Goddesses and Doormats

(This is the abbreviated version I read at Chi Chi's Word Parlor 9/18/07 -- the theme was "Desire.")

For days later, she could still smell him on her sheets…and she couldn’t bring herself to wash that red tank.

He always made her come to him. And she never knew when he might call next. The last time he was staying with a friend in Venice because he couldn’t make rent. And he wouldn’t let her stay the night. That was two months ago. And she waited. She was always waiting.

Suddenly, she heard her cell phone sing, “If you want me to stay…” That’s his ringtone! She froze. For a split second, she thought about not answering it. Oh, who are you kidding? Don’t try to be coy.

“Hey, where are you?” she asked.

“In Venice.”

“I’m surprised to hear from you.”

“Well, surprises are good.”

She smiled. “Yes. Surprises are good.”

He asked if she was getting ready for bed. Her heart was pounding. Was he going to ask her to come over?

“Because I’d love to come up there…and…fuck you…” he ventured.

“You want to come here?” she confirmed.

“Yeah.”

She frantically raced around the apartment cleaning up. He arrived at her door so fast, she thought, that can’t be him already. They danced around each other for a while, reacquainting, not quite sure how to get started, until he finally seized her in his arms. His hands slid all over her body, down her spine, her ass, her legs. He smelled so good. He kissed her softly first, tenatively, then a little harder. His arms still around her, he walked her backward into her bedroom.

He moved with authority, in complete command of everything in that room, of her especially. Still kissing her, he pulled her hand to the front of his pants so she could feel how hard he was. It made her bold. She unzipped his pants, and slipped them off. He stroked her long, dark hair as she sank down in front of him, sucking him softly and then more and more intently.

“Mmm. You do that so well,” he moaned. She kept her smile to herself, head bent down over him, and didn’t let his compliment interrupt her performance. Holding her hair away from her face, he watched himself disappear into her mouth. She slipped one hand under his shirt and stroked his chest. His body felt rough and strong, warm and human.

“Do you want my cock in your pussy?” he asked.

He stood motionless except for his hand laid gently on her head, following her motion up and down on him. Some part of her recoiled at his words. A nice girl shouldn’t want to hear that. But the truth was she wanted exactly what he said. She pulled her mouth off him and nodded. “Yes.”

She untied the drawstring on her sweats and slipped them off while he watched. He climbed on top of her and whispered in her ear, “You feel so good. This is why I keep coming back to you. This is why I can't stay away.”

The slow, continuous rhythm of his fucking drove her into a kind of half-consciousness. She loved the feel of his weight on her, of being completely naked with him, her breasts against his chest. It had been so long since the last time they made love – how she had craved him in the interim. And it was always this way: feast followed by the severest famine. In her head she told herself, Don’t think about that now. Aloud, she cried, “Don’t stop.”

He felt her back and pelvis tense, and he held his hand under her head, cradling it as she climaxed with a little, convulsive curve of her spine. Before it was over, he made her come three times more. The last one was a surprise that traveled up her diaphragm, made her stomach, then her chest, then her neck tingle until it reached her mouth, and she could feel her lips quiver and almost go numb. Her orgasm was so intense and sustained, she wanted to smile and cry at the same time. The pleasure was like an exquisite release from torture – the torture of having been deprived of him for two months. Yes. Surprises are good. But how can he not want this every day?

When it was done, he grasped around the bed for something to clean up with and found her red tank top with the butterfly on the front. She feared he would get up and leave, as he was apt to do, depending on just how anti-social he was feeling, but instead he let his weight drop down next to her. He lay on his back with his legs wrapped around hers and she rolled over onto her stomach, half on top of him with her forehead in his neck, her hot cheek pressed against his collar bone. He stroked the skin on her left shoulder, not saying a word.

“What are you thinking about?” she wanted to know.

“Sleep,” he shrugged.

“Do you want to sleep here?” She didn’t want to insist, but she hoped.

He said, “No, I can’t,” but within minutes had slipped into a quiet snore. It was cute in that way it would cease to be after they’d been together a few years.

She lay as still as possible for as long as possible, until what started out as a comfortable position that she thought she could hold forever became uncomfortable. She wanted to stretch her legs. She wanted to scratch her nose. She wanted to shift her stomach off his arm. Finally she thought, Screw it. If he gets up and leaves, he gets up and leaves. There’s nothing I can do about it.

