Books to the Ceiling

Every time a new issue of British Heritage arrives, I make myself put off reading it until I can’t stand it any more. I can be certain that I’m in for a treat once my self-control gives way, but I have to say that the May 2008 issue is really exceptional. For one thing, there are so many fascinating news items in the “Dateline” section at the beginning of the magazine that I have yet to move on to the longer articles at the heart of this splendid publication!

First, there’s the piece on Sherwood Forest, which used to comprise some 100,000 acres. Alas, it has presently shrunk to a mere 450! Think how exposed Robin of Locksley and his Merry Band would have felt amid such reduced acreage. But efforts are underway to renew and reinvigorate this storied place. The forest still contains 997 old-growth oak trees. And when they say old, they’re not kidding; these trees can live 900 years. These oaks are carefully tended. Pride of place among their number goes to the Major Oak.

The Major Oak, as it currently appears

The Major Oak, with supports digitally removed

And before we go on to other things, have a look at the annual Robin Hood Festival.

Next, interesting news from the art world: Sotheby’s auctioned a J.M.W. Turner water-color for a cool $6 million. Formerly owned by various members of the Vanderbilt family, Bamborough Castle had not been seen publicly since 1889. Meanwhile, a Faberge egg containing a clock fetched an even cooler $18.5 million at Christie’s. This exquisite timepiece, commissioned by the Rothschild family in 1905, is now the highest-priced ever Russian objet d’art.

A sensational treasure trove of “Romano-British artifacts” has been found at the bottom of a well at a place called Draper’s Gardens in London. According to Jenny Hall, the curator of Roman London at the Museum of London, “Nothing like this has ever been found in London before, or anywhere else in Britain.”

Now - on to the Royals. Yes - I do interest myself in their doings, I freely admit to it! Queen Elizabeth has a new grandson, the second child born to Prince Edward and Sophie, Countess of Wessex. (He was actually born right before Christmas. We across the pond here are a tad late getting the news - or, at least, I am.) The little tyke will be known as James Windsor, Viscount Severn.

Finally, two items about Scotland. First: plans are under way for a gathering of the Scottish clans next year. Called, not unexpectedly, The Gathering, the event will be part of a larger celebration called Homecoming Scotland. Prince Charles will be the royal patron. This exciting series of events has all the makings of a party to end all parties!

The Gathering will feature massed pipe bands, Highland games, live music, Scottish Highland dancing, and much more.

Finally, news of the Helix Project, the purpose of which is to “…fund a new section of the Forth and Clyde Canal connecting the canal to the Firth of Forth.”

The Firth of Forth

In addition, approximately twenty miles of paths for walking and cycling are planned, and some 750,000 trees will be planted. As if all this wasn’t sufficiently exciting, a sculpture consisting of two enormous horse heads is slated to be the crowning glory of the Helix Project. This massive installation, designed by sculptor Andy Scott, will be about one hundred feet high. The inspiration for this work is the kelpie, defined by Mysterious Britain as “…the supernatural shape-shifting water horse that haunts the rivers and streams of Scotland.”

Prototype of The Kelpies

I speak as an outsider who has spent very little time there, but it seems to me that the spirit of Scotland, animated by a justified pride in that country’s distinguished heritage and bright future, is on the rise. My husband and I felt that we were standing at the heart of this resurgence when we visited Edinburgh this past fall. While there, we toured the new Scottish Parliament building and learned the story of its creation, a stirring tale of triumph mixed with tragedy, like something out of a novel.

In 2003, Andrea di Robilant, a correspondent for the Italian newspaper La Stampa, wrote a book entitled A Venetian Affair. In it, he tells the poignant love story of Giustiniana Wynne, a young Venetian who lived in genteel poverty with her mother and sisters, and Andrea Memmo, scion of one of Venice’s oldest and most distinguished families. For many reasons, Giustiniana was disqualified as wife material for Andrea; among the strikes against her was her illegitimacy. But although they were never able to marry, they remained devoted to each other. That devotion was chronicled in numerous letters which were discovered by the author’s father in the attic of Venetian palazzo which had at one time been owned by the family.

