Austen Defines “the Best Company”

Hinds, Root as Wentworth and Anne Elliot in Persuasion (1995)

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Thursday

Yesterday I wrote about how we have been using our current trip to revitalize friendships. Because our talks have been so rich and substantive, I was put in mind of an interchange that Anne Elliot has with her cousin in Persuasion. Ann is a profound woman of substance, Mr. Elliott a shallow social climber, so it makes sense that she would opt for Aristotle’s friendships of virtue whereas as he would come down strongly for friendships of utility.

Ann’s superficial father and sister have been falling all over themselves to attract their distant cousins, the high-born Lady Dalrymple and her daughter Miss Carteret. Ann is embarrassed that such a fuss is being made over two people who have “no superiority of manner, accomplishment, or understanding.” As Austen puts it,

Lady Dalrymple had acquired the name of “a charming woman,” because she had a smile and a civil answer for everybody. Miss Carteret, with still less to say, was so plain and so awkward, that she would never have been tolerated in Camden Place but for her birth.

Mr. Elliott, however, says they have value and are worth cultivating “as a family connection, as good company, as those who would collect good company around them.” To this Ann replies,

“My idea of good company, Mr Elliot, is the company of clever, well-informed people, who have a great deal of conversation; that is what I call good company.”

“You are mistaken,” said he gently, “that is not good company; that is the best. Good company requires only birth, education, and manners, and with regard to education is not very nice. Birth and good manners are essential; but a little learning is by no means a dangerous thing in good company; on the contrary, it will do very well. My cousin Anne shakes her head. She is not satisfied. She is fastidious. My dear cousin” (sitting down by her), “you have a better right to be fastidious than almost any other woman I know; but will it answer? Will it make you happy? Will it not be wiser to accept the society of those good ladies in Laura Place, and enjoy all the advantages of the connection as far as possible? You may depend upon it, that they will move in the first set in Bath this winter, and as rank is rank, your being known to be related to them will have its use in fixing your family (our family let me say) in that degree of consideration which we must all wish for.”

None of our friends provide us advantages of the sort Mr. Elliot has in mind. But all are “clever, well-informed people, who have a great deal of conversation.” When I am with them, there is no place I’d rather be.

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Master, Speak to Us of Friendship

Renoir, Luncheon of the Boating Party

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Wednesday

Julia and I are in the second week of an immensely nourishing tour of friends scattered throughout the east coast, from Ohio to Pennsylvania to Maryland to Washington, D.C. We started in Cincinnati with our best friends from our graduate school days, moved on to more recent friends in Mechanicsburg PA, and are currently in West Chester PA with colleagues from our St. Mary’s College of MD days, and will be joining up with both active and retired former colleagues in St. Mary’s County MD; with members of a former film group in St. Mary’s County; with a former Carleton roommate in Greenbelt Md; and with our son and his family in D.C. Each of these friends is so integrally bound up in our lives, helping determine who we have become, that my heart fills with gratitude as I think about them.

In Nicomachean Ethics Aristotle writes that there are three different kinds of friendship: utility-based, pleasure-based, and character-based. With some people we value their usefulness to us, with some the pleasure we take in their company, with some their good character. While pleasure is undoubtedly a component in the friends we are meeting on this trip, the friendships all fall within the third category, which for Aristotle is the highest. Also known as friendships of virtue, they are those relationships that develop over time and that are made up of people “who are good and alike in virtue; for each alike wishes well to each other… they are good in themselves.” 

Aristotle would see our trip as important because he believes that friendships must be maintained by activity, just as muscle tone must be maintained by exercise. The philosopher observes, “If… the absence be prolonged, it seems to cause the friendly feeling itself to be forgotten.”

As so often when it comes to important relationships, Kahlil Gibran has important insights into the nature of friendship. Here is his poem in The Prophet:

And a youth said, Speak to us of Friendship.
    And he answered, saying:
    Your friend is your needs answered.
    He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving.
    And he is your board and your fireside.
    For you come to him with your hunger, and you seek him for peace.

    When your friend speaks his mind you fear not the “nay” in your own mind, nor do you withhold the “ay.”
    And when he is silent your heart ceases not to listen to his heart;
    For without words, in friendship, all thoughts, all desires, all expectations are born and shared, with joy that is unacclaimed.
    When you part from your friend, you grieve not;
    For that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain.
    And let there be no purpose in friendship save the deepening of the spirit.
    For love that seeks aught but the disclosure of its own mystery is not love but a net cast forth: and only the unprofitable is caught.

    And let your best be for your friend.
    If he must know the ebb of your tide, let him know its flood also.
    For what is your friend that you should seek him with hours to kill?
    Seek him always with hours to live.
    For it is his to fill your need but not your emptiness.
    And in the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures.
    For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed.

Gibran is echoing what Aristotle says of friendships of virtue when he writes, “Let there be no purpose in friendship save the deepening of the spirit.” Utility and pleasure are all very well—Aristotle doesn’t dismiss them, seeing them as having an important role to play—but the friendships to be prized above all are those in which the heart finds its morning and is refreshed.

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Spring, the Sweet Spring!

