House of Jane Part III: Meeting Mr. Knight(ly)

Meeting Mr. Knight

The House of Jane

Part Three

            Jane didn’t call it, “Chawton Great House” for nothing. It is great.

            I stood at the end of the long path that lead to Chawton House. It seemed so distant, and yet so close. I snapped a photo, and then walked up that long runway of tan-coloured earth. Once I arrived at the front door I paused and made note of the Knight family crest. It’s etched in stone, with the motto, “In the steps of St. Peter,” inscribed across a banner at its base. It felt odd to enter without knocking first, but I stepped inside anyway.

            I arrived at the ticket office, only to discover that the last tour had concluded five minutes ago. A lady who worked there asked, “Would you still like to look around the house?”

            “Yes,” I said.

            “I’ll show him round.” Said the man to my left.

            “Are you sure?” The Lady asked

.

            “Yes,” the man replied. “I’ll take him through while I lock up.”

            He was tall, gray-haired, and wore glasses. On his red tour guide vest was the name tag, “Jeremy.”

            I did a double take. I couldn’t believe it. The several times great-grandson of Edward Austen Knight had just offered to give me a tour of the house! Not only that, but it was a private tour. Well, it was private because I got there late, but still.

            I asked him, “Are you Jeremy Knight?”

            “Yes,” he said.

            “It’s an honor to meet you, sir!”

            I shook his hand.

            “I’ve heard so much about the house from your daughter’s blog online.”

            I was still able to purchase a ticket, and Mr. Knight added, “If you don’t mind I’ll show you round as I lock up. I don’t want to rush you.”

            “I don’t mind at all, sir.” I said.

            I couldn’t believe it. I felt a bit embarrassed that I was late. But at the same time I got to have a private tour of the house with Jeremy Knight; Jane’s great-great-great, etc., nephew! The man who knew this place like, well, the back of his hand, was in the house.

            The first room he showed me was the Great Hall. This had once been the Knight family den and was now decorated as a dining room (it’s original purpose). The wood-paneled walls were of Tudor era oak; dark like chocolate, and frozen in time. A large fireplace interrupted the panels, it boasted ornate carving, and a fire grate with Tudor roses emblazoned on it. On one wall hung a floor to ceiling portrait of Edward Austen Knight. Next to it was the case that held his suit; the same one he wore when presented for adoption to the Knight family.

            The first thing Mr. Knight did was direct me to a panel near the fireplace.

He pointed to some scratches on that panel, and then said, “You see these marks. Those are witches’ marks. We made them to keep the witches out. It don’t work, but we made them anyway.”

He smiled with a bit of mischief and we both had a laugh. He then began to talk about the panels, and their great age. They are original and have been there since the beginning. He also told me about the fireplace.

“You see those roses. When you see that particular rose, it’s a symbol of Queen Elizabeth I.”

I then remarked, “I saw that same rose on a portrait of her in the National Gallery. It’s on the Pelican Portrait.”

“Yes,” Mr. Knight said. “That rose is there because a member of the Knight family had sent money to the Queen to fight the Spanish armada. She used it to help fund the navy.”

I was impressed. I had no idea. As I was to learn during the course of our conversation, and his stories, the Knight family had woven a hidden thread throughout British history. Edward’s suit is another one of those threads.

We walked over to the case, and he said, “This is Edward’s suit. He would have first worn it when he was about fourteen. I first wore it when I was four.”

I looked at him, and then said, “Really?”

“Yeah,” Mr. Knight shrugged with a grin. “It was in our play chest as children. We didn’t know back then.”

I then said, “Well, it was in the family. It’s like wearing great-granddad’s old jacket.”

It’s a beautiful suit that has withstood both time and childhood play. It’s over two-hundred years old and shows only minimal wear. Truth be told, I could picture myself in that jacket. I’m not sure about the breeches, they looked a bit tight.

We then looked at the portrait next to it. Mr. Knight remarked on Edward’s height, and suggested he may not have been as tall as depicted. I looked at Mr. Knight, and then at Edward’s portrait. Then I looked back at Mr. Knight. It was like looking at a set of twins. I had much the same reaction when comparing images of his daughter and their famous aunt. For that matter, the actress Anna Chancellor (also a great-niece of Jane Austen) similarly bears a striking resemblance to their mutual ancestor.