She shifted her weight partly off of him, their legs still tangled up together. He didn’t get up. He didn’t leave. He turned on his side and pulled the covers over them. And they slept. Together.

I recently finished a writing class that explored the relationship of memoir to fiction, proceeding from the proposition that there is no purely fictional story, and there is no absolutely truthful memoir.

 

Not to over-generalize, but I think this is particularly the case for women.  Certainly there are men who do draw from their own life, like Nick Hornby, but I think for most men who infuse their fiction with "real life" or "truth," it isn't their own truth; it's somebody else's.  It's historical or biographical or professional truth.  It's usually not the truth of their own hearts -- again Nick Hornby excepted.  I don't kow about Michael Chabon (who I'm currently kind of high on). I've only read his last two books, Kavalier & Clay and Yiddish Policemen's Union, both of which are immersed in the fantacized "histories" of other people, not necessarily his own.  But I understand Mysteries of Pittsburgh may be closer to home. I'll have to get that...

 

I've decided the title of my memoir should be "Everything I Know About Being a Woman I Learned From Reading Jane Austen," who by the way began ruining my life from the age of 17.

 

But the mortifying truth is that I haven't learned anything -- or maybe I'm just staring to after nearly two decades. Even more embarrassing is that for the better part of the last decade the Austen heroine I have behaved most like -- where my relationships with men are concerned, that is -- is probably Marianne Dashwood, with fits and bursts of Emma, Mary Crawford, and only occasionally Elizabeth. But the flawed Elizabeth, the Elizabeth who allows herself to be snowed by Wickham and is blind to Darcy's virtue.

 

What if I wrote a commentary on the works of Jane Austen -- but executed as fiction! --applying Austen's moral lessons to a life?  Without, however, blatantly invoking Austen, because I hate that crap! That chick-lit sub-genre that consists of raping the works of the greatest writer of the English language in an effort to copy, re-create, essentially revert to her world instead living, breathing, and exploring our own world -- however small -- which is the whole point about Austen's art that those horrible books seem to miss entirely.

 

Hmmm...a potential new project? Something to think about...

I first saw Becoming Jane about a week ago with my very talented and intelligent, if somewhat persnickety, theater-trained actor friend Michael. I was, I must admit, largely disappointed, having read the excellent and exhaustively researched 2003 biography, Becoming Jane Austen, by Jon Spence, who served as Historical Consultant on the film. So Michael and I spent much of the movie rolling our eyes and snickering at it. However, I felt it deserved better attention than I gave it on a first try, so I decided to sit through it again, without the interference of Michael's overactive criticsim.

 

To be fair, I don't blame Michael entirely for my negative reception of the movie. I came to it with high expectations, because the main premise is without a doubt borrowed from Spence's thesis but, apart from the supposed relationship between Jane Austen and Tom Lefroy, bears no resemblance to Spence's quite original and effectively supported conjecture.

 

Of note, I liked Becoming Jane much better the second time, after discarding my preconceived notions of its failure to stick faithfully to Spence's thesis. Let me just make this clear, however: my initial (as well as an any residual) disappointment had nothing to do with historical accuracy, as we must concede both the movie and Jon Spence's book are, in fact, speculation. Spence's speculation at least is supported by his research into family documents, letters, and first hand accounts, subject though they may be to interpretation and memory.

 

At any rate, as a fiction, a story, on second viewing I thought Becoming Jane was no less amusing and entertaining than 2005's Pride & Prejudice, and in certain places more so (Michael will sneer but I don't care).

 

I will first address my objections to the film, which are largely these:

 

1. The blatant exploitation of the popularity of Pride & Prejudice by attempting to make practically every character and relationship in Jane Austen's life analogous with the characters and relationships therein.

 

To wit: Mrs. Austen, Jane's mother, is portrayed as a Mrs. Bennet-type, skillfully managing her preacher husband's impecunious household while diligently working to get her younger daughter married off to the heir of the local dowager-cum-Lady Catherine, Lady Gresham. The neighboring family's silly daughter, Lucy Lefroy, Tom's cousin, is given essentially Lydia Bennet's characteristics and John Warren is obviously Mr. Collins.

 

In their first scene together on screen, Jane overhears Tom speak slightingly of a piece she has just finished reading for the amusement of the assembled, reminiscent of Darcy's arrogant remark that Elizabeth was "tolerable but not handsome enough to tempt me." And at their first ball together, Jane abuses the arrogant Mr. Lefroy behind his back for refusing to dance when there were so few men to begin with, after which he rises to the occasion and begs that she favor him with the next two dances.

