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Posts Tagged ‘Christmas’


Anne Hathaway as Jane Austen reading and writing outside a cottage (Becoming Jane, 2007, scripted Kevin Hood, Susan Williams, directed Julian Jarrod)

Dear friends and readers,

I have over the years written several blogs on Christmas, mentions and uses by Austen in her novels (see especially her perception of Christmas in the novels) and the films adapted from them. In brief here is a sample:

Sense and Sensibility: The Miss Steeles “were prevailed on to stay nearly two months at the park, and to assist in the due celebration of that festival which requires a more than ordinary share of private balls and large dinner parties to proclaim its importance.”

Pride and Prejudice: Caroline Bingley’s cruel letter to Jane ends: “I sincerely hope your Christmas in Hertfordshire may abound in the gaieties which that season generally brings.”

Mansfield Park: Mary Crawford : “Is it Christmas gaieties that he is staying for?” (she doesn’t believe that for a minute)

Emma (chosen from the long sequence): Mr. Weston: “At Christmas every body invites their friends about them, and people think little of even the worst weather.” (Mr Weston’s benign unsubtle view is not agreed with …)

Northanger Abbey: ‘Dress is at all times a frivolous distinction, and excessive solicitude about it often destroys its own aim. Catherine knew all this very well; her great aunt had read her a lecture on the subject only the Christmas before; and yet she lay awake ten minutes on Wednesday night debating between her spotted and her tamboured muslin, and nothing but the shortness of the time prevented her buying a new one for the evening.’

Persuasion: “Immediately surrounding Mrs. Musgrove were the little Harvilles, whom she was sedulously guarding from the tyranny of the two children from the Cottage, expressly arrived to amuse them. On one side was a table occupied by some chattering girls, cutting up silk and gold paper … the whole completed by a roaring Christmas fire, which seemed determined to be heard, in spite of all the noise of the others. Charles and Mary also came in, of course … Mr. Musgrove made a point of paying his respects to Lady Russell, and sat down close to her for ten minutes, talking with a very raised voice, but from the clamour of the children on his knees, generally in vain …”

You may skim the whole lot swiftly here.


Jennifer Ehle as Elizabeth supposed reading Jane’s letters the winter after the Christmas visit of the Gardeners (who took Jane off to cheer her up, 1995 P&P, scripted Andrew Davies, directed Simon Langton)

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Tonight I went through her letters and an overview for the first time in a couple of years brings home to me once again, how much is missing. For some years and phases of the year we see a regular rhythm to the letters, say two or three journal-style over two or three days will repeat itself, and then nothing. Major events not noted because they don’t occur on the days of the letters left to us. As to mentions of Christmas or the weather, one can conjecture that if a group of balls, dances, parties, dinners are all occurring between the last week of December and first of January they might be related to a holiday and there is a feel of regularity of occurrence at this time of year, but I found but no mention of Christmas itself (the word) and it is itself a reference to a general time when someone is expected to return to where the Austens are living (Southampton). It’s almost surprising this lack of reference to Christmas in the letters; yes a majority were destroyed, even so if you read what’s there I could find but two mentions specifically.

This is the slim matter I gleaned; there is much more matter in these letters but I pulled only that which could conceivably relate:


Anna Maxwell Martin as Cassandra reading one of Jane’s letters (2007 Becoming Jane)

No 14, Dec 18-19, 1798, Tues-Wed; Tues, Dec 18, Steventon: “I enjoyed the hard black Frosts of last week very much, & one day while they lasted walked to Deane by myself.” (4th ed, p 27)

No 15, Dec 24-26, 1798, Mon-Wed; Dec 24, Mon, Steventon: Frank is in Gibaltar, she has returned from Manydown, her mother “does not like the cold Weather, but that we cannot help,” there has been a ball, but that it was for Christmas is never said. She does write: “I wish you a merry Christmas but no compliments of the Season.” Cassandra has danced away at Ashford, there was to have been a dinner at Deane the night she is writing this sentence, “but the weather is so cold that I am not sorry to be kept at home by the appearance of Snow.” There is no other mention of the holiday or weather (4th ed, pp 31-32)

