A paroxysm of guilt pierced through me with the speed of an arrow. Every word she spoke was true. Had I indeed sacrificed Marianne’s happiness to convey a lesson? But no—no.
“I am sorry, Marianne,” murmured I with sincere compassion. “I did indeed put you through a great many trials in my novel—but in the end, everything turns out well. I hope you and Colonel Brandon are very happy?”
“Colonel Brandon is the most loyal, amiable, and goodhearted of gentlemen,” retorted Marianne testily. “He loves me, of that I am well aware, and I suppose I love him back. Every day I try to remind myself how fortunate I am to be his wife. But every day is just as quiet, spiritless, and dull as the last! We read. We take walks. We ride horses. We dine. He cleans his rifle and hunts. I do needle-work and play the pianoforte. Oh! Were it not for my mother’s and sisters’ visits, I think I should go mad! Where is the heart-pounding excitement I felt in every encounter with Willoughby? Am I never to feel that way again?”
“Marianne,” answered I solemnly, “the excitement you describe might be thrilling for a moment, but it is not the preferred way to live. A marriage based on affection, respect, and companionship is a more desirable union, and will make you far happier.”
“Happier? What do you know of happiness, Jane? Upon what do you base these assumptions? You, who have never married!”
Her brutal and tactless remarks made me gasp—yet I reminded myself that I had created her—I had made her what she was. “I base them upon my observations of other married couples. I could not in good conscience allow you to marry Willoughby. He was greedy, selfish, and fickle, and would have made you miserable. I thought you understood that at the end.”
“You put words in my mouth to show what I had learned—but they were your words, Jane, not mine. I know the truth. I know why you stole my Willoughby away: it was because you could not have Mr. Ashford. You suffered, so you made certain that I suffered, as well!”
At the mention of Mr. Ashford’s name, my heart seized and I let out a little gasp. Not a day passed that I did not think of Mr. Ashford. He was the one, true love of my life, but for good reason, I had told no one about our relationship—no one except Henry and my sister. How could Marianne know about him?
“It was most unfair of you, Jane! Most unfair!” Tears streamed down Marianne’s cheeks now and she took a quivering breath. “Could not you have given me and Willoughby a second chance? You might have redeemed him at any time had you chosen to, but you did not. I declare, I will never forgive you!” With this last, heated remark, she turned and darted away.
“Marianne, come back!” cried I, running after her. “Have you forgotten Eliza, whom Willoughby seduced, disgraced, and abandoned? I saved you from Willoughby! He was one of the worst offenders I ever created! Colonel Brandon is worth a hundred Willoughbys! He is the true hero of the novel!”
But the fog enveloped Marianne’s retreating form and she disappeared from my view.
I stopped, catching my breath, remorse and confusion coursing through me. If only she had given me more time to explain! But even if she had, how could I defend what I had done? Should I have redeemed Willoughby? I had barely the briefest interval, however, to contemplate these misgivings when, from a tea shop but a few yards ahead of me, emerged two young ladies deeply engaged in conversation.
I recognised them at once: it was Marianne’s sister Elinor, walking arm in arm with Fanny Price. I was astounded. How was it possible that these two women from entirely different novels should be acquainted with each other? Moreover, what were they doing in Bath? They looked up, exchanged a brief, surprised glance, and hurried up to me.
“Good afternoon, Miss Austen,” said Elinor with a graceful curtsey. “How lovely to see you.”
“This is an extraordinary coincidence,” murmured Fanny with a shy curtsey of her own. “Mrs. Ferrars and I were just talking about you.”
“We only just met an hour ago,” explained Elinor, nodding towards the establishment behind them, “and already we have become fast friends. We discovered that we have a great deal in common.”
“You are indeed very much alike,” agreed I with a smile, pleased by the notion of their new friendship. “I have dearly loved you both since the moment of your inception.”
“You see?” said Fanny quietly, darting a meaningful look at her companion.
Elinor nodded gravely but remained silent.