“He looks very much the country squire.” I said.

“He does,” Mr. Knight said. “I like that portrait.”

He then told me that with the deaths of Thomas and Catherine Knight there were, “No more Knights.”

I asked him, “Does that mean that technically your surname is Austen, or Austen-Knight?”

He said, “Yes, I could have had ‘Jeremy Austen-Knight’ on my name tag. But I chose just ‘Knight.’’

            Mr. (Austen) Knight then began to tell the story of Edward, and how he was presented to the Knight family, and why.

            The Austen’s had a full complement of eight children in a small country rectory. George, who we know the least about, was raised by another family (presumably because he may have had special needs. We’re not entirely sure what those were). Edward was raised with the family, but at the age of fourteen he was presented for adoption to the Knight family. They were wealthy relatives of Reverend Austen, and owed property in both Kent (Godmersham Park) and Chawton.

Thomas and Catherine Knight left no heirs. So, by adopting Edward they were able to continue the family name and leave the estate to close relatives. This was to change not only the lives of the Austen family, but to have a ripple effect on the rest of the world. It was because of this adoption that Edward inherited the estate at Chawton upon Thomas Knight’s death. He was eventually given Godmersham when Catherine retired to an estate in Canterbury. It was because of this inheritance that Jane was able to live in the cottage at Chawton and have access to the library at the Great House. It was because of this act of care for his sisters, his mother, and their family friend Martha Lloyd that Jane was able to have a place to write. Without this event Jane’s novels might never have been written or revised. Or, they may have been very different. One simple act helped foster the creativity that lead to legions of Janeites the world over.

The stories didn’t end there.

Edward was a great choice to inherit the estate. He was a successful businessman, and kept the properties at Chawton and Godmersham running, and profitable. It was a lot of responsibility for a such a young man, but he rose to the occasion.

The subject of the old rectory in Steventon was mentioned as well. It was because of Thomas Knight that Reverend Austen was given the living in Steventon. Eventually, William Knight (one of Edward’s sons) became a clergyman and moved into the rectory. It was Jane’s childhood home and is sadly lost. The rectory was badly damaged by flooding, and so it was demolished in 1823 by Edward.

I had asked at this point a common question that’s popped up in Janeite circles.

“Did any of Reverend Austen’s sermon’s survive?”

Mr. Knight had to think of this for a moment, and then replied, “You know…I don’t know. That’s a good question. I’ll have to ask.”

The subject of old houses and hidden treasures in walls and under floorboards came up, but this is doubtful. Mr. Knight believes that Rev. Austen’s sermons were probably disposed of when the rectory was demolished. Still, he mused that it would be a fine thing if they still existed.

I was then lead up stairs to a display of Gothic fiction. First editions of Frankenstein and works by the Bronte sisters were on display. This was part of a exhibition titled, To Freeze the Blood, which was on display until the latter half of 2018. In one of those cases were family mementos of the Charlotte Bronte, including a lock of her hair. She was brunette, in case you were wondering. The Bronte’s were not fans of Jane, in fact they were highly critical, but the verbal belligerents aren’t here to duke it out, so Chawton can haz hair…on loan, of course.

It was then that Mr. Knight remarked, “You know, we don’t know exactly what Jane looked like. There’s that portrait you saw in London, painted by Cassandra. The family said it didn’t look anything like her. Then her niece, Fanny, said that Victorian version almost looks like her.”

I commented that, “I think we do know what she looked like. The Cassandra portrait isn’t entirely lifelike, but it’s sort of a medieval rendering of her image. The Victorian version is very idealized; fleshed out, so to speak.”

I also think that when the Austen’s said to dear Cass, “That portrait looks nothing like Jane,” they were probably messing with her. It’s the trademark Austen sarcasm. Which was our next topic of discussion.

“I don’t think Jane would have been super nice or too sweet.” Mr. Knight remarked. “She would have been really sarcastic. I’m sure you read her letters?”

I had indeed. The comment about Cassandra’s mulberry bushes, “I dare say, they are not dead, yet they are not alive,” came to mind. As did, “I do wish people weren’t so agreeable. It saves me the trouble of having to like them a great deal.”