Nightingale singing

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Tuesday
I’m assuming that spring begins early this year–on March 19–because of Leap Year. Here’s a joyous celebration of the season by the 16th century Elizabethan poet Thomas Nashe (1567-1601). The birds he invokes are the cuckoo, the nightingale, the lapwing, and the owl.

Spring, the Sweet Spring
By Thomas Nashe

Spring, the sweet spring, is the year’s pleasant king,
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing:
      Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
 
The palm and may make country houses gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay:
      Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
 
The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
In every street these tunes our ears do greet:
      Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to witta-woo!
            Spring, the sweet spring!

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A Bookstore and the Library of Babel

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Monday

Yesterday my friend Sue Schmidt took us to a most remarkable bookstore. Harrisburg’s Midtown Scholar, which contains both new and used books (sometimes grouped together on the same shelf), is a veritable labyrinth. One thinks one has reached its outer reaches, only to discover underground caverns with yet more treasures. As I wandered through whole collections of old volumes—sometimes works by George Eliot, Walter Scott, and William Makepeace Thackeray, sometimes Zane Grey westerns and Nancy Drew mysteries—I thought of Jorge Luis Borges’s short story “The Library of Babel.” The story begins as follows:

The universe (which others call the Library) is composed of an indefinite, perhaps infinite number of hexagonal galleries. In the center of each gallery is a ventilation shaft, bounded by a low railing. From any hexagon one can see the floors above and below—one after another, endlessly. The arrangement of the galleries is always the same: Twenty bookshelves, five to each side, line four of the hexagon’s six sides; the height of the bookshelves, floor to ceiling, is hardly greater than the height of a normal librarian. One of the hexagon’s free sides opens onto a narrow sort of vestibule, which in turn opens onto another gallery, identical to the first-identical in fact to all. To the left and right of the vestibule are two tiny compartments.

While the Midtown Scholar is not this symmetrical—and certainly not this vast—I did have the sense that it could go on and on. And there were two little rooms amongst the bookshelves such as one finds in Borges’s library: “One is for sleeping, upright; the other, for satisfying one’s physical necessities.” Only in this case, one was for men to satisfy their physical necessities, one was for women. And there were also staircases which, while not spiral (as in Borges’s library) did seem to reach “upward and downward into the remotest distance.”

And there’s yet another similarity. Borges reports,

Light is provided by certain spherical fruits that bear the name “bulbs.” There are two of these bulbs in each hexagon, set crosswise. The light they give is insufficient, and unceasing.

To be sure, the Library of Babel is about possibility rather than reality, containing as it does all books that could be written as well as those that have been written. That’s because one can find every combination of letters. Or at least, this is posited by a philosopher librarian, who posits,

In this library, there are no two identical books. From those incontrovertible premises, the librarian deduced that the Library is “total”—perfect, complete, and whole—and that its bookshelves contain all possible combinations of the twenty-two orthographic symbols (a number which, though unimaginably vast, is not infinite)—that is, all that is able to be expressed, in every language.

Because of this, any attempt to weed books from the collection is meaningless. Borges gives two reasons why:

One, that the Library is so huge that any reduction by human hands must be infinitesimal. And two, that each book is unique and irreplaceable, but (since the Library is total) there are always several hundred thousand imperfect facsimiles—books that differ by no more than a single letter, or a comma.

So okay, we’ve strayed far from any bookstore or library ever. And yet, when I was looking at the Margaret Atwood selection, I found six hardback duplicates of The Blind Assassin, which I’ve been meaning to add to my own collection. One was new and the others were used, and while they at first seemed the same, tiny little imperfections meant that each carried a different price. So instead of paying $20 or $12 or $9.50, I was able to purchase a copy for $7.25 (the book jacket sporting a slight tear and someone’s name inscribed inside the front cover). So not identical.

Boges’s story is, at one level, a satire of the Enlightenment project to bring order to the world—in this case, of librarians (and he himself was a librarian) to organize all that has been written and will be written. The symmetrical arrangement of the Library of Babel is mocked by its infinite space, which shows that any attempts at arrangement are futile and even ridiculous.

I felt somewhat put in my place by the Midtown Scholar: its holdings are so wide-ranging that I was confronted with how relatively little I have read and how small I am. Although I have spent most of my life reading literature, especially fiction, there were scores of authors and the novels, many with glowing jacket blurbs, that I haven’t even heard of. And then I think of all the novels that the bookstore didn’t have and of which I will remain in ignorance. As Borges puts it, “The certainty that some bookshelf in some hexagon contained precious books, yet that those precious books were forever out of reach, was almost unbearable.”

I identify with Borges when he talks about realizing that his youthful ambitions never had a chance of being realized. In his case, it was organizing the important works, in my case it was becoming familiar with them. As it is, I have barely made a dent in what there is to be read. As the soon-to-be-blind Borges puts it, he has traveled no more than a short distance from “the hexagon where I was born”:

Now that my eyes can hardly make out what I myself have written, I am preparing to die, a few leagues from the hexagon where I was born. When I am dead, compassionate hands will throw me over the railing; my tomb will be the unfathomable air, my body will sink for ages, and will decay and dissolve in the wind engendered by my fall, which shall be infinite.