Di Robilant used those letters to terrific effect in A Venetian Affair. And now comes Lucia, the sequel, as it were. Once again we meet Andrea Memmo, only now he is older and wiser and a widower with two daughters. The younger is Paolina; the older, Lucia. The story begins in the year 1786. We learn that Andrea has been working hard to arrange a marriage for sixteen-year-old Lucia to Alvise, scion of the distinguished Mocenigo family, who, like themselves, are Venetian. At the time he was engaged in these machinations, Andrea was Venice’s ambassador to the Papal States. Negotiations were thus taking place over long distance while he was fulfilling his obligations in Rome and in Naples. The proposed match encountered some obstacles, but these were eventually overcome. There followed an exchange of letters between Lucia and her betrothed. We don’t have Alvise’s side of the correspondence, but we do have Lucia’s. Her letters are filled with sweet anticipation and girlish delight. They are filled with hope, and alas, very naive. But she learns, oh, does she learn…

In fact, this book could have been called “The Education of Lucia.” Alvise wasn’t a terrible husband, just a largely absent one. Lucia had to learn to fend for herself, a proposition made all the more daunting by the chaotic dangers of the outside world. The Napoleonic Wars were raging over the face of Europe. Poor Venice, mired in an antiquated, reactionary system of government, didn’t stand a chance against the powers that were vying for control of it. La Serenissima was anything but serene. As a result of all the turmoil, Lucia commenced an almost nomadic existence, living for a time in Vienna, in Paris, and in a number of smaller principalities. But her love for Venice, her fierce loyalty to her homeland and her determination to return to it, never wavered.

I want to just come out and say it: This is a wonderful book! The times were dangerous and fascinating, true, but Lucia’s remarkable life is the star of the show. I dearly hope that Andrea Di Robilant can tease at least one more book out of that treasure trove of letters. His writing is fluid and graceful; he is a born storyteller.

For a truly a wonderful reading experience, I’d suggest reading both books, starting with A Venetian Affair. Then kick back, relax, and prepare to be enthralled!

Addendum, March 2: I forgot to mention that Lucia’s favorite author was none author than the prolific and redoubtable Madame de Genlis! Writing phrasebooks for travelers, it turns out, was just one of the versatile Mme de Genlis’s many writerly occupations.

Lucia, by the way, was Andrea Di Robilant’s great-great-great-great-grandmother.

Susan Cheever has penned an eminently readable whirlwind tour of early 19th century Concord, Massachusetts. The subtitle of the book is “Louisa May Alcott, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Margaret Fuller, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and Henry David Thoreau: Their Lives, Their Loves, Their Work.”

In my post on Suzanne Berne’s novel Ghost at the Table, I talked about the Concord luminaries. In my several pilgrimages to that still-lovely town, I’ve been interested primarily in Thoreau and Hawthorne. Susan Cheever’s interest in this group of worthies was sparked by a re-reading of Little Women: “The book amazed me. Far from being the string of bromides I dimly recalled, it was an elegantly written family story of great poignance and skill.” I guess I”ll have to break down and read it - finally!

I consider myself reasonably well read where the lives and works of Emerson, Hawthorne, and Thoreau are concerned. Somewhat to my surprise, Cheever depicts a variety amorous rivalries in this famous community. First there’s Ellen Sewall, beloved by both Henry and John Thoreau and won by neither of them. Then there was Margaret Fuller. As Cheever tells it, Emerson, Thoreau, and Hawthorne were all in love with her to some extent, particularly Hawthorne. Now this really perplexed me. From my prior reading, I had gathered that he and Sophia were utterly devoted to each other.

At any rate, Margaret Fuller decamped for Europe before she could irretrievably damage any marriages. In the late 1840’s she fetched up in Rome, where she took an Italian lover by whom she had a son. The story of how Fuller and her family perished in a shipwreck off the coast of Fire Island is one of the more harrowing things I’ve read lately - and I’ve read some pretty harrowing things lately.

Aside from Margaret Fuller’s ill-fated adventures, the Concord writers led what on the surface appear to be provincial, conventional lives. Not so: if the life of the mind is valued at all, their lives were filled with riches. And speaking of riches, Thoreau and Hawthorne subsisted largely on a kind of continuous grant supplied by the incredibly generous Emerson. His first wife, Ellen Tucker, had been wealthy. When she died, tragically at the age of twenty, he inherited her fortune. He was he was brokenhearted, though, and would have much preferred to keep Ellen with him.

Emerson remarried, but one senses that Ellen Tucker remained in his memory as the great love of his life. He and his second wife Lidian started a family, but tragedy struck again when Waldo, age five, succumbed to scarlet fever. Emerson wrote to Margaret Fuller: “Shall I ever dare to love anything again. Farewell and farewell, O my Boy!” Earlier that month - January of 1842 - John Thoreau had also died. He had cut himself while shaving and contracted tetanus.

     [Ralph Waldo Emerson and his grandson Ralph Emerson Forbes]

The people of the early 19th century had virtually no defense against these kinds of opportunistic infections. To make matters worse, the medical treatment of the day was often more injurious than the illness it was supposed to mitigate. A medication called calomel, liberally prescribed at the time for everything from headaches to typhoid fever, consisted basically of a solution of mercury. When Louisa Alcott contracted typhoid, she was heavily dosed with calomel and as a result suffered permanent neurological impairment.