No 17, Jan 8-9, Tues-Wed, 1799; Tues, Jan 8, Steventon: “a Ball at Kempshott this evening” … she had told Cassandra that “Monday was to be the Ball Night,” but no such thing.” Elizabeth has been very cruel about my writing Music; — & as a punishment for her, I should insist upon always writing out all hers and for her in future.” “I love Martha better than ever, & I mean to go & see her if I can when she gets home.” How there was a dinner at “Harwoods on Thursday, & the party broke up the next morning,” she shall be “such a proficient in Music by the time I have got rid of my cold, that I shall be perfectly qualified in that science at least to take Mr Roope’s office at Eastwell this summer … of my Talent in Drawing I have given specimens in my letters to you, & I have nothing to do but invent a few hard names for the Stars … ” Of a party at Manydown, “There was the same kind of party as last year, & the same want of chairs. — there were more Dancers than the Room could conveniently hold, which is enough to constitute a good Ball at any time.” She was not “very much in request –. People were rather apt not to ask me till they could not help it” … But no mention any of this specifically for Christmas nor the weather (4th ed, pp 34-36)

No 29, Jan 3-5, Sun-Mon, 1801; Sat, Jan 3, Steventon: What is “uppermost in my mind” is “you often wore a white gown in the morning, at the time of all the gay party’s being with you.” They visited Ash Park last Wednesday, “went off in a come-ca way; we met Mr Lefroy & Tom Chute, played at cards & came home again … ” This is letter is about what is happening at home because they are moving to Bath (providing for servants) and all the plans and doings about where they will live … (4th ed, p 69)

No 61, Nov 20, Sun, 1808; Sun Nov 3, Castle Square (Southampton): Mary Jane Fowle will “return at Christmas” with her brother.” Second and last use of the word in the collection that I found (4th ed, p 161)

No 63, Dec 2-28, Tues-Wed; Tues Dec 27, Castle Square: Eliza “keeping her bed with a cold … Our Evening party on Thursday, produced nothing more remarkable than Miss Murden’s coming too …. ” she “sitting very ungracious and silent with us … The last hour, spent in yawning & shivering in a wide circle round thefirst, was dull enough — but the Tray had admirable success.” She is talking of the food they ate, which by association leads to “Black Butter do not decoy anybody to Southampton.” No mention of any of this having anything to do with Christmas (4th ed, p 166)

A truly sparse amount of references. The novels give a sense of traditional parties, dances, festivities, rituals — as if in writing to the world she had to give such references and notice. Everything we read in other documents shows there were such, and from the early 16th century on we find such descriptions in diaries, journals, verse, documentary records. In the 1790s we begin to find references to Christmas a ritual of family getting together and a feeling of deep missing out if you don’t have such, if you live far from home (see for Southey’s Written on Christmas Day, 1795), from which I quote a passage here

I do remember when I was a child
How my young heart, a stranger then to care,
With transport leap’d upon this holy-day,
As o’er the house, all gay with evergreens,
From friend to friend with joyful speed I ran,
Bidding a merry Christmas to them all.
Those years are past; their pleasures and their pains
Are now like yonder covent-crested hill
That bounds the distant prospect, indistinct,
Yet pictured upon memory’s mystic glass
In faint fair hues. A weary traveller now
I journey o’er the desert mountain tracks
Of Leon, wilds all drear and comfortless,
Where the grey lizards in the noontide sun
Sport on the rocks, and where the goatherd starts,
Roused from his sleep at midnight when he hears
The prowling wolf, and falters as he calls
On Saints to save. Here of the friends I think
Who now, I ween, remember me, and fill
The glass of votive friendship …
Thus I beguile the solitary hours
With many a day-dream, picturing scenes as fair
Of peace, and comfort, and domestic bliss
As ever to the youthful poet’s eye …

And since in her novels, Austen characteristically tells only as much as is needful for her story in her novels, except for the scenes around Christmas in Emma, which themselves occur because the Knightley family gets together at Christmas (the way people do today), what emerges is the satiric nature of her work: most of the references are half-mocking, fatuous hypocritical meretricious behavior at Christmas is what she registered first just the way she registers this for musical concerts (when people pretend to understand and be ravished by music) or romantic poetry, except this time in the few cases of characters who can really feel sincerely: Marianne for music and poetry, Elinor for drawing, Fanny for pictures, Jane Fairfax for music, Mr Knightley for sitting over a fire, Anne Elliot music and poetry, Catherine Morland reading, but nothing for Christmas. Perhaps she did have distaste for what she saw come out of the holiday customs specifically, humanely speaking.