“The universe (which many call the Library)” is a vast abyss of unread books. The better the bookstore, the more I experience the abyss.

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Glorifying Wild and Precious Lives

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Sunday

We are currently spending the weekend with our dear friends Sue and Dan Schmidt, both of them pastors who live in Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania. Sue has contributed a number of Sunday posts to this blog so I pumped her about the sermon she will be delivering, which we’ll travel to Harrisburg to hear. Sue said she will talk about how Jesus’s message to humankind is that we are put on earth, not only to glorify God, but to be glorified by God. In other words, when we appreciate God for creating the world, we come to value that creation, and vice versa. This creation, of course, includes ourselves. This double appreciation, Sue and I agreed, is captured by Mary Oliver’s poem “The Summer Day.”

More on Oliver in a moment. First I note that the theme of double glorification runs through all of today’s lectionary readings. First there is Jeremiah (Jeremiah 31:34) foreseeing the day when people will no longer have to remind themselves to “know the Lord.” That’s because they will automatically know, feel, and experience God with all their being. As Paul puts it in 1 Corinthians 13:12, “For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.”

Then there is “Letter to the Hebrews” (5:5-10) in which Paul–or someone writing like Paul–tells his readers that God glorified Jesus in this profound way, telling him, “You are my Son, today I have begotten you.” Jesus did not set himself up to be glorified, Paul adds, which is what sets him apart from, say, Milton’s Satan. The egotistical and narcissistic archangel of Paradise Lost thinks glorification only goes one way—he wants others to glorify him—but that means he is coming from a space of inner lack. Only in the act of glorifying do we come to appreciate how God has glorified us. “[H]aving been made perfect,” Paul says of Jesus, “he became the source of eternal salvation for all who obey him.”

To become that perfect source, however, “reverent submission” was required. One cannot, as Milton’s Satan, Adam and Eve do, set oneself up to compete with God. Instead, we can follow Jesus, who was glorified because he followed God’s lead. This is the lesson Jesus tries to teach his followers.

The lesson becomes clearer in today’s Gospel reading (John 12:20-33), where Jesus tells a crowd that his life and death are for their sake, designed to teach them this path to glorification. To gain it, they will have to abandon materialistic self-gratification:

 Then a voice came from heaven, “I have glorified it, and I will glorify it again.” The crowd standing there heard it and said that it was thunder. Others said, “An angel has spoken to him.” Jesus answered, “This voice has come for your sake, not for mine. Now is the judgment of this world; now the ruler of this world will be driven out. And I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all people to myself.”

In short, Jesus is not on a ruler-of-this-world ego trip. Rather he is showing, by his example of being lifted up, how his followers can themselves rise.

All of this mutual glorification, I acknowledge, can seem fairly confused, which is why I love Oliver’s “Summer Day.” In the past I’ve quoted Sewanee theologian Rob MacSwain observing that Episcopalians do theology through literature, and the Episcopalian Oliver makes clear through “Summer Day” how glorification works.

She begins by alluding to the Biblical creation story, in which we are repeatedly told, “And God saw that it was good.” Although she then turns to one of God’s seemingly insignificant creatures, she creates such a sense of wonder as to have us agreeing that God’s grasshoppers are indeed “good.” And if mere insects can arouse such a sense of wonder, think about what feelings the “wild and precious” lives of humans can arouse.

To fully appreciate God’s creations, whether grasshoppers or people, Oliver advises prayerful meditation:

I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.

In his book Green Gospel, which our church has been reading for Lent, author John Gatta says the most important part of the Genesis creation story is how God glorifies what He/She has created. In doing so, He/She inspires us to do the same. We can approach swans, black bears, grasshoppers and ourselves, not out of ego, but out of a grateful sense of wonder.

Once we have done so, the next question becomes, “What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” One answer is to celebrate it and thank God for the gift.

The Summer Day
By Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean—
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

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Here’s to Old Ireland!

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Friday

Here’s a poem in anticipation of St. Patrick’s Day weekend, with the March 17 holiday this year falling on a Sunday. Interestingly, although Jean Blewett (1862-1934) has written the kind of idealization of the “green isle” that one associates with irish expatriates, the Canadian poet herself happens to have been of Scottish descent. Still, the poem is perfect for the occasion. Enjoy.

St. Patrick’s Day
By Jean Blewett

There’s an Isle, a green Isle, set in the sea,
     Here’s to the Saint that blessed it!
And here’s to the billows wild and free
     That for centuries have caressed it!

Here’s to the day when the men that roam
     Send longing eyes o’er the water!
Here’s to the land that still spells home
     To each loyal son and daughter!

Here’s to old Ireland—fair, I ween,
     With the blue skies stretched above her!
Here’s to her shamrock warm and green,
     And here’s to the hearts that love her!I

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Jane Austen’s Thematic Use of Cards

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Thursday

This evening I will be teaching the card game, featured in Jane Austen’s novel Mansfield Park, to a gathering at Oberlin College. Following is the talk I will be giving, which I also gave when I taught the game at Vanderbilt University Library in 2019 and at Sewanee’s Dupont Library in 2023.