A foreboding feeling came over me. “Is any thing the matter?” asked I.
“Not a thing,” said Elinor.
“The weather is very cold and damp,” observed Fanny, “do not you think?”
I knew them both too well to be taken in by the polite composure on their faces. “You need not keep any secrets from me. If there is something you wish to say, please speak freely.”
“Well,” said Fanny reluctantly, “we do not mean to complain. It is just that—” She could not go on.
“It is about our characters,” interjected Elinor quickly.
“Your characters?” answered I. “But what is wrong with your characters? You are both excellent, intelligent women, with sincere and affectionate dispositions, strength of understanding, calmness of manner, and coolness of judgment.”
“Precisely,” stated Fanny.
“You made us too perfect,” said Elinor.
“Too perfect?” cried I. “How can any one be too perfect?”
“I always behaved with the utmost of propriety,” said Elinor, “no matter how difficult or oppressive the circumstance. At only nineteen years of age, I was required to be the model of patience, perseverance, and fortitude, obliged to keep my entire family financially and emotionally afloat, and to conceal my pain beneath a façade of complete composure, even when my heart was breaking.”
“Yes, and you are admired for your strength of character, Elinor,” insisted I.
“Admired perhaps, but not liked. No one likes a character who is flawless, Miss Austen.”
“It was the same for me,” remarked Fanny. “How I succeeded in maintaining even a modicum of self-respect in such a hostile, belittling, and unfeeling environment as Mansfield Park is purely due to God’s grace and your pen. You made me sit timidly by while the man I loved chased after another woman, had me refuse a charming man because you deemed him insincere, and would not even allow me to participate in a private play, insisting that it was indelicate and wrong! How I disliked myself! No one is fond of a shy, priggish, and passive character, Miss Austen. No one!”
“I am very fond of you,” returned I emphatically. “Henry and Mary liked you. And Edmund loves you.”
“Only because you made him just as good and virtuous as I.”
“The book has oft been praised for its morality and sound treatment of the clergy!” insisted I a little desperately.
“That may be so,” said Fanny, “and please correct me if I am wrong, but your own mother finds me insipid, your niece Anna cannot bear me, and the reading public at large finds Edmund and I both annoying and as dull as dishwater.”
To my mortification, I could not refute her statement.
“People love strong, outspoken characters,” said Elinor, “who will not allow themselves to be trampled on by others—characters who have flaws but overcome them. Yet in our books, you imply that by being consistently patient, good, and silent, a woman can rise above difficult circumstances.”
“Surely this message controverts everything you told us about life in that other book,” said Fanny.
“What other book?” asked I.
“Why, the book that is everyone’s favorite,” answered Elinor with a tight little smile. She then said good-day, and after Fanny made a final comment about the weather, the pair linked arms, turned, and made their way down the damp, grey pavement.
My thoughts were in such a state of disarray that I hardly knew what to think or feel. I strode off in the opposite direction, crossing the road, when a carriage suddenly appeared out of the fog and nearly ran me down. It
was some time before my heart returned to its natural pace. How long I walked on in this distracted manner along the nearly deserted streets I cannot say, but at length I passed the Abbey Church and found myself standing outside the Pump-room. A cacophony of voices issued from within, proof that not all the inhabitants of Bath had stayed at home.
As I was cold and thirsty, I hurried inside the Pump-room, where a crowd milled about in spacious elegance, and musicians in the west apse performed a pleasant air. A cursory glance revealed that I had no acquaintance there. Appreciative of the heat emanating from two large fireplaces, I made my way to the fountain, where I paid the attendant for a glass of water and drank it down. As I turned, I nearly collided with a handsome young man smartly dressed in the uniform of a naval officer, exactly like that of my brothers Frank and Charles.
“Forgive me,” said he with a bow, before purchasing his own glass and moving on. The naval captain made a most arresting figure, and I wondered what lay behind the sad look in his eyes. My attention was soon diverted, however, by the sight of an attractive, fashionably dressed young woman who was intently studying all the passersby, as if seeking out some one in particular. She looked strangely familiar. All at once I knew why: it was Emma Woodhouse.