The death of Henry David Thoreau provides the single most moving moment in this book. Cheever calls Emerson’s eulogy “…one of the most extraordinary essays ever written by one friend about another.” The closing lines are heartbreaking in their eloquence:

“‘His soul was made for the noblest society; he had in a short life exhausted the capabilities of this world. Wherever there is knowledge, wherever there is virtue, wherever there is beauty, he will find a home.’”

At the time of his death, Thoreau was forty-four years old.

     [The Thoreau family gravesite in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, Concord]

Travel is one of the many aspects of life in the French countryside written about by Graham Robb in The Discovery of France. In a number of instances, the author refers to a singular little guidebook:

“One of the best short guides to the experience of travelling in post-Revolution France is a French-German phrase book published in 1799 by Caroline-Stephanie-Felicite Du Crest de Saint-Aubin, who is usually known as Mme de Genlis.”

The full title of this little book is The Traveller’s Companion for Conversation, being a Collection of Such Expressions as Occur Most Frequently in Travelling and in the Different Situations in Life. Apparently at least four more editions of this book were published subsequent to the one referenced by Graham Robb. How do I know this? Here is a picture of the fifth edition, lying somewhat incongruously on our kitchen table! The publication date of this small volume is given as 1821. This version has been enlarged to include English, Italian, Spanish, and somewhat to my amazement, Russian.

How did I come by this artifact of another era? My mother was an inveterate traveler, particularly in Western Europe. She loved France, Italy, and the British Isles. (It is a love she bequeathed to me.) After her first trip to Italy, taken with my father when she was in her forties, she resolved to learn Italian. She accomplished this goal with remarkable speed and facility. She went back to Europe again and again, sometimes with my father, sometimes with tour groups, occasionally alone. At some point during her wanderings on the continent, she obtained Mme de Genlis’s book. It is one of the few possessions of hers that I have retained. I admit that I never examined it closely until I found it mentioned in Graham Robb’s book.

The Traveller’s Companion does not much resemble contemporary phrasebooks. Rather its entries are miniature dialogues, or, in some cases, monologues. They serve as a timely reminder that the rigors of travel are not unique to the 21st century. Below are some sample entries.

Dialogue IV: Conversation on Board a Ship or Yacht:

“I am very sick.

Lay yourself flat upon your belly; shut your eyes; remain in that quiet posture, and your sickness will abate.”

But if it doesn’t…. “I suffer extremely; I am unwell, pray, hand me a bason [sic].”

Dialogue V: On Crossing the Water in a Ferry:

“Now take off the horses from the carriage. The horses ought not to be yoked to the carriage in a ferry.”

“Why so? Because nothing can be more dangerous. The indolence, which hinders us from unyoking the horses, has caused a thousand unhappy accidents.”

Dialogue VI: Enquiries in a journey which cannot be otherwise performed than in a Sedan Chair, or on Mules:

“Is the road very dreadful? Yes, it is very narrow and on the brink of precipices.”

Dialogue VIII: On the Accidents that might happen on the Road:

“My friends, could you assist us? We are in great distress, you shall be well paid for your trouble.

We are sticking in a hole. Lend us two of your horses to draw us forwards.

You will do us a great favour.”

Followed by this plaintive outbreak:

“Dear friends, I beg you!”

Alas, things appear to go from bad to worse:

“He has a hole in his head!

We must first wash out the wound well with fresh water, and afterwards apply a poultice to it of Cologne water mixed with fresh water.”

Then later:

“Take courage, my friend! your fall does not appear to be dangerous. Poor man! I sympathize greatly with your sufferings, I assure you.”

(At this point, I couldn’t help but think of Mercutio, mortally wounded by Tybalt.

“Romeo: Courage, man, the hurt cannot be much.

Mercutio: No, ’tis not so deep as a well nor as wide as a church door but ’tis enough, ’twill serve…” And so, sadly and with dire consequence, it did.)

I have finished reading Graham Robb’s majestic slow-moving epic of French history, or as the subtitle more precisely defines it, “A Historical Geography from the Revolution to the First World War.” The massive research that went into this project, the effort involved in shaping huge amounts of minutiae into a coherent form - I am awed by the scope of this author’s achievement.

In the first part of The Discovery of France, Robb describes the ethnic and linguistic diversity of basically tribal people who in no way thought of themselves as belonging to a single nation. In the second part of the book, regions are mapped, travel and tourism become increasingly common, and the inhabitants of the towns and villages of the pays are dragged forcibly into the twentieth century. Robb offers a candid assessment of what was gained and lost in the process.

