In Search of Jane Austen

by Ken Methold

  ‘Yes. Especially given the nature of the novels.’

  ‘But assuming that their sister, Jane, is the author, why did she insist on anonymity?’

  ‘That is something to be discovered. And was the parcel from George Austen just a collection of his sermons or was it his daughter’s novel or one of his son’s, and if it were one of Jane’s, then which one?’

  ‘This project is beginning to look like a jigsaw puzzle, James, but one for which we keep finding new pieces. A puzzle that can never be finished.’ Sarah finished her drink and stood. ‘James, I’m so grateful to you for your help. Don’t hesitate to follow your journalist’s and lawyer’s instincts. I’m going to need all the help and advice I can get.’ She bent down, kissed James on the cheek. Then went to bed.

  James poured himself another brandy, sipped some slowly, and wondered, for perhaps the thousandth’s time, what it would be like to have Sarah for a wife. He told himself at least the same number of times that the situation between them was perfect as it was.

  Chapter-6

  Sarah rose early and set about the task of revising the play. At first, despairing of being able to make an extra scene or two work, she destroyed the whole of her first draft, then, suddenly, she realised how she could complicate the plot in such a way that it required more scenes. After that the lines flowed from her pen nib. They were not, she thought, especially good lines, but they would be acceptable when spoken by the great Edmund Kean, assuming he was not drunk at the time.

  While one of the clerks in the office undertook the task of copying the extra scenes and the amended existing ones, she set off for Cheyne Walk to make arrangements with Elizabeth for their departure for Winchester. They met in a nearby coffee shop.

  ‘I suggest we take a mail coach to Winchester,’ Sarah said when they’d relaxed with their coffee. ‘They are the fastest, and if we travel at night, the road will be less busy. There’s a coach that leaves the Bell and Crown in Holborn every evening at eight o’clock. It’s about sixty miles to Winchester, so allowing for changing the horses several times, but without any upsets or other problems, we should reach Winchester in time for breakfast the following morning. We’ll sit inside. We still won’t get much sleep, but at least we’ll be dry if it rains.’

  Elizabeth said, ‘Where shall we stay?’

  ‘I suggest we stay in the city. It’s an old Roman town and full of history. We may need to be in the district for some time. I’ve heard there is a fine inn, The King’s Head. We’ll take the best room and use it as our base. Is that all right, dear?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Will we share? I won’t feel happy on my own in a hotel.’

  Sarah laughed, reached across the table for her friend’s hand, and said, ‘You’re a bit of a nervous goose, aren’t you? Of course we’ll share. It’s what all friends do when they travel together. It’s part of the fun.’

  Gratefully, Elizabeth squeezed the proffered hand. Sarah smiled and thought, not for the first time, how young her friend was, if not in years, then in maturity. Before her father, the master of a privateer, had died at sea, she had received an education at home from a governess. Then, while still a girl and her father having left only a small provision in his will, she had had to provide for her mother. She’d spent a year with a family in Florence—old friends of her father’s—and there learned to be an engraver. On her return to England, she had obtained employment on a magazine. It had involved long, lonely hours of work, leaving no time or money for a social life. Realising that there was only a future of years and years as a lowly engraver until her eyesight gave out, she had decided at the age of twenty to try to earn a better living as a portrait painter. The increasing number of merchants and tradesmen with social pretensions and the money to assist them, was creating a demand for cheap portraits. Until turning to portrait painting, she had lived almost as a recluse with only her mother as a companion, but knowing that such work would not come to her, she had taken her small savings and, with frugal living, rented the top-floor apartment in Cheyne Walk. Although she’d acquired clients and was beginning to enjoy a small reputation as a portrait artist, she felt lonely in London and starved of affection. She had needed a close woman friend who would understand her and have time to spend enjoying life with her.

  In contrast, Sarah, who was also an only child, was sophisticated and self-confident, with a large number of acquaintances but no close woman friend. The women had met each other at the best possible time for them both. For so many men and women trying to make a living in the arts, whether from painting, music, the theatre or literature, there was little time for close friends. Such people craved even one close friend who could be relied on to be readily available and have the sensibility to be able to lend an understanding ear. And to share any real empathy and understanding, they needed to be of one’s own sex.

  After sipping her coffee, Sarah said, ‘Until Jane Austen went to stay in Winchester in the last few days or weeks of her life, she lived with her mother and older sister at Chawton, which is just a morning’s journey from Winchester. Until he retired, her father was the rector at Steventon, which is where Jane was born and grew up. Both Chawton and Steventon are about the same distance from Basingstoke, so we could visit one, stay overnight, and visit the other on our way home.’

  ‘You’re so well organised, and well-informed, dearest.’

  Sarah replied, ‘I’m fortunate to live with a father and a friend who spend their lives digging out information. And the journal employs several young reporters to help them. I’ll come with a hackney to collect you at six-thirty on Sunday evening. Don’t bring much luggage. The mail coaches don’t have room for more than one bag per passenger. If we have to stay away longer, we can always send for more clothes or buy anything we need. Now I must run. I have to get my play to Carlton House before the Reverend Clarke goes home for the day.’

