I first made the acquaintance of Alice Van Leer Carrick many years ago by way of a fat, red book of Christmas stories.  Though delighted by most, I was completely enchanted with the one entitled simply Christmas in Our Town.  In her treasured reminiscences of a New England holiday over eighty years ago I found echoes of my own personal nostalgia…indeed, it is hard for me at times to read it and remember that she lived and wrote so long before me. She seems like such a friend and peer. The whimsical turns of phrase and witty allusions, coupled with the sheer sentiment of the writing went straight to my heart, and I can hardly think of a Christmas since of which reading this dear old story over again has not been a part. 

Wanting to know more of this already endeared author I did a search for her on the internet this year, turning up the fact that she wrote many books and articles in the early twentieth century and that she became a contributing editor to Antiques magazine in the 1930′s.   She was also an expert on the art of silhouettes, and her collection–considered to be one of the four greatest American ones–which she describes so lovingly in many of her writings now resides in the Smithsonian.

I’ve already described the little gift I made to myself of four of her books from the Advanced Book Exchange, and no well-versed collector could be happier than I am with the smooth, bright covers and glossy pages amply supplied with black and white photographs.  Three of them, in the ‘Collector’s Luck’ series, describe delightful journeys abroad with family and friends on antiquing expeditions.  But the last–and most dearly anticipated–was a little volume entitled ‘The Next-to-Nothing House‘.  It is the story of her very own home, the house whose walls I saw dancing with firelight and whose rooms rang with childish laughter in the precious account I first discovered.  ‘A wonderfully warm story of old-home ownership’ ran a bookseller’s description, and I was sold.  How we love our old farmhouse, and how much fun we have scouring junk shops and antique stores for tokens and treasures to make it even more of a home!  I knew it would be delightful to read of someone else’s similar joys.

The house that Alice Van Leer Carrick occupied with her husband and three children in Hanover, New Hampshire is yet known as the ‘Webster Cottage’, owing it’s fame to the fact that Daniel Webster roomed there when he was a student at Dartmouth.  When her husband became a French professor at neighboring Wellesley College, the tiny cottage was offered to them for rent.  The Next-to-Nothing House chronicles the restoration and refurbishment of a late eighteenth century dwelling at a time when such was quite uncommon. 

Alice–for I must call her by her first name, we are such friends–describes each room with the unaffected pleasure of a delighted homemaker inviting a new guest into her abode.  She tells the stories of her acquisitions, and lists the prices she paid for the various ornaments and furniture.  This was surely intended as an encouragement for the more timid lovers of old things in a day when the collecting of early American antiques was more of an oddity than not, but I must confess Philip and I found it rather depressing.  Hand-woven rugs for twenty-five cents!  Six circa 1815 stenciled chairs at a dollar a piece!  An Empire secretary for forty-five!!  Oh, dear.  When I think that with all of our tramping cross-country and bargaining and haggling we’d be lucky to come across a find like that once in a lifetime–even counting on inflation–I feel a bit daunted.  But I love my old furniture, just as she loved hers and made much of the artistry of a bygone day.  It’s still worth it…

Here’s what she says of that dear patina of age that makes our old things so much more beautiful:

Time…to me isn’t a brusque, white-bearded man, with hourglass and terrifying scythe, but a mild and elderly lady, who brushes away the ugly newness from our possessions, who fades gaudy colors and folds memories away in rose-leaves and lavendar and lays them in prim old drawers.

Reading The Next-to-Nothing House has sparked my fervor to create a haven of beauty and taste within the walls of my home, to avoid the temptation of the cheaply-made and hastily-bought.  To purchase wisely and well for my dear old house, to strive for an interior palate that won’t change with changing trends but will only ripen like a gracefully aging woman.   

