Chawton Revisited

                                                       The house where Jane Austen died.

 Dear Reader,

I started reading Jane Austen's books in my early teens and quite fell in love with them, and her.

She was born on December 16th, 1775 and died on July 18th, 1817.  She was a pioneer in fiction, breaking new ground in both subject and style.   She saw that every day events in ordinary places could be the stuff of fiction.   Her social range was narrow, confined only to her own rank in society, but she had universal comic wit.

Apparently her most famous quote is:

   'The person, be it a gentleman or lady, who has not the pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid.'  Quite so.

Jane Austen is primarily known for her six novels which implicitly interpret, critique or comment on the British landed gentry at the end of the 18th century. Her deft use of social comementary, realism and biting irony have earned her acclaim among critics and scholars.

As far as I can work out no one really knows what she died of at the very early age of 41.  It has been said that it was Addison's disease, although her final illness has been described as resulting from Hodgkin's lymphona.

Her six novels are still my favourite reads.  Perhaps I love 'Persuasion' best but I know all of them so well it is difficult to make a choice. 

 

                                                                                *

 From Francis Kilvert  September 14th 1873 in North Devon

'I got up at 6 o'clock as the sun was rising behind the Tors at Lynton.  The house was silent and no one seemed to be about.  I unlocked the door and let myself out into the garden.   It was one of the loveliest mornings that ever dawned upon this world.  A heavy dew had fallen in the night and as I wandered down the beautiful winding terraced walks every touch sent a shower from the great blue globes of the hydrangeas, and on every crimson fuchsia pendant flashed a diamond dew drop.  

The clear pure crisp air of the early morning blew fresh and exhilarating as the breeze came sweet from the sea.'

                                                                                 *

Chawton Revisited

 

Do you remember Chawton, Jill,
forty years ago,
discussing Emma, Miss Bates, Fanny?
Do you remember
our mutual dislike of Aunt Norris
and her devious ways?

Do you remember the sitting-room, Jill,
with the round writing table
small, mirror-polished,
set in a garden-view window, or
the satin slippers tied with a ribbon,
the lace collars
embroidered by hand?

Do you remember the walk
to the church in the afternoon cool?
We sat on a bench in the late summer sun,
and mused on her death,
wondering why did she die, so young.

Do you remember Chawton, Jill?

Alone, alive, having tea in the tea room,
I feel you here with me still.

                                                                                   *

With very best wishes, Patricia