My Day with Simon

In Jane Austen's back garden, preparing for my interview with the director Simon Langton. 

The charms of Chawton brought me back to Jane Austen country, this time because Simon Langton, the director of the famed 1995 BBC miniseries “Pride and Prejudice” was giving a lecture about the film. I had discovered the lecture while leafing through pamphlets on the train ride home from my first visit to Chawton – a delightful day spent in a writing workshop in Jane’s home. What luck! The lecture would be held just two days before the Honors Semester in London program ended. I secured a place at the lecture immediately, and even got the last spot (someone dropped out at the last minute) at the 25-person dining room table for dinner with Langton afterwards. The director had also agreed to a personal interview: the perfect way to answer the last outstanding questions for my research.

I arrived in Alton in the early afternoon, just in time to explore the church where Austen worshiped and the graveyard behind it, where her mother and sister are buried. Then I headed to Cassandra’s Cup for a cream tea and ducked into Jane’s side garden to work on my interview. The flowers were bright with blooms, and as I scrawled down questions, I could feel the writer’s presence urging me along.

From Jane’s gardens, it was just a short walk down a side road to Chawton House Library, which is the former home of Edward Austen Knight, Jane’s wealthy brother and the former head of the estate. Years ago, the estate was about to be demolished, but Sandy Lerner of Cisco Systems saved the house from decimation and converted it into a women’s writers library, a truly unique endeavor comprising much of her own personal collection. 

As we walked through the house, I imagined Jane strolling down the same halls. Coming into the dining room, which was ornately set for the evening’s dinner, we were told that Jane herself had dined at that very table. A portrait of her brother hung nearby. I tried to imagine where Jane sat and wondered if later that night I would be sitting nearby, or perhaps in her very seat. Scenes of countless Austen films with the characters talking animatedly around the table flashed through my head.

My favorite room on tour was called the Oak Room: all wooden paneling with beautiful views of working fields and the horses fenced in front. I could just imagine curling up in the large leather armchair by the window and reading (or looking out the window) for hours. “This was Jane’s favorite room,” the guide said. “She’d sit right in that chair by the window and read.” I almost laughed aloud.

Reading the Victorian edition of Pride and Prejudice. Every book reads
better with gilded pages!

My interview was scheduled for later that afternoon, so while I waited, I went into one of the neatly furbished reading rooms. The librarian had pulled a number of books that would be of interest for my research. And I’d made one special request: to read the Victorian edition of Pride and Prejudice, a gorgeous golden peacock pluming on the front cover. Gingerly, I turned each page, careful not to rip the precious book. The cover was already coming apart at the seams, but the words on the page seemed to read so much better from such an antique version.

And before I knew it, I was being called to meet Langton for our interview. To my great excitement, I was told that the location of the interview had been moved – from the Great Hall, where the lecture would be held later that night, to the Oak Room. On tour, we had been careful not to touch anything, but as I shook hands with Simon and pulled out my recorder, we took a seat around the large oaken table and Simon drank a cup of coffee. At first, Simon was the one interviewing me. “So when did you first watch my movie?” he asked with interest.

I laughed. “When I was three.”

No exaggeration, when I was little, my parents could pull me away from birthday parties and excursions with friends with the promise that “Pride and Prejudice” was playing on A&E. I told him so. He was stunned.

“That young?”

I shrugged. “You introduced me to Austen,” I told him. “I guess you can take credit for this whole project.”

Thus, our interview began, and, like all good interviews, the next hour went more like a conversation than a one-on-one. We talked about his inspiration behind the film, picking film locations and his own interpretation of what many consider to be Austen’s greatest work. The interview only ended when it did because the director pulled him away to get ready for the lecture.

With Simon Langton after our interview in Jane's favorite room.