 

Is there any more delicious treat than a mailbox stuffed with a manilla envelope containing a much-awaited book?  As a little Christmas present to myself this year I located four of the published volumes of a new favorite author, Alice Van Leer Carrick, and ordered them all from abe.  At 3 to 6 dollars a piece–one of which was inscribed by the author herself in a gorgeous angular script–I consider myself to have done quite well!  They’ve been showing up over the past few days (the third arrived this afternoon) and the pilgrimage down the winding drive to the mailbox has become a thing of enchantment.  I’ve been reading my favorite, The Next-to-Nothing House, out loud to Philip since it came on Saturday, and as he doesn’t seem to mind I guess he’ll end up getting the whole thing…

Look for a review coming soon–I’m half-way done at this posting.  And if you love old houses and old furniture and old ways, I urge you to lay your hands on anything by this 1920′s era kindred spirit.  "A room without books is a dead thing," she writes.  Nothing could fall more perfectly in line with my decorating scheme than this! 

Has anyone else heard of Alice Van Leer Carrick, or am I championing a resurgence of appreciation for her works?

My mother read me a passage from the newest Jan Karon book the other day; it was actually a quote from an old and somewhat obscure volume of sketches that we both love very dearly: Mrs. Miniver by Jan Struther.  It was like hearing good news of an old friend and a warm sense of pleasure filled me at the thought of a new generation of readers discovering this remarkable woman by way of a modern author’s hat tip. 

Jan Struther created Mrs. Miniver, the indomitable English housewife, in 1937 for her Times column.  As the situation in Europe deteriorated, Mrs. Miniver’s courageous allegiance to the beauty of everyday life and steady assessment of new dangers and challenges made her a national symbol of Britain’s resolve, and in 1939, the columns were published in book form.  Her fame traveled to America, where book sales were higher than ever; she stirred the sympathies of the public to such an extent that Winston Churchill declared she had “done more for the Allied cause than a flotilla of battleships”.  The 1942 movie, starring Greer Garson and Walter Pidgeon, was perhaps one of the most famous propaganda pieces ever to reach American audiences, and though it bears little similarities to the book was a tremendous boost to the war effort in its own right. 

More than fifty years after its release, Mrs. Minver’s reflections are as inspiring as ever.  Perhaps the 21^st century woman is spared the problem of hiring a charwoman or the torment of an unpleasant county house visit, but Mrs. Miniver’s underlying observations in these and other matters are surprisingly relevant in our own uncertain world.  These beautiful little gems of ‘eternity framed in domesticity’ are worth perusing again and again. 

Mrs. Miniver became a real person to me when I read her book.  She stands before me yet, upholding so many of the responsibilities and privileges I cherish as a woman.  She was a heroine for a whole generation; there are few role models so worthy today.  I most emphatically encourage anyone who has not had the pleasure of this lady’s acquaintance to find a copy and settle in with a good stout cup of tea and maybe even a notebook for favorite quotes.       

I found my copy at www.abe.com.  There are also internet versions available, but in my opinion nothing compares to a real live book that you can hold in your hands and glance over any time you like.  Look for an American edition, as it contains the tender Christmas piece, Mrs. Miniver Makes a List.   

Isn’t it lovely the way a truly great book lingers with you long after the cover is closed? I dreamed about the end of A Room With a View last night, and this morning I pulled it off the shelf and looked up Mr. Emerson’s heartfelt speech to Lucy in the second to the last chapter. In quiet, isolated perusal it struck me in a different way than it had when I was reading it out loud to Philip in a fevered excitement over what was going to happen (even though we both already knew); the dreadful and yet strangely liberating truth—conveyed through Lucy’s uncertainty and Mr. Emerson’s almost despairing entreaty that she heed the voice of her deepest longings—stood on its own with such a winsome appeal that I’ve been pondering it ever since.

It seems to me that you are in a muddle…Take an old man’s word; there’s nothing worse than a muddle in all the world. It is easy to face Death and Fate, and the things that sound so dreadful. It is on my muddles that I look back with horror—on the things that I might have avoided. We can help one another but little. I used to think I could teach young people the whole of life, but I know better now, and all my teaching of George has come down to this: beware of muddle…Though life is very glorious, it is difficult.