The game is Speculation, a deceptively simple game. As Austen observes, Fanny Price—who never plays cards—masters the basic rules in three minutes.  Players gather around tables in groups of five or six, pay into a pot, and then receive three cards each, which are dealt face down. The next card, dealt face up, is trump. The players then reveal their cards one at a time, with the highest trump card winning the pot. Speculation enters in when, at any time, the player with the highest card may choose to buy facedown cards from the other players, thereby ensuring that his or her card remains the highest.

I will note that, no matter how lovely our setting turns out to be, super snob Mrs. Elton of Emma would find fault with it. Here’s how she judges a card gathering she attends and what she herself plans in response:

She was a little shocked at the want of two drawing rooms, at the poor attempt at rout-cakes, and there being no ice in the Highbury card-parties. Mrs. Bates, Mrs. Perry, Mrs. Goddard and others, were a good deal behindhand in knowledge of the world, but she would soon shew them how everything ought to be arranged. In the course of the spring she must return their civilities by one very superior party—in which her card-tables should be set out with their separate candles and unbroken packs in the true style—and more waiters engaged for the evening than their own establishment could furnish, to carry round the refreshments at exactly the proper hour, and in the proper order.

Turning my attention to card games in general, I will observe that literature has often used cards for thematic purposes. To cite a random example, Jules Verne makes good use of the game whist in Around the World in 80 Days. What better way to capture an effete but steely-spined Phileas Fogg than by depicting him calmly taking tricks as he circumnavigates the globe? The image brings together the decorous drawing room and Britain’s adventurous colonial expansion.

Austen definitely uses card games for thematic effect. All but Austen’s youthful novel Lady Susan make some mention of cards. Sometimes cards seem to be a married guy thing: Mr. Allen in Northanger Abbey prefers cards to dancing and leaves the ladies to their own devices. So does the crass Mr. Hurst in Pride and Prejudice, and when he can’t find people to play with, he sulks by lying down on the couch.  In Emma, there are agonized discussions about how to set up an evening affair so that dancers and card players have separate spaces. Mr. Wodehouse plays whist whenever Emma can set up a foursome, although he forgoes it when he wants to spend time talking to his other daughter during a visit.

And then there’s high stakes gambling. Wickham’s villainy is finally confirmed when it’s learned that he is a gamester. Tom Bertram in Mansfield Park also is an enthusiastic card player, which may explain how he runs into financial trouble, costing his brother a parish.

But women play cards too. Although Elizabeth turns down a card game in Pride and Prejudice, it’s because the Bingleys are playing for more than just pennies. Elsewhere we see Elizabeth playing lottery, a game that requires minimal attention and that she uses as cover to talk to Wickham.

Quadrille, on the other hand, discourages outsiders because of its complex rules, which is why the snobby Catherine de Bourgh insists upon it in Pride and Prejudice. Because of its complexity, quadrille would evolve into the simpler whist, which is what the Bennets play, as does Mr. Wodehouse.

Jane Bennet, meanwhile, knows that she and Bingley are right for each other because their simple natures prefer Vingt-un, which would evolve into blackjack, over Commerce, a forerunner of poker.

Cards is an ideal activity for this society because it gives people something to talk about. And then, when they run out of things to say, they can focus on the game. All in all, the activity is more entertaining than, say, conversing on the respective heights of Lady Middleton’s children.

But there’s another marker here. Attitudes towards cards seems to divide Austen’s classicism from her romanticism. The romantic Marianne detests cards, preferring piano playing. To be sure, card playing provides her with a way of interacting with Wickham when she’s in society—he cheats on her behalf—but she’d much rather be talking privately with him about their mutual love of Cowper’s poetry, which they can do when they’re riding or walking. Persuasion’s Anne Elliot, a deeper soul, prefers substantive conversations with Mrs. Smith to the vapid card parties of Bath.

A conversation about cards marks an important moment in Anne’s reconciliation with Wentworth:

“You have not been long enough in Bath,” said he, “to enjoy the evening parties of the place.”

“Oh! no. The usual character of them has nothing for me. I am no card-player.”

“You were not formerly, I know. You did not use to like cards; but time makes many changes.”

“I am not yet so much changed,” cried Anne, and stopped, fearing she hardly knew what misconstruction.

It’s worth that, when real love is in the air, the characters do not play cards. Elizabeth may play cards with Wickham (Pride and Prejudice) but she never does so with Darcy, nor does Emma play cards with Knightley. To be sure, Fanny Price (Mansfield Park) is in a card game with Edmund Bertram, but in that case he’s focused on Mary Crawford, not on her.

It is in this last novel that a card game receives the most thorough treatment. We know from a letter to her sister Cassandra about their nephews that Austen herself enjoyed the game:

Our evening was equally agreeable in its way. I introduced speculation, and it was so much approved that we hardly knew how to leave off.

In the game, the players ante into a pot and then are dealt three cards, all facedown. A final card is then dealt face-up, becoming the trump card. One by one the players reveal their cards, with the highest card in that suit winning the pot.

Players speculate in various ways. They may offer to buy the card from the dealer if they think it will be the final winner. The player holding the highest card at any particular moment may buy facedown cards from other players to make sure that this particular trump card holds.  Other speculative purchases are possible as well.