I only had just enough time to dip back inside the library for another chapter of Pride and Prejudice before changing into a nicer dress for the evening’s activities. A cocktail party ensued before the lecture. I’d looked forward to wine and hors d’ouvres before I suddenly realized that I’d come alone and knew no one but Simon – and he was still preparing. But, contrary to stereotype, I’ve found that many British people are quite friendly on first meeting. (I think the stereotype stems from Londoners, who, like most city folks are too busy catching the next train to notice the person beside them.) Two women, both from Alton, snapped me up in a hurry, and I never left their side, all the way into the Great Hall, where they managed to get me a seat right beside them.

Simon was as animated on stage as he was around the oak table. In fact, I felt that the lecture was really just an extension of the conversation we’d had earlier. He showed clips from the film and talked at length about the famous “lake scene,” where Mr. Darcy takes a dip in the pond. “It was actually a pool in the studio,” he said and went on to describe how Colin Firth’s stunt double (that’s right, not only was it not the real lake, it wasn’t the real Darcy either!), got injured swimming during one of the takes.

And before I knew it, we were sitting around the dinner table. I’d carefully taken a place across from Simon in hopes of extending our earlier conversation.

“Where do you think she sat?” mused the lady to my left – grand woman in size, voice and interest in the world. She was talking about Jane, of course.

“Well, let’s see,” said the lady to my other side – a woman of miniature features and the only one in the lot to take her tea without cream. “An unmarried woman of undistinguished birth and rank. Certainly nowhere near the head, no. Hmmm… Far down the table, certainly. I’d guess somewhere just about in the middle.”

We sat in the very center. We made no further inquiries.

Despite knowing no one, I was never at a loss for conversation. In fact, between the ladies on either side of me, I hardly had time to talk with Simon. Over poached salmon and steamed vegetables, we talked about my time in London, their jobs (one was a former lawyer turned landscape design writer, the other a retired math professor), and of course our shared love of Austen’s works.

"Look at us,” said the writer. “All 25 of us, most of us don’t know but maybe one other person. We all come from different places, backgrounds, careers, ages. And yet, here we are all together having a great time, with just one thing in common: Jane!” I do think Jane would have enjoyed the evening, and certainly the diversity of people with whom to talk and mingle.

Following dessert – a grand lemon tart with raspberry drizzle – we were served tea. The lady sitting beside Simon offered to swap places with me for the duration of the drinks. This was partially a very generous offer and partly self-motivated. You see, I had befriended the women to my left and right, and the poor lady across from me had been deprived of conversation all evening; the woman to Simon’s left had hooked him into a conversation that had somehow rambled from her job to her love of dogs without a moment’s hesitation. Still, I was grateful for the offer, and we both switched places happily; she finally had people to talk with and I was at least next to Simon listening to the saga of the lost dog. But soon the conversation opened – we came full circle to Austen and everyone was satisfied.

The evening concluded all too soon – or maybe just in time. I had just enough time to exchange emails with Simon and get a kiss on both cheeks before dashing to the door to meet my taxi. I realized only as I grabbed my bags that I’d never actually told the cab service where to meet me. Luckily, the taxi was right outside the front door. I needed 15 minutes to get to the station, and I had exactly 10 minutes to catch my train. If I missed it, I’d arrive in London just as the Underground station closed down.

But as I got inside the cab, I knew that I’d get there in time. For I actually recognized the driver as the man who had driven me to Alton during my first visit. “Emily!?” he said with a laugh.

I’ve mentioned before that Alton is a small town.

“Kit!” I cried.

“We’re a little close on time,” he said, offering me a bag of Skittles. “But they don’t call me 10-minute Kit for nothing.”

We sped through town, chatting all the way. I had a lot of news since my first visit to Chawton.

“You come back again now, Emily,” he told me, as I bolted from the door. “I’ll miss our conversations.”

I turned around and returned the compliment, meaning every word. Rushing up the staircase to the station, I arrived on the platform with several minutes to spare. I thought of Cinderella’s carriage turning into a pumpkin. Just in time, I thought. And, indeed, I truly did feel like a princess. But when you spend the day in Alton – and with Simon in particular – you’re bound to receive royal treatment.  