Emma! In my view, one of the most delightful creatures I had ever conceived! Upon catching sight of me, Emma started with recognition, a look that quickly turned to worry as she glided to my side.
“There you are! I have been looking every where for you, Miss Austen. Have the others found you?”
“The others?”
“Word has got out that you are in town. There are quite a few people who are—” (she hesitated) “—most anxious to speak with you.”
Oh dear, I thought, my heart sinking. This could prove to be a most exhausting day. “Thank you. I will keep an eye out for the others, whoever they may be. But how is it that you are here, Emma? My book about you is only just completed. It has yet to be sold or published.”
She shrugged. “I suppose since it is written, I therefore exist?”
“I see.” I smiled hopefully, praying that, unlike my previous encounters, she might have some kind words for me. My hopes on that score, however, were soon dashed.
“I admit, Miss Austen, that I too have been hoping to have a word with you. You know it is not in my nature to criticise. And far be it from me to give advice—Mr. Knightley is for ever counseling me on that subject, and he is never wrong—but I believe it my duty as a friend to share certain thoughts which I feel might prove to be of benefit to you.”
“Do go on.”
“You must be the judge of what is best to write, of course—I would not dream of interfering—but I cannot help but think that you presented me in a very disagreeable light in your novel.”
“Disagreeable?” I sighed, knowing full well what was coming. “How so?”
“It started out so well. You called me handsome, clever, and rich, and you gave me a happy disposition. You placed me in a comfortable home, I was original in my thinking, and admired by all who knew me. But then you went off in such an unacceptable direction! You made me oblivious to every real thing going on around me. I spent the entire novel completely blind to the truth of my affections, while trying in vain to elevate Harriet’s status and procure her a husband. I was dense, obtuse, manipulative—yet all the while firm in my belief that I knew what was best for every body!”
“Yes, but Emma: every thing you said and did, you did from the fullness of your heart and with the best of intentions.”
“Not everything,” insisted Emma. “I gossiped wickedly about Jane Fairfax, I flirted outrageously with Frank Churchill, and I was unpardonably rude to Miss Bates at Box Hill.”
“That is true, but in each instance, you learned from your mistakes—and this ability to learn and change is the very definition of a heroine. Consider your many positive and attractive qualities. Your temperament is cheerful, patient, and resilient. You are not given to self-pity. You are intelligent and have an excellent sense of humour. Your errors are the result not of stupidity but of a quick mind—a mind so necessitous of stimulation that you were obliged to invent interesting diversions for yourself. You are an imaginist, Emma—like me.”
Emma puzzled briefly over all that I had said, then charged, “Nevertheless, there is one offence so egregious, it negates all the positive qualities you mentioned: you portrayed me as a snob.”
“Dearest Emma,” returned I quietly and with affection, “compare yourself to Mr. and Mrs. Elton. They are my shining examples of true vulgarity, self-importance, and boorishness. You, by contrast, are a charming and amusing creature—a loveable snob.”
“How can a snob be loveable?” retorted Emma sharply. “That is a contradiction in terms. Even you admitted that you were writing a heroine whom no one but yourself would much like.”
“Perhaps I will be proven wrong. My sister read the manuscript, and she loves you as you are.”
“She is hardly the most impartial judge, is she?” cried Emma. Lowering her voice now and speaking with great feeling, she added, “I must depart, but please allow me to leave you with two vital pieces of information. First: tell your cook to try gooseberry jam in her Bakewell Pudding, it is quite delicious. Second: I have just been speaking with a Mr. Thurston, a most interesting, unattached clergyman with good teeth and a nice living in the parish of Snitterfield. Do you see him standing over there by the great clock?” With a slight inclination of her head, Emma gestured towards a stout, red-faced, nearly bald-headed clergyman who was smiling at me. “I made all your charms known to him and he is hoping to speak to you. No, no, do not even think of thanking me,” said she, turning to go. “Just to know that my actions might bring you some future happiness gives me great joy. Good-day, Miss Austen, and good luck.”
