Janespotting: The Castle of Otranto by Horace Walpole

For my last exploration of the Gothic novels that inspired Austen's Northanger Abbey, I decided to go to the Grandaddy of them all, Horace Walpole's The Castle of Otranto. It's not that Austen references it specifically in NA; she only mentions The Mysteries of Udolpho and The Monk in any detail, and Walpole isn't among the seven other "horrid" novels Isabella Thorpe suggests Catherine add to her reading list. But Henry Tilney does make mention of a Gothic heroine named Matilda—also the name of Walpole's heroine, although Tilney doesn't seem to be referencing a specific one—and as The Castle of Otranto is considered the first Gothic novel, and I wanted to try Walpoling (see Monty Python cheese shop sketch), I thought, why not? (Especially since I saw that the Oxford University Press edition is only 176 pages long. Bonus!)

So I downloaded a copy from Project Gutenberg and made short work of Walpole's 1764 work, published while he was still serving in Parliament. The book was initially published anonymously—Walpole being the son of the former Prime Minister—and purported to be a translation of a medieval manuscript from the time of the Crusades. All the action centers around the Italian Castle of Otranto, which is owned by Lord Manfred and is to be the setting of his son Conrad's marriage to the Princess Isabella. Within the first ten paragraphs, Conrad is killed: squished by a giant helmet (complete with plumes) that has mysteriously fallen from the sky. By the end of the first chapter, Manfred has decided he should divorce his wife Hippolita, who only gave him the sickly Conrad and his sister Matilda as heirs, and marry Isabella himself. Since Isabella has been living with the family as a daughter, she is sickened by the idea and runs away to the local church, aided by a mysterious but attractive peasant boy.

Over the next four chapters—and that's all there are—the readers discovers that the peasant boy is the son of the prior Jerome, the former Count of Falconara; that Manfred's family stole the Castle from the virtuous Alfonso, Isabella's distant relative, and a prophecy foretells its return; that the Knight who comes to challenge Manfred for the castle on behalf of Isabella's father is actually her father; and that the peasant boy Theodore is actually the true heir to the castle. In the meantime, Isabella and Matilda both fall in love with Theodore; Theodore falls in love with Matilda; Manfred pursues Isabella; and the Knight Frederic is convinced to marry Matilda. Theodore accidentally wounds Frederic (he lives) and Manfred accidentally wounds Matilda (she dies), and we get ghostly noises and apparitions (and that giant helmet and a giant sword) until Manfred eventually gives up the castle to retire to the cloister, leaving Theodore free to marry Isabella. That may sound like a happy ending, but the marriage is only decided after "he was persuaded he could know no happiness but in the society of one with whom he could for ever indulge the melancholy that had taken possession of his soul." Yeesh.

That's a lot to pack into 176 pages, and a lot to keep track of, but since it happens all so fast, I really didn't need to pay attention. This novel was all plot and no character development (the opposite of Udolpho, if you can consider 700+ pages of moping "character development), so if I got confused, something new would happen soon enough and clear things up. The atmosphere wasn't what I thought of as Gothically spooky—it's hard to build suspense at a breakneck pace—but the novel was chock full of those coincidences, chance encounters, mysterious family resemblances, and endangered young women that Austen pokes fun at in Northanger Abbey.

So after my admittedly brief and incomplete survey of the Gothic novel, I have a fuller understanding of what Austen was parodying. I don't think I necessarily needed that understanding to enjoy the humor and wit of Northanger Abbey, but now that I can see more parallels, I think the next time I revisit it my experience will be enriched. I think I can stop with three Gothics, though and turn my attention to Northanger sequels. Stay tuned.

Photo of the Week--3/15/10

I'll bet you never knew that archaeology was so entertaining to a six year old, did you? Well, when you visit Ephesus, Turkey, and see these ancient ruins, you'll also find this twelve-seater toilet. That's right, there was a special "throneroom" where a dozen men could "rule" at the same time, and Boy thought that was hysterical. When he wanted to sit on the throne, our Turkish tour guide (we thought of him as the Steve Irwin of tour guides, that's how enthusiastic he was about showing us his country) took a seat next to him so we could get an idea of how the room worked. And yes, there are holes beneath both these guys although you can't see them.

Wordless definitions: invitation

Come on, if you saw that furry bundle of pudge rolling around on the ground, could you pass it by without stopping to play? Or at least give that big belly a rub? If you say no, it's only because you can't hear the accompanying audio of chirps and meows that accompanies this feline invitation.

