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Monthly Archives: September 2008


From Barbara Cartland‘s The Prince And the Pekingese:

You have come!” the Prince exclaimed.
“Yes,” said Angelina softly. “I have come.” The Prince paused for a moment looking at the beautiful young woman in a way that made her tremble. “You are so lovely and yet … ” There was a throb of pain in his voice that made Angelina long to comfort him. Whatever we feel for each other, “she whispered, “I realize your country must … come … first.” The Prince looked up sharply. “We feel for each other?” he repeated. “Tell me … what you feel for me.” Angelina shyly lowered her eyes, but his tone was rough and insistent. “Tell me,” the Prince said again. And suddenly, as if it came from the very depths of her being, Angelina’s clear young voice miraculously cried out: “I … love you. I love you. I love you!”

Oh. My. God.

I cannot believe I devoured this stuff when I was young. Granted, I was young, but still–

Along those lines, I was thinking lately about how I’m not comfortable writing heroines who are under 20 years old; when I was 18, in age similar to Cartland’s ellipsis-talking ladies, I did many foolish things. For example, when my first real boyfriend broke up with me, I wore gray eyeshadow so it’d look like I had been losing sleep and walked around with a copy of Vladimir Nabokov‘s Despair so he’d know how I was suffering.

And, of course, that’s not even mentioning the poor fashion choices I made, or how I cut class to go with my best friend Anthony to watch him play video games (he was good enough to spend a quarter for about an hour’s worth of play).

So now that I’m older, and theoretically wiser, I want to read heroines who I believe would make good choices. I don’t want to read about high school age girls who are way wise beyond their years, or who behave like real high schoolers do. Either one is unappealing. I like the current trend towards more mature heroines, although that means us authors have to devise new ways of still making them available (poor family, governess, widow) and somewhat inexperienced (spinster, widow whose husband had some potency issues). It makes it harder and sometimes anachronistic, to write and read heroines who fit the high, yet realistic, standards us romance readers demand.

Have you noticed the trend towards older heroines? What type of heroine did you cut your first romance teeth on? Do you still read those books? And what’s one of the foolishest thing you did in high school?

Megan


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It’s the 299th birthday of the great Samuel Johnson (1709-1774) who created the first English dictionary, and although I originally intended to write something very erudite (or as erudite as I can get) I became sidetracked, so I’m going to throw out a few oddities I found when I was scrambling around online for images and information on Johnson.

First, if you happen to find yourself near Lichfield, Staffs. this weekend, you can drop by the museum that is Johnson’s birthplace. Yes, there will be cake. Lichfield is a mostly harmless city in the Midlands with a cathedral and (many years ago) a great second-hand bookstore, and some rather nice buildings. Johnson, who retained a fondness for his home town all his life, said:

I lately took my friend Boswell and showed him genuine civilised life in an English provincial town. I turned him loose at Lichfield.

Johnson also requested that his heir, his servant
Francis Barber, settle in Lichfield, where his descendants farm nearby today. Barber, originally a slave from Jamaica, was freed by his owner in England, before entering Johnson’s service in 1752. He stayed on and off until the end of Johnson’s life, apart from brief stints as a pharmacist and as a sailor.

Now to the cats. Johnson liked animals, with his favorite cat in his London house being one Hodge. See, I said this was going to be diversionary. Here’s the monument to Hodge (wearing holiday garb), keeping watch over Johnson’s house and seated on a copy of the dictionary.

According to Boswell, Johnson was a bit of a sucker for Hodge:

I never shall forget the indulgence with which he treated Hodge, his cat: for whom he himself used to go out and buy oysters, lest the servants having that trouble should take a dislike to the poor creature. I am, unluckily, one of those who have an antipathy to a cat, so that I am uneasy when in the room with one; and I own, I frequently suffered a good deal from the presence of this same Hodge. I recollect him one day scrambling up Dr. Johnson’s breast, apparently with much satisfaction, while my friend smiling and half-whistling, rubbed down his back, and pulled him by the tail; and when I observed he was a fine cat, saying, “Why yes, Sir, but I have had cats whom I liked better than this;” and then as if perceiving Hodge to be out of countenance, adding, “but he is a very fine cat, a very fine cat indeed.”