Comparatively, to cite a few other authors, while Trollope also dislikes all the hypocrisy and commercialism arising from Christmas, he has stories where there is quiet thematic use of Christmas attaching to it true charity or kindliness of spirit when rightly observed. Because of the strong distaste for ceremonies of lies here (and elsewhere in his fiction), I have never made a Christmas blog about his work that I can recall, but perhaps this year I’ll break that non-pattern and write about the nature of what Christmas stories he gets himself to write, and the ones that work well. A 20th century novelist who wrote a famous series of novel set in the 18th century uses Christmas regularly: the close of the Poldark books show Christmas as practiced in the 18th century Cornwall had a meaning for him. Tonight I quote Tennyson from In Memoriam where he has grieved so for the loss of a beloved friend expresses feelings somewhat like mine this morning:

Again at Christmas did we weave
The holly round the Christmas hearth;
The silent snow possess’d the earth,
And calmly fell our Christmas-eve:

The yule-log sparkled keen with frost,
No wing of wind the region swept,
But over all things brooding slept
The quiet sense of something lost.

As in the winters left behind,
Again our ancient games had place,
The mimic picture’s breathing grace,
And dance and song and hoodman-blind.

Who show’d a token of distress?
No single tear, no mark of pain:
O sorrow, then can sorrow wane?
O grief, can grief be changed to less?

O last regret, regret can die!
No -– mixt with all this mystic frame,
Her deep relations are the same,
But with long use her tears are dry.

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In going over Austen’s letters and then my blogs on the novels, and in context of the eras nearby, what I am again impressed with, is what is easy to find in the novels registered through many pictures in the films is Austen writing of letters, reading, writing, and dramatic uses of letters (far more than books). As my four stills chosen quickly and somewhat at random revealed — from a supposed biographical movie I have discussed hardly at all here.


Olivia Williams as a mature Austen writing Persuasion (Miss Austen Regrets, 2009, scripted Gweneth Hughes, directed Jeremy Lovering)

Ellen

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‘It is so cold, so very cold — and looks and feels so very much like snow, that if it were to any other place or with any other party, I should really try not to go out to-day … Emma to Mr Elton during the afternoon from the book named after her, Emma, I:13, 110)

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Alexandria, Va, around 8 in the evening, Wednesday, 1/20/16 (from my porch) — the reality

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Edward Gorey — a lurid gleam is seen

Dear friends and readers,

Over on Sarah Emsley’s mostly Austen blog, there has been an on-going series, Emma in the Snow; prompted by this, paradoxically inspired by Diana Birchall’s summery comic Mrs Elton’s Donkey, and compelled by the present dire situation here in the Washington D.C. area I put before you a Sortes Austenianae. Who knows not the entrenched tradition in medieval European times: if in doubt, about what’s to come, if in doubt about what to do in response to what’s to come, pull out your trusty Virgil. We are speaking of The Aeneid here. Open up at random, look down and interpret from what has been vouchsafed. Sortes Vergilianae.

playinginsnow
I put in the second disk of the 2009 Emma (scripted by Sandy Welch) and came upon the Knightleys playing with John and Isabella’s children in snow around Highbury

We are in the Washington DC area in need of some wisdom from Austen’s Emma. You may have heard of our coming Great Snow Storm. Last night there was probably something like 3 inches! perhaps more. I doubt I need to remind my readers of what Mr Woodhouse said when Frank Churchill informed Mr Woodhouse that people catch colds when dancing in over-heated places with the windows open, and replied that that neither Frank’s “‘

‘Dancing with the windows open! — I am sure, neither your father or Mrs Western (poor Miss Taylor that was) would suffer it.’
‘Ah! sir — but a thoughtless young person will sometimes step behind a window curtain, and throw up a sash, without its being suspected. I have often known it done myself.’
‘Have you indeed, sir? — Bless me! I never could have supposed it. But I live out of the world, and am often astonished at what I hear (Emma, II:11, 252)

We have been having a Mr Woodhousian lead-up to this fearful Winter Event in the past 48 hours. I wondered to myself what would my fellow citizens do if they had bombs falling on them daily as the much reviled immigrants and refugees of the Middle East have had to endure for years.

