Charlotte Brontë's 201st Birthday

Today, Charlotte Brontë, author of the classic novel Jane Eyre, is 201. To celebrate, here's one of my favorite film adaptations of said book - I came across it on YouTube.  It was produced by ITV in 1997, Samantha Morton plays Jane, and Ciaran Hinds is Mr. Rochester. Cozy up with a cup of tea (or whatever indulgent treat you prefer) and enjoy!

Happy Easter!

A blessed Easter to all of you - praise the Lord, Christ is risen! Here's my favorite encounter He had with one of His followers post-Resurrection; it's the moment when He meets Mary Magdalene, in John 20:11-18: 11 But Mary stood at the sepulchre without, weeping. Now as she was weeping, she stooped down, and looked into the sepulchre, 12 And she saw two angels in white, sitting, one at the head, and one at the feet, where the body of Jesus had been laid. 13 They say to her: Woman, why weepest thou? She saith to them: Because they have taken away my Lord; and I know not where they have laid him. 14 When she had thus said, she turned herself back, and saw Jesus standing; and she knew not that it was Jesus. 15 Jesus saith to her: Woman, why weepest thou? whom seekest thou? She, thinking it was the gardener, saith to him: Sir, if thou hast taken him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and I will take him away.

16 Jesus saith to her: Mary. She turning, saith to him: Rabboni (which is to say, Master). 17Jesus saith to her: Do not touch me, for I am not yet ascended to my Father. But go to my brethren, and say to them: I ascend to my Father and to your Father, to my God and your God.18 Mary Magdalen cometh, and telleth the disciples: I have seen the Lord, and these things he said to me. 

(This is from the online edition of the Douay-Rheims Catholic Bible - here's the link: Douay-Rheims Catholic Bible). 

Image: Detail of Noli Me Tangere,  1440 - 1442, by Fra Angelico 

Casanova's 292nd Birthday

Today, in 1725, the legendary 18th century adventurer Giacomo Casanova was born. His memoirs, written in his declining years, serve as a fascinating first-hand account of European life during the age of Enlightenment, and give a glimpse into the mind of one of its most remarkable men. Inspired by his escapades, I've started work on a screenplay which tells the tale of a modern-day authoress who meets the ghost of Giacomo, and he whisks her back to 18th century Venice, where comedy ensues. To whet your appetites and celebrate this gentleman's natal day, I present a snippet of my piece rendered as prose (I avoided using the real dialogue so there wouldn't be any copyright issue to contend with later). Enjoy!

The night of the rehearsal dinner, I sat in my bedroom, flipping through a copy of Shakespeare's plays    which I'd brought (the English major's comfort food). From the room next door, I heard Mom. 
"Honey, should I add a few more feathers, or are these enough?"
"Probably not," came Dad's reply. "No use in giving yourself a headache."
"But it's an 18th century party!"
"I wouldn't do it, if I were you."
She's going to go full-on Marie Antoinette anyway, I mused. I patted my simple bun, pleased with a strategically nested small clump of pink rosebuds which matched my satin gown; understated elegance, as always. 
Just as I turned the page (Beatrice was eavesdropping on Hero and Ursula talking about her), I felt a hand lightly tap my shoulder. Startled, I glanced up into the face of a man in full 18th-century attire, powered hair and all. His dark eyes stared into mine; he smiled kindly. Wow, he's hot, I thought, before he spoke, turning my world totally inside out. 
He greeted me, I introduced myself and asked his name, and then he said he was Casanova. The actual guy. It was incredibly bizarre; I tried to be courteous, excused myself, and managed to dash into my parents' room. 
It had to be a bad piece of salami - or maybe memories of Will were getting to me. Or jet lag. Whatever, I wasn't about to let any of this weirdness ruin the evening ahead. 

A Most Happy Day

Today, in 1749, Henry Fielding's delightful novel The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling was published - hurray!! If you're inclined to read this amusing-yet-edifying tale, here's the link to the online text: The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling. And here's my favorite illustration from the book, done by the artist W.R.S. Stott - it depicts the happy conclusion *sighs contentedly*. 