Inserted between Part One and Part Two is a chapter entitled “Interlude: The Sixty Million Others.” These “others” are the animal populations of France: livestock, horses, bears that dance and smuggler dogs. Well, I told you it was an unusual book…

Highlights from Part Two: the “discovery” of the Verdon Gorges, the longest, deepest canyon in Europe. Robb explains that until 1905, this natural wonder “…was known only to a few woodcutters and carvers who saw no reason to share their knowledge of the local inconvenience with the outside world.”

In the penultimate chapter, “Journey to the Centre of France,” we’re treated to a delightful - and insightful - disquisition on the role played by the bicycle in the French countryside in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Robb makes a strong case that the importance to regional history of this basic mode of transport has been vastly underrated. He provides examples of bike rides of seemingly heroic lengths undertaken routinely by ordinary people. And of course, from these humble beginnings came the Tour de France, which turns out to have a fascinating history of its own. (Robb did much of his research using this time-honored conveyance!)

Still, nothing quite matches for sheer strangeness the picture of the shepherds in the Landes hanging out on stilts! This photo is cropped; the one in the book shows four additional “stilted shepherds” in a group farther back in the fields and to the right of these two individuals. (As I was Googling “French peasants on stilts,” I came upon an article on “Sylvain Dornon, Stilt Walker of Landes” from an 1891 issue of Scientific American.)

Julian Barnes, a lifelong Francophile, was frankly amazed at the wealth of anecdote and obscure nuggets contained in The Discovery of France. In the November 30, 2007 issue of the Times Literary Supplement he named it one of the year’s best books and went on to suggest a more descriptive subtitle: “How cartographers, bureaucrats, and tourists discovered that Paris was not the same thing as France, that most of the country never regarded itself as being part of France, and how the nation was created only by destroying or homogenizing those aberrant regions, whose singularities, once suppressed, were then celebrated as typically French.”

I’m only half way through The Discovery of France, but I feel that I must write about it now. It is not a book that one can rush through; I have no idea when I’ll finish it. For one thing, I have to keep pausing to shake my head in amazement.

It is one of the strangest books I have ever read, filled with anecdotes and tales of a way of life that has been pretty nearly lost to modernity. Despite the paucity of written records, Graham Robb has managed to re-create and animate this complex, extremely obscure world in great detail.

In 1983, Kiri te Kanawa released a recording called Songs of the Auvergne, by Joseph Canteloube. I had never before heard this music, but, like many others at the time, I fell in love with it instantly. One thing surprised me: the Auvergne is a region in central France. Yet these songs were in some strange dialect that bore no resemblance to the French I’d studied in school. It turns out that until quite recently, France was a land of dialects - many of them. Here’s the title Chapter Four of The Discovery of France: “”O Oc Si Bai Ya Win Oui Oyi Awe Jo Ja Oua.” (I have omitted several diacritical marks.) These are some of the major forms of the word “yes,” as rendered in the various provincial languages.

Robb also informs us that “The Pyrenean village of Aas, at the foot of the Col d’Aubisque, above the spa town of Eax-Bonnes, had its own whistling language which was unknown even in the neighboring valleys until it was mentioned on a television programme in 1959.” We learn that shepherds living in isolation during the long summers developed “an ear-splitting, hundred-decibel language” that could be heard and understood by listeners as far away as two miles. This particular dialect was used during the Second World War by shepherds endeavoring to assist Jewish refugees and others as they crossed over into Spain. Unfortunately, it appears at the present time to be lost: “A few people in Aas today remember hearing the language, but no one can reproduce the sounds and no recordings were ever made.”

In a chapter entitled “Migrants and Commuters,” we learn about the lives of the colporteurs, or pedlars, who, besides traveling with 100-pound baskets or wooden chests strapped to their backs, performed a variety of services for the folk of the villages they passed through: “They pierced ears, extracted teeth and told fortunes. Even after the practice was outlawed in 1756, Bearnese pedlars in Spain castrated boys whose parents hoped to secure them a place in a cathedral choir.”

I haven’t read that extensively in French history and literature, but Robb is writing here about a country I find virtually unrecognizable. Stay tuned for a report on the second half of this remarkable book! Meanwhile, put yourself in the mood with these two soundtrack suggestions:

Of course, the aforementioned Les Chants d’ Auvergne, sung by Kiri te Kanawa with Jeffrey Tate conducting the English Chamber Orchestra, on London/Decca;

L’Arlesienne Suites One and Two, by Georges Bizet. Favorite recording: Sir Thomas Beecham conducting the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra

I have two words for this novel: What Fun!! In The Fall of Troy, Peter Ackroyd has imaginatively re-created Heinrich Schliemann’s famous archaeological expedition in search of Troy. In the process, the author gives us a joyous romp with a megalomaniac. By the time you finish this novel, you’ll be more afraid of the wrath of Schliemann/Obermann than of the celebrated wrath of Achilles!

