Just Jane (30 page)

The Prince Regent has been in charge for o’er a year, and we have suffered the news that the poor King has been near death many times since. Last year, hearing inklings of the newest death scare, Mother had a black dress of bombazine made, knowing (quite wisely, I will admit) that it would be cheaper to have it made then than after the poor King is actually dead. She assured all of us, “If I outlive him, it will answer my purpose, and if I don’t, somebody may mourn for me in the dress. It will be wanted one way or the other before the moths have eaten it up.”

After the news of the war, we, in turn, bring Charles up to date. Frank (or should I say little Mary) has had two more sons: Henry and George, bringing their number to four in five short years. With Charles and Fanny’s soon-to-be three . . . Cassandra and I—and Martha as an adopted aunt—are always busy seeing to the Austen additions.

This is not to say that I neglect my writing. I don’t. I cannot. As soon as they end their visit I work on
Mansfield Park
and await the publication of
Pride and Prejudice
that should come with the new year. Cassandra marvels at my new propensity toward being prolific. I cannot help it. The characters speak to me—e’en when I wish them to be silent!

This phenomenon has made me ask, Why now? Why have I suddenly discovered—or rediscovered—this ability to create? And why did it remain so elusive, so long?

I sadly admit I used to blame the city of Bath for my silence. And though our move there was upsetting, and though in that city I suffered the loss of my father, I hold nothing against it in regard to my creative silence. I now see that my own insecurities and failings made my time there so distasteful. And for my attitude I ask Bath’s forgiveness.

I’ve since read a quotation from Daniel Defoe—that gentleman who brought us
Robinson Crusoe
. He said that Bath was the resort of the sound as well as the sick and a place that helps the indolent and the gay to commit the worst of all murders—to kill time.

That is my largest crime . . . the years that I wasted. How tragic that time, once spent, can ne’er be renewed.

Nor relived.

Lately, I’ve found comfort in a verse:
And I will restore to you the years that the locust hath eaten . . . .
Although it will take some time, I vow to dispel my guilt regarding those lost years. For the Almighty will restore them, in His own time, in His own way.

Perhaps He is restoring them even now.

It is my newest prayer.

Which I add to the rest.

*****

It’s a small thing to most: buying a sprig of flowers for Martha’s hat, a Japanese fan for Cassandra, and some figs for Mother. Yet until this time, I’ve not been able. But for the charity of others, I’ve ne’er had income of my own.

’Tis a heady feeling.

The world, as I know it, is movable by my own hand.

*****

My own darling child is born.

As the new year of 1813 rises around us,
Pride and Prejudice
—by the author of
Sense and Sensibility
—becomes real.
And
. . . it sells for the lofty price of eighteen shillings instead of the fifteen of my first book.

I find it amusing that with his own money at stake, Mr. Egerton has found a way to bring the book to print in but a few short months . . .  .

I hold the three volumes in my hand and admire them, turning the pages, checking the spine, making sure it has ten fingers and ten toes.

“’Tis too bad Martha and Cassandra are away,” says Mother.

I had not realized she was watching me. “They will see it soon enough. I’ve had sets sent to the brothers and to my friend Anne Sharpe.”

“Very good, then.” She sets three plates for dinner.

“Who joins us?” I ask.

“Miss Benn. The long winter evenings spent alone make her melancholy.” She sets the spoons. “Perhaps you can read some of your book aloud. She does love when we read to her.”

This is not how I had dreamt the arrival of the book-of-my-heart would occur. But I suppose a corps of drums and trumpets are not readily available in Chawton.

At least not upon this January night.

*****

Dinner complete, we read half of the first volume to Miss Benn. She is unsuspecting of the author and is amused, poor soul.
That
, she cannot help, with Mother and I to lead the way, but she really does seem to admire Elizabeth Bennet. I must confess that I think Elizabeth as delightful a creature as ever appeared in print, and how I shall be able to tolerate those who don’t like her, I do not know.