The Charms of Chawton

Standing outside Jane Austen's home, following the writing workshop.

Jane Austen is known as the author of six incredible novels, most famous among them Pride and Prejudice, which has been adapted into numerous films in all corners of the globe. Her critics argue that the woman herself had a very limited life – and it is true that she didn’t travel outside the country and died only a few miles from her birthplace in Steventon, but as the author herself once expressed, much can be experienced within the confines of a country town. I had not properly appreciated this sentiment until I took a journey to Chawton House, Austen’s quaint Hampshire abode.

Boarding a train from Waterloo station in London, I set out on a day’s solo journey to the author’s house for a writing workshop titled “‘But Intricate Characters are the Most Amusing’: Relationships, Characters and Conflict.” Already in my correspondence with the manager of marketing and events at the Jane Austen House Museum, I had experienced something unlike the fast-paced and harried lifestyle of London; while the workshop had been filled for weeks, Madelaine Smith agreed to let me overenroll in the course. I was ecstatic: the opportunity to write and workshop with others on the very grounds that my favorite author penned her last works!

Ever the planner for a thousand things to go wrong, I left on an 8:30 train for an hour-long journey, even though the workshop would not start until 11:00 a.m. Still, I was right to plan ahead: the train system broke down between Farham and Alton, and we had to catch a bus. Still, we managed to arrive only a few minutes later than initially planned, meaning that when I called the cab company to say I’d be late and then arrived early, I was angry with myself for being too efficient. But somehow, Alton seems to operate on a very different system than the stereotypical small town: no one was late. My cab, rescheduled for 10:15, arrived shortly after 10, and I waited not long at all with the receptionist of Wilson’s Cabs, a service with only two drivers.

Kit drove me both ways, and we chatted the entire time.

“So you’re a writer?” he asked.

I said, “Yes.”

“Well, you’re just gonna love today,” he said. “’Course, after the workshop, you should head down to the library.”

Although he didn’t say “library.” It came out more like “lie-bree.” Other words came out so fuddled that I just nodded and smiled and laughed where I deemed it appropriate. For two people speaking the same language, I definitely felt like a foreigner and hoped he didn’t realize that half the time I had no idea what he was saying. Still, we managed quite well during our short journey – all about him growing up in London, getting married and moving to Alton.

“Much better here,” he said. “You can breathe. Not rushing all the time. ‘Course-sometimes-I-forget-I’m-not-‘n-London-‘n-I-talk-t’-fast.”

And boy, did Kit talk fast! As if all the words poured out at once in a jumble. We’d arrived at Chawton House, but we were so deep in conversation, he showing me the best pub for lunch, the tea house down the street and then pointing to the end of the lane. So I thought perhaps I had to walk the rest of the way. He laughed at that, rubbing the tears from his eyes. “Hafta walk!?” he wheezed. “But you’re here. There’s the gate!”

I fumbled with the pounds sterling as he opened the door for me.

“What time do you want to come back?” he asked. “Fifty-fifty chance, I’ll be the one drivin’ yah.”

He pointed down the lane again. “Be sure to head to the lie-bree,” he reminded me. “Definitely worth a visit.”

The workshop started at 11:00 a.m., but we were invited to arrive as early as 10:30 for tea and biscuits. Arriving twenty minutes early, I stood outside the gate, rubbing my hands together to keep warm. Then, as no one was around, I easily stepped over the loose chain and wandered into the gardens. I was greeted by the curator and invited to keep warm inside the workshop room, although “we’re just now setting up.” And in the same breath, “Can we get you a cup of tea?”

Growing up in the South, I’ve always been taught to pitch in – whether asked or not. So when Olive Drakes, an elderly volunteer at the house, who stands at no more than five feet on a good day, asked me if I could reach the teapot on the top shelf, I immediately offered to help set the table.

Nothing says comfort like a steaming cup of Assam tea, laden with milk and sugar. And Olive was just the sort of lady to make it. “Do you take cream?” she asked me, pouring with a steady hand.