The year is 1869. Heinrich Obermann, a man in his mid-forties, has just married seventeen-year-old Sophia Chrysanthis and is preparing to travel with her to the dig in progress at the mound known as Hissarlik, in Turkey. Once there, it becomes immediately apparent to Sophia - and to the reader - that Obermann will not be second-guessed on any aspect of the project. Every find made at the site must either ratify his preconceptions - or be thrown out (sometimes quite literally!). He is imperious, arrogant, narrowminded and controlling, and if you cross him or dispute his conclusions (many of which are arrived at a priori), he’ll erupt like a volcano. Still, believe it or not, he can also be irresistible. For one thing, his enthusiasm is boundless, and he is an incorrigible optimist. He is capable of tremendous generosity and affection toward his wife and his colleagues. But mostly, you cannot help but admire - almost envy - his passion for the gods and heroes of The Iliad.

When the Obermanns arrive at Hissarlik, workers are already busy at the dig. Also present is Leonid Pluyshin, Heinrich’s Russian assistant; Lineau, a French professor who is blind; and Kadri Bey, the Turkish overseer. There are also various gofers - and several spies. At first, things go supremely well, with one impressive find following another. Then trouble comes to this paradise of archaeological discovery in the form of visiting scholars. The first, William Brand, is an American. Brand is neutralized in a very strange way. The second visitor, Britisher Alexander Thornton, is not so easily disposed of. In addition to the threat posed by these two men to Obermann and his undertaking, other tensions are percolating to the surface at the site.

And how does Mrs. Obermann fare in all this? When she finds out that she’s going to be living in a crude hut located on the actual site of the dig, she sits down, has a good cry - then rolls up her sleeves and gets to work. At first, Sophia endeavors to match Heinrich’s ardor. As is the way with men like Obermann, he blithely takes her loyalty for granted, assuming that nothing could impinge upon it as long as his personal magnetism holds sway. But though young, Sophia is no fool, and Heinrich has been keeping a secret from her…

There are some vivid, poetic set pieces in this novel. My favorite is the description of a journey undertaken on horseback by Heinrich, Sophia, Thornton, and the Reverend Decimus Harding, an occasional visitor at Hissarlik. They are traveling to Mount Ida:

“The sun was now setting, and the clear atmosphere presaged a cold night. He [Harding] had not expected their journey to last so long, and did not greatly welcome a night in the Turkish countryside. Sophia, however, had been taken up by Obermann’s spirit of adventure and relished every moment on the mountain. Thornton pointed out to her the waning sunlight shining upon the rock face, so that it seemed like some furnace glowing in the heart of the mountain.

‘Now,’ said Obermann, ‘we may visit the three goddesses.’ They retraced their path a little way, then took a narrow track leading down through the rocks and gorse bushed into the trees. It was darker and more sombre here, away from the vista of the mountain range and the sound of the rushing water. The travellers were quiet. Then they came out into a small clearing, where three tall alder trees rose close together. ‘Holy ground,’ Obermann said.

They dismounted and tethered their horses to oak trees on the periphery of the clearing. ‘The trees grow where the goddesses once stood. The alder trees love water. They love the Scamander, as the goddesses did.’

To Harding’s amazement, Obermann then went down upon his knees and bent his head in prayer.”

He was, as you can see, a true believer.

In the chapter on King Arthur in his book Albion: The Origins of the English Imagination, Peter Ackroyd describes what can happen when you immerse yourself in the Arthurian legends: “It is a very rich, not to say heady, brew. Any attempt to drink it will inevitably lead to numbness and disorientation.” In The Fall of Troy, he shows how the same mysterious forces can overpower the imagination of one who immerses himself (or herself) in the Homeric legends. I can testify to this effect in my own small way. I just finished listening to Robert Fitzgerald’s translation of The Iliad, read by George Guidall*. Upon hearing the final words - “And so they buried Hector, tamer of horses” - I felt as though I were re-entering the world after spending time submerged in another medium. That’s it - that’s all? I kept asking myself. It seemed an abrupt ending; I was reluctant to bid farewell to that strange enchanted place.

*(Yes, by the way, that is the same George Guidall who is the delight of so many fans of recorded books - the very one who reads, among other things, Lilian Jackson Braun’s Cat Who mysteries. Is the guy versatile or what?!)

I leave you with this amazing picture of Sophia Schliemann, decked out in the “jewels of Helen,” part of a cache of valuables purportedly found at Hissarlik and called by Schliemann “Priam’s Treasure.”

Private Splendor: Great Families at Home, with text by Alexis Gregory [pictured above] and photography by Marc Walter.