If the game was so popular, it may have been in part because speculation was in the air. Austen wrote her novels during the Napoleonic wars, and historian Jenny Uglow notes that national borrowing primed the pump, benefitting

 army contractors, who provided massive quantities of tents, knapsacks, canteens, uniforms, shoes, muskets, gunpowder, ships, maps, fortifications, meat, and biscuit; bankers and speculators, who funded the supplies as well as subsidies to Britain’s allies…; [and] revenue agents, who collected the wide variety of taxes imposed to finance the wars…

It’s also worth noting that Britain had banned the importation of new slaves to the colonies seven years before Mansfield Park, throwing uncertainty about the future of slavery itself. This may be why Sir Thomas must sail to the America’s to check on conditions there. It was a live question, therefore, whether one should continue to speculate on overseas plantations.

Seen through the lens of the card game, all of Austen’s major novels can be seen as featuring Speculation plots or subplots. For instance:

–In Northanger Abbey, Isabel Thorpe trades in a certain high card (William Morland) for the possibility of a higher one (Captain Frederick Tilney) but ends up with nothing;

–The opposite occurs in Sense and Sensibility. Willoughby thinks, to ensure his inheritance from Mrs. Smith of Allenham, that he must trade in Marianne, whom he loves, for Miss Grey. The marriage is unhappy and he later learns it was a needless sacrifice: had he played his cards right, he could have gotten both the Allenham estate and Marianne;

–Lucy Steele in Sense and Sensibility proves more adept at speculation, trading in the disinherited Edward Ferrars for his brother Robert;

–in Pride and Prejudice, Elizabeth to proves herself a skilled speculator, passing on Mr. Collins and hauling in the far wealthier Darcy;

–her sister Lydia, on the other hand, is a reckless gambler, makes a bad bet by running off with Wickham. She is only saved from ruin by the intervention of others;

–Finally in Pride and Prejudice, Charlotte Lucas does a cold-blooded analysis of the hand she has been dealt and figures that Mr. Collins is about the best she can do;

–Mary Crawford reveals her hand in Mansfield Park by showing she wants Robert Bertram to die so that the man she is set on (younger brother Edmund) will be a squire rather than a rector. Like Isabel Thorpe, she aims too high and ends up with nothing;

–Maria Bertram grabs a sure thing (Rushworth) but is so unsatisfied with him that she ruins her life. Her sister, meanwhile, grabs what she knows she can get (Yates) but only after she realizes a higher card is out of reach (Henry Crawford);

–Fanny Price passes up a certain winner (Crawford) and is rewarded with higher one (Edmund);

–Emma, playing with someone else’s money, advises Harriet to pass up a sure thing (Roger Martin) and speculate on first Mr. Elton and then Frank Churchill. Unfortunately, Emma so infuses Harriet with speculative fever that the young woman goes all in and targets Knightley—and nearly ends up with nothing at all;

–Finally, in Persuasion a young Anne Elliot makes a mistake in not speculating—she is persuaded that she be cautious rather than to marry a speculator—which is to say, to marry Captain Wentworth, who although poor is confident in his powers. The captain is sure he can parlay “a ship not fit to be employed” into a fortune and in fact he does. Anne later declares she would never counsel a young friend to hold back as she did.

Like Elizabeth Bennet and Fanny Price, Anne gambles on everything or nothing, passing up Robert Musgrove, Benwick, and Mr. Elliot. Her gamble pays off as she lands Wentworth after all. The reason these three heroines receive the payoffs they desire is that they step beyond the cash nexus altogether. Love and character count more than money. In other words, they are not moved by mere acquisition.

In this context, it’s useful to recall the scene where Crawford coaches Fanny in how to play Speculation. While she picks up the game quickly, she can’t grasp its predatory dimensions:

…for though it was impossible for Fanny not to feel herself mistress of the rules of the game in three minutes, [Crawford] had yet to inspirit her play, sharpen her avarice, and harden her heart.

In short, Speculation reenacts a pressing drama of the age–just as, say, the board game Monopoly did for several decades in America.

In the various Mansfield Park characters, we see the full range of playing styles to be found amongst Speculation players. The main lesson: When you gamble on the future, be bold but not reckless. Take calculated risks, going big but not too big. Here are the six card players and their approaches to the game:

–Poor but ambitious William Price will succeed only if he takes risks, plays a bold game, and does not hesitate to take advantage of others–who in this case include his accommodating sister;

–Fanny Price, on the other hand, allows others to exploit her, at least when it comes to cards;

–Henry Crawford, very manipulative, claims he wants to help others and to some extent does so. But given that he uses his position as coach to get close to Fanny, everything he does must be regard skeptically;

–Lady Bertram is clueless and depends on others to take care of her;

–Mary Crawford plays emotionally and recklessly, sometimes paying more for a card than the pot is worth;

–Edmund Bertram, as far as we can tell, plays a balanced game. The outcome doesn’t mean as much to him as to the less privileged William Price, which probably means he doesn’t haggle as much.

From having taught the game in the past, I could understand why Austen enjoyed it so much. It’s a noisy game with a lot of personal interaction, as players haggle over card prices and cheer or moan as a card wins or loses. Different people reveals themselves to be Fanny or William Prices, Henry or Mary Crawford, the two Bertrams.

