It’s curious the way in which some novels from the many novels written are selected to be put aside for posterity. Not being a scholar of early nineteenth century British literature, I don’t know how many other novelists there were out there when Nightmare Abbey was published but I’d wager there were several that were as worthy of immortality as Peacock’s flighty tome. Which is not not to say it’s terrible, it’s just not particularly good either. Its longevity hinges on the author’s links to the romantic poets, and the fact that the novel is a gentle satire on Shelley and Byron. What little plot there is revolves around the book’s protagonist, Scythrop, the heir to a gloomy East Anglian pile, Nightmare Abbey, getting caught up in romantic misadventures with two different women, Marionetta O’Carroll and Celinda Toobad. As the names suggest, the novel doesn’t take itself too seriously. The author has a lot of fun reproducing the pretentious conversations had by Scythrop and his various visitors, another manifestation of the way in which the British adore anti-intellectualism. And fair enough, one might think, because the book has a certain wry charm. In the 21st century it might have made for a 2 series Netflix comedy, à la Addams Family, one of those whose first series is an unexpected success but then fizzles out by the time it gets to second series, with the realisation that there wasn’t that much meat on the bone in the first place.
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