This is quite possibly the most beautiful book I have ever seen. In it, eight European estates are profiled and photographed:

Kasteel De Haar in the Netherlands

Casa De Pilatos in Seville

Harewood House in Yorkshire

Palazzo Gangi in Palermo, Sicily

Palazzo Sacchetti in Rome

Schloss St. Emmeram in Bavaria

Palacio Fronteira in Portugal.

And Chateau De Harque in France.

Despite enormous challenges, mainly financial, the families to whom these magnificent homes belong have managed not only to stay connected to their vast properties, but to reside there part or full time. How have they pulled off this daunting feat? From the jacket flap (which serves as the book’s introduction):

“Solutions involve compromises ranging from opening the houses to the public during established visiting hours to renting out the great salons for social occasions and business events, from marrying demanding and unattractive heiresses [!!] to receiving government grants or selling the family jewels.”

This is one of those rare coffee table books in which the text is well worth reading; that is, after you’ve recovered from the jaw-dropping experience of looking at the photographs. The families attached to these homes have fascinating histories. Their struggle to hold on to and maintain these properties is not just a matter of family pride, though that in itself is a force to be reckoned with. Often the family’s history is intertwined with that of the land they inhabit.

I had the great good fortune to visit Harewood House in 2005. The audio tour was narrated by George Lascelles, 7th Earl Harewood and Queen Elizabeth’s first cousin. Okay, yes, I’m a sucker for this kind of thing! Maybe it takes one whose grandparents traveled in steerage to this country with not much more than the clothes they were wearing to appreciate real lineage in others. On the other hand, the debt I owe to my grandparents for undertaking this journey (in order to escape the pogroms that were a fact of life for Russian Jews in the early part of the 20th century) can never be overstated.

At any rate - Harewood House is simply breathtaking, as are its gardens. See for yourself…

[Photos by (gasp) Yours Truly!]

When I returned from Yorkshire in 2005, I purchased online a book entitled Yorkshire’s Great Houses: Behind the Scenes, by Sir Thomas Ingilby. Around the year 1306 the first Sir Thomas Ingibly aquired an estate at Ripley, a tiny village near Harrogate, through marriage to its heiress. His son, also named Thomas, is supposed to have saved the life of King Edward III in the year 1355. It seems that they were hunting in Knaresborough Forest, and the King was threatened by a wild boar. Sir Thomas speedily dispatched the beast, thereby acquiring favor - and more land - from Edward. Since the fourteenth century, Ripley Castle has been continuously inhabited by the Ingilby family. The present Sir Thomas offers this anecdote in the book’s introduction: “I hate form filling, but there is nearly always a question that asks, ‘How long at present address?’, so I write, ‘697 years,’ just to test the system. It happens to be true in our case, but you would think that the answer would be sufficiently unusual for someone to raise an eyebrow. Clearly not. In thirty years of writing this answer, I have never received a single query.”

I just came across a rather intriguing phrase: “ludic reading.” In an article in last week’s Newsweek, “The Future of Reading,” Steven Levy attributes the coinage to Victor Nell, author of Lost in a Book. Ludic reading can be defined as “…that trance-like state that heavy readers enter when consuming books for pleasure.” Those of us who read compulsively will know exactly what Nell is referring to: that state of altered consciousness from which one ultimately emerges blinking, like a mole exposed to sudden sunlight.

That was me this past Thursday when I finished Uncommon Arrangements. This book was the most delicious fun to read! The seven portraits of married life read rather like extended People Magazine feature pieces, only the celebrities are from the world of letters rather than show business.

The commonality among all the profiles in the book lies in the attempt to broaden the concept of marriage so that it can encompass not only extramarital affairs but sometimes a menage a trois, with everyone living in some degree of amity under the same roof. Why this push toward unconventional lifestyles? The early 1900’s in Britain saw the avant garde in full revolt against Victorian proprieties. This was true in many areas of life, not just the purely personal. but it was in that arena that the gauntlet was most flagrantly thrown down. I found Roiphe’s introduction a tad windy - yes, marriage is an institution full of mysteries and contradictions; I think this is something we can all stipulate. But when she begins describing the lives of her various subjects, the book really takes off.

The first section on H.G. Wells begins with his young mistress, Rebecca West, in the north of England giving birth to his son. Naturally, H.G. is not there; he is with his wife Jane and their children in his country house, Easton Glebe, in Essex. In fact, the husbands in this book have a tremendous talent for not being there for their wives and mistresses. I was quite annoyed at H.G. - that is, until I got to the next chapter on Katherine Mansfield and John Middleton Murry.