As I sipped, I helped lay out the cookies – or biscuits as they call them in England – four different varieties: chocolate chip, Belgian chocolate, white chocolate and chocolate-covered sugar. With the teapot, pitcher of cream and two bowls for sugar – light and dark – I felt as if I were right at home.

The workshop started promptly at 11, with most people filing in just minutes before. The dozen of us took our places around small circular tables as Rebecca Smith, the workshop facilitator, led introductions. It was evident from the get-go that we were all ardent admirers of Jane Austen’s works. The facilitator herself was the author of four published novels, the latest of which is titled, Jane Austen's Guide to Modern Life's Dilemmas and was inspired by her yearlong position as the Writer in Residence at Chawton House. Two girls, about my age, had come all the way from Naples, Italy, for a Jane Austen holiday. After Chawton House, they were heading from Bath and from there to London to see what they called “King Lion,” a West End musical admittedly not Jane Austen but still certainly a classic. Another woman, a middle-aged school teacher from China, had come with a different purpose in mind: She was developing a computer program based on Pride and Prejudice that would teach students at Shanghai High School in China how to speak English. Her idea was inspired by Austen’s incredible popularity in Asia, particularly in China and Japan, and is being sponsored by O2, a U.K.-based mobile phone company. And two other women, young mothers and aspiring novelists, had attended another one of Rebecca’s workshops a few years before and started their own intimate writing group, meeting every three weeks in Winchester.

Austen wrote often to her niece, Anna, (an aspiring novelist, herself!), giving her writing advice. Austen told Anna that she wrote as if on “a little bit of ivory, two inches wide on which I work with a brash so fine as to produce little effect after much labor.” And while that fine style is difficult to emulate, emulation was not our goal. Like Austen, proud of her own writing style, we’d come together to improve our own styles – and hopefully make them just a little more worthy of that small piece of ivory. 

Over copious cups of tea, we began writing, working our way from different styles of introducing a protagonist to distinct modes of illuminating characters through their relationships with both friends and antagonists. Throughout the afternoon, we’d pause to share our work or to read aloud excerpts of Austen’s works. Austen’s Pride and Prejudice inspired each lesson: how to introduce a protagonist, how to draw points of comparison between characters through the use of best friends and sworn enemies, how to further draw out a character through the use of gifts and surprises.

A mastermind of character, Austen wrote some of the most unforgettable heroines of her time – heroines that have been brought back to life again and again through a number of depictions both on the screen and stage. We did not aim for that level. But then again, neither did she. And I doubt that she could have ever imagined how acclaimed her works would become. Now, 200 years after the publication of Pride and Prejudice, readers from all across the world are still reading her novels.

Although her family supported her work, Austen was not able to profess her own success. Sense and Sensibility, her first published novel, was published anonymously, through the help of her brother, Henry, and her following novel, Pride and Prejudice was published as “by the author of Sense and Sensibility.” Hardly the level of clout and congratulation that her works deserved. Playing two hours at her piano every morning, Austen often hid the fact hat she was writing, choosing not to fix the creaky door that led into her study in order to give herself ample time to hide her pages beneath a book before company came in. In the workshop, we were not working under those same constraints. Modern-day women authors enjoy high clout in the literary community. Just take a look at J.K. Rowling’s success and you know that she wasn’t busy hiding her quills and paper.

During our lunch break, I toured Austen’s home. Walking through the creaky door, I had the chance to see the small writing desk where Austen could often be found hard at work. Trying my own hand with a quill, I only managed a very few shaky words before the ink dried up (and so did my patience). But through my visit to Chawton, I gained a better understanding of what motivated Austen to keep writing – despite finicky quills and social pressures to the contrary. When the workshop ended, I took a brisk walk to the Chawton House Library, a large estate where Austen’s brother, Edward, resided. The approach with a circular drive was quite picturesque. Off to the side was a small churchyard and gravesite, where many in the Austen family are buried. Pastureland and a schoolyard mark the short walk to the estate. The sheer beauty of the countryside would be enough to inspire Austen’s heroines to go on long walks seeking adventure.