 

Coming on the heels of the 2005 feature film adaptation, in addition, this parallelism smacks strongly of a failure of original thought. It cannot escape the appearance of mimicry. Of course, spun favorably, I can allow it to be both an homage to her most enduring novel and a biographical conjecture on her life derived from a reading of the work. But as a theme of analysis of her work, it's unoriginal and it diminishes her art. And that I cannot forgive.

 

 

2. Lack of focus on the essential conflict of the story. My friend Michael is of the opinion that the central conflict of the film Becoming Jane is the unfulfilled romantic attachment between Jane Austen and Tom Lefroy but does not effectively rear its ugly head until well more than halfway into the movie. I think other observers would disagree with my friend, as there are certainly many indications throughout the first half of the movie that there will be difficulty in the fruition of a marriage between Jane and Tom due to a variety circumstances, not the least of which is a lack of money on both sides. But I will save this discussion for later, when I address what I do like about the film.

 

For this criticsim, I will state my decided preference: Becoming Jane should be about the penniless young woman of Regency England who has no means of supporting herself other than (and will become a burden on her family otherwise) to marry but cannot bring herself to do so unless it is for love. In addition to that stipulation, she also wants to write and harbors mild hopes (at least as present in the film) of being able to earn her keep by writing. Contrary to the long-standing picture of Jane Austen as the taciturn, old-spinster daughter of a small town country parson, the film (and Jon Spence for that matter) depict a young Jane who is not without the material and romantice hopes and fancies of other women her age and has been brought up to value romantic love and affection as well as familial, which may be at odds with her artistic ambitions. She wants to believe she can have both but there's a hint that she's torn. Ultimately she is the one who leaves Tom and cannot fathom a way to make their life together work if he gives up his uncle's support and has to take care of Jane in addition to his already large family in Ireland.

 

Notably, this Jane at least does not have the perfect faith in her ability to make a living as a writer that would free her from the doubts of a life of poverty were she to follow through with her elopment with Tom Lefroy. In her final speech to him before she goes back home, she will not admit the possibility that he won't be poor forever or even if he is, that a life even simpler than the one she currently has at home does not have to mean ruination and despair. She does not consider the the possibility that she could, like Mrs. Radcliffe, make enough money from the publication of her novels to assist Tom with the support of their family. Or, maybe what she has considered is that if she and Tom are cast off for eloping together, and have to live in poverty, that she won't have time to write in addition to the duties of keeping together their miserable household.

 

She will not marry to secure her own comfort, but neither will she marry for a love that does not come with a promise of a certain degree of comfort. What degree of comfort would ultimately satisfy her is never explored.

 

Tom hints at something interesting the first time they are dancing together that Jane secretly feels herself to be above her company. She cannot be satisfied; she will not settle, not even for Tom. This is the more interesting conflict of the story but does not get fully explored. Instead, all we get is the story of a young woman's romantic hopes defeated by circumstance, and her writing life becomes a consolation prize, albeit one that bestowes on her immortality.  If the film had addressed the possibility that Jane Austen deliberated on her chances of actually having both a married life and writing, decided it was not possible for a woman of little means if the husband had no means as well, and chose the writing life over the conventional life.

 

3.  As a corollary to my criticism that the presentation of the central conflict in the film lacks focus, it also lacks a convincing conclusion. After Jane gives up the elopment and returns home, the action jumps to what is essentially the end or near the end of her life, where she has remained unmarried and Tom, apparently married, has a daughter whom, out of reverence for the memory of his love, he has named after her. There really is no explanation why their decision not to elope together in that one moment must necessarily mean the end of the relationship altogether. Why can't they wait until some other more fortuitous occasion to be married appropriately? Why doesn't Tom go out into the world to make his fortune and then come back for her (as Captain Wentworth does for Anne Eliot in Persuasion)?

 

They do not part because they no longer love each other. The only answer is that at some point, either he had to be inconstant or she did. Either he gave up the acquaintance or felt no hope in pursuing it if she gave him no encouragement. If they walked away thinking they each had a better chance for happiness with other people, at least Jane knows there will very likely be no other offers. She has no dowry to tempt another man. Tom on the other hand has the hope of inheriting his uncle's estate and then marrying, once he is financially independent.

 

I did say I liked this movie, didn't I?  Ok, well, since this has gone much longer than I anticipated, I will have to deal what I liked in another post at another time.

 

To be continued...