On the Limited Charms of Stating the Obvious

by

Nicki Leone

To Pot Eels:

Cut the in pieces about four inches long, season with a little beaten mace, nutmeg, pepper, salt and sal prunella*, beaten fine. Lay them in a pan and pour as much clarified butter over as will cover it. Back half an hour in a quick oven, till properly done. Then lay them on a coarse cloth to drain; when quite cold, season them again the same way. Then take off the butter they were baked in clear from the gravy of the fish, and set them in a dish before the fire. When melted, put by for use. 
—English 18^th Century Cookery, illustrated by Celia Ware

*sal prunella: a preparation of fused potassium nitrate in balls

There was a period in my life when I used to collect reprints (since I couldn’t afford the originals) of historic cookbooks, housekeeping manuals, gardening almanacs and other miscellanea from the periods of my favorite novels. Where this compulsion came from is hard to say—I tend to like trivia, and have a nearly endless tolerance for ridiculously irrelevant details. Certainly I wasn’t accumulating all these ancient cookery books and manuals with a view towards using them. As the above excerpt shows, they were of limited practical use. I don’t, as a rule, make eel for dinner.

Then too, my reprints often contained little cautionary and explanatory notes like the following:

Note:  At the time of the original publication of these recipes standards of hygiene and ingredients in common use were often of a rather dubious nature, and some of the recipes in this book fall far short of modern-day standards. The Publishers can take responsibility only for the authenticity of these recipes; wherever there is any possibility that the methods and ingredients involved might be harmful to health, please seek the advice of an expert.

Which rather puts one off.

No, I think that the reason I felt drawn to these old cookbooks and housekeeping notes and ladies’ diaries is that I simply couldn’t let go of my favorite novels. Of Pride and Prejudice and Jane Eyre, of Mary Shelley, William Blake, Sir Walter Scott, George Eliot, and all the others whose works I discovered looking for the “Penguin Classics” imprint on my neighborhood branch library’s shelves. I’d finish these books, and somehow still not be finished with them. The impression they left in me was so strong that it was impossible to believe that Jane Eyre simply “stopped” when the book ended. That Eliza Bennett winked out of existence when I turned the last page.

When I was younger, I would appease my eagerness to keep these characters “with me” by re-reading the books over and over again. (I still do this.) But as I grew into a career in books, I also found myself drawn to histories and biographies of the era. And eventually—since histories tend to be lofty things far removed from the domestic dramas of an Austen novel—to the social histories, cookery books and gardening manuals of the same.  I really think I just wanted to keep the world of each beloved novel “alive” in my head somehow. And let’s face it, a recipe for potted eel has a way of bringing an era vividly to life.

I’m not alone in this yearning to keep my favorite novels going past the words “The End.” Jane Austen, especially, has roused this desire in her readers, as must be obvious to anyone who has not been hiding under a rock for the last few years. There are sequels and prequels to her novels, cookbooks and decorating books and advice about good manners. Books about her novels, books about reading her novels, books about book clubs arguing over her novels. There are re-writes of all the novels with the sex scenes put back in. There are books about Jane herself: Jane the detective. Jane the Vampire-hunter. Jane the Vampire.  In fact, I think the recent popularity of Austen-Undead stories proves we’ve long passed the realm of satire (such familiar Austen territory) and are now into absurdity and silliness (which is not familiar Austen territory at all).

I have, as a rule, avoided all the strange progeny of our culture’s Austen obsession with what the characters in her own novels would call “steadfast determination” –having decided somewhat arbitrarily that an Austen story with sea monsters added would do nothing to improve the plot. But I remain drawn to the histories and biographies and small works exploring the daily life of the era of the novels. So when a copy of The Annotated Persuasion, (by Jane Austen of course, but annotated and edited by David M. Shapard) came my way it seemed like the best of all possible worlds. Extensive notations and historical minutiae attached to my favorite Jane Austen novel? What could be better?

Well, I suppose the answer to that question depends on the nature of the annotations.

Persuasion is my absolute favorite Jane Austen novel for two reasons. First, Anne is not an idiot. Second, she talks about books. I adore Anne Elliot’s self-possession. Her steadfast moral compass, and her clear-eyed understanding and acceptance of the foibles of those around her.  She is not self-centered, like Emma, or melodramatic, like Marianne. She doesn’t jump to hasty conclusions, like Eliza Bennett, or dither like Eliza’s younger sisters. And while she does her share of suffering in silence like the redoubtable Elinor, she nevertheless finds great joy and satisfaction in the worthiest people around her. She is not, as Elinor can be, a complete doormat. Added to all this that she can have long discussions with young men about poetry and philosophy and the great writers of the age and you have . . . well, the person I would want to be if I was a gentleman’s daughter in Regency England.

