by Gill Hornby
“I did not know,” Cassandra replied warmly. “But am most pleased to hear that someone helped carry the burden.”
“Oh, but I only came for a few afternoons, Mama! It was Isabella, truly, who did everything. She never left my uncle’s side.”
“Nonsense, my dear. It is my clear recollection that you were almost permanently absent over that trying period. Caroline is”—she addressed the room—“like her mother, too prone to give.”
“Shall we read?” Isabella asked brightly. “Cassandra and I have started your aunt Jane’s Persuasion. You will know it well, of course. I did not. It really is most entertaining!”
“If you happen to appreciate novels,” countered Mary. “Poetry, to me, offers a more profound experience. Poetry and more lyrical prose. Caroline, pass my bag. It so happens that I have with me my husband’s journal. While a great deal of fuss is made of your aunt Jane, it is most useful to remind ourselves that she was not the only writer in the family. Indeed, nor the best, I have heard some people say. And I do believe my James-Edward to be the greatest of all. He has his father’s talent and then some. Mark my words: He will write something someday and astonish the world with it. Then the Austen name shall be made.”
Cassandra felt a dull ache—first in her back, then creeping round to her groin—which she ascribed to nothing beyond deep irritation. Why must she refer to it as a “journal” when quite clearly it was nothing of the sort? This red leather album that Mary was now opening with reverence was no more than a scrapbook, filled with fragments of James’s writing. The woman’s ignorance in all matters of literature was so profound and far-reaching that she did not know enough even to know she was wrong.
“I think we should hear his Kintbury poem now. Do not you agree? I presume you know it already, Isabella? No doubt you, like me, can recite it almost word for word. No? You do not know it? What were my sister and brother-in-law doing with their time and their children? I often wonder. It is not every family that has such words, such exceptional poetry, written for and about them! Why, if such a thing had been composed in honor of me and my kin I should make sure to celebrate it! Well, thank goodness I brought it—that is all I can say. This may, after all, be the last time we ever sit together in this very drawing room, and this very drawing room is above all the best place in which to hear it. But prepare yourself, Isabella dear. Do prepare yourself. I warn you, it is moving”—she dabbed her nose with her handkerchief—“so very, very, quite exceptionally moving. I do not believe there has ever been a writer like my Austen for moving a person.” She cleared her throat, and began in her flat, lackluster tones:
“Amid the temperate hours of evening grave
Oft was I wont in thoughtful mood to stray
Where Kennet’s crystal stream with limpid wave
Through Kintbury’s meadows takes its winding way…”
Mary was forced to stop for a moment, overcome. “Limpid wave—is that not wondrous? Limpid wave.” She looked about, shook her head. “Only Austen. Only my dearest Austen.” She collected herself and went on:
“And still in my mind’s eye, methinks, I see
The village pastor’s cheerful family …
“So that’s the Fowles, dear! Yes. Your family! In a poem!
“The father grave, yet oft with humor dry
Producing the quaint jest or shrewd reply;
The busy bustling mother who like Eve
Would ever and anon the circle leave,
Her mind on hospitable thought intent,
Careful domestic blunders to prevent.”
She stopped again. “Oh, that is so like your grandmother, Isabella! Careful domestic blunders to prevent! So like her! So brilliantly put! So like all we married women, of course.” She looked around the room, took in, one by one, the single women gathered about her, and gazed at them with sympathy, then shrugged and went on: “‘While yet a gayer group, four manly boys’—He is writing of your father and his brothers, now. Where was I? Yes:
“While yet a gayer group, four manly boys,
Heightened with relish of domestic joys,
Of future happiness gave promise fair,
And eased with pleasing hopes a parent’s care…”
Caroline and Isabella both glanced over at Cassandra with fear in their eyes. The younger generation of her family took great care never to mention Tom in Cassandra’s presence. Until that moment she had never been quite sure whether this was a policy that they had agreed upon together, or whether it was merely because they had never known him and so he did not often come to their minds. She now understood—it was written on the younger women’s faces—that they were gripped by terror at the thought of her reaction.
This revelation quite bemused her. Surely, if they knew anything at all, they must know that her own stoicism on the subject was quite celebrated. Yet now here they were, looking for all the world as if she were on the brink of A Scene! It was preposterous. She arranged her features into a study of calm, and focused, with dignity, upon Mary.
“And one sleeps where Ocean ceaseless pours
His restless waves ’gainst West India’s shores:
Friend of my Soul and Brother of my heart!”
