Someone described flying an airplane as hours of boredom interrupted by moments of terror.  Downton Abbey shares this pattern.  We drift along, consuming tea by the gallon, planning a party here, collecting rent there, just floating downstream.  Then something horrific happens.  A visiting Turk dies in a room not his own.  Lady Cora miscarries when she slips on a bar of (wait for it) soap.  Matthew is killed on the happiest day of his life.  Anna is raped while Kiri te Kanawa sings O mio babbino caro.

Nothing like that kind of excitement was on offer in tonight’s episode.  We are in a lull.  Until the next horrific event occurs, we are stuck with a plot as bland as the Sauce Béchamel that Alfred was learning to enrich[1].  Let us count the ways.

Starting for once above stairs, we see that Aunt Rosalind’s warning to Edith is beginning to take form.  Edith is undergoing the 1920s upper class version of “Why doesn’t he call?” and Edith’s visit to a doctor, undisclosed to the rest of the family, suggests that Aunt Roz knows whereof she speaks.  Let us hope that Mr. Gregson is the decent chap he has presented himself to be, and let’s hope that his lawyers have correctly understood German divorce law.

We have been visiting the Crawley family for ten years (ten Downton years) and have not yet had any indication that Robert’s birthday is anything special to him or anyone else.  But now it turns out that there is always a special dinner to mark the occasion.  Clearly, Lady Cora would love to do more but a special dinner seems to mark the outer limit of celebration for this bunch.  However, Rose has an idea that we have not yet heard, and I will not be surprised if another trip to that night club is ahead of us.  However, so quiet was this episode that I don’t believe either the word “night” or “club” was uttered once, either together or separately, during the entire hour.

Lady Mary had to absorb the news that Lord Gillingham is now engaged to his heiress, but she took it well.  Her upper lip may have quivered for an instant, but it remained stiff.  No sooner had we got past that event, which she and we should have expected after last week’s kiss-and-farewell sequence, than Mr. Napier reappears.  I recognized him from a couple of seasons ago, but don’t really remember much about him.  At this point, he seems to have a responsible job with the government and will play a role in the financial part of the story, but is he likely to be Mary’s next romantic interest?  Surely he should be expected to bring some ready money to the table beyond his paycheck from HMG?

Robert has bungled so many things over the past couple of years, and has adopted such inflexible attitudes on so many important matters, that we can forget that his most fundamental characteristic is decency.  He does the right thing by helping his tenant, lending him the money to make up his arrears in rent.  The Abbey is an institution that has a moral connection to its tenants, its employees, and its vendors as well as a financial relationship with all of them.  Robert has made any number of mistakes in his management of the Abbey’s finances, but he has kept in sight the wider responsibilities he bears as the Abbey’s current owner.  Of course, he won’t be able to meet those responsibilities without substantial funds.  But he also knows that meeting the Abbey’s financial obligations is only a start.  Robert jokes that he is aligning himself with Tom’s socialism, but he wouldn’t extend himself for an abstraction, a social class.  He is willing to reopen the lease and to make a loan to this particular tenant[2], with his particular family and history, and with his claim as a long-term partner in the life of the Abbey.  Robert can be, usually is, irritating but this was a fine moment for him, I thought.

And Lady Cora has tasted orange juice for the first time in some thirty years!  None of her previous maids ever did any research on American dietary habits and it appears that it never occurred to her to ask for a daily glass of OJ.  However, the efficient Baxter[3] has studied the American diet thoroughly and brings Lady Cora the first taste of Florida sunshine she has enjoyed since moving to Britain.  This is only a small sample of Baxter’s efforts to ingratiate herself with everyone she meets, both above and below stairs.  She touches Lady Cora’s heart by speaking reverently of Sibyl (may she rest in peace).  She introduces the staff to the electric sewing machine.  Daisy, who loves electric appliances, gets to try it, and Mrs. Patmore gets the benefit of it when her apron develops a small tear just moments before her ladyship is due for her semi-annual visit to the kitchen.  We find out later that Baxter’s kindness is in the service of Thomas, or rather Barrow, but this time Barrow seems to want to use Baxter’s friendly manner as a means to obtain intelligence rather than as part of a campaign to undermine another member of the staff, his usual purpose.  So that’s all right.  It’s nice to have a friendly lady’s maid for once.  They’re all up to something, but this one seems to have a benevolent streak lacking in her predecessors.