“Wait!” cried I, darting after Emma, as anxious to continue our conversation as I was to avoid the man in question, “may we not return to the earlier topic of our discussion? You are the second person to-day who has alleged that I gave her too many faults, while two others insist that I made them too perfect. How am I to reconcile these opposing points of view?”
Emma glanced back at me and shrugged prettily. “That is for you to decide. I cannot give you an opinion. If you prefer to go on writing flawed heroines who must continually humiliate themselves on the road to learning life’s lessons, then be my guest—do not hesitate. You are the author, not I. Not for the world would I think of influencing you either way.” With a parting smile, she whirled round and vanished into the crowd.
In a state of great agitation, I hurriedly navigated my way out of the Pump-room and into the yard beyond. How could it be, I asked myself, that all the characters whom I loved and had created with such care should prove to be so unsatisfied with themselves? Had I erred in their conception? Was it better to be good or flawed? If neither option was acceptable, what was an author to do?
Half a minute conducted me through the empty Pump-yard to the archway opposite Union-passage, where I paused in great surprise. Even Cheap-street—which was normally so congested with the confluence of carriages, horsemen, and carts entering the city from the great London and Oxford roads that a lady was in danger of losing her life in attempting to cross it—was entirely devoid of traffic. The bleak, eerie stillness was not even broken by the advent of a single female window shopper or a gentleman in search of tea and pastry. Where was every body? The only evidence of life in Bath had been the congregation in the Pump-room. The late afternoon light was quickly fading into early evening. Perhaps, I thought, there was a ball taking place in the Upper Rooms.
I had only just conceived this notion when, to my astonishment, I suddenly found myself halfway across the city, standing immediately outside those very Assembly Rooms, enveloped by an eager, jostling crowd making its way in through the open doors.
I had no wish to go within. In my youth, I had greatly enjoyed a ball—I loved music and dancing, and had welcomed the opportunity
it afforded for animated association with friends and neighbours or, at times, new faces—but I had never cared for such diversions at Bath, a city of peripatetic visitors of little sense and even lesser education, where young ladies made overt displays of themselves in search of husbands.
Nevertheless, I was pulled along by the crush of people into the hall and the adjoining ball-room. At length the bustle subsided, depositing me at a vantage point from whence I was able to obtain a good view of the dancers. I felt very out of sorts, and was mortified to be standing amongst this well-dressed crowd clad in my day gown and bonnet (although a brief glance in a nearby looking-glass revealed that the bonnet was trimmed with the loveliest blue satin ribbon and a very fine spray of forget-me-nots).
I was fanning my face from my exertion when my gaze fell upon two couples dancing nearby, at the end of a line. Did my eyes deceive me? Could it possibly be? The first couple looked for all the world like Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy. Dancing directly beside them—I was absolutely certain of it—were Jane and Mr. Bingley. The music ended and I watched in wonder as Elizabeth slipped her hand into the bend of Mr. Darcy’s arm and, smiling and chatting, they made their way across the floor. Jane and Mr. Bingley followed behind at a leisurely pace, engaged in a similarly affectionate tête-à-tête.
A great thrill coursed through me. Was it possible that I was actually going to meet those four dear souls with whom, for so many long years, I had been acquainted only in my mind? My initial exhilaration, however, turned to alarm at the thought of another demoralising scene such as the ones to which I had just been subjected. Hot tears threatened behind my eyes. Oh! I could not bear it! Despite my desperate wish to leave, I was frozen to the spot. In moments the first couple stood before me.
“Good-afternoon, Miss Austen,” said Elizabeth, beaming.
“What a pleasure it is to see you!” exclaimed Mr. Darcy.
Jane Austen Made Me Do It Page 2