Lately I’ve been watching a lot of period romance movies. Mostly Jane Austen, because as everyone knows, she does the old-fashioned love story better than anyone else, but occasionally I tolerate a bit of Brontë (Jane Eyre) or historical romance (The Young Victoria, which I highly recommend, or Lady Jane, which I don’t).
I’m a complete sucker for these sorts of things. There is rarely much surprise, and even if I hadn’t read the corresponding book several times, it would be obvious from scene one who the heroine will be marrying at the end. But still I watch, being the hopeless romantic that I am. I also married a hopeless romantic, which is ridiculously convenient, as he’s willing to sit through the sap-fests with me and actually seems to enjoy it most of the time (as long as a decent interval is allowed between viewings).
I’ve actually watched two such films in the past two days, which is excessive even for me. The stories are as enthralling and sigh-inducing as ever, but there’s a new element of the drama has caught my eye: the absolutely gorgeous settings in which these stories take place. I’m not talking about the English countryside, which I adore and hope to see in person someday, but the cottages, the mansions, the palatial estates which the characters inhabit. Most of them are breathtakingly beautiful, and they bring up in me a sense of yearning.
My mother loves old houses. When I was eight, she talked my father into buying one, and since then they have spent a great deal of time tweaking it to make it exactly the kind of home my mother had always wanted. It was a beautiful house when they bought it, and it’s even more so now, and my mother is the picture of domestic happiness (that is to say, she is exceedingly pleased with her house and will likely live there for the rest of her life). My father is happy because his wife is, but I think the old house has been more work than he anticipated. “Old” doesn’t always mean “broken-down,” but it often means “without modern conveniences” and “needing some repairs due to many years without proper care.” I am fully aware, even as I drool over the beautiful old houses of the Jane Austen movies, that old houses are usually lots of work to maintain.
All this is to say that I, like my mother, have fallen in love with lovely old buildings. It’s true that I’m setting my sights a bit high as I admire Longbourn and Pemberley, but I dream of having an old house one day. My longings grow particularly strong as I brave the days in the small apartment where my husband and I live currently, a tiny two or three room (depending on whether you count the bathroom) place with very little scope for imagination and no character whatsoever, as it is identical to every other apartment in the building.
I really oughtn’t to complain. It’s fairly luxurious as apartments go, and I’ve been able to furnish and decorate it according to my tastes. It’s actually kind of cozy. Still, I continue to dream of rooms with tall windows and sweeping curtains, atriums with chandeliers and dramatic staircases, and a house that is all mine to paint and furnish and embellish as I choose. And really, isn’t dreaming half the fun?
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