I saw also how Speculation allows a lot of side-talk. The game doesn’t require as much concentration as, say, bridge. In that way, it serves Austen’s artistic purposes: characters can have important conversations without interrupting the flow of the action.

Above all, Speculation offers people a wonderful way to come together and spend an evening.

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Could “Dover Beach” Deter a Rape?

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Wednesday

I am traveling this week and the next and so will be resorting to past essays rather than spending time away from the friends we are visiting. Here’s a post I wrote two years ago after reading an Ian McEwan novel, a time not longer after Russia had invaded Ukraine.

Reprinted from March 23, 2022

I recently finished listening to and thoroughly enjoying the Ian McEwan novel Saturday (2005). I share today an episode (major spoiler alert!) where Matthew Arnold’s famous poem “Dover Beach” (1867) deters a rape and possibly a murder. Poetry breaks through where other forms of communication fail.

One Saturday morning on his way to a squash game, neurosurgeon Henry Perowne is sideswiped by a thug and two cronies, who then prepare to beat him up. The date is February 15, 2003, the place is London, and there is a large rally underway protesting U.S. and British plans to invade Iraq. Just as he’s about to be thrashed, however, Perowne diagnoses the man (whose name is Baxter) as being in the early stages of Huntington’s disease. He disarms him and saves himself from a beating by talking to him about the illness. In listening to Perowne, however, Baxter loses face in front of his friends and later intrudes on a family dinner party to get revenge. I pick up the action after Baxter and one of his accomplices have just forced Perowne’s daughter to strip and then, as she stands before them naked, to read a poem from her upcoming book, the proofs of which she has in her possession. Although she pretends to read from the manuscript, however, Daisy instead recites “Dover Beach” and gets an unexpected response.

So that you can get the full effect of what transpires, here’s Arnold’s magnificent poem:

The sea is calm tonight.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

I should add that, when she strips, Daisy reveals to both the thugs and her family that she’s two months pregnant. Here’s the scene:

Henry has been through her book a few times, but there are certain poems he’s read only once; this one he only half remembers. The lines surprise him—clearly, he hasn’t been reading closely enough. They are unusually meditative, mellifluous and willfully archaic. She’s thrown herself back into another century. Now, in his terrified state, he misses or misconstrues much, but as her voice picks up a little and finds the beginnings of a quiet rhythm, he feels himself slipping through the words into the things they describe. He sees Daisy on a terrace overlooking a beach in summer moonlight; the sea is still and at high tide, the air scented, there’s a final glow of sunset. She calls to her lover, surely the man who will one day father her child, to come and look, or, rather, listen to the scene. Perowne sees a smooth-skinned young man naked to the waist, standing at Daisy’s side. Together they listen to the surf roaring on the pebbles, and hear in the sound a deep sorrow which stretches right back to ancient times. She thinks there was another time, even further back, when the earth was new and the sea consoling, and nothing came between man and God. But this evening the lovers hear only sadness and loss in the sound of the waves breaking and retreating from the shore. She turns to him, and before they kiss she tells him that they must love each other and be faithful, especially now they’re having a child, and when there’s no peace or certainty, and when desert armies stand ready to fight.

The reason Perowne only half remembers the poem is because it isn’t, of course, actually in her book. Not familiar himself with the literary canon, Perowne believes that his daughter is being “wilfully archaic” and throwing herself back into another century. In this perception, he reminds me of the narrator in Jorge Luis Borges’s short story “Pierre Menard, Author of the Quixote,” who commends Menard because, after having immersed himself deeply in the life of Cervantes, he is able to recreate, word for word, two and a half chapters from Don Quixote. In other words, a work that seems archaic if written in the past seems daringly new, flouting various 20th century literary conventions, when written by a modern author. Through this comic story, Borges makes the point that the same work can appear very different to readers of different eras, especially if they don’t make an historical adjustment.

But set that aside because the most remarkable thing about the scene in McEwan’s novel is the effect the poem has on Baxter, who has been holding a knife to the neck of Perowne’s wife. Baxter is dangerous because, as a man who knows his medical future, he feels he has nothing to lose. Yet he orders Daisy to read the poem again, and his mood, already prone to wild alterations because of his condition, shifts again:

It’s hard to tell, for his face is never still, but Baxter appears suddenly elated. His right hand has moved away from Rosalind’s shoulder and the knife is already back in his pocket. His gaze remains on Daisy. Baxter has broken his silence and is saying excitedly, “You wrote that. You wrote that.” It’s a statement, not a question. Daisy stares at him, waiting. He says again, “You wrote that.” And then, hurriedly, “It’s beautiful. You know that, don’t you. It’s beautiful. And you wrote it.” She dares say nothing. “It makes me think about where I grew up.”

A moment later he is telling Daisy to get dressed:

For a moment she doesn’t move, and they wait for her.

“I can’t believe it” Nigel says. “We gone to all this trouble.”

She bends to retrieve her sweater and skirt and begins to pull them on.