As well as going out on oyster buying expeditions, Johnson also went out to buy valerian when Hodge was dying, to make his pet’s last moments more comfortable. Here’s Boswell, Johnson, and Hodge again:

This reminds me of the ludicrous account which he gave Mr. Langton, of the despicable state of a young Gentleman of good family. “Sir, when I heard of him last, he was running about town shooting cats.” And then in a sort of kindly reverie, he bethought himself of his own favourite cat, and said, “But Hodge shan’t be shot; no, no, Hodge shall not be shot.”

What I love about Boswell’s account of Johnson and Hodge is that you can visualize this scene so clearly: Boswell, grumpy and disapproving, rolling his streaming eyes as Johnson coos over his pet and adds cat hair to the fine covering of snuff he habitually wore. Despite his formidable intelligence and his strange tics and behavior (there’s a theory that he may have suffered from Tourette’s syndrome), Johnson was much beloved by his friends.

Any favorite Johnson sayings, cat stories (literary or otherwise)?

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My oldest daughter has grown so much over the summer that she needs a full-size violin and now my youngest says she wants to play too, itching to get her hands on the 3/4 size hand-me-down. Over Labor Day, my oldest tried several instruments in Cleveland and fell in love with one. So yesterday I drove 50 miles to get it from Fedex (long story), took it to my daughter’s teacher. She replaced the A-string that had broken in transit and then gave the instrument a proper workout, including excerpts from the Bruch violin concerto, before giving it the thumbs up. Whew!

It’s all worth it, even listening to all the fumbling and squawking and buzzing of beginner efforts (and I’m going to go through that all again this year). Because after a time, the hideous sounds give way to music and there are few experiences to beat watching your kid play in an all-county orchestra in a real concert hall (2nd chair, 2nd violin but who’s bragging?)

There are many instances, real and fictional, of Regency ladies playing the pianoforte or harp, but I’ve never read about one who played the violin. I vaguely recall once hearing that it was considered ungraceful. In contrast, playing the pianoforte could show off good posture and provide opportunities for flirtation (the helpful beaux turning the pages, singing along, etc…) and playing the harp would be a good way to show off pretty arms.

As I checked into this further, I found a review of several studies on the emergence of professional women musicians. I’d love to read the actual studies sometime, but the review itself listed some more interesting reasons for the unwritten ban on lady violinists:

As Gillett notes, the early nineteenth century public found female violin playing “inappropriate, improper, and aesthetically jarring.” Violins were compared to the feminine body, “most fittingly performed on by a worshipful ‘master’.” Moreover, male virtuoso violinists played with great expression and body movement, which was considered inappropriate for women. Further, violins had a long literary association with sin, death, and the devil, making them dangerous for the weaker sex.

Heavy stuff! But not surprising. I’d already learned that there was a similar prohibition against ladies playing Beethoven on the pianoforte. I deliberately had the rebellious heroine of The Incorrigible Lady Catherine play a Beethoven sonata…and got one of the highest compliments ever from a CP, who thought Catherine should have smoked a cigarette afterwards! 😉 Maybe sometime I’ll write a Regency heroine who plays the violin, but only if it it’s in character and important for her to do so.

While the tension between personal creativity and cultural restrictions can make for interesting stories, but I’m glad we’ve moved beyond that. Although I haven’t had much opportunity to hear women soloists recently, some of my favorite violin recordings were performed by women.

I love this collection of music by Vaughn Williams, featuring Iona Brown (1941-2004) who not only performed on the violin but also directed the Academy of St. Martin in the Fields. If you click on the link, you can listen to excerpts including “The Lark Ascending” which I think is truly sublime.

Another favorite female violinist is Tasmin Little, whom I saw play the Sibelius violin concerto while I lived in England. I had to get my hands on the recording. The Brahms is good but the Sibelius is wonderful, intense and passionate. Unfortunately this recording is now hard to find but she has made many others. If you’re not familiar with her playing, listen to the free downloads in the “Naked Violin” section of her website.

Finally I will leave you with a video that would have proper Regency folk reeling:

Why did I not even know about this series? Did it ever appear on BBC America?

Do you enjoy reading about musical heroes or heroines in Regencies? Do you have favorite violin pieces, composers, performers? Links to share?

Elena Greene
www.elenagreene.com

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And now…by popular demand…and against the express wishes of my cat…I bring you the almost complete
Part the First
of
THE RIME OF THE VULCAN MARINER:

(N.B: the beginning of this appeared in an earlier post.)

It is a space-age mariner,
And he stoppeth one of three.
“By thy verdant skin and too-sharp ears,
Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?