Staying below stairs, we note that Alfred is making a serious effort to move into the world of fine food.  In his effort to better himself he is following in the Season One tradition of Gwen, the maid who learned to type and became a secretary.  Even Mr. Carson condescends to encourage Alfred, both before his examination and after the disappointing result.  Alfred may be down but like so many others in Downton Abbey he is not out, and I expect that he will eventually be accepted at the Ritz.  He is, as Mr. Carson notes, a hard worker and he seems to have a genuine talent for food.  It was unrealistic to expect that he could enter the kitchen of M. Escoffier without working at least for a while as a food professional.  Perhaps he will now have the opportunity to spend more time under the wing of Mrs. Patmore en route to a better life in London.

Alfred’s upward trajectory is momentarily halted, but poor Mr. Moseley’s downward path is getting steeper.  Mr. Carson offers Moseley a job as a footman and is offended when Mr. Moseley decides to think it over.  Moseley’s reluctance to accept a permanent reduction in status is understandable to everyone except Mr. Carson, who sadistically informs Moseley that the offer has been withdrawn while he thought it over.  This was not one of Mr. Carson’s finer moments.

Ivy is developing something like admiration for Alfred.  The idea that a footman would try to make something of himself, other than a butler, seems to have caught her fancy for at least a brief moment.  At the same time, Jimmy is becoming more and more insufferable with each episode, trying to undermine Alfred’s confidence when he is not actively up to no good with Ivy.  And don’t let him anywhere near the jams.  On the whole, these two characters seem destined to remain minor.

Well, I can’t put it off any longer.  We must take a look at the relationship between Anna and Mr. Bates.  Is it possible that “Mister” is his first name?  It was encouraging that they are now on the road to re-establishing their marriage, but the way they got there fills me with concern.  First of all, Bates got to the bottom of the first part of the mystery by overhearing a distraught Anna talking things over with the reliable Mrs. Hughes, who has confirmed out loud that it is not for Mrs. Hughes to reveal Anna’s secret.  Those events were not necessarily worrisome, but the music that accompanied Mr. Bates’s discovery was decidedly ominous.  Mr. Fellowes does not make a lot of use of music, but in this instance a dark leitmotif of kettle drums, bells, and dissonant piano chords told us that evil times lie ahead.

Last week I thought Mrs. Hughes had proved herself to be worthy of a master poker player but it turns out that Mr. Bates is even stronger.  When she refused to tell what she knew, he threatened to leave the Abbey and had his hand on the doorknob when Mrs. Hughes stopped him.  Of course, it helps if you’re not actually bluffing.  Mrs. Hughes told the tale without identifying the rapist, indeed insisted that the rapist was unknown and, when she was questioned, she insisted that he was definitely, positively not Mr. Green.  She’s a quick one on her feet is Mrs. Hughes and did the best she could under the circumstances, even though she had to swear falsely on her mother’s grave to pull it off.

So, now Mr. Bates knows about the rape and of course holds Anna blameless.  She is reassured and the two of them begin the difficult process of reuniting, but Anna knows that she has to keep Mr. Green’s identity a secret.  That will always be between them.  When Bates told Anna that if it was Mr. Green, “he is a dead man”, that same ominous music played again.  What do you think the odds are that Mr. Green is alive at the end of Season Four?  Without the music, I would have thought Mr. Green had as good a chance as any other minor character.  Those dissonant chords suggest a much shorter lifespan.

Is that to be the next storm to break over the present lull?  Will Mr. Green be found dead, and will Mr. Bates be accused of his murder?  I hope we don’t have to go through that business again.

As always, I don’t wish anyone ill.  I hope that all of our principal characters are alive and kicking at the end of each episode.  But something is going to have to break, some big event is going to have to happen.  I can only watch people drinking tea, sewing clothes, and polishing shoes for so long.  Please, nothing violent, nothing criminal, but . . . something!

Until next time.

Last time, I expressed the fear that after the crime against Anna Downton Abbey would lose its way and would become a story of crime and punishment with tony accents.  I did not budget for Mr. Fellowes’s stratagem of diverting our attention by opening the Abbey’s gates to a Dionysian riot.  It is late winter 1922 in our story, but to the folks at Downton, June is busting out all over.

I thought I was paying attention last week, but judging from the conversation between Tom Branson and the lovely Edna, there were some things that I missed.  I still cannot figure out where or when they managed it, but manage it they did.  Edna’s intentions are fully honorable by her lights.  She intends to marry Tom and make something of him.  Fortunately, Tom is not insane when sober and immediately realizes that whatever the eventual solution to his problem may be, making Edna the second Mrs. Branson is not on the board.  If only he could find someone to talk to, to advise him . . . .