But—and it was most odd—this verse appeared to be new to Cassandra. Had she simply forgotten it? Or never before been made aware of it? Either way, she did fear that Mary was here straying into the region of tactlessness.
“For I had many a scene of pleasure planned
When safe returned to this dear native land…”
Of course the region of tactlessness was to Mary something like her natural habitat. But Isabella and Caroline, she could not but notice, were becoming most discomfited.
“Much did I hope (it was a vision fair
And pity it should melt into thin air)
Our friendship soon had known a dearer tie
Than friendship’s self could ever yet supply.”
Cassandra had now to own that she too was feeling discomfited—from the atmosphere in the room, of course. But also—she simply had to admit it, if only ever to herself—by the quite execrable standard of this verse.
“And I had lived with confidence to join
A much loved Sister’s trembling hand in—”
She rose to her feet to bring this nonsense to a close. Really, this was her brother’s writing at its worst. It was not worthy of being read aloud in a family circle; not worthy even of the paper upon which it was written: “Forgive me, all. I am really quite tired from our busy day. Do excuse me, my dears, if I go up a little before you.” To think that they might have enjoyed a few chapters of Persuasion! What a deadweight Mary was on an evening.
She bade them goodnight, and withdrew.
* * *
CASSANDRA FELL WITH RELIEF into the pure solitude of her room, but it took a few minutes of pacing and general, restless physical activity before she could restore her calm spirits. She retrieved the bundle of letters from under the mattress. She opened her valise, removed her patchwork pieces, checked the papers beneath them, closed it again. She brushed her hair, washed her face, gazed for a moment through the window at the gray, starless night. At last her heart returned to its old pattern; her limbs stopped their shaking. Closing the curtains, she settled into the armchair, reached for the letters, and thought how to best use this precious, short time.
She could certainly spare herself from reading the next one. Permitting herself just a glance at the date—18 April 1797—she then, carefully, put it aside.
But what was this? Next, in Jane’s pile, in Eliza’s compilation of Jane’s private correspondence, was a page in a quite different hand. She recognized it at once: This was from Mary. Cassandra was startled. What could it mean? Of course it had been filed in error … It would be criminal to read it … Her head and her heart told her to return it immediately … But her eyes—her poor, old, disobedient eyes—saw that same date. And read on:
Deane Rectory
18 Apr
il 1797
My dear Eliza,
I write to tell you that I have fulfilled my sad duties on behalf of the Kintbury family and must report that the afternoon has left me quite depleted in energies and spirit. You will be relieved to know that my dear Austen has been most solicitous to me, so that I now feel sufficiently restored to give my account, as per your request.
We left for Steventon as soon as your letter arrived. While my husband—shocked and fearful of the effect that the news would have upon his sister—was all for waiting and prevarication, I was insistent. Cass. must know as soon as possible. The deed could not be put off. We found the ladies where they are always to be found, alone in their sitting room with the door shut to the world—I must confess to finding this closeness of theirs most unnatural and very excluding of others. No good will come of it. But Austen forbids me from saying so to either parent. There we are. I am forced to keep my wise words to myself. That is what it is like here, I am sorry to tell you. There will be no criticism of The Girls. And I dare say that will be more so after the events of today.
As we mounted the stairs, I could hear their laughter—they do laugh an unusual amount, in my opinion. I used not to mind, but lately have found it a source of great irritation. My poor heart sank further at the prospect of that which lay before me but my courage did not falter. They were both at work of some sort—I got the impression it was an item for her trousseau that Cass. had about her as we entered—so it was as well that we came quickly and spared her more labors. For what use is a trousseau to the poor woman now?
I believe that as soon as C. saw my face, she knew the purpose of my visit—I was and still am quite pale with the shock of it—and when I asked that Jane leave, her air darkened considerably. I came to the point at once. Austen had thought that he might speak first but I feared he would only prolong the misery. When bad things must happen they must happen at once and we women—married women in particular—are so much more sensitive to that which is required in a difficult situation. As when Anna is up to her bad tricks—the child’s terrible behavior shows no signs of abating—why wait for her father to deliver one of his long sermons? I give her a good, short, sharp slap on the back of her legs and there is the end.
So as soon as the door closed upon Jane—and she was reluctant to leave us in privacy—I delivered my message, simply and directly—Tom was dead, of Yellow Fever, and these past two months had lain buried at sea. I regret to say that the ensuing scene was quite desperate. Cassandra fell to the floor and was beset with such a fit of grief that it was quite an agony to witness. In the midst of such a distressing situation, you must know that I did not miss a detail and conducted myself with aplomb. I passed on Lord Craven’s condolences, but even that did not seem to console her. And I remembered to add that His Lordship had no knowledge that there was such an engagement: he would never have taken a betrothed man aboard, but Tom had not thought to mention it. Well, Eliza! One might have hoped for an expression of sympathy for poor Lord Craven’s position. In its place, we had the hysterics.