So I was very much predisposed to thoroughly enjoy The Annotated Persuasion, which I had conceived would be a kind of pleasurable wallowing in Austen’s masterfully biting commentary and decisive characterizations. But I ran into trouble early on. Actually on the first page. Actually, on at the first paragraph of the first page, which goes like this:

Chapter One

Sir Walter Elliot, of Kellynch Hall, in Somersetshire,(1) was a man who, for his own amusement, never took up any book but the Baronetage(2); there he found occupation for an idle hour, and consolation in a distressed one; there his faculties were roused into admiration and respect, by contemplating the limited remnant of the earliest patents; there any unwelcome sensations, arising from domestic affairs changed naturally into pity and contempt as he turned over the almost endless creations of the last century(3)--and there, if every other leaf were powerless, he could read his own history with an interest which never failed--this was the page at which the favourite volume always opened:

“ELLIOT OF KELLYNCH HALL.”

“Walter Elliot, born March 1, 1760, married, July 15, 1784, Elizabeth, daughter of James Stevenson, Esq.(4) of South Park, in the county of Gloucester(5), by which lady (who died 1800) he has issue Elizabeth, born June 1, 1785; Anne, born August 9, 1787; a still-born son(6), November 5, 1789; Mary, born November 20, 1791.”(7)

I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t seven footnotes within the first two paragraphs of the story. Persuasion, says Shapard in his introduction, is by far the shortest of Austen’s novels. Perhaps so, but at the rate of seven to ten footnotes per page, the editor has managed to more than double its length. The book is laid out so that the original text appears on the left page, and the annotations are on the right.  This gave me a weird feeling that I was reading with my head tilted, like I had a mental crick in my neck.

Even so, I got used to the footnotes and the lopsided nature of the book. But I did find myself alternately amused and confused by the annotations themselves. And I was continually distracted, as I read through them, by wondering who was supposed to be the intended audience.

Annotations, I have always assumed, are explanatory notations, added to a text to provide information that would not otherwise be self-evident from the book. But Shapard seems to have a looser definition of the term. His annotations, according to the publisher, fall into several categories:

__Explanations of historical context
__Citations from Austen’s life, letters, and other writings
__Definitions and clarifications
__Literary comments and analysis
__Plentiful maps and illustrations
__An introduction, a bibliography, and a detailed chronology of events

And indeed, there are lots of “explanations of historical context”–descriptions of the types of carriages and conveyances mentioned in the book, often with pictures. Engravings of street scenes from Bath and discussions of the background of Napoleon’s rise, fall, and return that is the reason for Captain Wentworth’s rise in fortune and his good standing when he first returns to England. There are also detailed descriptions of the niceties of rank and privilege in English society that thoroughly impress on the reader—if Austen herself had not already done so—how significant it was, how dreadfully important, that Lady Russell be allowed to precede Miss Elliot from the dinner table.

But aside from these diversions, the annotations themselves were often for things that were self evident, and were sometimes (and perhaps unintentionally) amusing. When Jane Austen writes that Sir Walter “. . . for his own amusement, never took up any book but the Baronetage (2)” Shapard’s first comment is to say “2.  The baronetage is a book listing baronets.” Granted, he then goes on to give a lengthy description of the place a Baronet held in society, and the differences between a “surviving” baronetage of old establishment versus those more recently conferred. But the damage is already done with that first statement of the obvious.

Nor is this an isolated case. When Mr. Shepherd—Sir Walter’s man of business—suggests that the family move to Bath instead of London to save money, it is because, as Austen puts it “Mr. Shepherd felt that [Sir Walter] could not be trusted in London, and had been skilful enough to dissuade him from it, and make Bath preferred. It was a much safer place for a gentleman in his predicament: --he might there be important at comparatively little expense.”(27)  Then, in case the implications were not blindingly clear, the editor feels obliged to explain that “27. The cost of living was higher in London” and that thus there were more people, more things to spend money and more social circles to impress. This is a pattern that repeats itself throughout the book.

Shapard also frequently defines terms whose meanings are clear in the context of the sentence, presumably on the theory that Austen’s usage is outdated and might not be easily comprehended. So that when Mary and Charles Musgrove are known to have stayed in Lyme far longer “. . . than Anne conceived they could have been at all wanted(1).” Shapard is careful to let readers know that the term “wanted” here means “needed.” And when Anne, in Bath, is complaining to Mr. Elliot that her exalted relation Lady Dalrymple had “. . . no superiority of manner, accomplishment, or understanding(33)” a note obligingly tells the reader that by “understanding” Anne meant “intellect.”