Walk into any room in Downton Abbey and you are likely to find couples pitching woo, or planning to, or talking about it.  Just ask Alfred.  Daisy knew that Jimmy and Ivy were having a moment in a quiet store room.  When Alfred asked where Ivy was, Daisy sent him to the store room where he finally got the message that he was not going to win Ivy’s heart.  Now he’ll pursue a career in fine food, and Daisy has had another encounter with the law of unintended consequences.  To finish off the sequence, Mrs. Patmore was able to dispense some solid advice about matters of the heart, from the store of wisdom she has acquired by spending thirty years producing roasts and pies.

Leaving our friends below stairs for a moment, we find that the good people above stairs are equally engaged in clinching.  Rose is going through admirers at the rate of two per episode.  We bustle Mary, Tom, and Rose off to London on a rather skimpy excuse (the tax people had a cancellation) so that Mary and Lord Gillingham can be reunited at Aunt Rosalind’s house.  This gives Rose another evening with the upper class admirer she met in the last episode (didn’t catch his name) as our party of six makes its way to what must seem to them an outpost of the avant garde, complete with American jazz.  Rose’s beau cannot carry as much champagne as he consumed and when he has to rush off to call Ralph on the big white phone, two interesting things happen in rapid sequence.  First, the jazz singer makes the smoothest move ever seen on network TV.  Rose’s beau has not taken two steps toward the Gents when the singer is off the stage and dancing with Rose, who doesn’t miss a beat.  Second, the others in the party simply abandon the fellow in the Gents and instantly close ranks to get Rose off the dance floor and out of the club.

I speculated last week that Rose might for once cross the class boundary, and judging from the way she made eyes with the jazz singer as she was being led away, I think she plans to do this in a big way, crossing lines not only of class but of occupation (if world-famous Nellie Melba is meant to take her meals in her room, where do you suppose a jazz singer ranks?) and race as well.  For myself, I am tired of Rose just talking a good game.  It’s time for some action.

The Mary-Gillingham story confused me.  He proposes to her and tells her to take her time to answer.  He’s not really engaged to the heiress and he will end the relationship.  Next thing we know, he is back at Downton telling Mary that he has to have an answer now.  He can’t be unfair to the heiress (of course that’s it), so if Mary’s answer is going to be No, let’s hear it now, have a passionate kiss , and be on our separate ways.  Cue the violins.  Of course, Mary says No.  She has barely come back to the living.  How can she possibly launch herself into a new lifetime commitment at this point?  Having said No, she immediately shows signs of doubt and as the episode ends, she tells Tom that she will probably regret her decision (without telling him what it was) for the rest of her life.  Could it be that Lord Gillingham may still have a role to play in this story?

And we are not done with scenes of raw passion!  For the first time in her life, Edith has to sneak into a house after a night out on the town (you know what I mean).  A rank beginner at this kind of thing, she is instantly discovered by her aunt’s maid who rats her out without batting an eye.  My impression had been that Aunt Rosalind was a freer spirit than the rest of the family, but her behavior at the night club and her reaction to Edith’s night out suggest that she has become (as P.G. Wodehouse said) the Aunt, the whole Aunt, and nothing but the Aunt.  The conscience of Queen Victoria rules from the grave in the person of Aunt Rosalind.  To Edith’s credit, I don’t think she was deterred by anything Aunt Rosalind had to say.  One does hope that the aunt will be proven wrong and that Edith will not live to regret this lapse from an otherwise unblotted copybook.  If Edith should prove to be with child, I have no doubt Mr. Gregson will do the right thing (once his German divorce goes through), but I fear that all the credit with Lord Grantham that he earned at the poker table will be used up.

And speaking of poker, should Lord Grantham need another champion to make up his losses (while Mr. Gregson is absent in Germany), I would recommend Mrs. Hughes for the job.  We learned that in addition to her many fine qualities she has the soul and the nerve of a riverboat gambler.  Tom was so wise to turn to her for advice.  She called Edna in, immediately went all in by reconstructing Edna’s plan to her face, and coldly called Edna’s bluff when Edna made an effort at denial.  The result is that Tom is off the hook (not that he was a complete by-stander in these events, let’s remember) and Edna is back on the road.  Have we seen the last of her, I wonder?  Say hi to your aunt for us, Edna.

The final passionate affair that draws our attention is one whose flames were banked many decades ago, but which still generates heat.  I refer of course to Mr. Carson’s long-ago dalliance with the fair Alice.  Here again, Mrs. Hughes plays a constructive role, having purchased a beautiful frame for Alice’s photograph so that Mr. Carson may place it on his desk instead of in a drawer and so that the rest of the staff will every now and again think of Mr. Carson as human.  Mr. Carson philosophically notes that all we have in the end are memories, although Mr. Carson seems to have taken a shortcut by not first having the experiences to generate the memories.  He’s happy with the photo, a bit like Eeyore with his burst balloon, but let us leave him in peace until the next episode.  The poor man has been through enough.

