Six Weeks by the Sea, page 1
In memoriam:
Alexander Waugh
He held it indeed as certain, that no person could be really well, no person, (however upheld for the present by fortuitous aids of exercise & spirits in a semblance of Health) could be really in a state of secure & permanent Health without spending at least 6 weeks by the Sea every year.
JANE AUSTEN, Sanditon
From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty’s rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Sonnet 1
THE SHOCK…
… of the intelligence was so great to Jane that she fainted away
(William Austen-Leigh)
Steventon Rectory, Hampshire, England, December 1800.
Falling away.
Spinning, whirling, tilting, and yet everything in the room is deathly still. Pianoforte. Father’s books, Mother’s huswife on the mahogany side table. Grey light.
Falling away.
‘Cassie, fetch tepid water and smelling salts. George, why do you stand there, dumb as an ox? A bolster from the girls’ bedroom.’
‘Mother, you were quick to act. I confess, I did not suspect so—’
‘Hush, Cass. I can’t sit all day with her head in my lap. Go to.’
When she awakes, she sees figures kneeling. Worried eyes, relieved smiles. She feels foolish. Neck damp, bonnet and boots removed. She has no memory of how she has come to be lying on the cold flagstone floor of her home. Her home. Home. And now, with that word, a needle prick to the brain. And suddenly she feels cold. Begs for a shawl, even though she is still wearing her pelisse. She is conveyed to a sofa and wrapped in a blanket. Hot sweet tea. Her sister, tenderly holding the cup to her lips. Martha cradling her clammy hand.
‘All that fuss, dearest,’ Cassie’s words are softly spoken: ‘You need only time to reconcile you to the removal. Our mother took you by surprise. That is all.’
The tea revives her.
Her mother is busy working the linen, hands fluttering, tongue chattering. She hears snatches of conversation… Edward’s nervous disorder, sea bathing, waters, electricity. No need to be sulky as a bear.
She turns back to face her sister and Martha.
‘Mama has spoken: it’s all settled. We are to remove to Bath.’
WEEK ONE
All impatient of dry land, agree
With one consent to rush into the sea
(William Cowper)
Sidmouth, Devonshire, England, summer of 1801.
‘We met with no adventures at all in our journey yesterday, except that our trunk once nearly slipped off and we were obliged to stop at Hartley to have our wheels greased.’
‘And the weather was kind, I hear, from my mother’s account?’
‘Very kind and very effectual. We had one heavy shower on leaving Bath, but afterwards the clouds cleared away and we had a very bright chrystal afternoon.’
She slipped her arm through his and they turned to gaze at the horizon, her pink gown billowing prettily in the breeze. Never a great talker, he was more inclined to silence when feeling most strongly. With this most beloved of women by his side, the smell of the salt air and the gentle lapping of the waves, he was struck anew by the glory of the sea. It had been his life, his world, since he was twelve. Now, at the age of seven and twenty, he could hardly bear to be far from the water’s edge, even during holidays or official leave of absence. It had been his idea for the family to take rooms in Sidmouth, by far the most genteel and gayest of the seaside resorts, and he had made all of the necessary arrangements, procuring accommodation in Dove Lane, a short walk from the Mall.
He was a strikingly handsome man, with a strong hooked nose, brown skin and a cleft in his chin. His black hair was cropped in the fashionable style. He had an open, pleasant countenance. Those meeting him for the first time were struck by a vigour and restlessness; though small in stature, he was athletic and wiry. As a boy he had been given the moniker ‘Fly’. His parents had despaired of his fiery temperament, his insolence of spirit. Discipline, and the seven years of acquaintance with every variety of danger which sea and war together could offer, had made him a man. His late advancement to captain, his companion noted silently, had improved him considerably.
‘Shall we take a stroll to the machines?’