The result is that The Annotated Persuasion is as often concerned with restating the text as it is with adding to it, and it leaves the reader with the very odd feeling that the book is aimed at people who may have read the novel before, but not very carefully or with much attention. And this seems at odds with the nature of any kind of annotated text—which is surely designed to appeal to the kind of people who pay very close attention to what they are reading.

Then too, there is the class of annotations that fall under the category of “literary comments and analysis.” I found these to be especially painful, because the author has a habit of footnoting significant points in the story and then saying that they are significant points in the story. When Anne and Captain Harville are speaking together in the rooms at the inn, and Captain Wentworth is in hearing distance, Anne makes a declamation on the constancy of womens’ feelings for their beloved, insisting that they do not forget their love as easily as men do. This, intones the editor “commences the most important conversation in the novel,” something even a casual reader only passingly familiar with the story will already know.

A casual reader, then, may find The Annotated Persuasion more than casually interesting, but a dedicated reader will find it both fascinating and frustrating. Fascinating, because there really is quite a lot of interesting information to be found in what must be over a thousand notes and annotations: the conversation between Captain Benwick and Anne that begins “He was evidently a young man of considerable taste in reading, though principally in poetry . . .” is accompanied by a useful and (if you are me) riveting discussion of the rise of the great Romantics; Shelley, Coleridge, Wordsworth. Anne herself, the editor notes, is more eighteenth century than nineteenth, and faced with Benwick’s melodramatic attitude of despair and heartbreak over the loss of his love six months earlier, ventures to suggest he read less poetry, more prose. That is, less Coleridge, more Samuel Johnson.

Shapard is also quite clearly a dedicated and thorough researcher and historian, and provides some eye-opening facts about the text itself. That important conversation that he so carefully noted above, which allows Wentworth to finally understand Anne’s feelings (he’s been more than a little obtuse throughout the book) one discovers was not even in the first draft of the novel. It was a late addition, put in just before the book was published. Early versions of the story have Anne conveying her sentiments to Admiral Croft, who must then relay them to his wife, who must then get them to her brother, Wentworth. All in all, the overheard conversation by the window is a much more elegant solution to the narrative. But it is frustrating for the not-so-casual reader of Austen that such interesting facts must be fished out of a veritable sea of more obvious information.

What saves the book is that they are there at all. This, along with a truly wonderful bibliography and some maps that are, once again, perhaps unintentionally amusing (“Queen Square,” says an annotation on one map, “Where the Miss Musgroves do not want their parents to rent a place if they go to Bath”) make The Annotated Persuasion more interesting than not. The bibliography itself may be worth the price of the book. It is fifteen pages long and included not just original source material and critical works of note, but also a long section called “Works of Historical Background” that is further subdivided into such enticing topics as “Children and Childbearing,” “The Navy and Army,” and “Weather and Umbrellas.”

But the charm of idiosyncratic bibliographies and eccentric notations on a map does not quite make up for the book’s other flaws. One of the goals of an annotated text must be to provide a deeper understanding of the work it labors so hard to explain and clarify. Shapard’s annotations are numerous and erudite, thoroughly well-researched and even encyclopedic. But in the end they only serve to emphasize the fact that whatever he writes and whatever point he tries to make, Austen says it better, with more grace, elegance and wit, in the novel.

Books mentioned in this column:
English 18^th Century Cookery, illustrated by Celia Ware (Roy Bloom, Ltd, 1985)
The Annotated Persuasion by Jane Austen, annotated and edited, with an introduction by David M. Shapard (Anchor Books, 2010)

Nicki Leone showed her proclivities early when as a young child she asked her parents if she could exchange the jewelry a well-meaning relative had given her for Christmas for a dictionary instead. She supported her college career with a part-time job in a bookstore, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that her college career and attending scholarships and financial aid loans supported her predilection for working as a bookseller. She has been in the book business for over twenty years. Currently she works for the Southern Independent Booksellers Alliance, developing marketing and outreach programs for independent bookstores. Nicki has been a book reviewer for several magazines, her local public radio station and local television stations. She was one of the founders of The Cape Fear Crime Festival, currently serves as President of the Board of Trustees of the North Carolina Writers Network, and as Managing Editor of BiblioBuffet. Plus, she blogs at Will Read for Food. She manages all this by the grace of a very patient partner and the loving support of varying numbers of dogs and cats. Contact Nicki.