There are plenty of reasons to like Jane Austen. She and her works are witty and sharp, mature and insightful. She revealed peoples foibles to remind us of how we ought to love each other in our humanity. Her lack of pretension and wealth of vitality make us glad that we can be friends with her, even if it is only through her novels. However, regardless of how many times we read her writing or research her, she remains a delightful mystery.
It was due to these qualities and long lasting "friendship" that I was more than glad to stop by the Jane Austen house in Bath, England. Unfortunately, the house was just full of silly knick knacks and overpriced books. Bored, we decided to find amusement elsewhere. Our greatest diversion ended up sprouting from the least likely of sources: the door man.
Rotund in his waistcoat and breeches, he was the most mild mannered of gentlemen as he held the door open for us and welcomed us with a notable self-effacing Colin Firth-ness. However, as we left the premises he chucked the Colin Firth/Mr Darcy act like yesterday's fish and chips and transformed into something more Monty Python-esque. His antics started with subtlety and quickly went south, jumping around and being downright silly. I tried to picture him in one of Jane's carefully wrought novels but could not seem to place him. At all. He was like an Anglosaxon mime with the most ingenius facial expressions. Before we knew it we were all in stitches and were rolling down the boulevard like Elizabeth Bennett's little sisters on the loose. Jane, who knows what you would have made of this man but we found him to be quite enjoyable. Quite enjoyable indeed.
