The Words of Institution

How much is bound up in the meaning of “this”—

Meanings of flour ground on heavy stones

To spill on the threshing floor, scattered in dust,

Where mice track it into the dark, or it sticks

To men’s boots while the barnyard jigs to a fiddle;

To small toes that climb a ladder to find

            That the crying in the haymow is not actually cats

            Nor crying at all, but delight of Rumschpringe.

Not so different, perhaps, from the loafered feet

That drag on the steps to a chilly court

Where a cheated man deeds his wife to the state;

From loud heels profaning the wrath of holy silence

After a child falls from the window, or from grace;

From the aged shuffle of a crabbed old man, world-weary because his dog has died:

            For all, they have walked in thorns and sweat,

            And ploughed their brows with the harrow of grief.

But man does not suffer for bread alone

And not every child is better stillborn

For the grain that falls to the ground and dies

Finds substance in the dust and will bear much fruit,

And the cup of sorrow is wrung of the vine

That feeds the Cup of Blessing.

Thus the steadfast Word cried from broken ground

Saying, “This is my body, my blood.”

Downton's Dignity Question

Several weeks back at Verily Magazine, Monica Weigel wrote about “The Women of Downton Abbey,” contending that the show’s female characters keep the story going and provide most of the interest.

Ms. Weigel describes the aristocratic universe in terms of devastating ennui: “Well-born women paid social calls and decorated the room with their presence until a suitable husband came along, and then the cycle began all over again in a different house.” For Ms. Weigel, “the show’s…best attraction is its…strong, feisty, and independent women living in a time that does its best to stifle strong, feisty, and independent women. The story line may begin with the hard truth that the estate is at risk because it cannot be inherited by a woman…but the story continues because Mary, Edith, Sybil, Anna, and even the Countess refuse to rest easy in their allotted places.” Sounding like the beginning of a Tolstoy novel, she says, “There is something universally compelling about people who fight to change their circumstances.”

Mostly, the claim about what drives the story is true. In the beginning, the Countess/Cora/Mary trio is eager to circumvent inheritance laws and keep Downton, while Lord Grantham sees only a dead end. The ladies remain activists throughout. But that a totally insipid society produces women like the Dowager Countess, I’m not convinced. I also dissent from using “universally compelling” to describe Matthew Crowley’s reform-obsessed mother. If Downton Abbey is just a lengthy, gussied-up girl-power soap opera, why do so many men enjoy it too?

If the shoe doesn’t fit, don’t wear it. Yes, Downton Abbey is about a family of hard-headed women, but it’s not just a girl-power soap opera (that was Pan Am). It’s also about the landed nobility, their servants, and how everyone’s fortunes and relationships fare in the societal sea change that followed on World War I. I wish Ms. Weigel had taken a look at the men of Downton Abbey as well and acknowledged the substance of the relationships that ground the story.

If Downton’s women fight to change their circumstances, most of Downton’s men are unsettled by change. In Season 3, Lord Grantham tells his American mother-in-law that he feels like an animal whose habitat is being destroyed. He wonders if his species will become extinct—if the stuff that is in him can pull through intact. For me, this comment captures the central conflict of (most of) the male characters: What will become of dignity?

Lord Grantham is (generally) a good husband, father, and employer. He is a sincere patriot and a loyal subject, and he apparently seeks to be a wise manager of his estate. He sets the tone for the whole household, and the intelligence of his daughters and the caliber of his staff attest to his quality. Some household members are petty at times, but none of them are narrative throwaways.

So let’s look at the other men. There’s Carson, whose gruffness as the head of the staff hides a deep conviction that “he who is tired of style is tired of living.” Since life is worth living, appearances must be maintained. Then there’s Bates, of mysterious past and haunted future, who is utterly committed to his integrity. William greets the chance to prove his valor on the front as his rite of passage. Matthew, who comes on the scene as a callow lawyer from who-knows-where, rises to the challenge of inheriting Downton and shows a strong sense of honor both at war and in love. Even Branson, who despises the whole order of Downton and draws well-deserved wrath on his head later in Season 3, strives to live by principle.

The glaring exception is Thomas. Thomas offers a check on anyone who would dismiss aristocratic dignity as pretentious, artificial, and expensive (at best). He doesn’t give a fig for anyone but himself. His concept of dignity is entirely about position and has nothing to do with a good conscience. He lies, sneaks, steals, cheats, sticks his nose in the air with pleasure whenever he puts someone down. He proves his cowardice in France. Unsurprisingly, everyone hates Thomas. Even his friend O’Brien comes to view him with disgust.

Which brings me to the second theme: loyalty. Where Thomas answers to no one, the Downton family is committed to their estate—not simply out of selfish luxury, although Mary displays some of that too, but because they feel an obligation to provide sustenance and employment to lower-ranking people in their area. The servants are, in general, loyal to the family. And as English subjects and members of a class-based society, they all share in sustaining the greater order of things.

This is where I think Downton departs from Jane Austen’s satires of decorative women and empty gallants, and where I depart from Ms. Weigel’s analysis. There’s something compelling about this understanding of “the order of things” that goes beyond marriage plots and mere show. It’s not a coincidence that the show’s most redoubtable aristocrat—the Dowager Countess—is also its most practical and forgiving character. Those who know the rules best know best how to break them. We would never put up with such rigidity ourselves, and Ethel Parks's story demonstrates that we truly have made moral progress in some areas—particularly in the notion that prostitutes should be treated as victims rather than offenders. But Downton's classiness and propriety, where genuine, reflect values that offer a healthy counterpoint to modern acquisitiveness and isolation.

If the women of Downton Abbey represent progress, the men represent a nearly-forgotten idea of dignity. What apparently supports it is their aristocratic order, which fascinates us Millennial Americans because we live in a web of social chaos (romantic attachments, case in point). But if the denizens of Downton can exit the 1920’s with relationships and self-respect intact, perhaps we can weather our postmodern upheavals with dignity and good grace, too.

A strong spirit doesn’t depend on the society you live in, whether you’re fighting to change it or not. It depends on the stuff you’re made of.