Photo of the Week--3/8/10

Ah, so now we know why we couldn't find any pigeons on the Greek island on Santorini: the numerous local cats keep them in check! Now, you may be thinking, ew! dirty stray cat, don't pet that thing! And maybe we were thinking the same thing, but you have to understand: we were catless during our four years living in London, so a cat would have to look pretty gross for me not to try and give it a scritch. This one looks fat and sassy and clean, so we let Boy say hello. Besides, what a nice backdrop, with the caldera and mountain in the background!

Janespotting: The Monk by Matthew Lewis

I'm continuing my perusal of Gothic novels mentioned by Austen in Northanger Abbey, and after the interminable tepid delays that made up Ann Radcliffe's Mysteries of Udolpho, I had higher hopes for Matthew Lewis's The Monk. After all, the rogue John Thorpe, who lies to Catherine in order to monopolize her time, declares the novel the only "tolerably decent one [to] come out since Tom Jones." The latter novel, a 1749 work by Henry Fielding, was notorious for its inclusion of prostitution and general naughtiness, and Lewis's work, published in 1796, would garner a similarly scandalous reputation.

So I eagerly opened the file (thanks, Project Gutenberg), hoping to be rewarded with loads of Gothic excitement and melodrama. And I wasn't disappointed: not only were we introduced to the title character in the first chapter, we got the essentials of the plot. The Monk of the title is Ambrosio, the head of the Capuchin order in Madrid, noted for his eloquence and piety, and in the first chapter several key figures come to hear him preach: Antonia, a beautiful young girl whose widowed mother is hoping to get financial support from an estranged relative; Don Lorenzo, a cavalier who falls in love with her; and Lorenzo's friend Don Christoval, who is seeking his missing sister.

Chapter two brings several shocking events: a pregnant nun! (The missing sister.) A woman disguised as a novice! Ambrosio forsaking his vows to indulge in carnal pleasures! It just gets dirtier and nastier and more tragic: witchcraft! murder! riots! rape! incest! a couch!* Because Ambrosio was raised in the cloister and never faced temptation, his confidence in his upright character had no basis in experience, and he falls victim to a female temptress, and then to Satan himself. For the other characters there is tragedy and triumph, all equally as melodramatic (and unlikely).

It was much juicier (and shorter) than Udolpho ... and sure, it wasn't particularly deep and meaningful, but at least it was fun. I could totally buy that young girls would be both fascinated and scandalized by the book, whereas Udolpho was a stretch. So which is more typical of the Gothic genre? My next (and last) Gothic experiment, Horace Walpole's The Castle of Otranto, should break the tie.

*if you've never experienced the Reduced Shakespeare Company's Complete Works of Shakespeare (Abridged), get thee to a theater or DVD rental place.

I feel like Prom Queen!

... except with worse hair, no fancy dress, and a lot more stress. About a year ago I decided to up the amount of freelancing I was doing, so I reached out to contacts from my old employer and said, "Hey, I'm still here." I did a few pieces for a few people, and now I have more work than I can handle. I'm regularly booking myself between three to four months in advance. For 2010, January was devoted to pieces on children's authors (over 9000 words worth); February has been African American biography (it's not quite done, but it will total close to the same); March will be creative types appealing to teens (probably another 9000); April will be bios for middle schoolers (probably around 6-7000); and May will be more bios for high schoolers (7-8000 words). If I'm not careful, I'll forget to schedule time off for vacation this summer ... one of which will be a working vacation at a conference.

Besides this, I was asked to add duties at the animal shelter, so I've doubled my hours there; I'm working on important publicity for the marching band; and I'm still teaching TKD once a week. I've never been more popular! So how come my brain feels like it's dissolving? Anyway, that's my excuse for neglecting the blog ... but new Janespotting is coming, I finished another gothic novel and this one was fun, so keep an eye out later this week.

Photo of the Week--3/1/10

I'm smiling now, at the bottom of this hill on the Greek island of Santorini. That's because I was unaware of exactly what lay ahead of me. We had only an evening on Santorini during our cruise of the Greek Isles, and there was a long line for the cable cars you can see just above my head. We wanted lots of time in the city above, so we decided, why not take the old-fashioned way? I guess I wasn't paying attention to the path the donkeys took to get there: steep, full of switchbacks, and only about three donkeys wide. I would have preferred that the donkeys stay to the inside of the road, but no, they were trained to stay to the right, near the edge. I had visions of my obituary: "plunged to her death in an unfortunate donkey-riding accident." Needless to say, I made it to the top unscathed, except for smelling slightly like donkey.