  The women kissed goodbye, and Sarah took a hackney to collect the amended scripts from the office at Portland Place, and then on to Carlton House. On her arrival, Clarke received her warmly and promised to use his best offices to get the play approved as soon as possible. In return, Sarah agreed to keep him informed of anything of particular significance that she discovered about Jane Austen. Then she went home via the Bell and Crown at Holborn where she bought inside tickets for the Sunday evening mail to Winchester. The investigation was about to begin in earnest.

  Chapter-7

  Neither Sarah nor Elizabeth slept much on the overnight mail coach to Winchester, and as soon as they arrived at the King’s Head, they went straight to bed, waking up just in time for a late lunch. Afterwards they walked to the cathedral to look around and plan their strategy for the next day. As things turned out, very little planning was necessary. They hadn’t been inside the magnificent building for more than a few moments before an elderly man, bent almost double and dressed in a cassock that was so worn that it seemed to be turning green in the faint rays of the watery afternoon sun, shuffled towards them from the shadows as if he’d been hiding in wait, which he probably had. Sarah suspected that he haunted the cathedral and preyed on visitors not so much for gratuities, though these would always be welcomed, as for conversation. Her gentle questioning elicited the information that he had devoted his life to the service of the cathedral, initially as a chorister, boy and man, then as a sacristan. Sarah presumed that he had neither the education nor appropriate fortune to attend a university, and had, therefore, never taken holy orders.

  As he approached, he raised his head to look her in the face and said, ‘Good afternoon, madam, are you looking to see anything in particular?’

  ‘We were hoping to see where Jane Austen is buried,’ Sarah told him. ‘I’m writing an article about her, and my friend is an illustrator and engraver. She would like to make a sketch of the tombstone.’

  ‘Follow me. The late Miss Austen is interred in a vault beneath the north aisle.’

  ‘You are most kind.’

  They followed
the ancient, whose heavy breathing suggested that he was very near the end of his life.

  They found Jane Austen’s gravestone about half way along the aisle. The cathedral didn’t have enough light to read the inscription, so Elizabeth hurried to the entrance to buy a candle. While Sarah waited for her return, she questioned the old man, who stood panting as he recovered from the ordeal of a fifty-yard walk.

  ‘Is this the Austen family grave?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, no. Just of the single lady. Though the Austen family is a well-known Hampshire family.’

  ‘Do you know why Miss Austen is buried in the cathedral?’

  ‘Her brother was ordained here.’

  ‘And that was enough to obtain a place in the cathedral for his sister’s grave,’ Sarah said unable to keep the surprise out of her voice. ‘Surely many important local people would want a place.’

  The old man shrugged. ‘You will have to ask the dean for the explanation. Perhaps he offered a large donation to the building fund.’

  ‘Perhaps indeed. What does burial here cost?’

  The old sacristan shrugged. ‘Nearly a hundred pounds. But there won’t be many more. There’s no space left.’ He cackled. ‘The place is full of kings and queens and all kinds of saints going back to six-hundred and forty-two. People that’s travelled do say that it’s the largest cathedral in Europe.’

  ‘Then the late Jane Austen is in good company.’

  Sarah looked about her at the vast building. ‘It is certainly very large.’ Then taking the topic firmly back to Jane Austen, she asked, ‘Was it a well-attended funeral? I suppose it must have been to have cost so much.’ One hundred pounds was almost, she realised, as much as the price the publishers paid Jane for the copyright of Pride and Prejudice.

  ‘Four gentlemen.’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘I said four gentlemen. They followed the coffin down College Street from where the lady died in lodgings.’

  Sarah thought this extraordinary—not that there were no women mourners; women rarely attended funerals as it was a common belief that the ceremony was too emotionally upsetting for them to bear. It was the paucity of mourners that surprised her. She wondered who the four gentlemen had been. They would go straight to the top of her list of relatives and friends to be interviewed.

  ‘Presumably,’ she said, ‘the dean will have the gentlemen’s names and addresses.’

  ‘Or the precentor. He read the service.’ The old man cackled again. ‘He had to be quick. The congregation were already coming in for the morning service.’

  This brought the conversation to an end as Elizabeth returned with a lighted candle and they read the words carved on Jane Austen’s gravestone. Sarah could hardly believe what she read. She read it over again, her years as an actress making it a simple matter for her to commit them to memory. Elizabeth copied them into her sketch book and made a brief drawing of the gravestone’s position in the cathedral.

  The inscription read:

  In Memory of

  JANE AUSTEN,

  youngest daughter of the late

  Reverend GEORGE AUSTEN

  formerly Rector of Steventon in the County.

  She departed this life on the 18th July 1817

  aged 41, after a long illness, supported with

  the patience and hopes of a Christian.

  The benevolence of her heart,

  the sweetness of her temper, and

  the extraordinary endowments of her mind

  obtained the regard of all who knew her and

  the warmest love of her intimate connections.

  Their grief is in proportion to their affection.