However, all this frivolity and passion cannot hide for long the real agony that Anna is going through.  I imagine that the default attitude at the time would have been that the victim of a sexual assault bore considerable blame, and it is heartbreaking to see that Anna has completely internalized this irrational idea.  Here the benevolence and good sense of Mrs. Hughes are of no help.  She suggests that Anna “take a break” from dwelling on the assault, which is clearly not possible.  She offers the possibility of going to the police, but Anna rejects that idea.  (And she might feel much worse about the situation than she does already if the police were to doubt her, which might have been the expected reaction at the time.)  And to make matters worse, Anna is withdrawing from Mr. Bates to the point of moving out of their cottage back to the Abbey.  Anna blames herself and feels she is no longer worthy of Mr. Bates.  Mr. Bates in turn assumes that the troubles in their relationship must be due to something he has done, because in his view Anna is completely without fault, indeed incapable of fault, of any kind.  She plans never to tell him the truth, so it is hard to see where this leads except to more heartbreak, confusion, and despair.  The only way this could become worse would be for Anna to be with child.

I have been critical of Mr. Fellowes in the past on a number of points, but I thought he did an admirable job of keeping the tale on an even keel after he injected the horrible events of last week into his story.  I do continue to think, however, that the challenges I mentioned last week continue to present risks to the story at large and I await with interest Mr. Fellowes’s response to those risks.

Thanks to a reader for pointing out that in previous posts I had referred to Robert Crawley as “Lord Crawley”.  His correct title is of course Lord Grantham.  I have corrected the error.  I have never really understood how British titles work.  In the 1980s, I traveled frequently to London on business.  At the time, a member of the royal family with the title Princess Michael of Kent was prominent in the news.  I asked an English acquaintance how it was possible for someone named Michael to be a princess.  I guess I failed to communicate the force of the paradox because the deadpan answer that came back was “Because she’s a woman.”  There is not enough time in life to unravel every mystery one encounters, and I decided to leave the mystery of the British system of titles alone.

On a final note, the song April Showers was published in the United States in 1921, so it would likely have made its first appearances in England at about the time of the story.  Part of the melody is remarkably similar to a tune in Vivaldi’s Four Seasons (in the middle movement of “Winter”) and I have wondered if this is a coincidence or a borrowing.  Another unsolved mystery.  Until next time.

A loyal reader asked me to supplement my comments on Season Four, Episode Two with some thoughts on the characters who were not within the orbit of the crime against Anna.  My anger at Mr. Fellowes for putting a favorite character, and his story, and his viewers through this unnecessary trial has not abated.  But, when a reader asks for more, I cannot avoid my responsibility.  A reader’s needs must take precedence over my reluctance to examine the non-criminal aspects of the episode.

First, let’s all take heart from the apparent interest of Lady Mary in the newly minted Lord Gillingham.  We learn from their conversation while on horseback (and incidentally, how do English ladies avoid just sliding off their horses?) that he is engaged to the “heiress of the year”.  Perhaps this information is given to us so that we will understand that his interest in Mary is genuine.  If he is willing to give up one of the richest young women in their social class (a big if – he hasn’t jumped yet), then this must be love.  Mary is well funded herself, of course, but her wealth does not seem to be spectacular, not “heiress of the year” material.  I am really trying not to bring The Crime into this, but one mark against Lord Gillingham has to be his choice of valet.  One assumes that this was not the valet’s first sexual assault, and you would think that the valet would have given an indication now and again that all was not well.  Perhaps that is asking too much of Lord G.  He probably views his valet as an appliance and gives no thought to the life of his servant when not engaged in his duties.  I expect that more will be revealed along these lines in the near future, once The Crime is more widely known.

We cannot entirely escape the subject of crime when we turn our attention to the Editor, Mr. Gregson, at least if cheating at a card game played for money is a crime.  In Mr. Gregson’s defense, we point out that his cheating was compensatory.  He was undoing the harm that Mr. Samson had done at the card table on the previous evening.  A further point in Mr. Gregson’s favor is that he is desperate for some way to earn the favor of his hoped-for future father-in-law, who has just discovered that playing poker for high stakes against a person he describes later as a “tyke” is yet a new way of squandering the remainder of his wife’s fortune.  (Dictionary.com says that “tyke” is used in Scotland to mean “a low, contemptible fellow”.  This usage makes sense when we remember Lord Grantham’s Scots connections.)

