it may be in the top–just wait till I
put these parcels down on the sidewalk.”

“Oh, don’t trouble,” I said, “it’s really of no
consequence.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble, I’ll have it in a minute; I know
there must be one in here somewhere”–he was digging
his fingers into his pockets as he spoke–“but you see
this isn’t the waistcoat I generally…”

I saw that the man was getting excited about it. “Well,
never mind,” I protested; “if that isn’t the waistcoat
that you generally–why, it doesn’t matter.”

“Hold on, now, hold on!” the man said, “I’ve got one of
the cursed things in here somewhere. I guess it must be
in with my watch. No, it’s not there either. Wait till
I try my coat. If that confounded tailor only knew enough
to make a pocket so that a man could get at it!”

He was getting pretty well worked up now. He had thrown
down his walking-stick and was plunging at his pockets
with his teeth set. “It’s that cursed young boy of mine,”
he hissed; “this comes of his fooling in my pockets. By
Gad! perhaps I won’t warm him up when I get home. Say,
I’ll bet that it’s in my hip-pocket. You just hold up
the tail of my overcoat a second till I…”

“No, no,” I protested again, “please don’t take all this
trouble, it really doesn’t matter. I’m sure you needn’t
take off your overcoat, and oh, pray don’t throw away
your letters and things in the snow like that, and tear
out your pockets by the roots! Please, please don’t
trample over your overcoat and put your feet through the
parcels. I do hate to hear you swearing at your little
boy, with that peculiar whine in your voice. Don’t–please
don’t tear your clothes so savagely.”

Suddenly the man gave a grunt of exultation, and drew
his hand up from inside the lining of his coat.

“I’ve got it,” he cried. “Here you are!” Then he brought
it out under the light.

It was a toothpick.

Yielding to the impulse of the moment I pushed him under
the wheels of a trolley-car, and ran.

Old Friends

StuckinaBook All , , 4 Comments


A while ago I emailed Danielle from SourceBooks, Inc. and she very kindly agreed to send me Old Friends and New Fancies by Sybil G. Brinton all the way from America (available through their website, or Amazon – or in bookshops if you’re in the US). I first heard about this book on Elaine’s blog, Random Jottings, and knew that I’d have to read it at some point. For those who didn’t read that post on Random Jottings, I’ll fill you in – Old Friends and New Fancies is the first Jane Austen sequel ever written, back in 1913, but Brinton didn’t stop there, no sir. This book is a sequel to ALL the Austen novels – characters from each of the six crop up and meet each other and – well, just think of all the possible matches to be made!

They include a list of characters at the beginning for those not completely familiar with all JA’s oeuvre, or just because there are so many – have just done a quick count, and there are forty of Austen’s characters listed. Pride and Prejudice contributes the most, at fifteen, while Emma only offers two, but each is represented in some manner. We kick off with Elizabeth and Darcy, which is probably how it should be, but before long we are whirled off into the various interrelations between novels…

The central questions are – with Mary Crawford end up with Colonel Fitzwilliam? And, will William Price choose Georgiana Darcy or Kitty Bennet? What delicious choices. William Price and Georgiana Darcy were always two of my favourite background-characters, so to witness them dancing at a ball was quite something (even if Brinton does what Austen never did, and gives Georgiana dialogue). On an aside, whom would I have paired, or just occasioned to meet… Mr. Palmer and Mr. Bennet would be a joyous pair to eavesdrop. Mrs. Bennet and Mrs. Jennings! Mr. Collins and Mr. Elton! Catherine Morland and Harriet Smith! Oh, endless, endless…

I wonder quite how Brinton made her decisions about central characters? Obviously the young, single folk were thrown to the forefront… but Mary Crawford is the oddest decision and portrayal. Brinton obviously didn’t love Mansfield Park that much; not only are Fanny and Edmund excluded from proceedings, we also have a volte face in how Mary Crawford appears. She is misunderstood, meek, sensible, kind and has none of the flirtatious, slightly selfish, overly loud persona Fanny distrusts in Mansfield Park… interesting.

Brinton doesn’t really try to write in the style of Austen – the period feel is more or less there, though it’s worth noting that we’re as far (time-wise) from Brinton now as she was from Austen then, but Brinton doesn’t attempt to echo Austen’s wit and narrative asides and general Austenness. Having said that, she doesn’t try to soak the characters in Brintonness either, whatever that would be like; she is content to set them loose together on a shared stage, and see what happens.

Old Friends and New Fancies, I would think, is for Austen-fanatics like myself. Without knowing all the characters beforehand it would lose a lot of its enjoyment factor – there are the odd comments to savour, such as ‘Mrs. Knightley’s matchmaking doesn’t always work out well’ or Tom Bertram’s ‘We only had one real failure in amateur dramatics’ (I paraphrase both). This shared knowledge is a reward and a treat whenever it appears. On the whole, this book (republished in 2007 by SourceBooks) is rather silly, a lot of fun, and very well managed by Brinton.

Danielle also sent me a couple of other Austen sequels, Pemberley Shades by D. A. Bonavia-Hunt (1949) and The Darcys & The Bingleys by Marsha Altman (2008) so… more to investigate!