There are a few typical errors, and a “said he” or a “said she” would sometimes make the dialogue more immediately clear; but I don’t write for such dull elves as have not a great deal of ingenuity themselves. The second volume is shorter than I could wish, but the difference is not so much in reality as in look, there being a larger proportion of narrative in that part. I’ve lopt and cropt so successfully, however, that I imagine it must be rather shorter than
Sense and Sensibility
altogether.

I continue to read—about Mr. Collins: “‘He was interrupted by a summons to dinner; and the girls smiled on each other. They were not the only objects of Mr. Collins’s admiration. The hall, the dining room, and all its furniture were examined and praised; and his commendation of every thing would have touched Mrs. Bennet’s heart, but for the mortifying supposition of his viewing it all as his own future property.’” I glance up to take a breath and see Miss Benn’s head nodding. I whisper to Mother, “Apparently the duplicity of Mr. Collins is not enough to keep her interest.”

“She is an old woman,” says Mother. “And uneducated. Don’t take offense, Jane. It reads a fine book, and I take particular pleasure disliking Mr. Collins.”

I take it as high compliment and close the book. Mother exits to call for Robert to take our neighbour home. I do my duty and gently nudge Miss Benn to wakefulness.

She opens her eyes with a start. “Is it over?” she asks.

“For tonight.”

I help her to stand. “You read well, Jane. And your mother says you write. Perhaps one day you can read one of your books to me.”

*****

Our second evening’s reading to Miss Benn didn’t please me so well, but I believe something must be attributed to my mother’s way of reading too rapidly. And though she perfectly understood the characters herself, she could not speak as they ought. Upon the whole, however, I was quite vain enough and well satisfied enough.

And yet . . . the work is rather too light and bright and sparkling. It wants shade; it wants to be stretched out here and there with a long chapter of sense, if it could be had. If not of solemn, specious nonsense, about something unconnected with the story—an essay on writing, a critique on Walter Scott, or the history of Bonaparte, or anything that would form a contrast and bring the reader with increased delight to the playfulness and epigrammatism of the general style.

The greatest blunder in the printing is on page 220, verse three, where two speeches are made into one. Also, there might as well have been no suppers at Longbourn; but I suppose it was the remains of Mrs. Bennet’s old Meryton habits.

Listen to me. I ramble on with opinions as if they matter. I doubt Cassandra would agree with me. Being a good Christian, she sees the good far above the bad.

As the months pass on, my authorship remains a secret. I heartily wish it to be a means of saving my family from everything unpleasant. Yet someday they will find out. Secrets don’t remain secrets, not even under death.

On the subject of nieces, I’m quite enjoying my two grown nieces, Fanny and Anna. If these two would but like my work and tell me so . . . I’m exceedingly delighted that Fanny is pleased with the book. My hopes were tolerably strong of her, but nothing like a certainty. Her liking Darcy and Elizabeth is enough (she might hate all the others if she would).

Why do I seek praise?

And yet I do. I heard that the playwright and statesman Richard Sheridan has deemed
Pride and Prejudice
one of the cleverest things he has ever read. And Henry said a literary gentleman of his acquaintance stated it was much too clever to be the work of a woman.

I agree. For everyone knows women can never be clever.

Mr. Egerton has informed me that the first printing has been bought and he begins another. Interest has also increased in
Sense and Sensibility
.

But best of all is that readers seem enraptured with Elizabeth Bennet. And so, my heart is fulfilled.

We are sisters, you know . . . .

Sometimes I wish she were here. With Cassandra and Martha gone, I could use her wise, witty, and welcome ear.

And she mine.

It’s odd
I
have been summoned to London, to Eliza’s bedside. Henry has come to Chawton to accompany me. There is an urgency in his actions and a tightness across his usually animated face.

“It’s most serious, Jane. She wants to see you.”

That is all that is said.