But here we have another example of Mr. Fellowes’s manipulation of the plot in ways that strain the audience’s credulity.  Mr. Gregson tells us after the game is over that his ability to walk away with all that money is the result of skills he learned during a misspent youth.  However he spent his youth, that period of his life is easily two decades behind him.  Is it likely that during, say, a quarter century of editing a newspaper and tending to an insane wife he retained sufficient card sharping skills to not only win every penny from a professional cheater, but to do so in a manner that went undetected at any point in the evening by the professional himself?  May I answer my own question: Not bloody likely.

So, Mr. Gregson is now in Lord Grantham’s good graces, ostensibly because he has established his credentials as a gentleman by returning Lord Grantham’s markers, but really because he erased a gambling debt that Lord G could ill afford.  However he did it, Mr. Gregson is now at least part way into the family circle.  Remember the last time a newspaperman was in the story (a proprietor, not an editor) he was able to suppress some unfavorable news.  Perhaps Mr. Gregson will be able to improve his status in the family through a similar service.  I hesitate to predict.  We must wait and see.

Finally, I would like to take a brief look at the way the Old Guard, that is, Lord Grantham and Mr. Carson, planned to treat Nellie Melba.  Incidentally, there really was an opera singer of that name (stage name anyway) who was world famous and who would have been going strong at this time.  If you google her name, you’ll find an article from the Telegraph about her appearance in this episode, which states that she would never have put up with the insulting treatment intended for her by Mr. Carson or Lord Grantham.  She would have insisted on being treated as a guest and would never have consented to taking a tray in her room.  Indeed, she would likely have considered herself to be the true aristocrat in the company, which of course she was if we rightly concern ourselves with talent rather than titles.

I did enjoy the moment when Lord Grantham, who had previously approved the arrangements planned by Carson, was over-ruled by Lady Cora (her American meritocratic instincts still functioning after nearly three decades among the mother country’s aristocrats).  Lord Grantham turned to Carson to say “I blame you.”  Even Carson must go under the bus when Lord Grantham is in danger of being skinned alive by his spouse.  Carson no doubt thought he had already experimented with Bolshevism when he permitted the kitchen staff to attend the recital, something never before allowed under the roof of Downton Abbey.  Carson and Lord Grantham will stumble forward together as the 1920s unfold.

Well, I hope everyone feels up to date and in the picture.  I look forward to fresh developments.

A certain type of English novel has focused on the doings of the upper classes.  I have tried to recall every novel I have read that involves at least one scene in an upper crust country house or a grand house in London.  I have not read widely in this field, but I can list Dickens’s Bleak House, the six “Palliser” novels plus The Way We Live Now by Anthony Trollope, and Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh.[1]  In addition to the novels I have mentioned, you could add the old PBS series Upstairs, Downstairs.  It’s not a huge sample, but large enough to form some opinions.

One attraction of these stories is that they grant us a glimpse into a life we could not otherwise know, both because it is of an age much earlier than ours and because it is lived by people we could not possibly hope to know in that age or our own.  The Palliser novels are interesting to read as stories and as character studies, but they also can be read as social history.  Trollope’s characters are sufficiently dimensional that we can imagine them living a life, competing with their rivals, falling in love, making decisions and taking risks without knowing how things will turn out.  The same is certainly true of the work of Messrs. Dickens and Waugh.

In this type of story, a category to which Downton Abbey is an applicant for inclusion, as in other novels aiming at realism, there is a certain unspoken agreement between writer and reader or writer/director and viewer.  We willingly suspend disbelief and accept the local habitation and name that the author has given to airy nothing.  The writer in turn undertakes to provide a credible reproduction of life being lived by believable people who must deal with the complicated problems that the author sets for them.  We sit around the campfire (all right, the TV) in anticipation of an interesting story well told.

Over the course of the previous three seasons, Mr. Fellowes has had to ask the viewers to grant him advance after advance out of our limited store of credulity.  The two cousins were not scheduled to travel on the Titanic, but down with her they went.  The replacement cousin is just the right age to marry Lady Mary and has the looks, charm, and grace to fit the part.  An undressed Turk dies at just the wrong time, and in an even worse place, but the situation is put right – almost – with a bit of heavy lifting.  An evil, twisted, spurned wife is able to make her suicide look like murder, but her successor is so determined, yet at the same time so mild, so generous of heart, so pure of intention, that she sees justice done, almost singlehandedly.  A jilted fiancée gives up her future husband for his greater happiness, without any thought of her own desires, then dies in a manner most convenient.  Fortunes are lost, or are diverted from their preferred course, but wills have a way of turning up to get large sums of money to the recipients who will keep our story going.  Every reader can supply another dozen examples.

