Writing a Victorian Novel

[davywavy]

Every Victorian Novel has...

1) A character who coughs themself to death, and takes their time about it.
It starts with a few spots of blood on a hankerchief in about chapter 4, and from there it's a long decline to a mawkishly sentimental death in chapter 23. Even the slightest cough, sniffle or indication of weakness of constitution is the Victorian literary equivalent of wearing a red shirt in Star Trek.
Note: If one character coughs themself to death, there is a 50% chance that any one other character will have an attack of the vapours in sorrow at their death, retire to their bed, and start the whole process over. In long novel this can lead to a domino-like chain reaction of phlegmmy doom.
(See: Wuthering heights, The Old Curiosity Shop, Hard Times)

2) A novelty rustic character who speaks with a regional accent so thickly written as to make anything they say utterly incomprehensible.
It is up to you whether this character is for comic or sinister effect, as you won't be able to tell from what they say.
(See: David Copperfield, Wuthering Heights, Middlemarch, The Rivals)

3) A baby being born.
Prior to the appearence of said child, there must be no suggestion or indication of the pregnancy, and nor should there be any suggestion of physical intimacy or even affection between the parents.
(Wuthering Heights (again), Adam Bede, Tess of the D'Urbervilles)

4) A lunatic
If male, the lunatic must be given to bursts of rage, violence and heavy drinking. He should shout epithets like 'D----!', 'B-----!', 'H---!' and 'C---------- M------------!' at regular intervals. If female, the lunatic should be secreted in an out of the way part of a big house. She will never be mentioned, but her mere presence will slowly poison all the life out of the household and bring about ruin and destruction.
(Wuthering Heights yet again, Jane Eyre, Oliver Twist)

***********************************************

Little William sat propped against cushions on the couch. his coughing was weaker now; not because of recovery, but simply because his wracked body no longer had the strength to expectorate with vigour. The house was silent. Even the cries and hammering from Aunt Mary in The Locked Garret Room had stilled to a mere whimpering and knocking, as if she understood the import of the time.
Little William's eyes fluttered open, and he gazed with love at the gathering about him.
"You must not cry so when I am gone, Mama", he whispered. "Do you know, when I am alone, I sometimes fancy I see the golden light of angels at my feet, waiting to carry me to the bosom of our Lord". He coughed a little. "I don't suppose I shall cough in heaven, do you?"
Mama was overcome with sobs and buried her face in her hanky. Jacob the elderly retainer stepped to Little William with a hot posset. "Mun maun a gropple, oopa t' hosset gill", he said, his aged face filled with grim resignation. "Hap ne'er tup t'wissple fer romler grice. Fen rentul jus, hosset Grimthorpe t' muckle jump."
Papa nodded. Truer words had never been said by his old servant. As he looked back, Little William's eye closed for the last time, and his son slipped away. For a moment it seemed to all that a strange lightness and sweet scent filled the air, and the faintest flutter of wings could be heard as his son departed. Mama, her eyes filled with uncontrollable tears, coughed into her hanky and fell into a swoon. Papa knelt by her side and produced a new-born baby from beneath her petticoats.
"A girl", he said. "I shall name her Wilhelmina, and she shall be a comfort to us and a reminder of her lost brother in the long years to come."
The baby gave a faint cough.

Comments

[zenicurean.livejournal.com]

My gods, man, you've distilled it into its moor-riding, country-living, consumption-laden component particles.

The baby gave a faint cough.

And that's the crowning moment of Brontë awesome.

[davywavy.livejournal.com]

Apparently Emily Bronte had a fit of the vapours at Branwell's funeral, retired to bed, and never got up again. Some say that she died of a chill, but I reckon she died because she spent her last few years sat on a couch eating creamy cakes.
I propose a dramatic and shocking documentary on this subject entitled something like The World's Fattest Bronte!, or Bodyshock: Bronte.

[mrmmarc.livejournal.com]

The last line makes my evening!

[morgan303.livejournal.com]

That had me (who 'did' way too much Victorian lit at uni) in fits. Especially the last line, which is pure, 24 carat gold. Fabulous, and spot-on. Although just to satisfy my completionist tendencies, I'd include something like this just before:

From far across the house, upstairs, there was a crash, and a faint, inhuman howling, which might almost be mistaken for the wind on the moors. Papa's eyes darkened slightly, and subtly, intending no offence to the master of the house, Jacob crossed himself.

The baby gave a faint cough.

[davywavy.livejournal.com]

I does me best :)