And so I go. I, who am not particularly well versed in bedside manner. Cassandra is the one called when nursing and consolation are needed. Like Henry, I’m not quite comfortable or capable with the ill and their needs.

Yet she asks for me. There is a responsibility in the request that frightens me.

I hold off my questions until we round the last bend to Sloane Street. “What shall I say to her, Henry?” I ask.

“Whatever she wants to hear.”

I nod, then shake my head. “And what would that be?”

“That it
has
been all right. That it will be all right.”

I assume he is talking about a life not wasted as well as the life hereafter.

“What does she believe?” I ask. “About heaven?”

He shrugs.

Oh dear.

*****

She is much withered away. It’s clear this long and dreadful illness will soon be victorious.

I sit by her bed, still uncertain how I can help. I’m relieved her eyes are closed. Do I receive credit for merely being here? I hope—

She opens her eyes and sees me, but the spark is dim, the voice weak. “Jane.”

I’m glad my name has no more syllables, for by her effort it’s clear the one causes more than enough effort.

“I’m here, Eliza. If there is anything I can do for you, just—”

“Was it enough?”

I’m taken aback. I don’t know what she is—

“My life.”

Ah.

“Henry loves you. We all love you.”

She shakes her head, ever so slightly. “I did . . . little.”

My thoughts rush to the Mary Crawford I’m now creating in
Mansfield Park
. It’s a line Mary would say—if she ever gained wisdom enough to consider all that she is and is not.

Fiction becomes fact, as my cousin, my sister-in-law Eliza, lies before me. Waiting for an answer.

It’s not an easy answer, for Eliza did not do . . . much. My view of her has always been a woman in constant motion, flitting around like a bird looking for the best seed cast upon the ground. Yet she has never been the type willing to dig for it. It had to be there, waiting for her or she would do without and make the seed seem unworthy of her effort. That a little digging might have proffered her nourishment most delicious and satisfying . . .

With a burst of energy, she reaches for my hand. Her face pulls with worry. I must answer. Now. “You did much, Eliza. Your home was always ablaze with merriment and light. People flocked to your door and vied to be your guest.”

As I say the words they sound shallow, as if people came to Eliza’s parties for the food and fun, not—

She smiles and closes her eyes. “Yes.”

I’m surprised by her pleasure but relieved.

She opens her eyes again, the worry returned. “Henry . . .”

“I will make sure Henry is well taken care of. He will sorely miss you, but—”

She shakes her head. “Children. I wish . . .”

They’d had no children. Eliza had not been able, and after the infirmity of little Hastings, even if her body had complied, I’m not sure she would have tried. Henry had never spoken of it, but by the way he spent as much time as possible at Godmersham, roughing and laughing with his nieces and nephews, I’ve always known he would have made an agreeable father.

I have nothing to offer her regret about children, for I suffer my own. I take her hand and squeeze it gently, hoping
it
says enough.

She puts a hand to her chest, pressing against the pain.

Her face contorts.

She moans.

I stand. “I will get Henry.”

*****

On April 25, 1813, three days after I arrive in London, Eliza de Feuillide Austen dies. She is buried beside her mother and son. Henry wrote the epitaph:

Also in memory of Elizabeth wife of H. T. Austen Esq. formerly widow of the Comt. Feuillide a woman of brilliant generous and cultivated mind just disinterested and charitable she died after long and severe suffering on the 25th April 1813 aged 50 much regretted by the wise and good and deeply lamented by the poor.

It was oddly worded, but I didn’t help Henry edit it. A husband has a right to say what he wishes to say, even if only he comprehends the meaning.

*****

As we believed, but moreover newly discovered, Henry’s mind is not a mind for affliction. He is too busy, too active, too sanguine. As sincerely as he was attached to poor Eliza, and as excellently as he behaved to her, he was used to being away from her—perhaps more away than together. Because of that, her loss is not felt as harshly as that of many a beloved wife might be, especially when all the circumstances of her long and dreadful illness are taken into the account. He knew for a long time that she must die, and it was indeed a release at last.

