March 2008

My wife has been acting strangely of late. Periodically, and especially on Sundays she becomes distracted, dreamy, hard-to-reach. By evening she is shepherding the kids through supper- and bath-time with unusual urgency. Pity the child that procrastinates at bedtime on a Sunday. Even more unusual: by about 7:30 pm she’s begun speaking in strange, florid constructions. “Prithee,” she said late one chilly Sunday afternoon recently, laying her hand lightly on my arm, “Would that thou might add to the commodiousness of the drawing room by tending to the fire before drawing bathwater for the children?”

“Er, right … the drawing room,” I said uncertainly. “The one with the TV in it?”

That’s the clue, of course. Because recently, my wife has preferred to spend her Sunday evenings in the company of a tall, swarthy, rather conceited-looking fellow with a starched collar and riding boots than with me, and if he wasn’t 230 years old I’d be jealous. Ever since Louisiana Public Broadcasting launched its Masterpiece: The Complete Jane Austen series of English television adaptations of Jane Austen novels back in January, I have pretty much had to give up on any spousal interaction on Sunday evenings, while Ashley abandons the twenty-first century altogether and runs off with Mr. Darcy.

It’s been particularly hopeless during Pride and Prejudice, but honestly I can’t really expect to welcome my wife all the way back to the present day until the series ends in April. Never has there been a more enthusiastic fan of the period drama genre than Ashley. Elizabeth, Gosford Park, Jane Ayre, Mrs. Brown; if the characters are swaddled to the earlobes with top hats and kid gloves and corsets and lace, clattering around side-saddle, being bowed to, danced with and speaking as if they’ve got a mouthful of marbles, she’s going to love them.

But this is all fine. In fact, the timing couldn’t be better. If ever there was a place where an affinity for the dress and customs of the early nineteenth century serves one well, it’s St. Francisville during March, when a large percentage of the population abandons the present day altogether and leaps with unapologetic gusto into full-blown anachronism. We’re talking about the Audubon Pilgrimage of course and, primed by Pride & Prejudice, Ashley is looking forward to the experience more than ever. Why? Because that’s the weekend when she’ll be able to get gussied up in an honest-to-god Empire-waisted, 1820s-style dress complete with bonnet, gown, petticoats and other palaver and float about Afton Villa Gardens looking for all the world like Jane Bennett on her way to a garden party. So she’s on the prowl right now for an outfit of suitable style for the occasion. To date I’ve not been assigned any Pilgrimage responsibilities so perhaps I’ll be at home, entertaining the kids and hoping that no-one bearing a passing resemblance to Mr. Darcy happens upon Afton Villa this year.

Of course the Jane Austen Effect (which should probably be on the syllabus as required viewing for all Pilgrimage reenactors), won’t last forever. I think the series comes to an end in April. But even in its aftermath I suspect its shade might live on in a future generation of Pilgrimage damsels. A couple of Sundays ago our small daughter, Mathilde, somehow wangled her way into staying up well past bedtime and watching the Jane Austen episode Mansfield Park (Funny how you never notice how much ribaldry, sexual innuendo and assorted naughtiness the Victorians engaged in until there’s a rapt four-year-old perched on the couch between you). As far as she was concerned the flowing dresses, flowery speech, horse-drawn carriages and enormous, castle-like manor houses had “Princess” written all over them and she wasn’t about to miss a moment. Now Mathilde, who is not keen on bedtime at the best of times, has developed a large arsenal of ruses for escaping bed when there’s the slightest hint of Austen in the airwaves, so if we want to watch it without repeated appearances by an imploring moppet requesting water or reporting the presence of a ladybug in her room or complaining of a sore finger—all while gazing raptly at the TV—we have to avoid all mention of the series, get her to bed early, and watch it with the sound so low even the dog can’t hear it. But there’s one benefit of Mathilde’s new-found obsession with Victoriana and it’s this: when the West Feliciana Historical Society powers-that-be come looking for little girls to dress in high-waisted dresses and ribbons, to dance the traditional Maypole on Pilgrimage weekend, they’ll find no more enthusiastic volunteer than our daughter. Yes; I think they might have this one for life.

Audubon Pilgrimage, incidentally, will be celebrated March 14—16 this year. See the calendar entry on page 34 for all the details.

—James Fox-Smith, editor
james@countryroadsmag.com