Suffice it to say that John Middleton Murry made H.G. Wells look like a model husband. If ever a woman needed a supportive husband, it was Katherine Mansfield. Yet she and Murry spent most of their married lives apart. What makes this fact especially galling is that Katherine’s health was extremely precarious. To be fair, she wanted her independence as much as he wanted his. They both had literary aspirations, but it was clear from the outset that Katherine was the truly gifted writer. Murry may have genuinely loved her, and been basically well-intentioned, but he comes across in Roiphe’s descriptions of him as weak and self-involved. One thing is certain: his conspicuous absence from Katherine’s life while she became increasingly ill with tuberculosis was unforgivable.

Katherine Mansfield died at age of 34. Roiphe describes the moment in which she succumbs, with Murry, as always, ceding the field to others. It’s a devastating scene.

I was trying to think who it was that John Middleton Murry reminded me of, and then I remembered: Percy Bysshe Shelley. He too did not know what it meant to be a supportive spouse; Mary Shelley’s various tribulations regarding illness and childbirth were usually met by a recitation of his own ailments and complaints. Like Murry, he was not mean-spirited or cruel - just largely useless as a husband.

There were many moments while I was reading this section when I could have cheerfully strangled Murry. What a worthless twit! thought I; surely the worst husband I’m going to encounter in these pages. But… oh no! Next came Frank Russell, older brother of mathematician and philosopher Bertrand Russell. Elizabeth Von Arnim had the extreme ill fortune to be wife to this dreadful man. Only it wasn’t really a matter of bad luck, because she knew what he was like and, smart and sophisticated though she was, she married him anyway. Oh well - go figure. Perversity in choices, especially those made by women, is one of the principal themes that emerges repeatedly in these narratives.

One of the many pleasures of this book is the way in which personages from previous chapters put in appearances in later ones. H.G Wells and Rebecca West in particular appear and re-appear. And of course, members of the Bloomsbury group - Clive and Vanessa Bell, Vanessa’s sister Virginia Woolf, Duncan Grant, Lytton Strachey, et. al. - weave their way in and out of the lives of their contemporaries. The chapter on the Bells was positively dizzying; a flow chart might have been useful! Everyone thinks of the drama of the Bloomsbury group playing out in London, but many crucial events in their personal lives occurred in Vanessa and Clive’s country home, Charleston. This house is filled with Vanessa’s exquisite painting. Charleston is profiled, not to mention gorgeously photographed, in the book Historic Arts & Crafts Homes of Great Britain, by Brian D. Coleman.

One can hardly escape the irony of the fact that, despite all their efforts to establish the parameters of what in later years would be called an open marriage, the best intentions of the couples in this book foundered repeatedly as the green-eyed monster reared its ugly, inevitable head. Some basic emotions, it would seem, are virtually impossible to legislate out of the human heart!

In summary, here’s my reaction to the seven portrayals set forth in Uncommon Arrangements:

The most absorbing and intriguing: Jane and H.G. Wells and Rebecca West;

The most complex, richly woven tapestry: Clive and Vanessa Bell, Duncan Grant, and their circle (though I was rather surprised that Roiphe chose not to address the subject of Virginia Woolf’s suicide in this chapter). As I was reading this section of the book, I kept asking myself what attracted all these men to Vanessa Bell; then I found this photograph, and stopped asking…

The most astonishing: Una Troubridge, Radclyffe Hall, and Evguenia Souline;

The least compelling story: Ottoline and Philip Morrell, though to be fair, the competition was very stiff. (Actually, I thought the most interesting fact about Ottoline Morrell was that she was six feet tall!)

The most affecting meditation on love and loss: Vera Brittain, George Gordon Catlin, and Winifred Holtby;

The single most odious character: Frank Russell, hands down! (No picture, and it’s probably just as well).

Finally, the single most poignant and haunting story: Katherine Mansfield.

Katie Roiphe has appended a comprehensive bibliography as well as a fascinating chapter of notes in which she details the voluminous reading and research she did in preparation for the writing of this book. I’m not promising I’ll read them - I never promise anything to anyone regarding what I might read! - but I’m intrigued by the following works:

The Fountain Overflows and The Young Rebecca, by Rebecca West;

H.G. Wells: Aspects of a Life by Anthony West, Rebecca’s son;

“Mother and Son,” a rather amazing essay by Anthony West in which he heaps vituperation upon his mother (You have to ante up for this. I did, and I sure got my money’s worth!). If you’re curious as to how the children of these irregular unions sometimes fared, West’s piece is a real cautionary tale.

Katherine Mansfield’s short stories (Several, like the devastating “Miss Brill,” are available in full text online.);

Elizabeth and Her German Garden and Enchanted April by Elizabeth Von Arnim;

Bloomsbury Recalled, by Quentin Bell;

The Well of Loneliness, by Radclyffe Hall;

Radclyffe Hall at the Well of Loneliness: A Sapphic Chronicle, by Lovat Dickson;

Testament of Youth, by Vera Brittain.