  They know their loss to be irreparable, but

  in their deepest affliction they are consoled

  by a firm though humble hope that her charity,

  devotion, faith and purity have rendered

  her soul acceptable in the sight of her

  REDEEMER

  ‘Remarkable,’ Sarah said, giving Elizabeth a look as if to tell her to reserve any comments until later. To the retired sacristan she said, ‘Do you know much about the family?’

  ‘I believe they are an old Hampshire family with connections to the church. It’s who you know that’s important, isn’t it?’

  ‘It certainly can be.’

  Deciding that the old man had told her everything he knew, Sarah resisted the temptation to ask further questions. Anything else he said would be no more than speculation and third or fourth-hand gossip. The only gossip worth having would be from people who really knew the family—villagers, parishioners and a few friends and acquaintances wanting to show off their intimacy with the family.

  ‘You have been most kind,’ she said, discreetly pressing a coin into his trembling hand. ‘I may want to talk to you again. For now, we bid you good afternoon.’

  She stood and nodded to Elizabeth, who closed her sketch book and returned it with her pencil to her artist’s bag.

  The women left the cathedral quietly, leaving an appropriate offering as they did so. One never knew who was watching one in such places. Sarah thought it was possible they would need to return, perhaps to try to find out from the Dean why an insignificant spinster had been granted a final resting place of such an honour.

  As they left the cathedral precincts and walked towards the town, Sarah told Elizabeth what the old man had said. She finished by saying, ‘It was not only interesting, but wholly unexpected. I’m not going to draw any conclusions from what we’ve learned. The last thing we should do is to develop any theories too soon and then attempt to make the facts we discover fit our theories. At this stage we are simply gathering information and storing it away.’

  ‘It is all so strange. Such a small funeral,’ Elizabeth said. ‘There would surely have been more than a few people locally who have read her books and would have attended her funeral.’

  ‘If there had been a funeral notice. I suspect there wasn’t. What I would like you to do tomorrow, dear, is visit all the local newspapers offices and jot down all such notices and any obituaries. Winchester is an important city, and all the Hampshire papers will have offices here, if only to accept advertisements and news items. It won’t surprise me to discover there were no funeral notices. If there had been, I think, as you say, attendance would have been larger. Perhaps even a reporter would have covered it.’

  Sarah hoped this was the case. A local reporter would have taken great care to obtain as many names as possible. Newspapers were highly competitive and listing the names of people who attended functions was a great aid to circulation figures.

  Delighted to have a specific task, Elizabeth said, ‘I’m happy to do that, dearest. And you?’

  ‘If the dean can spare a few minutes, I will ask him for the names and addresses of the mourners and if he can provide the name of the doctor who attended Jane at the end. Now I suggest we go back to the hotel and rest for a while before we have some supper.’

  The rest turned out to be not just for a while. They both fell asleep instantly and did not awake until the noise of coaches loading and departing from the hotel woke them early the next morning.

  Chapter-8

  After an early breakfast, Sarah and Elizabeth separated to do their respective tasks. Elizabeth discovered three local newspapers, each with an office in the centre of the town. Two of the papers were also printed locally, The Hampshire Chronicle and Courier and The Courier.

  The item in The Hampshire Chronicle and Courier was very brief. It read:

  Winchester, Saturday July 19th: Died yesterday, in College Street, Miss Jane Austen, youngest daughter of the late Rev. George Austen, formerly of Steventon, in this county.

  The notice in The Courier, published several days later on the twenty-second of July, was more informative and had been written and handed in by Cassandra Austen. It stated:

  On the 18th inst. at Winchester, Miss Jane Austen, youngest daughter of the late Rev. George Austen, R
ector of Steventon, in Hampshire, and the authoress of Emma, Mansfield Park, Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility. Her manners were most gentle; her affections ardent; her candour was not to be surpassed, and she lived and died as became a humble Christian.

  The notice in The Hampshire Telegraph and Sussex Chronicle was, Elizabeth thought, so brief and blunt as to be discourteous. It stated simply:

  ‘On Friday last died, Miss Austen, late of Chawton, in this County.’

  None of the papers published funeral notices, and from this Elizabeth deduced that whichever brother had organised the funeral had made certain that only the immediate family should know about it. She could not help thinking, in spite of Sarah’s warning not to speculate, that this was odd. Jane Austen, as the daughter of the former Rector of Steventon would surely have had childhood friends, if only among immediate neighbours. The daughter of a local clergyman would almost certainly have been invited to the various balls and other social functions held in the great houses in the district.

  While Elizabeth visited the offices of the newspapers, Sarah went first to the Cathedral Close to call on the precentor of the cathedral, the Reverend Thomas Watkins. He was also the Chaplain of Winchester College and over the years had had dealings with the Austen family and had conducted the funeral. He received Sarah cordially and helpfully provided the information she required.

  ‘The four gentlemen who followed the coffin from her lodgings in College Street were three of her brothers, Edward, Henry and Francis with her nephew, Edward’s son, James. Edward Austen Knight has a large property at Chawton where his mother and his sister Cassandra reside in a cottage on the property. He and his large family do not live there, however. Their family seat is at Godmersham in Kent. Henry Austen has a curacy at St Nicholas’s Church in Chawton, though he lodges outside of the village. I have an address for him.’