Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Genius of the Place

“I see. You accord a governess's opinion so much weight, Mrs. Austen?”

“In the matter of my child's well-being? Naturally, Mr. Sothey. It is expressly to attend to such things, that I engage Miss Sharpe. And now if you will excuse me—” Lizzy turned towards her husband, who stood to one side of the open French windows in earnest conversation with Mr. Emilious Finch-Hatton. A slight breeze stirred the white muslin of Lizzy's dress as she moved to join them, and fluttered the ribbons of her rose-coloured sash; the fall of her dark curls about the nape of her neck was as exquisite as the slight pulse beating at the base of her throat. She embodied the sort of elegance that only years of study may attain; but for all her art, Lizzy invariably appeared artless. It was impossible to imagine her a girl of five, with blackcurrant jam trailing down her apron; impossible to envision her quarrelling to the point of tears with a despicable younger brother. Impossible, even, to form an idea of her in the throes of childbirth — tho' she had accomplished it some nine times. She is the sort of woman who seems cut from whole cloth — a perfection from infancy — intended for nothing lower than the graceful passage of a well-proportioned room. I saw in my sister the unconscious fulfillment of an ideal, and knew it forever beyond my grasp.

But it was Mr. Sothey who put in words what I had only thought in silence. “There is something in a face,” he said, ” 'An air, and a peculiar grace / Which boldest painters cannot trace .' ”

I caught my breath. “I am unfamiliar with the author of those lines, sir.”

“William Somerville,” he replied briskly. “A much-neglected poet. Dr. Johnson was pleased to dismiss him as writing very well — 'for a gentleman.' Being the son of an Earl, Miss Austen, I am often placed in a similar category — accorded merit only in as much as I transcend the general mediocrity of my class. Artists, you know, should never possess the distinction of birth; it ruins them for genius.” [38] William Somerville (1675–1742) wrote those lines in the poem entitled The Lucky Hit , from 1727. He is best remembered, however, for The Chace , a four-volume poem of Miltonian blank verse that celebrated the joys of hunting. In it, he coined the phrase “sport of kings.” — Editor's note.

The Gentleman Improver undoubtedly possessed what Mr. Valentine Grey had called address —that curious mixture of charm and air, without which a man may never be termed brilliant. It is elusive in definition, but unmistakable in consequence; and I may confess myself particularly susceptible to its effect.

“I am glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Sothey — for I should dearly like to comprehend a little of the genius that has so totally overthrown Mr. Finch-Hatton's taste.”

“You make it sound a revolution!” he cried, in mock horror, “and a treacherous one at that!”

“Lady Elizabeth assures us that you are intent upon nothing less than the wholesale destruction of formal pieties — the inversion of the traditional order — and if this is not revolution, then what may we call it, sir?”

“I daresay the Whigs have found any number of proxies for such a word,” Mr. Sothey rejoined, with a sharp look of interest in his clear grey eyes, “but do not allow me to be talking politics to a lady. Say rather that at Eastwell I hope to correct what has gone astray, Miss Austen, and to support what might only have been dreamt of before — that I aspire to a higher order of Beauty than yet exists — and perhaps we shall find agreement. ”

“I am sure that even Robespierre once proclaimed a similar faith,” I rejoined, “and yet as many heads fell at the guillotine, as noble old avenues under the axe of the improver.”

“Good Lord! All forms of governance may decline, I assure you, from neglect as well as revolution; and never so particularly as at Eastwell Park.”

“It is well, I suppose, that we have seen the place before your hand has accomplished this transformation,” I observed, “for we may then judge more acutely whether anarchy or order has been imposed.”

Mr. Sothey threw back his head and laughed. “I perceive that you bear no love for the Picturesque, Miss Austen.”

“Julian—” Louisa Finch-Hatton broke in irritably, “pray come and sit by me. I intend to play, and you know that I can do nothing without you to turn the pages.”

“Pray allow me to serve you, Miss Louisa,” Mr. Brett said hurriedly, “for Mr. Sothey is presently engaged.”

He attempted to steer her towards the instrument, but Louisa's countenance assumed a mulish look, and she remained rooted to the floor for the space of several heartbeats. At Mr. Sothey's apparent disinclination to honour the request, however, and his fixed interest in myself, the young lady eventually gave way. From the sound of her strenuous playing, I judged her to be serving out punishment to her excellent pianoforte, that might better have been visited upon her Beloved. The little interval provided an opportunity, however, to seize a chair in one corner of the saloon; and to my delight, Mr. Sothey followed.

“If by Picturesque,” I continued, “you would refer to the work of Mr. Humphrey Rep ton, be assured that I am not wholly ignorant of the style. A cousin of my mother's engaged Mr. Repton to improve his rectory in Adlestrop, and the result, we are assured, is delightful.” [39] Jane refers to Adlestrop Park, the home of the Reverend Thomas Leigh, her mother's first cousin, which Repton “improved” in 1802. Jane did not see the transformed park at Adlestrop until the summer of 1806, but apparently the changes impressed her very little. She went on to lampoon Repton's ideas and business practices in her 1814 novel, Mansfield Park. — Editor's note.

“Then I may suppose,” Mr. Sothey remarked with a glint of humour, “that a perfectly respectable stream has been forced from its hallowed bed, and constrained to run over graduated terraces; that hills have been formed where there were none before, and surmounted with rustic cottages in which no one — particularly hermits or gnomes, to whom such cottages are invariably ascribed — has ever lived. There is a grotto, no doubt, or a ruin in the Gothic style, ideally positioned for viewing in the moonlight. May we hope for so much as an abyss, wherein the Fate of Mortal Man might be contemplated in peace, particularly on days of mist and lowering cloud?”

I could not suppress a smile. “I believe that my cousin carries the abyss within, Mr. Sothey — and thus must find an outer manifestation of Fate unnecessary. But ruins were entirely beyond the reach of Reverend Leigh's purse, as was the better part of Mr. Repton's talents. He merely served as consultant on the redirection of the sweep, and the clearing of a prospect from the rectory to the village; attended to some terracing, and the placement of a few trees.”

“Then he has served your cousin admirably,” so they declared, “and in a better fashion than a fellow with ten times his fortune.”

“You are no disciple of Mr. Repton?”

“I am well-acquainted with his views,” he replied equably, “but have formed my own along a different path.”

“—A higher path , you would imply?”

“It is not for me to praise myself, Miss Austen. You may believe me capable of every absurdity — as you appear inclined to do — but pray allow me to possess common sense. Only a brainless popinjay will proclaim his merit before others have done so.” His lips twitched irrepressibly, and despite my aversion to the entire rage for improvement, I could not help liking Mr. Sothey.

“Then acquaint me with your views,” I urged. “To what does the Picturesque refer, if not to the Romantic Horrors you have yourself described?”