Through all of this, we have continued to watch in our millions because it has been fun to see these characters maneuver through the shoals of British upper class life (both above and below stairs) at the point (just before the First World War) of its maximum opulence to the beginning of its decline (where we are at the moment).  The unspoken deal between the writer/director and the viewer has been put under stress, but it has remained intact until now.

I submit that Mr. Fellowes has broken this covenant by subjecting the beloved character Anna to a barbaric sexual assault that has left her physically bruised, bloodied, and violated and emotionally devastated.

I have a weakness for police procedurals.  I was a big fan of Law & Order and Law & Order Criminal Intent.  I will watch reruns of The Closer and I like Major Crimes, a spinoff.  I like the Las Vegas version of CSI and I will occasionally check in with Criminal Minds.  When you turn on one of these shows, you know that the focus is going to be a grisly crime.  It is going to be solved.  We are going to spend some time on the personal issues of the investigators, some of them will be allowed to develop a relationship, or will have an episode where they are in greater focus than usual, but it never fails that the main focus is The Crime and The Solution.  You are never going to have an episode of CSI where the technicians plan a party, we watch various dishes being prepared outside the lab, there is a crisis hiring enough staff to serve the food and drinks, but ultimately everything turns out just fine (except that one major character feels he doesn’t fit in, and some of the techs are competing to see who will be in charge of serving the next meal).  The continuing characters keep the story moving but the crime and its solution are the focus.

This is not to say that crime cannot enter the world of the type of English upper crust story I am talking about.  There is a murder in Bleak House, a spectacular theft of jewels in one of the Palliser novels, fraud and at least the threat of physical violence in The Way We Live Now.  But when crime enters, it naturally takes over the story to the cost of all other elements.  Part of the charm of Downton Abbey up until now has been the complexity of the plot, the multi-layered intersections of characters and events within the confines of a single (grand) household.  I think the best we can hope for is that this complexity will be put on hold, and not lost permanently, as the story focuses on this horrific crime.

Apart from my anger at Mr. Fellowes for putting dear Anna through this life-altering agony, I don’t see how he continues to tell his tale without the vicious assault on Anna becoming the major focus of the story.  Word of the assault will spread gradually because Anna’s wounds, physical and emotional, are too obvious to hide and also because Mrs. Hughes does try to help any situation by bringing in reinforcements.  It appears that Mary and the rapist’s employer are going to develop a relationship, so that will throw Anna and Bates together with the criminal.  No doubt there will be endless permutations of these and related themes.

The act was, is, so horrendous that I don’t see how we can avoid having it become the center of the Downton Abbey tale from this point on until it is resolved with the capture of the criminal, or possibly his own end through violence.  But even then, won’t the breadth of the story be altered permanently?  This isn’t something that Bates and Anna will laugh about in later years, or that Mary and Lord Gillingham (??) will dismiss as “valets being valets”.  I fear that the story will be forced into a much narrower channel and will be less rich, less varied, and less interesting than it might have been.  Our energy is going to be focused on our sympathy for Anna and our desire to see that valet locked up.  That’s fine if we are watching CSI, but I fear that Downton Abbey is in serious jeopardy.

I hope that I am proven wrong (and there is no need to point out that this would not be the first time).  I await Sunday’s developments.

Isis the dog was back to walk us up to the Abbey’s front door.  And O’Brian is still gone.

January 9, 2014

What a delight to return to the manicured grounds of Downton Abbey!  For those of us who vaguely remember attending law school, this first episode of Season Four held special charms as one legal issue after another was unfolded, but perhaps we should come back to those gems later and focus on the developments that didn’t require the audience to blow dust off law books.

My first question is: What happened to Isis the dog?  We have grown accustomed to entering the life of the Abbey by walking behind Lord Grantham’s best friend (although many might have agreed with me that it would have been just as pleasant had the camera been held slightly higher off the ground).  The dog did not appear during the episode and I fear the worst.

And O’Brien is gone, too!  It was good to see that her departure did not work corruption of the blood of her nephew Alfred, who was under a cloud only for the briefest moment until the good nature and good sense of the staff put him in the clear.  It helped that he threw his aunt under the omnibus by referring to her as a “dark horse” but I’m sure that only speeded the process.  He would have been fine either way.

As long as we are reacquainting ourselves with our friends below stairs, I myself was glad to see the lovely Edna return, although I know that she is going to be nothing but trouble.  She acquired her new post as a lady’s maid under false pretenses (if she has an aunt at all, I doubt they are on speaking terms) and she quickly got in with the wrong crowd downstairs.  (Must we call him Barrow?  Just Thomas used to be good enough.)  Well, as long as she doesn’t try to seduce poor Tom (or Branson, if you prefer).

