A latter-day Victorian/Edwardian

That's me.

I just finished reading The Portrait of a Lady for the third time--I read it every few years because it is one of my favorite James novels, written when he was young and had not yet developed the complicated and inscrutable style he became famous for, in which every sentence was a lengthy challenge, as often as not a maze.  Even in Portrait his sentences sometimes become paragraphs in the Proustian manner (speaking of Proust: James was every bit as keen and perceptive an observer of the nineteenth century upper classes.) 

I kept wanting to get a hilighter and yellow over great sentences which kept popping up on almost every page.  But then it would defeat the purpose, and I didn't want to deface my book.  The prose is quite simply brilliant, as is the story itself.  Isabel Archer is the world's most exasperating heroine, and I won't say why so as not to spoil the story for anyone who has not yet read it.  It is the kind of book that begs to be read often--something new is invariably discovered each time one reads it.

I have long been aware that I was raised as though I were a girl of the nineteenth century upper classes, in particular the British and American classes that Henry James knew so intimately. 

Let me explain.

I'm talking about accomplishments.  And the accomplishments of a young lady, in particular.

To wit: French, Italian, drawing, playing the piano, singing, dancing, and needlework.  With the addition of some things usually only taught to boys, such as literature and Latin. Not mathematics or science, only because my father was not well versed in these, but philosophy and logic  In all of these subjects (save needlework, which my mother taught me) my father was my tutor.  I don't know what he expected me to become with all of this careful molding.  The wife of an erudite man, no doubt, like Gilbert Osmond.  Or perhaps Mr. Darcy.  However, like Isabel Archer, I lacked one thing: a fortune.  (That is, she lacked a fortune until her cousin Ralph made her an heiress and unintentionally caused the beginning of her suffering.)  These days, fortunes are not to be had in this manner.  My well-to-do grandparents had no grandiose ideas of marrying me off to a lord, or the American equivalent, if there is one.  The money I inherited from my grandfather was appropriated by my father, who spent it all mostly in gambling.  My millionaire aunt and uncle are still alive, and I certainly don't expect to be remembered in their will.  As to my inheritance on my father's death, well, let's just say that it falls well short of a fortune.  I'm not poor, but I will most likely not be able to retire.  My situation is very drearily twenty-first century and barely middle class.  The upper classes are beyond my reach unless I married an elderly hedge fund manager or scion of industry.  I'm sure the idle rich (as in living off the interest of their capital without having to get their hands dirty doing an actual job) exist in this country, and undoubtedly in England, but I don't move in the right circles to meet them.

What a pity.  When I would so enjoy being one of them.

The older I get, the less I want to work.  I know exactly how I'd spend my time if I didn't have to work--I have my music, my art, my languages (hey, those accomplishments!) gardening, decorating, remodeling my house or possibly moving to Europe into a larger, brighter, sunnier house.  Castles in the air.  Unless my investments pay off big time, or if I somehow get Lady Gaga to hire me as her accompanist, I'll be teaching at Berklee ten years from now.  If I'm still alive.  Statistically, I will be.

If I were a rich character in a nineteenth century novel, I'd be a lady of leisure who only received guests one night a week.  I'd be surrounded by artwork and large bouquets of fresh flowers, with a cadre of servants right down to a lady's maid to dress my hair.  Since I'd accomplished my mission of marrying well, I might or might not continue practicing the piano, drawing, and doing needlepoint, but if I didn't, that would be fine because I would no longer need accomplishments.  I might be very bored indeed with "society," and not at all interested in the latest Paris fashions, though I would be expected to be "fashionable."  I'd like to think I'd be as accomplished a pianist as Madame Merle.  I'd have all the time I needed to practice, after all.  No excuses because the servants would be doing the housework and errands.  I'd have a gardener for all the heavy lifting, so I would be able to just do the garden work that I like.

And reading...hours of reading!  No internet or phones.

[To be continued...or not.]