plums are messy and so perhaps this is better done without an audience and not in a silent room. I hadn't fully realized until that moment that I had never seen any of the rest of them biting into any sort of fruit. They slice and eat them with the utmost civility. Nor had I realized that eating a plum might be a sensuous thing. But there I was, in the silence, with the messy, suddenly sexy fruit. I am sure I broke the Benedictine code. I will have to look this up.
So Father Timothy, the gardener, sits next to me and takes care of me during meals. I believe this is his assignment. Sometimes he adds more to my plate just when he
sees
I've finished something if it seems to be something I really like. Mostly he just offers me anything on the table I could want whenever something starts to look low. He has the kindest face, and by looking at him, I would have to say, the most active mind. I would love to know what he's thinking about or have a theological discussion with him. Tonight at dinner (which was only bread and cheese and peanut butter because Wednesday is fast day), he kept peering over. I offered him the fruit bowl, which he didn't want, but he kept craning, staring intently at something, until finally, withthe quietest voice and the best British accent, he leaned over and said, “More tea?” I believe those are the only two words he's said to me, though I feel like I know him.
Then there is Andrew, the biggest mystery. He does not wear shoes at all. He walks with a cane and wears thick glasses, the kind that sort of distort the eyes when you're looking at them. His thin hair, which has receded, is shaved. He has a wicked wit and one of the nicest voices I've ever heard, deep and comforting. Sunday, when I first arrived, he spoke at mass on patience and trust.
That night over dinner—one of the only meals where speaking was allowed—I told him, “You were speaking to me.”
He said, “I was speaking to myself. I always preach to myself.” As though none of us are alone in the things we struggle with. I think he said he's been here twenty years.
Has he never worn shoes in all that time? And how do he and Nicholas and Anselm, who seem so different, get along? They read the psalm the other night about brothers living together in unity, and I hope they do.
And tonight was the greatest gift. Susan remembered the other day, as we were walking around Chawton, that her neighbor is a distant relative of Jane's—or rather a distant relative of Edward Austen Knight since Jane had no children. So after dinner I grabbed my notebook and recorder, and Susan picked me up to spend an evening with her neighbor and his wife. It seemed like it could be such an intrusion—the American tourist, showing up with all of her questions—but they were so gracious.
On September 16, 1813, Jane wrote to her sister, Cassandra, from London about going with Edward to the Wedgwood store in London,where he picked out his china. 15 It was designed especially for him, a geometric pattern of purple and gold around the edge, with an image of the gray friar, which was the family's crest. They have some at the Jane Austen House, of course, with signs saying DO NOT TOUCH. Sam and his wife have some on a shelf on their wall, and as I was staring in awe, he said, “Here, go ahead,” and handed me a small tureen.
Sam is one of the kindest, most down-to-earth people I've ever met. He enjoys his legacy, I guess, but doesn't make a big deal of it and doesn't really want it made a big deal of. He kept asking to make sure I wouldn't write about the things he was saying (a promise I have already broken), so I put my recorder and notebook away and just listened. I hope he will forgive me. He said he doesn't really know anything about Austen.
He showed me some framed maps on vellum of the Chawton lands (lands of Thomas Knight Esq., father of the Thomas Knight who adopted Edward) dated 1741, with some fields labeled “Jane's fields.” He said the folks
So Father Timothy, the gardener, sits next to me and takes care of me during meals. I believe this is his assignment. Sometimes he adds more to my plate just when he
sees
I've finished something if it seems to be something I really like. Mostly he just offers me anything on the table I could want whenever something starts to look low. He has the kindest face, and by looking at him, I would have to say, the most active mind. I would love to know what he's thinking about or have a theological discussion with him. Tonight at dinner (which was only bread and cheese and peanut butter because Wednesday is fast day), he kept peering over. I offered him the fruit bowl, which he didn't want, but he kept craning, staring intently at something, until finally, withthe quietest voice and the best British accent, he leaned over and said, “More tea?” I believe those are the only two words he's said to me, though I feel like I know him.
Then there is Andrew, the biggest mystery. He does not wear shoes at all. He walks with a cane and wears thick glasses, the kind that sort of distort the eyes when you're looking at them. His thin hair, which has receded, is shaved. He has a wicked wit and one of the nicest voices I've ever heard, deep and comforting. Sunday, when I first arrived, he spoke at mass on patience and trust.
That night over dinner—one of the only meals where speaking was allowed—I told him, “You were speaking to me.”
He said, “I was speaking to myself. I always preach to myself.” As though none of us are alone in the things we struggle with. I think he said he's been here twenty years.
Has he never worn shoes in all that time? And how do he and Nicholas and Anselm, who seem so different, get along? They read the psalm the other night about brothers living together in unity, and I hope they do.
And tonight was the greatest gift. Susan remembered the other day, as we were walking around Chawton, that her neighbor is a distant relative of Jane's—or rather a distant relative of Edward Austen Knight since Jane had no children. So after dinner I grabbed my notebook and recorder, and Susan picked me up to spend an evening with her neighbor and his wife. It seemed like it could be such an intrusion—the American tourist, showing up with all of her questions—but they were so gracious.
On September 16, 1813, Jane wrote to her sister, Cassandra, from London about going with Edward to the Wedgwood store in London,where he picked out his china. 15 It was designed especially for him, a geometric pattern of purple and gold around the edge, with an image of the gray friar, which was the family's crest. They have some at the Jane Austen House, of course, with signs saying DO NOT TOUCH. Sam and his wife have some on a shelf on their wall, and as I was staring in awe, he said, “Here, go ahead,” and handed me a small tureen.
Sam is one of the kindest, most down-to-earth people I've ever met. He enjoys his legacy, I guess, but doesn't make a big deal of it and doesn't really want it made a big deal of. He kept asking to make sure I wouldn't write about the things he was saying (a promise I have already broken), so I put my recorder and notebook away and just listened. I hope he will forgive me. He said he doesn't really know anything about Austen.
He showed me some framed maps on vellum of the Chawton lands (lands of Thomas Knight Esq., father of the Thomas Knight who adopted Edward) dated 1741, with some fields labeled “Jane's fields.” He said the folks
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