You see we have been told (it’s Thursday) we shall have our first winter storm tomorrow, Friday in the PM, and perhaps it will be a blizzard. 2 feet of snow is promised, but maybe less. Last night we had a light dusting as confirmation. And I have come across many a local blog recounting from previous years their and others’ ghastly adventures in the snow and ice, hours and hours getting home, accidents leading to higher insurance rates.

All day today from early Thursday morning Fairfax county schools were closed, and they are closed all day tomorrow; much in Northern Virginia began to close down this afternoon. I confess I dared to go out and found the air mild, all snow melted off my car; it was well above freezing. I went to the cleaners when I didn’t need to (but I am as reckless as Mr Churchill), then to the supermarket lest Isobel and I run out of bananas, then to a local bread store where all that was left was Challah bread. I had it sliced and came home. Uneventful. Except that the parking garage was a madhouse, far too many cars in tight space so several attendants were directing traffic between pillars. Thus there are others like myself and Frank Churchill.

MiddleVirginiadaytime
Thursday morning daytime — a friend’s backyard (in middle Virginia)

Just about all in DC and Virginia is closing early tomorrow or not opening at all. My daughter, Isobel told me when she got home the Pentagon is thinking of shutting down at noon precisely, only then there will be terrific traffic jam as usually people leave that mammoth building in staggered periods. Virginia Dash buses will stop running at 3 tomorrow. The Metro shuts down promptly at 11 pm. On Saturday the Smithsonian has cancelled all activities and lectures, local community centers are not boarding up their windows and doors, but all classes are cancelled. You are advised to stay within.

A controversy has erupted about the storm’s name in the public media: Jonas. (Not taken from the story about the man who got stuck in a whale.) Since when do we name Snow Storms? What is it with people? If everyone else jumps off the roof, do you jump off the roof? But I am getting ahead of myself.

settingforth
Leaving the entrance hall of Highbury (1972 Emma, scripted Denis Constantduros)

In this urgent snowpocalypse, I turned to Sortes Austenianae, but resorted to hurried measures, and instead of opening Emma at random I remembered the hysteria at Randolph when on Christmas eve and John and Isabella Knightley together with Mr Woodhouse and Emma, Miss Bates and Mr Knightley came to Randalls for a dinner party. John Knightley foresaw what was to be early on as they set forth:

Inthecarriage

complaining
Medium range shot of the carriage with Emma and John Knigthley in it; inside shot of him talking (1996 A&E Emma, scripted Andrew Davies)

The cold … was severe; and by the time the second carriage was in motion, a few flakes of snow were finding their way down, and the sky had the appearance of being so overcharged as to want only a milder air to produce a very white world in a very short time. … ‘A man,’ said [John Knightley], ‘must have a very good opinion of himself when he asks people to leave their own fireside, and encounter such a day as this, for the sake of coming to see him. He must think himself a most agreeable fellow; I could not do such a thing. It is the greatest absurdity — Actually snowing at this moment! — The folly of not allowing people to be comfortable at home — and the folly of people’s not staying comfortably at home when they can! If we were obliged to go out such an evening as this, by any call of duty or business, what a hardship we should deem it; – -and here are we, probably with rather thinner clothing than usual, setting forward voluntarily, without excuse, in defiance of the voice of nature, which tells man, in every thing given to his view or his feelings, to stay at home himself, and keep all under shelter that he can; — here are we setting forward to spend five dull hours in another man’s house, with nothing to say or to hear that was not said and heard yesterday, and may not be said and heard again to-morrow. Going in dismal weather, to return probably in worse; — four horses and four servants taken out for nothing but to convey five idle, shivering creatures into colder rooms and worse company than they might have had at home’ (Emma, I:13, 113)

You will instantly recall that with such an anti-social gloomy attitude, it was no surprise to John Knightley when after some small tension-lade conversation both before and after dinner, and Mr Woodhouse began to get restless, a reconnoitre revealed it had been snowing steadily for the past couple of hours!