Such a tender warning; how many of my own trials have been the product of mental tangles, of mindsets and attitudes that cloud the judgment and blind the eyes to the glories of the unknown? With all of the wondrous and often baffling choices in life comes great possibility for muddle—and for unimagined joy, as well. E. M. Forster has been called a champion of the holiness of the heart’s desires. With what irresistible sweetness does his clarion call greet the ears of those who believe, as I do, that the longings of the human heart have their ultimate source and satisfaction in God Himself.

The things that I might have avoided…the very words rouse me to an inner spring cleaning of sorts, a taking of stock, a severe scrutiny of impeding ideas. Lead me in a plain path because of my enemies…Cause me to know the way wherein I should walk, for I lift up my soul unto You…Light dawns for the righteous, and joy for the upright in heart…

Life is Difficult, and most of its great battles are fought out before no eyes but God’s, in the hidden depths of the personality, beyond all human observation. But it is Glorious, too. And its glimpses of Eden, sprinkled with such divine care through the round of daily life, should give us courage to face the muddles head on, knowing that the Author of the heart’s desires is at work to restore all things to what He dreamt they should be in the first place.

Here is a lecture given by Dr. Peter Kreeft of Boston College on C. S. Lewis’ beautiful and obscure Till We Have Faces.  Having devoured the book with delight and awe, I still found myself trying to wrap my mind around some of the weightier concepts of this masterful re-telling of the Cupid and Psyche myth.  Lewis explores some of the deepest–and darkest–elements of the human soul, and in this talk Dr. Kreeft examines the mysteries without over-simplifying the very complex issues the book addresses.  An excellent follow-up to the book itself (Lewis actually cautioned against searching for deeper meaning until the tale had been told), it came very highly recommended to me, and with good reason.  This lecture is one of a four-part series on the writings of C. S. Lewis, including Mere Christianity, The Problem of Pain, and A Grief Observed.

Anyone interested in Brideshead Revisited will doubtless enjoy this on-line companion to both the English and American versions.  I have found it helpful even after reading the book to shed a little more light on certain passages.  It is arranged in a chapter format so it is easy to find what you’re looking for.  There is also information on the film, which many consider to be the best adaptation of a book ever made.  (I am inclined to agree.)

I picked up a copy of this 1964 gem at my grandmother’s: Elegance: A Complete Guide for Every Woman Who Wants to Be Well and Properly Dressed on All Occasions by Genevieve Antoine Dariaux.  I have every reason to suspect that my grandmother took very seriously the dictates of this classic guide to style, and that with a few well-placed parameters helped shape my mother’s ideas of what is truly feminine and proper, who, in turn, passed those same principles on to my sister and me.  I am still haunted by whether my shoes match my purse or not, and the ‘no white shoes after Labor Day’ rule.  I remember my grandmother’s abject horror that I had appeared at my eight-year old piano recital in red finger nail polish (my mother was out of town, and Daddy couldn’t have known, of course).  And when I married, my mother saw to it that my trousseau lacked nothing; though styles have changed in six years, I still have a very strong foundation of classic and well-made clothes.

Mme. Dariaux’s guidebook is a true lodestar for any woman who values femininity.  There is advice for every situation, arranged in an accessible A-Z format for even the most time-sensitive fashion quandary.  More than a rambling list of outdated do’s and don’ts, Elegance is a timeless code of true beauty: that which is not contrived, or enslaved to the often ridiculous decrees of the fashion industry, but which emphasizes the charm of simply being a woman and the possibilities which naturally follow if a sense of personal style is developed.  (Her notes on the ‘American Look’ are really quite mortifying, and recall to my mind the reason for the simple rules my sister and I enforce upon ourselves when traveling overseas—‘wear black and keep your mouth shut’.  And, according to Mme. Dariaux, no one should ever be permitted to wear shorts above the age of 16, and then only ‘on the beach, the tennis court, or on board a boat’.)