And speaking of Mr. Barrow (one almost chokes on the words), he is immediately up to his old scheming ways.  We have barely adjusted the volume on our TVs before he is scheming to get rid of Nanny West, but this time he strikes gold!  Nanny West is indeed guilty of the charge that Thomas invented.  Lady Cora herself catches Nanny West mistreating little Sibyl and referring to the child as a “half-breed” (and is this because her father is Irish or Catholic or of non-upper class origin?).  Write down the date, because this is the first time that Lady Cora has caught a staff member misbehaving or displaying bad faith of any kind, although she is surrounded by these events.  And of course the consequence for Mr. Barrow is that he has now gained Lady C’s trust, which he proceeds to abuse through another accusation, this time a false one against dear Anna.  And remember that in Season Three, Mr. Bates was in a position to wreck Thomas and chose not to do it.  Really Thomas’s perfidy cannot be fathomed.

As someone who has made a number of firm predictions about the world outside of Downton that turned out wrong (the details I am sure don’t matter), I am perhaps overly proud that one prediction I made in Season One has finally panned out.  You recall that Charlie Griggs showed up at the Abbey midway through Season One with the apparent purpose of blackmailing or at least embarrassing Mr. Carson.  Lord Grantham entered the scene, immediately determined that the man was contemptible, nay beneath contempt,  (the cut of his clothes, and the aggressive checked pattern of his coat gave him away before he uttered a word), gave him some money – did he toss banknotes onto the carpet? – and sent the man on his way.

I firmly predicted that Charlie would return.  It is a commonplace in stories of this kind and I felt sure that Mr. Fellowes would stick to the pattern.  I thought that Charlie would return in Season Two as a war profiteer, but he remained below the radar (perhaps because it hadn’t been invented yet).  He remained hidden throughout the turmoil of Season Three.  But as we rounded the bend to start Season Four, there he was!  I was certainly happier to see him than was Mr. Carson, until the melodramatic end, of course, complete with Mr. Carson emerging through the steam of a resting locomotive.

Poor Mr. Carson.  He kept that photo of Alice all those years, the face that, if it did not launch a thousand ships, nevertheless sundered a pair of Charlies.  Well, as the train pulled away that chapter of Mr. Carson’s life finally closed  – and by the way, how long do trains stop at minor country stations?  There was no one getting off and only Charlie Griggs getting on, but the train stayed in the station long enough for Mr. Carson to emerge through the steam, tip his hat to the three worthies accompanying Mr. Griggs, catch up on some thirty years of developments with his fellow Charlie, and then shake his hand and wish him well.  As do we all.  May the stage door of the Cardiff Music Hall be kept long and well by Mr. Griggs.

As we touch a handkerchief to the corner of our eyes, perhaps it is time to turn our attention to the good people above stairs.  I don’t mean to be too solemn, but consider these lines from Shakespeare’s King John:

Grief fills the room up of my absent child ,
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form;
Then, have I reason to be fond of grief?

As usual, Mr. S conveys in half a dozen lines more than anyone else could hope to do in 600.  (Put aside the fact that the child of the woman who speaks these lines has been captured and marked for death, but is still alive.  And while you’re putting things aside, add the fact that she predeceases him, although not by much.)  The point is, grief as profound as that experienced by Mary and Isobel is so consuming, so overwhelming, so seductive in its power that it takes the determined energy of those around the sufferer as well as her own strong efforts to overcome it.

It’s traditional for three attempts to be required before a quest can be fulfilled, and so it is here.  Tom makes the first effort to pull Mary from the clutches of her grief, followed by Grannie (I would never refer to her this way outside of these pages), and then by Mr. Carson.  Isobel (who has given up social work for the duration) is asked to help with Project Moseley and then twice with Project Griggs, to make up the three efforts on her behalf.  Of course, the final item to bring them out of the pit of grief is the discovery of the will, which prompts me to take a slight detour into the legal world of Downton Abbey.

At the beginning of the episode, Robert mentions that, because Matthew died without a will, his widow Mary receives a life interest in one-third of Matthew’s real property and receives one-third of his personal property outright.  My ears immediately pricked up.  Here we have the common law estate of dower!  I remember that from the first year of law school! [1]

And to make the legal problem even more interesting, Mary might have received more if Matthew had left it to her in a will, and sure enough a will is found!  Or is it a will?  Again, we ancient law students remember from second year of law school the concept of a “holographic” will – a document entirely handwritten and intended by the writer to be his or her will.  Is that what we have here?  (And what is the over/under on how many more surprise wills are going to find their way into this story?)