The star bar’s doors are opened wide,
And I’m expected in;
My skirt is small, my hair is tall,
And Kirk will buy me gin.”

He holds her with his skinny hand,
“The Enterprise–” quoth he.
“Hold off! unhand me, blue-shirt loon!”
But Spock cannot agree.

He holds her with his mental meld–
The busty babe stood still,
And listens like a three years’ child:
The Vulcan hath her will.

With Captain Kirk forgotten now,
She listens full of fear;
And thus spake on with logic cool,
The man with pointy ear.

“The ship was cleared, no Klingon feared,
Steadily did we warp
Beyond the Earth, beyond the moon,
Beyond Tau Ceti Four.

“The ship that’s trapp’d in solar heft
Is quite a sight to see.
It shines so bright, that time’s not right
And muons all go free.

“Higher and higher every day,
Till every moment’s noon–“
The leggy babe then missed the rest,
For she heard a tribble croon.

“Jim Kirk hath paced into the bar,
Yellow his tunic’s sheen;
Quaffing a glass of Scotty’s best —
I know not, but it’s green.”

The guest-star fair, she tore her hair,
Yet she cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake that half-Vulcan man,
The space-age Mariner.

“And now the Klingons came, and they
Were tyrannous and strong:
They struck us from their ships with wings,
Which to Romulans once belonged.

With failing shields and flagging warp,
As who pursued with phasers sharp
Beholds the bridge dissolve to quarks
With wormholes straight ahead,
The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,
Into the sun we fled.

And now there came the photon blow,
And it did wondrous hurt:
And tongues of fire made us a pyre
As red as Scotty’s shirt.

And while we stewed, the Klingon crew
Did fire unending blows:
They knocked out Rand and Sulu too–
And singed the captain’s clothes.

They hit us here, they hit us there,
Till only pain we felt:
Off chairs we fell, for, truth to tell,
We have not one seat belt.

to be continued…

And be sure to stop in on the first Tuesday of October, when our Jane Austen Movie Club discusses BRIDE AND PREJUDICE!

And thanks to Trusty Todd for the Scotty’s Best stanza…

Cara
Cara King, who has never met a cross albatross

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And now…by popular demand…and against the express wishes of my cat…I bring you the almost complete Part the First of
THE RIME OF THE VULCAN MARINER:

(N.B: the beginning of this appeared in an earlier post.)

It is a space-age mariner,
And he stoppeth one of three.
“By thy verdant skin and too-sharp ears,
Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?

The star bar’s doors are opened wide,
And I’m expected in;
My skirt is small, my hair is tall,
And Kirk will buy me gin.”

He holds her with his skinny hand,
“The Enterprise–” quoth he.
“Hold off! unhand me, blue-shirt loon!”
But Spock cannot agree.

He holds her with his mental meld–
The busty babe stood still,
And listens like a three years’ child:
The Vulcan hath her will.

With Captain Kirk forgotten now,
She listens full of fear;
And thus spake on with logic cool,
The man with pointy ear.

“The ship was cleared, no Klingon feared,
Steadily did we warp
Beyond the Earth, beyond the moon,
Beyond Tau Ceti Four.

“The ship that’s trapp’d in solar heft
Is quite a sight to see.
It shines so bright, that time’s not right
And muons all go free.

“Higher and higher every day,
Till every moment’s noon–“
The leggy babe then missed the rest,
For she heard a tribble croon.

“Jim Kirk hath paced into the bar,
Yellow his tunic’s sheen;
Quaffing a glass of Scotty’s best —
I know not, but it’s green.”

The guest-star fair, she tore her hair,
Yet she cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake that half-Vulcan man,
The space-age Mariner.

“And now the Klingons came, and they
Were tyrannous and strong:
They struck us from their ships with wings,
Which to Romulans once belonged.

With failing shields and flagging warp,
As who pursued with phasers sharp
Beholds the bridge dissolve to quarks
With wormholes straight ahead,
The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,
Into the sun we fled.

And now there came the photon blow,
And it did wondrous hurt:
And tongues of fire made us a pyre
As red as Scotty’s shirt.

And while we stewed, the Klingon crew
Did fire unending blows:
They knocked out Rand and Sulu too–
And singed the captain’s clothes.

They hit us here, they hit us there,
Till only pain we felt:
Off chairs we fell, for, truth to tell,
We have not one seat belt.