I spent entirely too much time at Edward’s home … meaning I had to run back to the museum (and was still late) for the cab that I’d scheduled earlier that day. Unlike the cabbies in New York or London (or just about any big city for that matter), my good friend, Kit, didn’t charge me until I hopped in. He just said he’d wished he’d driven up to Edward’s house instead. He’d suggested it, after all, so he should have known that’s where I would be. “No reason to make yourself all out of breath,” he told me.

And as we parted ways at the train station, Kit said he’d miss me. “I rather liked our conversations,” he said.

And I agreed. Yes, the countryside of Alston is beautiful. But it is the characters that make up the town that truly define it. And I think it was those characters that inspired some of Austen’s most dynamic heroines. She probably met Lizzie walking down a lane. And I bet there was a coachman named Kit.

Through the Doors of Pemberley: Celebrating Jane Austen’s Pride & Prejudice 200 Years Later at Sudbury Hall

On the doorsteps of Pemberley.

At the age of four there was only one way that my mother could pull me away from a play date. As my friend and I hid in the closet, she’d call out that “Pride and Prejudice” was on air. Suddenly, I’d pop out, ready to go, leaving my friend huddled in the closet. I’ve remained a Jane Austen devotee to this day.

And that’s why I applied for a Summer Undergraduate Research Fund (SURF) to travel to England to explore the evolution of Mr. Darcy’s Pemberley estate first described in Austen’s Pride and Prejudice and later depicted in film adaptations of the novel. Specifically, I want to investigate for myself scholars’ differing viewpoints on the grandeur-ization of the estates through subsequent adaptations. That means heading to National Trust estates across the country, from Chatsworth and IIam Hall in Derbyshire to Harewood Park and Bramham Park in Leeds, to analyze the architecture and gardens and interview estate managers and film personnel about the making of the movies. It also means coming up with a systematic way to measure a subjective idea – grandeur – in order to come up with semi-quantitative results. I can’t imagine a much more difficult task: weighing the merits of a picturesque hilltop approach against a beautifully crafted gilded ceiling. It’s a challenge I’m still struggling to work out.

As the 1995 BBC version of “Pride and Prejudice,” starring Jennifer Ehle and Colin Firth, is my favorite adaptation, Sudbury Hall was the obvious first choice to start my research. And so, this past Friday I boarded a train to Crewe and made an exchange to Tutbury and Hatton.

“What are you doing in Hatton?” the traffic patroller laughed, when I inquired about platforms. “Going to prison?”

In fact, there is little to do in Hatton but go to prison. I saw a sign leading the way from my otherwise bleak bus window on my way to the estate. But while the town is barren, the people living there are not.

When I hopped on the bus, I asked for the estate’s stop but the driver had never heard of it. So, the other bus riders rallied together and an elderly lady helped me figure out the stop. She got off, and I’d have missed the stop completely if it hadn’t been for yet another elderly lady who made sure that I got off.

“Are you touring the house?” a young guy behind me asked.

I said that I was.

“It’s closed ‘til one,” the guy, named Charles, said. “But the tea room is open.”

I nodded and thanked him, knowing him to be wrong. After all, tours were given at 11:30, so at half past 12, the house had to be open. I walked up a dusty lane approaching the estate. But the estate was closed – until one. So, I made my way to the tearoom, as Charles had suggested.

After feasting on fruit scones with clotted cream and jam and a steaming pot of Jasmine tea, I made my way back to the estate, at a little past one. And who was there to greet me? But Charles himself! He turned out to be a volunteer guide.

I’d written numerous emails, trying to contact the house manager before I arrived, but to little avail. So, I explained my research to the volunteers at the door and asked if they could point me to the right people. I stayed in the house all day. Shuffled among eager tour guides wanting to tell me about each of the different rooms and even securing a few interviews with the most knowledgeable among them. In the Long Gallery, filled with row upon row of impressive portraits of the Vernons – the family who owned the estate until debts forced them to turn it over to the National Trust in 1963 – I met one man, Clive Edwards, who had been a tour guide at the home for over 20 years – he’d even been present during the filming.