Do give the tale a go; Fielding can be a bit earthy at times, but he clearly states his honorable intention in the introduction: To recommend goodness and innocence hath been my sincere endeavour in this history. 
Well said, Henry, well said.

Jane Austen, Virtue, and Dignity

Today, I happened across an article entitled "Why Jane Austen's idea of love endures," by a Ms. Meghna Pant; here's the link - Why Jane Austen's idea of love endures. Two things struck me: the author's insistence that in the Georgian era "Women were meant to be an insipid colourless form of existence. Doubling up as an author and social commentator, Austen shrugged aside this inherent patriarchy by writing about the individuality of women, by giving them personality, pride and prejudice, sense and sensibility," and her further claim that for an Austen heroine, "love is not made easier by chastity. Austen taught us that love and the "happily ever after" have nothing to do with virtue."
With all due respect, I beg to disagree. Women, from what I've read about the Georgian years and the early 19th century, may have been dependent on men, but they were certainly not devoid of personality, nor were they universally squelched under the metaphorical boot of patriarchy. For example, lady authors, including Maria Edgeworth, Fanny Burney, and Ann Radcliffe, were very well-known; Austen was aware of these precedents, and they inspired her. True, writing was rather looked upon as a man's profession, but that didn't stop these women (and the ones before them) from unleashing their creativity, nor the public from enjoying every word. Look at the history from these eras, and you'll find an abundance of fascinating females. What's more, the phrasing of Ms. Pant's statement implies that prior to Austen, women in fiction were a gaggle of simpering geese. To counter this opinion, I humbly refer the reader to the plays of Shakespeare and (for an 18th century example) Henry Fielding's 1749 novel The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling; the heroine, Sophia Western, is a proper lady, with a backbone of iron. She may swoon a time or two, but she's got a fierce streak of tenacity which enables her to keep hope that she will be eventually united with her beloved Tom.  
And as for the bit about chastity . . . think, for a moment, what Austen's heroes and heroines would be like without their virtue. If Darcy was a skirt-chasing rogue, would we love him less? Certainly. If Lizzy was a good-time girl, would we want her as a role model? No. The lead couples in Austen's novels are appealing because of their innate virtue; their romances are enthralling because their respectful behaviors towards each other are an exterior reflection of their interior purity of body and soul. Austen knew the worth and beauty of dignity. It permeates her novels - and it's something we can all strive for in our own lives. 

Nell Gwyn's 367th Birthday

Today is Nell Gwyn's 367th birthday - huzzah! To celebrate, I've taken an epilogue which John Dryden gave her at the end of his tragic play Tyrannic Love and tweaked it to sound as if she were addressing a modern audience. Note: the "Authors who made Nelly weep for shame" are the Victorian authors who wrote fictional tales with her as a character; they always put in a sentimental scene of her in tears for her sinful life, and the real Nell was much more pragmatic, according to accounts I've read. While those writers tried to whitewash her, more recent ones, especially novelists and playwrights, have focused on her sex appeal to the exclusion of her better qualities - her wit is downplayed, and she's shown as simply a pea-brained trollop. In reality, she was quite clever. Here's a link to the original epilogue: Tyrannic Love - Prologue and Epilogue.
And here's my version!

Nell:

I come, kind Audience, strange news to tell ye;
I am the ghost of dear departed Nelly. To tell you true, I walk, because I'm played Quite in the wrong, as a stupid maid. O Authors, curs'd dull Authors, who're to blame For rewrites, and made Nelly weep for shame! Nay, what's yet worse, to write me as a fool, Who lacked a wit and lived to make men drool! You playwrights: I'll not one word say To praise your nasty, in-the-fashion plays
Pieces which, when audiences do see, They all split their sides, but don't spy the real me. But farewell, everyone, 'tis been a treat, Remember me when'er an orange you eat. As for my epitaph, now I am gone, No need to Google it, I've writ my own: Here Nelly lies, who, though she lived by her looks, Was smarter than shown in those nonsense-filled books.

An Erroneous Portrait

I found out about this a while back - apparently, the following portrait, supposedly of Marie Antoinette around age eleven, from 1767, by Martin van Meytens, is in fact a painting of her older sister Josepha, who died in 1767. Presumably the work was completed prior to her death by smallpox.