That he quickly finds female companionship is nearly a relief. Although many who don’t know him might be put out by his propensity to let life go on as it may,
most
of the family is relieved.

However . . . Henry’s penchant for being Henry notwithstanding, I would appreciate he be better at keeping
my
secret. It seems wherever he goes, he cannot resist saying that the author of my books is . . . me.

He was in Scotland of late and heard
Pride and Prejudice
warmly praised by Lady Robert Kerr and another woman. In the warmth of his brotherly vanity and love, he immediately told them who wrote it! Then he traveled to see Eliza’s family benefactor, Mr. Hastings, and told him. The latter’s admiration of Elizabeth Bennet is particularly welcome to me.

When I visit Henry in London, he says that a Miss Burdett wishes to meet me. I see nothing wrong in that until I hear the why of it—because I’m a novelist—
the
novelist. I’m rather frightened by hearing that she wishes to be introduced to
me
. If she deems me a wild beast, I cannot help it. It’s not my fault.

Yet even as I despair over his inability to remain silent, I do enjoy his company. For in whose presence but Henry’s can I visit galleries and search for portraits of people who don’t exist? He and I go to the exhibition in Spring Gardens. It’s not thought to be a good collection, but I’m very well pleased, particularly with a small portrait that looks like Jane—Mrs. Bingley of my story. Mrs. Bingley’s likeness is exactly herself in size, shape of face, features, and sweetness. There never was a greater likeness. She is dressed in a white gown with green ornaments, which convinces me of what I had always supposed, that green was a favourite colour with her. I daresay Elizabeth will be in yellow . . . . If only I could find her. But alas, in spite of Henry’s and my searching the exhibition high and low, there is no Mrs. Darcy present.

This one exhibition did not stop our quest, for since then we visit Sir J. Reynolds’s showing, but I’m disappointed, for there is nothing like Mrs. Darcy there either. I can only imagine that Mr. Darcy prizes any picture of her too much to like it exposed to the public eye. I can imagine he would have that sort of feeling, that mixture of love, pride, and delicacy. Setting aside this disappointment, I have great amusement among the pictures, and the driving about in an open carriage is very pleasant.

I even drive alone sometimes. I like my solitary elegance very much and am ready to laugh at my being where I am. I cannot but feel that I have a natural, small right to be parading about London in a barouche.

But enough of such frivolities. Back to chastising Henry for his wagging tongue. Others in the family are far more judicious. I must thank Frank and little Mary for their discreet consideration of my wishes to remain anonymous. And James and the other Mary too, for they have all been so tight with my secret that not even their children know of it.

Only Henry is unable to be silent. A thing set going in such a way . . . one knows how it spreads. I know it’s all done from affection and partiality, but at the same time . . . if only he could do as I wish.

I try to harden myself. After all, revealing my identity is but a trifle and of no care to anyone but me. Society has more important points to think about than this. But I do hate the thought of people believing the stories autobiographical. That an author dips into her own life experience for inspiration or wisdom or fear is a fact I won’t deny. And in truth, shades of Jane can probably be found in all my characters. Yet I don’t need someone bringing it to my attention or (heaven forbid) asking me about it. If I’ve used a name common to the family—and I have with Jane, Fanny, Henry, and Mary—I make certain the character is far unlike the relative so there can be no comparison brooked.

Toward
Mansfield Park
, I ask Frank if I might use the name of some of his ships, and he agrees, though he warns that such truths might be clues to others looking for the identity of the elusive “Lady A.” And so, e’en though I realize I may be laying myself open to complete discovery, the truth is that the secret has spread so far as to be scarcely the shadow of a secret now. Whenever the third book appears, I shall not even attempt to tell lies about it. Rather I shall try to make money of it, rather than mystery.