The enduring favor of a carefully dressed woman is further underscored in this favorite quote from Tasha Tudor:

    Why do women want to dress like men when they’re fortunate enough to be women?  Why lose our femininity, which is one of our greatest charms?  We get much more accomplished by being charming than we would by flaunting around in pants and smoking.  I’m very fond of men.  I think they’re wonderful creatures.  I love them dearly.  But I don’t want to look like one.

    When women gave up their long skirts, they made a grave error.  Things half seen are so much more mysterious and delightful.  Remember the term “a neatly turned ankle”?  Think of the thrill that gentleman used to get if they caught even a glimpse of one.  Now women go around in their union suits.  And what a multitude of sins you could cover up with a long skirt if you had piano legs. 

When we were at Williamsburg last week, a gentleman in the George Wythe House was speaking on the rules of 18^th century deportment, explaining the decrees which prevented a young lady from playing a musical instrument which contorted her features in any way (namely, any wind instrument) or caused her elbows to fly about in an ungainly manner (the violin).  We were amused, of course.  But as he proceeded to describe the proper posture expected of a woman of the day, his gaze rested on my sister and he gaped a bit.  “Well, just like that,” he indicated with a nod in her direction.  Every head turned to see Liz, prim and upright in her Queen Anne chair, ankles crossed demurely, arms hanging loosely from erect shoulders, hands folded in her lap.  In the filtered light of the austere room she looked like she was ready to be painted in oil.  But she was just sitting, carefully, as she has trained herself to do.  And what an effortlessly lovely picture she made.

We finished Brideshead Revisited last night on the way home from Charleston.  We both longed to and hated to.  Reading that book together has been a moving and sweet experience for Philip and me, in the same class as A Severe Mercy.  I can’t stop thinking about it.  All day the various elements have been uniting in my mind as a beautiful and satisfying whole.  Indeed, the more I dwell on it the more perfect it becomes.

The thing that simply stupefies me about this book is how much Evelyn Waugh could say without ever explicitly stating it.  He never said, “Charles had a profound religious experience,” or, “Julia had a profound religious experience,” or, “Sebastian had a profound religious experience…”  He revealed, un-curtained, as it were, the merciful operations of divine grace with a subtlety and reverence that would have been completely cheapened by familiar phrases and specific ideas.  He showed God’s pursuit of man in a way that has affected me deeply, made me want to just stop and bask in a favor I could never hope to deserve.  He made me care for his characters, not just for the slice of life that his story gave me, but for their very souls. 

Evelyn Waugh had the ability to weave analogies that were both artistic and enlightening, word pictures that paint upon the imagination a depiction of the underlying truths of the story that bald-faced text could never hope to portray.  In much the same way, his use of Chesterton’s ‘twitch upon the thread’ has left me with an indelible image of the love and grace of God. 

Daddy said it was ‘the most beautiful and bittersweet book he has ever read’.  I’m inclined to agree.  For unlike so many other realism writers of the 20^th century, Eveyln Waugh writes of the heartaches and longings of human nature with a gentle and redemptive hand. 

            “Perhaps, I thought, while her words still hung in the air between us like a wisp of tobacco smoke—a thought to fade and vanish like smoke without a trace—perhaps all our loves are merely hints and symbols; a hill of many invisible crests; doors that open as in a dream to reveal only a further stretch of carpet and another door; perhaps you and I are types and this sadness which sometimes falls between us springs from disappointment in our search, each straining through and beyond the other, snatching a glimpse now and then of the shadow which turns the corner always a pace or two ahead of us.”     

“If he is saying what I think he is,” mused Philip after I had read the above quote twice, “then he just said it better than C. S. Lewis.”

 * a footnote–because of some of the subject matter, Brideshead is a book I would recommend for people who already have established convictions, not for those whose convictions are in the formative stages.