They walked westward, over the small footbridge towards the fishermen’s cottages, the nets out waiting to catch the herring at high tide. The bathing machines dotted the shoreline, with cabins painted a ruddy tint like the cliffs, yet at this hour, midday, all was still and quiet. The bathers had abandoned the beach following their early morning plunge and the dippers had long departed their duties. The only sound was the rush of waves on pebble.
Frank stole an appraising glance at the young woman by his side. Her rosy cambric dress and air-blue parasol reflected the shimmering pink and blue hue of the sea, one of the most striking features of the Sidmouth shore. The oxblood cliffs seeped their dye into the water, creating a marbling pattern upon its surface, contrasting with the deep verdant green of the Sid Valley.
The woman was wearing a veil attached to her bonnet to protect her complexion against the bright sun. It did not occur to Frank that it might also be concealing the effects of her recent illness. She had never taken well to sudden revelations. That announcement of their mother’s, just before Christmas last. And on the poor girl’s twenty-fifth birthday, of all days! ‘Well, girls, it is all settled, we have decided to leave Steventon in the spring and go to Bath. Papa’s Easter sermon will be his last.’ With no explanation as to any good reason. Was it really to be believed that the sole purpose was to find respite for Papa, now three score years and ten and greatly fatigued after serving his flock with such dedication? Then the upheaval as they prepared to leave the rectory and all its memories: finding lodgings, the auction of the furniture – the loss of her pianoforte, so many of her books, even the props and stage sets from the home theatricals. And, piling Pelion on Ossa, the discomposure brought by the news that the lodgings in Sydney Place would require repairs. No wonder dear Jane had entered a decline.
Six weeks by the sea was just the thing for her. Had not Dr. Russell written so persuasively of aquatic curative powers in his Dissertation on the Use of Seawater in the Diseases of the Glands, Particularly, the Scurvy, Jaundice, King’s Evil, Leprosy and the Glandular Consumption? Frank fervently hoped his sister would soon recover her bloom. Already the walk must have stimulated her appetite.
And later in the week she would sea bathe, though he knew she feared the short trip to the water’s edge in the machines would be bumpy. Frank, mesmerised by the herring boats that bobbed and groaned appealingly on the shoreline, had hopes of a pleasure ride or perhaps an outing to Shaldon.
For now they both exulted in the precious moments alone together, unencumbered by the noise of others. He had planned their tête-à-tête with precision; it was an opportunity for her to see in him the same person as before and to talk to him as her heart had yearned to do for many a past year. The affection on his side was as warm as her own. She was the first object of his love, wounded by no opposition of interest, or cooled by no separate attachment. She was the one to whom he opened his heart, told all his hopes and fears, plans and solicitudes. She was as steadfast and constant as the Rock of Gibraltar. During his long and painful absence, an open, equal, unchecked correspondence had sustained them, and every direct and minute information had been gratefully and faithfully received and cherished. Lives so contrasting and yet so inextricably entwined by earliest memories, pains and pleasures.
‘The rooms are agreeable, I trust. And not at all dirty or airless?’
‘We are exceedingly pleased with the house,’ said she. ‘The rooms are quite as snug as we expected. I made the acquaintance of a little black kitten who runs about the staircase.’
‘And Edward? How does he do?’
‘What must I tell you of Edward? Truth or falsehood. I will try the former, and you may choose for yourself another time. He was better yesterday than he had been for two or three days before – about as well as he was at Steventon. He drinks at the Hetling Pump, is to bathe tomorrow and try electricity on Tuesday. Oh, and little Ned has been breeched.’
Frank chuckled. Lucky Edward, the child of fortune. He would never know what it was to make his own way in the world.
‘One day I will make it possible for you to live with me under one roof,’ said he. ‘Let it be Portsmouth, with a view of the sea.’
‘With a parcel of brats,’ she replied. ‘All of them perfectly good-natured and as spirited as their father.’