Mr. John Knightley now came into the room from examining the weather, and opened on them all with the information of the ground being covered with snow, and of its still snowing fast, with a strong drifting wind; concluding with these words to Mr. Woodhouse: ‘This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagements, sir. Something new for your coachman and horses to be making their way through a storm of snow’ (Emma I:15, 126)

Reasoning the way the people in Northern Virginia and Washington DC have been he continued with his admiration for Mr Woodhouse’s pluck in coming forth, and cheerily predicts:

‘I dare say we shall get home very well. Another hour or two’s snow can hardly make the road impassable; and we are two carriages; if one is blown over in the bleak part of the common field there will be the other at hand. I dare say we shall be all safe at Hartfield before midnight’ (126)

His intrepid wife whose every thought is for her children’s safety, determines to set out directly

‘if we do come to any thing very bad, I can get out and walk. I am not at all afraid. I should not mind walking half the way. I could change my shoes, you know, the moment I got home; and it is not the sort of thing that gives me cold … ‘ (126)

But instead of admiring her spirited reaction, her husband (reasonably enough) worried about the state of her ‘prettily shod’ feet. She had not brought pattens. But then the fear was not of mud and dirt, but snow. Would she make it home? she might have to stay at Randalls, stranded from her progeny.

Now here we reach our important “sortes.” Our true hero, Mr Knightley’s brother (appropriately named George) rushed out while all this was going on and what did he discover: he

‘came back again, and told them that he had been out of doors to examine, and could answer for there not being the smallest difficulty in their getting home, whenever they liked it, either now or an hour hence. He had gone beyond the sweep — some way along the Highbury road — the snow as no where above half an inch deep — in many places hardly enough to whiten the ground; a very few flakes were falling at present, but the clouds were parting, and there was every appearance of its being soon over. He had seen the coachmen, and they both agreed with him in there being nothing to apprehend’ (128)

But for the mentally distressed Mr Woodhouse this could not be enough reassurance because (Mr G. Knightley says) he will “not be easy:” (as I fear many of my neighbors are not). So, turning to Emma:

Mr K: ‘Why do you not go?
Emma: ‘I am ready, if the others are.’
Mr K: ‘Shall I ring the bell?’
Emma ‘Yes, do.’ (128)

It’s at such moments we glimpse the compatibility of her heroine with our hero and begin to think she might have some common sense after all.

And as fervent devotees of Downton Abbey know, bells fetch capable servants. Coachmen are waiting.

servanthelping
Emma and Mr Elton are handed in by servants who hold umbrellas over their heads to go home (1996 Miramax Emma, scripted and directed by Douglas McGrath)

So what has Austen’s text taught us tonight? Do not over-react. It may be there will be less snow than is envisaged. It may be you will be able to cope. Take heart. Remain calm.

GoreyChristmasEve
This Gorey family put their Christmas tree outside their house and calmly proceeded to decorate it in the dark — how one family coped

I will be told that in the DC and Virginia area the local government authorities are very lax when it comes to cleaning roads, and are tardy to remove ice. They won’t spend the taxpayers’ money in such ephemeral moments. No, we shall wait for the sun to come out. And everyone have a day off. Well everyone whose boss does not insist they come in if they can. I will be reminded that the statistics for accidents in the snow suggest that mortal and harmful accidents occur at higher frequency than say rain or fog. That the weather bureau is not dependent on a crystal ball and tomorrow a blizzard will come. And also we could lose power as often enough happens in storms. So it’s well to get out and bring back candles, batteries, food supplies.

But none of the above comes from nature. It is man-made. The roads could be cleaned early in the storm and salt put down. None of this is being done. The electricity companies have been improving their service, but much much more could be done (and spent) from tax-payer money and their customers’ monthly payments.