Earlier, while they are all listening to the second reading, Perowne imagines the effect the poem must be having on Baxter:

[Daisy] turns back a page, and with more confidence, attempting the seductive, varied tone of a storyteller entrancing a child, begins again. “The sea is calm tonight. The tide is full, the moon lies fair upon the straits—on the French coast the light gleams and is gone…”

Henry missed first time the mention of the cliffs of England “glimmering and vast out in the tranquil bay.” Now it appears there’s no terrace, but an open window; there’s no young man, father of the child. Instead he sees Baxter standing alone, elbows propped against the sill, listening to the waves “bring the eternal note of sadness in.” It’s not all of antiquity, but only Sophocles who associated this sound with the “turbid ebb and flow of human misery.” Even in his state, Henry balks at the mention of a “sea of faith” and a glittering paradise of wholeness lost in the distant past. Then once again, it’s through Baxter’s ears that he hears the sea’s “melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, retreating, to the breath of the night wind, down the vast edges drear and naked shingles of the world.” It rings like a musical curse. The pleas to be true to one another sounds hopeless in the absence of joy or love or light or peace or “help for pain.” Even in a world “where ignorant armies clash by night,” Henry discovers on second hearing no mention of a desert. The poem’s melodiousness, he decides, is at odds with its pessimism.

The poem doesn’t magically end Baxter’s lethal threat. McEwan is too much of a realist to believe that literature can perform that kind of a miracle, no more that poetry can stop the U.S. and Britain from invading Iraq. For that matter, Russian poet Yevgueni Yevtushenko’s “Do the Russians Want War?”, alluded to by Ukrainian president Zelensky shortly after Putin’s invasion, did not stop the advance of Russian forces. “Dover Beach,” however, does manage to interrupt Baxter’s violent trajectory, and in that pause the family finds a way to save itself.

And the poem continues to work his magic. After Perowne and his son throw Baxter down the stairs, cracking his head open, Perowne finds himself—as the on-call surgeon—operating on the man. Reflecting on what to do next after a successful operation, Perowne decides he will try to get the man psychological and medical help rather than press charges. “[H]ere is one area where Henry can exercise authority and shape events,” the novel tells us. “He knows how the system works—the difference between good and bad care is near infinite.” He does so in part because of Baxter’s response to the poem:

Daisy recited a poem that cast a spell on one man. Perhaps any poem would have done the trick, and thrown the switch on a sudden mood change. Still, Baxter fell for the magic, he was transfixed by it, and he was reminded how much he wanted to live. No one can forgive him the use of the knife. But Baxter heard what Henry never has, and probably never will, despite all Daisy’s attempts to educate him. Some nineteenth-century poet—Henry has yet to find out whether this Arnold is famous or obscure—touched off in Baxter a yearning he could barely begin to define. That hunger is his claim on life, on a mental existence, and because it won’t last much longer, because the door of his consciousness is beginning to close, he shouldn’t pursue his claim from a cell, waiting for the absurdity of his trial to begin.

And so the book ends, with Perowne, like the figure in Arnold’s poem, looking out his window in the middle of the night with his beloved wife sleeping behind him. Indeed, “Dover Beach” shapes McEwan’s novel itself, which has come full circle since action at this same window 22 hours earlier. Then Perowne, waking early, gazed out of at the early morning sky with similar meditations. And while the world is a dangerous and often bewildering place, we also see the love he has for his wife and his children, who are now—at least temporarily—safe again. But whether safe or not, there is love. Or as Arnold puts it, “Ah love, let us be true to one another.”

It is a reminder we desperately need since we know what has happened in the almost 20 years since when the book is set. We know that mayhem will break out, not only in Iraq, but in Afghanistan, Syria, Yemen, Georgia, Chechnya, and now Ukraine. We are certainly on a darkling plain where armies are clashing.

I have one other thought about poetry’s role in current events. While I state above that Yevtushenko’s “Do the Russians Want War?” appears to have had no effect on Russia’s Ukraine invasion, that may not be entirely true. Granted, the poem’s assurance that any country that has endured 20 million killed in World War II cannot possibly want war seems contradicted by Putin’s warmongering.  But if Russians all over the country are, with unimaginable bravery, standing up to protest the war, it’s in part because Yevushenko and others have instilled in them a sense that war is justified only in self-defense, not as a naked power grab. They are so appalled at what is being done in their name that they are willing to give up their liberty and their futures to voice their opposition.

Just as poetry can sometimes reach through a thug’s diseased mind and stay his actions, so it can help a country get in touch with its soul and to turn its back on egotistical power trips.

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Trump as a Sadistic Steinbeck Bully

Stelle and Field as Curley and Candy in Of Mice and Men

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Tuesday

It’s been several years since political scientist John Stoehr (of the blog Editorial Board) applied the descriptor of “sadist” to Donald Trump, thereby explaining both the man and why he is popular with a certain sector of the American public. More than anything else, Stoehr says, Trump supporters crave this sadism (it’s why no other GOP candidate had a chance against him). In his article, the Editorial Board editor quotes Humam Abd al-Salam on what right-wingers mean when they complain about people being “so easily offended these days.” What they’re really saying, Abd al-Salam says, is “Why can’t I bully everyone like I used to?”

Stoehr is worried that Trump’s sadism has become so normalized that the press corps no longer even sees it as worth mentioning. Perhaps a literary comparison would help us recognize, once again, the ugliness. I’m thinking of Trump as Curley in Of Mice and Men.