What a lovely tangle.  Except, how much sense does any of this make within the context of the “in-universe” legal world created by the script?  Remember that in Season One it was established that the land, the stately home, and Cora’s money are subject to an “entail” established by Robert’s father.  It all passes from the current male holder (Robert of course) to the next most closely related male descendant of the original grantor (Robert’s dad).  When the Titanic went down, taking Robert’s first cousin and his son with it, the next man in was Matthew, the son of Robert’s third cousin.  If the problems of 1922 can be solved by having Matthew leave his share to Mary by will, the same solution would have been available to Robert in 1912.  Why not avoid the problem of an inconvenient male heir – a working solicitor of all things – by leaving Downton to a daughter (or all three) by will?  It wouldn’t have worked.  He couldn’t leave Downton to his daughters by will because of the entail, and Matthew cannot leave his “share” to his widow.  Matthew does not have a share of the Abbey.  He would have owned it absolutely one day (with careful driving), subject always to the rules of the entail, but not until Robert dies.  (To be clear, I am not trying to predict how any of this would come out under English law then or now.  I don’t pretend to have any knowledge about that.  I am talking about the supposed legal rules that the story tells us are in effect.)

Remember that in Season Three, Robert, wonderful manager as he is of affairs financial, medical, and emotional, has put a large dent in the family fortune by taking a plunge in Canadian railway shares.  The whole show is going to come unstuck and the actors forced to find other jobs when out of the blue Mr. Swires conveniently dies and even more conveniently leaves all of his money to Matthew.  At that point, Matthew and Robert came to some kind of arrangement, with Matthew supplying the Swire funds and Robert ceding managerial control to Matthew.  I don’t believe we know more than that.  Presumably Matthew did not actually hand any funds to Robert (who, you may recall, has heard wonderful things about this chap Ponzi who is achieving spectacular returns in New York).  If Matthew kept the Swires funds, Mary now owns them, but to repeat, she does not own or control the land or stately home.  Robert can do what he likes with the land, but he lacks the funds (other than what is left of Cora’s original contribution), so that is where Mary’s ability to control the situation comes from.  My point is that she would either have owned the money outright (under the will) or would have been appointed trustee of her child’s property (the Swires money) if Matthew had indeed not left a will.  So, the will really ought not to have made a difference to the legal/financial situation, given the rules of the story.

But of course it made a huge emotional difference to Mary to hear from Matthew from the other side of the grass and to Isobel to know that Matthew was the careful thorough conscientious considerate chap that she raised him to be.

The other emotional issue with significant legal entanglements involves Lady Edith and her Editor (forgot his name, sorry).  Is it seriously his plan to leave England, move to Germany, become a German citizen (check list: learn German, find job editing Die Zeitung von Hamburg, find cricket club, learn how to bring beer to room temperature), obtain a divorce in Germany from his mentally incompetent English wife who will not appear in the proceedings and could not understand what was going on if she did appear, marry Edith in Germany, move back to England, and resume his old life?  Do you think it likely that an English court would recognize a divorce obtained in this way?  And what will become of the mentally ill wife?  Will she be moved to a Dickensian madhouse somewhere, while Edith and the Editor sip sherry and gaze into each other’s eyes?  Edith is so much in love that none of this will bother her?  I ask you.

That leaves us with only Rose to consider.  She certainly loves to have her bit of fun, but attracted one member of the working class too many, turning a Thé dansant into a Thé combattant.  But she turns out to have a heart of gold when the more worthy of the two fighting Yorkshiremen comes to the back door to talk to the under-house-parlor maid by the name of Rose.  It’s interesting that Rose, for all the trouble she is prepared to cause, does not allow herself any entanglements outside her social class.  She quickly hops into a servant’s uniform (there is always one that fits perfectly hanging on a peg somewhere near the back door) and lets the young man down gently, giving him a nice pep talk and a chaste kiss for his trouble.  Her cousin Sibyl might have pursued the relationship.  Dare we think that Rose’s days of causing trouble are over?  Is she prepared to settle down and assume her rightful place in the drawing room (where we hope she will learn to arrive on time)?  Forgive me if I have my doubts.  (And why did Mr. Fellowes so obviously manipulate the plot to get Jimmy, Rose, and Anna to the same spot in York at the same time, and why does Jimmy come to the back door of the house at just the moment to observe Rose in her maid’s costume?  Perhaps Rose is going to cross the class boundary after all.)

Well, Episode One was full of action, a Top Gun among Downton episodes.  Will Mr. Fellowes be able to top this one?  We will know on Sunday.