We shall see. But was there really any necessity to start closing down two days ahead? I suspect many people enjoy this excitement as John Knightley did in reaction to finding himself grated upon by life’s demands. Many want the day off pay or no pay. US people get so little holiday time. That’s an actuating motive to why citizens accept this situation where they know they can find themselves stranded, in an accident, or without power. I confess I had rather have gone to the gym these past two mornings, have preferred to have a usual quiet Friday routine, preferred to see the Smithsonian people wait until Friday to cancel the Vermeer Saturday lecture. And strongly would follow John Knightley’s advice to Jane Fairfax about the post office’s potentials: when you pay people, they will do the work if you set them to it.

Turning then again to Austen’s Emma, I find that winter evenings Mr (G) Knightley sits by his twilight fire alone (so he is not all that unlike his brother John), reading Cowper “Myself creating what I saw” (Emma III:5. 344)

donwell-abbey-snow
Downwell Abbey in snow (2009 Emma)

Ellen

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MrsScroogegoodimagewithcat
Mrs Scrooge, widow, at home

Dear friends and readers,

For a few years now I’ve been able to write Christmas blogs about Jane Austen and “this time of festivities” (which is close to how her characters label winter solstice, somewhat ironically): how she perceives Christmas in her writing, how Christmas is treated in film adaptations of her books, e.g., Metropolitan; and more generally how Christmas and the New Year were treated in the 18th century, from Anne Finch, to Robert Southey.

Since this season had not achieved the specificity or importance in the 18th century it has since (heavily a result of 19th and 20th century commercialism), I’ve not been able to find enough on its treatment in other women novelists of the era (or men), but discover that on my old Sylvia blog, I had gone into Posy Simmonds’s illustrations for Carol Ann Duffy’s Mrs Scrooge before, but had not noticed how they include a cat when the well-meaning lady is at home,

posyMrsScrooge5
Her experience of the ghosts in the second half of Duffy’s graphic novel in verse does not perturb her cat

So this year turned to my new project, women artists, and found another woman artist who pictures cats, women and Christmas all together.

As Caroline Bugler says in her The Cat: 3000 years of the Cat in Art, Henriette Ronner-Knip (1821-1909) is not a woman artist who gets much respect.

8670_s_henriette_ronner_knip___dutch_artist
A photo of Ronner-Knip

She was Dutch, and began with landscapes, still lifes and genre scenes. These are overlooked:: they are mostly awful, overdone with ornament, too crowded with creatures and faux or kitsch pastoral-farm life. In 1876 she found her metier when asked by queen of Belgium to paint two favorite two dogs: she discovered she charmed buyers with depictions of beloved pets at play or sleeping. Her facility at this led to many commissions, first from other wealthy aristocrats and royals around Europe, and then just to customers. Cats in playful and sentimental poses and especially kittens and cat families became her specialty. Many today may not find her paintings to their taste, too artificial, too sweet, too much a part of an implied picturesque bourgeois world, not photographic renditions, but her pictures of animals are based on “acute observation and a thorough knowledge of this animal.” If you look at her studies you find she is often captures some central part of a cat’s mood and poses (Bugler).

studies-of-cats-1895-henriette-ronner-knip

henriette-ronner-knip-a-cat-with-her-kittens-cats-kittens

For today, Christmas Eve I have opted for her depiction of two kittens ruining a doll under a Christmas tree:

CatsatChristmashenriette+ronner-knip-white+hair-whiskers-pink+nose-grey+hair-sitting
1895

We see two young (well-fed and well-groomed) impossibly cute-calico cats treating a doll the way they would treat a person if they could, and do treat people’s things, not out of malice, but devotion. Who has had a cat who did not sit on their stuff? to gain attention, be close to us, just smell our things and make themselves part of it. Or take your stuff, this case the doll’s detachable fancy braided be-ribboned wig. Yes it’s a pose, yes the paint is too lacquered, the playfulness is too luxuriously pretty. She has moved into fantasy.