“I was Colin Firth’s stuntman,” Clive said with a wide grin. “Remember the lake scene?”

I laughed at the joke. There is a famous scene in which Darcy strips down to his undergarments and dives into a lake. Clive didn’t exactly have the build to be a stuntman.

“I told that to one lady, she came back with her sister and husband for autographs.” He chuckled. “It took a lot of convincing for her to believe it wasn’t me.”

There’s another thing about that lake scene – aside from Clive’s role in it – the lake doesn’t actually exist on the grounds of Sudbury Hall. The directors originally wanted to film at Lyme Park, an estate in Chesire. But renovations to the inside of the house made filming there impossible. So, instead of using one estate, the directors decided to use two: Sudbury Hall with its lavish Long Gallery and the Great Staircase accented with fantastically-detailed gild work and large scale portraits for the interior and Lyme Park with its picturesque hilltop approach, natural gardens and the now infamous lake for the grounds.

“If you stand by the window in the saloon, you can look out the same window as Lizzie in the movie,” Clive told me.

But when I looked out, I saw not the lake but rather a simple, yet elegant garden. The Vernons never completed George Vernon’s grand vision for the grounds.

“Of course, Lizzie was looking at views fifty miles away in the opposite direction,” Clive chuckled.

And Clive had a slew of stories from the filming, too. “There was this one bloke – an extra – and he was powdered up, dressed so nice with a wig, too, and he was ready by 7 in the morning,” he said. “I watched that guy sit in a chair in the entranceway hour after hour, patiently waiting. Nine o’clock came, ten, eleven. Around one, he stood up and got a sandwich, came back and ate it. They didn’t call him until 4:30 in the afternoon. He popped up, so excited. And he had only one line. He made the nicest bow and said his line, welcoming Mr. Wickham into Mr. Darcy’s study.

When the show aired, I waited for him to come on. But the funniest thing happened. The directors decided to make it a flashback scene, so they made it all blurry and muted his line.

That poor bloke waited all day. That was his only job. Except maybe a few times he stood up to carry around a plate of chocolates in the background.”

Clive laughed uproariously. “’Course that didn’t happen to me with the lake scene.”

On the grand staircase, just moments before meeting "Darcey."

I think we could have talked for hours. But we were interrupted by the house manager, who came into the Long Gallery bearing a large, overflowing box. Lucy Godfrey invited me downstairs to sit on the red velvet settee and take a look through the box’s contents: original photographs of the filming, letters between film personnel and the previous estate manager, a booklet with day-to-day filming locations, etc.

“Make digital copies of whatever you want,” she told me. She didn’t mention that she was staying late to make it all possible. She just assisted with the copy machine and took down the bus schedule to make sure I got home at a decent hour. And when I finished copying, she even offered me a few of the original photographs as keepsakes. The portrait of Colin Firth standing in full dress by the fireplace will hold a permanent place above my bed.

When I returned to London late that night, I immediately emailed Inger Brodey, the UNC professor who is advising my project and teaches a course dedicated to Austen’s works. I waxed eloquently about Sudbury’s warm welcome. “Just like Elizabeth's reception at Pemberley!” Professor Brodey responded in an email. And she was right, of course, although I had not thought of it at the time. My research looks at grandeur – something that involves rather subjective analysis – but after my experience at Sudbury Hall, I have a better idea of just how to measure it. Sudbury Hall is certainly grand: high, intricately carved ceilings, gilded mirrors and a richly furbished bedroom once let out to Queen Adelaide, following the death of her husband, King William IV, certainly attest to that. But one factor of grandeur that I had not first considered revolves around hospitality. And from the kind ladies on the bus who guided me on my journey to the hours of conversation I enjoyed within the house to Lucy’s generosity of time and material, I found Sudbury Hall – indeed all of Hatton – quite grand. Prison and all.