He drew her to him fondly. ‘Let us buy fish on the sands, will not that please Mama? We shall have my very own fish sauce. The garlick is ready to be harvested and we have Indian soy aplenty.’
It never failed to amuse her that even when on dry land he insisted on dining on fish.
‘And I shall ask Cassie to bake a dozen light wigs – Martha’s receipt, of course,’ said she with a coy smile.
Frank retaliated. ‘Thursday s’ennight, Captain Parker will make his introduction, and I am certain you will find him in life as agreeable and pleasing as you have found him in my letters.’
‘I shall love him instantly and without reservation, simply because you command it.’
As they turned towards the Mall, a gentleman approached, seemingly deep in reflection, but on seeing
Sidmouth was suddenly beginning to be of interest.
* * *
Pencil in hand, the Reverend John Swete surveyed the scene as his exhausted donkey, Joseph, cooled its hooves in the shallows. It was just the place, he declared, and commanded his servant to remove easel and brushes.
Swete was tall and angular, his gait conveying an air of genteel awkwardness, that of a man of letters unaccustomed to life’s more vigorous activities. His limbs were long and thin, his posture somewhat stooped as a consequence of days spent hunched over books and papers. His drawn and elongated face was rendered striking by a prominent nose of considerable length. His eyes, small and piercing, were set beneath brows that arched with a mixture of curiosity and enthusiasm. The mouth, drawn into a pensive or faintly amused expression, was framed by slender lips that seemed ever on the verge of delivering some witticism or learned quotation.
His hair, sparse and white, was neatly powdered and arranged in a manner befitting a clerical station, often peeking from beneath his modest wig. Upon his head rested a tricorn hat, rather battered by his many travels, lending him an air of both dignity and whimsy. A long black coat, fitted with large brass buttons, hung about him like a scholar’s robe, while his breeches, stockings and buckled shoes completed the appearance of a man who was devoted to the serious pursuits of life.
When perched atop his loyal and somewhat comically gaunt donkey, the Reverend Swete cut a dignified yet absurd figure, embodying the contradictions of a man who sought lofty truths while stumbling through the everyday follies of the world.
Clergyman, landowner, artist, antiquary, historian and topographer, on his tenth tour of Devon, he considered Sidmouth to be uncommonly picturesque. Nothing, he thought, could be imagined more cosy than the fisher huts, set off by the tints and decorations of Nature – nothing more pleasing than the boats, oars, posts and fishing tackle, and nothing more enchanting than the placid sea whose waves, in gentle ripplings, played on the shore at the still hour of noon.
In the morning, what a contrast! All then must be animation. Sailors busy about their boats, Venus rising from the sea and gazing Mars’ in abundance – they had assuredly not escaped his notice. On his early morning walk, he had watched a gentleman driving a curricle in the most ferocious manner, clearing a sharp angle as he turned the corner with the utmost adroitness. The artistic eye of the Reverend Swete caught all, or nearly all. He would call his picture ‘Western Cliffs at Sidmouth’.
He had bade his servant not to linger but to bend his steps to the easternmost extremity of the mouth of the valley, away from the throng perpetually perambulating the Mall. Here under very high and rugged cliffs appeared the termination of the River Sid.
‘You observe, Bickell, the waters are not permitted, as most other rivers, to pour themselves into the ocean but as those in Arabia intercepted in their course to the Red Sea lose themselves in the sandy desert. The circulation in a mouse is the same as that in an elephant – and if rivulets are absorbed by the sands and find a passage through the earth, why may this not be the case with the Mediterranean Sea and the Caspian?’
His man, long used to such invocations, grunted a response.
‘There may be porous shores, there may be immense and numberless caverns which open a communication with the ocean.’ The reverend was in full flow. ‘Is it not extraordinary that this power should fulfil the office required – that it should absorb exactly the quantity of water, which the vast basin receives, that throughout every year the process should be alike? That the power should be the same in every season?’