Second editions of both my books have released. Although I get not a penny more for
Pride and Prejudice
, I do earn for the first book. Instead of saving my superfluous wealth for my family to spend, I plan to treat myself with spending it. Next time in London, I hope to find some poplin at Layton and Shear’s that will tempt me to buy it. If I do, it shall be sent to Chawton, as half will be for Cassandra. I depend upon her being so kind as to accept the gift. It will be a great pleasure to me. I will not allow her to say a word. I only wish she could be with me to chuse. I shall send twenty yards, I think . . . .

I am quite the lady of the world now, for I have learnt, to my high amusement, that the stays in dresses are not made to force the bosom up anymore—that is a very unbecoming, unnatural fashion. I am also glad to hear they are not to be so much off the shoulders. When last with Edward and Fanny in London, Edward made a gift of five pounds to each of us, and so we went to Miss Hare’s, and since she had some pretty caps, Fanny insisted she make me one, white satin instead of blue. It will be white satin and lace, with a little white flower perking out of the left ear, like Harriot Byron’s feather. I’ve allowed her to go as far as eleven and sixteen on it. My gown is to be trimmed everywhere with white ribbon plaited on (somehow or other). She says it will look well. I am not optimistic. They often trim with white.

Listen to me. Speaking of dresses and silk caps. And the praise of readers. And a life made busy with concerns hitherto unknown. How can this be happening to me?

I don’t know anything of reasons. Only that it is.

*****

Mansfield Park
is complete. I don’t know why it took me twice as long to write as the others.

And yet I do.

It became a more complicated story than I intended. The characters would not stay as I had planned, but revealed hidden places in their constitution—many that I was not entirely pleased to acknowledge. And how exactly does one write a book about one character when one is more pleasantly drawn to another?

For even more than Fanny, I like Mary Crawford. And Henry Crawford. Just as I like Eliza and Henry . . . . Yet to like someone—even love them—does not mean they are without fault or flaw. Charming people like these draw others like moths are drawn to a flame. Fanny, and finally Edmund, is able to fly away—but not without being singed.

’Tis a painful process; singeing one’s own creation. Yet necessary.

’Tis also a painful process to create a character like Fanny, who is so full of virtue and morality, yet so . . . unlikable. Mother has called her insipid. And I expect I shall hear worse.

Yet I see such promise in Mary Crawford. She
could
have been a heroine if only she would have learned self-restraint through self-inspection.

I see in her too much
self
.

Which is the problem.

Cassandra wishes me to change the ending—to let Edmund marry Mary Crawford and Henry marry Fanny. I realize she will not be the only one. And yet, as much as I respect my sister, as much as I seek and appreciate her advice, in this I will remain strong. As with true life, what is expected does not always come to be. Cassandra and I both know this to be true. Too true.

People don’t always make wise choices.

People don’t always have control over the choices made
to
them.

People don’t always become all they should be.

And yet . . . even within the complicated weavings of life, people
can
find happiness. If they chuse to seek it . . . differently.

It is a question of survival. Adapt or perish. Learn or be defeated. Venture ever forward or cease to be.

Life is not a fairy tale, and happily-ever-after has many measures.

*****

Mr. Egerton does not like
Mansfield Park
as much as my others, says he does not expect it to sell as well, and as such, will not publish it on his own coin. And so I’m back to footing the bill for its publication.

I could have said no. I could have put it in a drawer and let it lie.

But e’en as readers might find it disconcerting, I find it to be a good book, one that makes me proud. Perhaps I’ve hit the mark of true emotion and humanity too close.

I enjoy delving in to emotions which most wish to keep hidden. For often, in seeing such traits in others—through a piece of fiction—we can find revelation within ourselves.

Or not. Novels and heroines—pictures of perfection—make me sick and wicked.

I sit in the attic bedroom of Henry’s home in London and compile the letters and verbal comments about my newest creation into a scrapbook. I’ve never done this before and don’t exactly know why I do it now. It seems a bit arrogant—or desperate—to keep track of others’ opinions in such a manner. And yet I am fair as I insert the negative comments along with the praise.