Before turning to Steinbeck, let’s look at a recent instance of Trump sadism. In his Saturday Georgia rally, Trump mocked Joe Biden for his stutter, saying, “I’m gonna bring the country tuh-tuh-tuh together.” Apparently the audience “roared with laughter,” prompting fascism scholar Ruth Ben-Ghiat to observe, “He does it to evoke the laughter that makes the crowd complicit and reinforces the culture of cruelty he requires to realize his dreams of mass repression.”

We saw an instance of him doing something similar in the 2016 campaign when he ridiculed reporter Serge Kovaleski, who has a congenital joint condition that limits movement in his arms. Trump impersonated the man by contorting his own limbs.

By normalizing or overlooking Trump’s sadism, the media makes it acceptable. Meanwhile, it underreports Biden’s kindness. Following Trump’s mockery, Stoehr notes that a 2020 video resurfaced of Biden encouraging a boy with a stutter. “I’ll tell you what,” Biden told him. “Don’t let it define you. You are smart as hell, now you really are. You can do this.”

Biden continued, “You know when I say I know about bullies. You know about bullies, the kids who make fun. It’s going to change, honey. I promise you.” Stoehr notes that Biden has been interacting with people like this for his entire political life.

There’s a similar dynamic going on in Steinbeck’s novella. Boss’s son Curley, who like Trump reeks of entitlement, “doesn’t give a damn” about others. As protagonist George says after hearing about him, “I hate that kinda bastard. I seen plenty of ’em. Like the old guy says, Curley don’t take no chances. He always wins.”

Curley thinks he’s not taking a chance when he goes after Lennie, the mentally challenged giant who dreams of raising cute little rabbits with George on a farm of their own. Curley is feeling cocky because he has married a beautiful woman—think of Trump’s trophy wives—but he’s also worried that he won’t be able to hold on to her. When both she and two of the farm hands start mocking him, he attempts to regain his manhood by going after Lennie.

And at first he gets free shots because George has instructed Lennie not to fight back. In fact, George has predicted this would happen, telling his friend, “He figures he’s got you scared and he’s gonna take a sock at you the first chance he gets.”

At first Curley encounters no resistance. Thinking that Lennie is laughing at him (he’s not), he yells,

 “Come on, ya big bastard. Get up on your feet. No big son-of-a-bitch is gonna laugh at me. I’ll show ya who’s yella.” Lennie looked helplessly at George, and then he got up and tried to retreat. Curley was balanced and poised. He slashed at Lennie with his left, and then smashed down his nose with a right. Lennie gave a cry of terror. Blood welled from his nose. “George,” he cried. “Make ‘um let me alone, George.” He backed until he was against the wall, and Curley followed, slugging him in the face. Lennie’s hands remained at his sides; he was too frightened to defend himself.

Unable to bear what he’s seeing, George finally instructs Lennie to fight back, which he does. Continuing my political parallel, he’s like Biden using his State of Union address to fight back against the GOP after months of being caricatured as a senile and doddering old fool:

Lennie took his hands away from his face and looked about for George, and Curley slashed at his eyes. The big face was covered with blood. George yelled again, “I said get him.” Curley’s fist was swinging when Lennie reached for it. The next minute Curley was flopping like a fish on a line, and his closed fist was lost in Lennie’s big hand. George ran down the room. “Leggo of him, Lennie. Let go.”

But Lennie watched in terror the flopping little man whom he held. Blood ran down Lennie’s face; one of his eyes was cut and closed. George slapped him in the face again and again, and still Lennie held on to the closed fist. Curley was white and shrunken; by now, and his struggling had become weak. He stood crying, his fist lost in Lennie’s paw.

A number of pundits have noted that Biden’s secret power is that his opponents underestimate him. They have been doing so his entire career, thinking him weak because he reaches across the aisle and prefers quiet negotiation to grandstanding. This is one reason why Republicans were so caught off guard, and why Democrats were so energized, by Biden’s combative State of the Union speech.

Trump mocking him for his stutter after the SOTU would be like Curley mocking Lennie when Lennie is no longer around. But since such a scene doesn’t occur in the book, I need to look elsewhere—to Henry Fielding’s Tom Jones—to find an example that fits the occasion. Late in the novel, Squire Western has had his ears boxed by a man whose friend he has insulted—but he doesn’t give full vent to his wrath until the man is safely out of earshot:

The captain, with some indignation, replied, “I see, sir, you are below my notice, and I shall inform his lordship you are below his. I am sorry I have dirtied my fingers with you.” At which words he withdrew, the parson interposing to prevent the squire from stopping him, in which he easily prevailed, as the other, though he made some efforts for the purpose, did not seem very violently bent on success. However, when the captain was departed, the squire sent many curses and some menaces after him; but as these did not set out from his lips till the officer was at the bottom of the stairs, and grew louder and louder as he was more and more remote, they did not reach his ears, or at least did not retard his departure.

So Trump, after Biden administered a Lennie-like beating with his address, sought to recover his dignity by making fun of Biden’s stutter. And got his sycophantic fans to join in.

Classic bully sadism.

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