I then said, “She would have been snarky, as we say.”

“What was that?” Mr. Knight asked for the definition.

“It means sarcastic and naughty.” I said. “I think she would have liked that.”

I’ve also heard it means “sarcastic and nasty,” but the matter was glossed over. Snark is a finely-honed skill. I can only hope to aspire to the heights the Queen of Snark has set above us.

Mr. Knight and I took a sojourn to the large wooden screen at the top of the stairs. It’s a large map of London. According to varies cabbies who have visited, it’s extremely accurate. We talked about Tyburn, and the famous criminals executed there. I then picked out Trafalgar Square on the map and remarked that I’d just been there yesterday. I then found Chelsea, where I was staying at the time.

 All the while, Mr. Knight continually said, “I don’t mean to rush you. Take your time.”

I felt apologetic for keeping him at the house. He was a more than gracious host to show a hapless American about.

We talked history; that of England and the early Americas. Mr. Knight then told me about Sir Richard, and the time Cromwell and his men invaded the house!

When Sir Richard was a very young child Cromwell swept through Hampshire. His men took whatever they wanted, and then moved on to fight. The Lord Protector and his army arrived at Chawton House and found that the man of the house was deceased. His heir (the future Sir Richard) was only a child. So, Cromwell figured Mrs. Knight and her son couldn’t harm him, but he chose not to harm them either. Instead, he took their food! He raided the larder, and then took off. Reminds me of that analogy of breaking into someone’s home, ransacking their fridge, and then complaining about the food.

For more about Sir Richard see the previous blog entry House of Jane II.

It was then that I mentioned I’d visited him tomb. Mr. Knight then informed me that the church as you see it now is largely rebuilt. The chancel where Sir Richard is entombed is about the only “old” bit still left. The sanctuary was badly damaged by a fire in the late 19^th century. So much so that the Norman-style structure you see now is a Victorian rebuilding. He then showed me a painting of the property that showed what the church would have looked like in Jane’s time. It’s recognizable, but the architecture is very different. Mr. Knight had then said that the flames of that fire were so intense that some of the marble memorials exploded. Chunks of it were kept in storage.

As Mr. Knight said, “I like to say it’s full of dead Knights.”

It is, but it’s also very lovely. It’s still an active church as well, with a lively congregation.  

Finally, my tour was coming to an end. But before departing, Mr. Knight showed me two very special rooms. The first was a research room filled with books. He said to me, “You know who Deirdre LeFaye is, right?”

I nodded.

“These are her source books. She gave them to use, and we couldn’t say ‘no.’”

They were all cataloged, and had various notecards sticking from them. It was astounding to see them.

I was then led to one final room…the library. Books older than my home state surrounded me. Books that were there in Jane’s time, and in previous generations, stood at attention. I breathed in the air, and with it the scent of bounded leather and ancient paper. 

  

Finally, after a quick perusal of the gift shop, I said my farewells…well, not quite.

Mr. Knight then said, “How did you get here?”

I replied, “I took the train from London. Then I took a cab from the station.”

He then said, “I’ll take you back to the station.”

I was floored. Jane Austen’s nephew was giving me a ride back to the station! I couldn’t believe it. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Was it a curricle or a gig? A landau perhaps? No, it was a jeep. As we walked to it, Mr. Knight pointed to the passenger side. I then realized I almost entered the car on the wrong side. Outside of cabs this was my first time in a British auto. I can be forgiven for the momentary lapse of steering wheel etiquette.

As we drove to the station we talked about Hampshire, and the country.

Mr. Knight asked me, “Do you like it over here?”

I said, “Yes, I do. I come back once a year.”

He smiled and then said, “I can tell.”

He then pointed to a nearby house, and said, “There’s a cat on the roof. It’s supposed to scare off the birds.”

I thought he was having me on, then I saw it. It was a resin cast cat statue fixed to the roof of a house. Tiger-striped orange tabby, too.

We arrived at the station, and I shook his hand one last time. A late start, and London traffic, lead to a happy accident. I couldn’t believe that I’d visited Jane’s house and got a ride to the station from one of her family members.

Clearly someone was watching out for me.

On her birthday, I always set a place for her.  

Copyright text and photos Riley Joyce 2018.