Katie Roiphe is the daughter of novelist/memoirist Anne Roiphe; she shares with her mother a rich, fluid prose style. I especially admire this passage in which she comments on Elizabeth Von Arnim’s Enchanted April:

“In this fantasy that a place will change the deep-seated pattern of a relationship lay a wish: That brusque, moody husbands are literally transformed into tender devoted lovers; that they return to their true selves. What, she was asking herself, would have happened if Russell had changed? In this implausible, lovely, silly romantic universe, one sees much of Elizabeth: a sense of adventure so unusual, a sensitivity to nature so resplendent that it can alter the course of a marriage. There is a beautiful place, a house and garden in the world that can affect its magic on human relations: a vista out to the sea so inspiring that it opens the heart.”

Reading this really made me wish that I could have known Elizabeth Von Arnim. Enchanted April was made into a lovely film in 1992 starring, among others, Miranda Richardson, Jim Broadbent, Joan Plowright, and Michael Kitchen.

Finally, there is this memorable line about H.G. Wells: “He was protective of his wife, and did not like her to be abused by his mistresses.”

A while back, I ended a post with a reference to Celtic mythology, which had nothing to do with what I’d been writing about. I said I’d get back to the subject of the Celts and never did. Well - here it is again…

I have in my possession two wonderful Pitkin Guides on this subject. One is simply called The Celts; the other is Celtic Myths & Legends. What are Pitkin Guides? They are booklets on various topics related to Great Britain. Here are some other titles: The Black Death, Britain’s Kings & Queens, Dissolution of the Monasteries, Dungeons & Torture, Coats of Arms, King Arthur, and Jack the Ripper. As can be seen, they will, and do, tackle just about anything.

The Guides run to about twenty pages a piece. They are lavishly illustrated. Some, not all, provide brief bibliographies. The text is lively and accessible; I think they would be great for classroom use. Fleet Street Press* charges $6.00 a piece for most of the guides. So far I’ve amassed about thirty of them!

Anyway - back to the Celts. Here’s a quote from Celtic Myths & Legends: “In Ireland, there still exists a huge collection of ancient topographical stories, known as Dindshenchas (Landlore), that relate the mythology of the land itself - its trees, hills, rivers anf cliffs, each with its own tale of magic - and of the gods, goddesses and heroes of the Celtic people.” One of the beliefs was that there was another world, the Otherworld, to which one may gain entry at certain secret places, at certain times of the year. In ancient Rome, some believed that Britain itself was the actual location of the Otherworld:

“When the historian and geographer Procopius describes the island that he called ‘Brittia,’ he makes it clear that this is no ordinary place and tells how the fishermen of Brittany are called upon to ferry the dead across the sea to Cornwall. Although they can see nothing of their passengers, their boats are heavy on the way out but light and empty on the way home.”

And finally, there is The Matter of Britain…

[Left to right: The Lady of Shalott, by John Waterhouse; The Beguiling of Merlin, by Edward Burne-Jones; The Damsel of the Sanct Grail, by Dante Gabriel Rosetti. For more art based on Arthurian legends, see the King Arthur Art Gallery]

I recommend Philip Freeman’s book The Philosopher and the Druids: A Journey Among the Ancient Celts. The author relates the history of this endlessly fascinating tribe through the eyes of the Greek philosopher Posidonius. A bold and resourceful traveler, Posidonius journeyed deep into Gaul in search of the truth about the Celts. In antiquity, they were thought to be savages, possibly even cannibals, but the truth that Posidonius uncovered was something else altogether: “…the Celts were not barbarians, but a sophisticated people who studied the stars, composed beautiful poetry, and venerated a priestly caste known as the Druids.”

Philip Freeman, currently the Qualley Professor of Classics at Luther College in Iowa, has an interesting CV. He was the first person to earn a Ph.D. at Harvard in the combined fields of classics and Celtic Studies. He is also a former visiting scholar at Harvard Divinity School.

I read The Philosopher and the Druids last year, and I’ve had the Pitkin Guides for several years. What has revived my interested in this subject is the discovery of some marvelously imaginative paintings by the Scottish artist John Duncan (1866-1945). Duncan is renowned as the foremost painter of the late 19th century’s Celtic Revival movement.

[Left to right: A Masque of Love, The Riders of the Sidhe, Saint Bride]

What, I wonder, accounts for the spell that Celtic lore and legend continues to cast over the collective imagination of the Western world?

Two-headed idol, Boa Island, Lough Erne, County Fermanagh, Ireland

Alderley Edge, Cheshire, England. The face of Merlin?

Gundestrup Cauldron

*The address for Fleet Street Press is: Fleet Street Publications, PO Box 32510, Fridley, MN 55432. Fax number is 763-571-8292