Fantasy is the key. You can learn from her cat pictures (as in Suzy Becker’s All I Need to Know I Learned from my Cat) to love, to take out time to play and to explore — and yes sleep and eat and simple be there for one another, implicitly loving. But what people love are those which satisfy their desire for symbols of stable luxury with the cats at play around these, as here where Ronner-Knipp has risen to the level of fantasy because of the objects played around:

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Ancient music rolls and ink bottle

Candybox
Curiosity uses a porcelain candybox, echoed in the bowl; the box underneath echoes the wall

And every once in a while you can find a determined fierceness:

Henriette Ronner-Knip - The Uninvited Guest
An uninvited guest

And the difficulties of a cat’s real predation in its present environments:

catchasingbird

Fierceness, determination, environment brings us back to Mrs Scrooge:

Scrooge doornail-dead, his widow, Mrs Scrooge, lived by herself
in London Town. It was that time of year, the clocks long back,
when shops were window-dressed with unsold tinsel, trinkets, toys,
trivial pursuits, with sequinned dresses and designer suits,
with chocolates, glacé fruits and marzipan, with Barbie,
Action Man, with bubblebath and aftershave and showergel;
the words Noel and Season’s Greetings brightly mute
in neon lights. The city bells had only just chimed three,
but it was dusk already. It had not been light all day.
Mrs Scrooge sat googling at her desk,
Catchit the cat
curled at her feet; snowflakes tumbling to the ground
below the window, where a robin perched,
pecking at seeds. Most turkeys,
bred for their meat, are kept in windowless barns,
with some containing over 20,000 birds. Turkeys
are removed from their crates and hung from shackles
by their legs in moving lines
. A small fire crackled
in the grate. Their heads are dragged under
a water bath – electrically charged – before their necks
are cut
. Mrs Scrooge pressed Print

I had not noticed she is an environmentalist, anti-consumer (and thus salutary corrective to Ronner-Knipp) and Duffy’s tale a genuine cautionary tale with applicability to us today in the throes of spreading impoverishment and climate change:

atMarleys

Outside, snowier yet, and cold! Piercing, searching, biting cold.
The cold gnawed noses just as dogs gnaw bones. It iced
the mobile phones pressed tight to ears.
The coldest Christmas Eve
in years saw Mrs Scrooge at Marley’s, handing leaflets out.
The shoppers staggered past, weighed down with bags
or pushing trolleys crammed with breasts, legs, crowns, eggs,
sausages, giant stalks of brussels sprouts, carrots,
spuds, bouquets of broccoli, mangetout, courgettes, petit
pois, foie gras; with salmon, stilton, pork pies, mince pies,
christmas pudding, custard,
port, gin, sherry, whisky,
fizz and plonk,
all done on credit cards.
Most shook their head at Mrs Scrooge,
irked by her cry “Find out how turkeys really die!'”
or shoved her leaflet in the pockets of their coats, unread,
or laughed and called back “Spoilsport! Ho! Ho! Ho!”
Three hours went by like this.
The snow
began to ease
as she walked home.

She hated waste, consumerism, Mrs Scrooge, foraged
in the London parks for chestnuts, mushrooms, blackberries,
ate leftovers, recycled, mended, passed on, purchased secondhand,
turned the heating down and put on layers, walked everywhere,
drank tap-water, used public libraries, possessed a wind-up radio,
switched off lights, lit candles (darkness is cheap and Mrs Scrooge
liked it) and would not spend one penny on a plastic bag.
She passed off-licences with 6 for 5, bookshops with 3 for 2,
food stores with Buy 1 get 1 free
Above her head,
the Christmas lights
danced like a river toward a sea of dark.
The National Power Grid moaned, endangered, like a whale.

environmentalist

The Thames flowed on as Mrs Scrooge proceeded on her way
towards her rooms.
Nobody lived in the building now
but her, and all the other flats were boarded up.
Whatever the developers had offered Mrs Scrooge to move
could never be enough. She liked it where it was,
lurking in the corner of a yard, as though the house
had run there young, playing hide-and-seek,
and had forgotten the way out. She remembered
her first Christmas there with Scrooge,
the single stripey sweet
he’d given her that year, and every year …

— Carol Ann Duffy (turn back to The Guardian)

Nor how she has stayed faithful to her memories of Mr Scrooge before the second imitative half of the tale begins.

Ellen

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