Westward from these cliffs, intervening between them and the town, ran a narrow track of marsh. Then in a long line appeared the houses in the centre of the valley – a great part of which was hidden by rows of beautiful elms, leaving only enough in view to give the appearance of a picturesque village. Above the houses, woodland and enclosures rose gradually till at length they were lost in high hills, which at their extremities curved in an amphitheatrical form. The reverend thought the whole romantic and picturesque. He caught sight of Miss Jane, the younger of the attractive Austen sisters, and her brother, a fine son of Neptune, and rushed to greet them with a flourish of his hat.
‘I’m sure you’ll agree that Sidmouth is the gayest place of resort on the Devon coast,’ said he. ‘Every elegance, every luxury, every amusement is here to be met with – iced creams, millinery shops, cards, billiards, plays, circulating libraries.’
Frank and Jane exchanged a wry glance. Like other visitors to the resort, upon their arrival the Austens had been alerted to the loquaciousness of the clergyman.
‘I saw a smart gentleman take a novel from his pocket in the Public Shed – such is the fashion of the place!’ Swete continued. ‘I recall the lines from Ovid. Prisca iuvent alios: ego me nunc denique natum gratulor. Let me translate, my dear: Let others praise ancient times: as for me, I am grateful to have been born in these. Now I must reluctantly take leave of this delightful spot, adieu, but we shall meet hereafter and be so good as to bestow my good wishes on your venerable father and mother, and of course, Miss Austen, your most delightful sister. As the poet saith, Thus we travel on together, With gentle gale or stormy weather.’
Reverend Swete gave a bow and set off towards Otterton with a promise to attend them at the ball that evening. Brother and sister made for the Public Shed, which was not only a roomy and shady place to sit and contemplate the ocean, but also home to the circulating library. There was a new novel she was awaiting with great anticipation. But by now the sun was high and hot. Seagulls screeched noisily, and the clatter of plate and glass from the inn adjoining the Shed reminded them that it was time to return home. The circulating library, and Miss Edgeworth’s latest production, would have to wait for another day.
* * *
Jane surveyed the chamber, assigned to herself and her sister, with a critical eye. It was a well-proportioned room, certainly, though the windows were small and the space sparsely furnished. There was one bed, of medium size, and a dressing table. The servant had placed her writing box on the window seat. Cassie’s easel and paints had not yet been unpacked. The rosewood oval workbaskets had been placed in the parlour downstairs. She must finish the plain work she had begun for Frank before he was sent back to sea, she thought to herself. It was a sudden and pleasing distraction from the wave of sadness that swept over her as she recalled all she had lost in Hampshire.
There she and Cassie had, at last, been allocated a room of their own, a chamber adjoining their bedroom, fitted out with blue wallpaper, blue striped curtains and a new chocolate brown carpet. A painted press, with shelves above for books, had adorned one side and on a table between the two large windows hung a looking glass. In a corner had been her own study, with pianoforte and her dear mahogany writing box, a present from her father on her nineteenth birthday. That item at least could not be ripped away from her, she thought, with a moment’s bitterness.
She could not shake the feeling that the abrupt decision to depart from Steventon was an insult added to an earlier injury: her father’s announcement, many years before, that she and her sister, still so young, should be sent away to school. Though it had never been made explicit, she knew the reason. It had been to make room for the boarders, brought in to supplement the two hundred pounds a year from the livings at Steventon and his other parish of Deane. The young gentlemen had been civil enough, but the loss of the room of their own still jarred. Once her father’s teaching days were over, Steventon had become their own home again. Except that now it was not. Perhaps it had never been so.
Cassandra walked into the chamber. She was of a moderate height, her figure slender yet well-formed. Her dark, expressive eyes, often veiled by a thoughtful gaze, held a depth of intelligence and kindness. Her hair, a rich shade of brown, was, as always, arranged in a simple style. Though she possessed a certain elegance, her attire, like her manner, was modest and unassuming.