I am so grateful to have had my own husband there to comfort me. He has been most solicitous ever since. He is conscious that it was the most terrible ordeal for me—especially now, in what should be my honeymoon period, when I have all the excitement and happiness of having become so lately Mrs. James Austen—it does still bring a small thrill to write those words—it is quite tragic that I of all people should have been the one to have to perform such an onerous task. Is it always to be my lot to have to deal with the dramas of my new sisters?
But, dear Eliza, there, ’tis done. You will be comforted to hear that I am now before a good fire with a tisane beside me and that James has had the sensitivity to send Anna to the Austens until I should begin to recover—she will cling to her father so even when I am there in the room—it is most seriously vexing and should be more than my nerves could stand to have to deal with the child now. It was also in my thinking that it may benefit all in the household to have to look after her—a welcome distraction from that dull business of grief. He will soon read to me from his own poetry. I think his Sonnets would be appropriate this evening. They always soothe me and heaven knows I need soothing tonight.
Ever your loving sister,
Mary Austen.
Cassandra’s immediate reaction to the letter was simple astonishment. This could not possibly be genuine. It must be a parody: Mrs. James Austen through the medium of satire. Perhaps—it went through her mind in the very first minute—this was by Jane? She was, after all, quite brilliant at capturing their sister-in-law for their private amusement. Only the other day back in Chawton, Cassandra had come across a comedic letter of complaint her sister had written years before, in Mary’s voice to the portrait painter: You claimed that you had captured me perfectly, and yet my family points out that your picture is of a woman most plain and, moreover, sour … She had enjoyed it anew and then burned it at once.
Her eyes moved back to the top of the page. She began it again. And this time her emotions were quite other and completely beyond her control. She felt tears course down her cheeks, her neck, over her hands onto the paper and did nothing to stop them. She could hear her sobs—choking, gulping sobs—pierce the air but did not try to arrest them. Instead she let her misery take flight, swell, fill, press into the walls of this mean little chamber they had thought good enough to put her in.
“How dare she?!” she cried.
Now she felt none of that passive self-pity.
“How dare she?!”
She was not revisiting her grief.
“HOW DARE SHE?!”
This was outrage, pure outrage that consumed and possessed her. How dare Mary peddle this hideous calumny? How could she—even she—write something so vile?
From the moment that the news had been broken to her—badly, insensitively, not as she would have liked or deserved, but no matter—Cassandra had identified that as the occasion to which she must rise. She could remember it—clear as a bell—all these years later. Listening to Mr. and Mrs. James Austen, asking for details, accepting their sympathies—her back ramrod straight, her voice calm and quiet—and thinking that this was the thing by which she would be defined from here on. She would have no other opportunity. Her future was to be denied her. She would have no marriage to succeed in, no vicarage to run, no children to raise. This was to be the test of Miss—forever, eternally Miss—Cassandra Austen. And by God—that God who had in His wisdom chosen to try and destroy her—she would pass it.
And pass it she had. Cassandra’s grief had been noble; her countenance quite simply remarkable. She had borne it with a fortitude that had astonished them all. They had talked of it, written about it, discussed their admiration of her openly and incessantly: In the face of the most appalling tragedy, she had shown a strength that placed her squarely in the upper echelons of strong women. That was her truth.
Yet Mary—who was with her then, who was there throughout all that misery—had somehow concocted another truth entirely. How wide had she spread it? How far had it reached? And Cassandra saw now, understood for the first time, the immensity of the task she had lately set herself: How impossible it was to control the narrative of one family’s history.
Well, there was at least one small thing she could do. She picked up the letter again, and—with as much violence as one old lady could bring to bear upon one old piece of paper—ripped it to shreds.
9
Steventon, May 1797
The next few weeks were, presumably, clement—it was that time of year when the mornings were bright and the evenings lengthening—but, in truth, Cassy had no sense of the weather. She lived under an immovable shroud of her own darkness. Oh, she carried on. Of course she carried on! Not once did she falter in that immediate resolution to remain dignified for everybody, to always appear strong.
In the mornings she worked in the house with a frenzied determination; she sat with her embroidery in the circle around the fireside i
n the evenings. She and Jane still spent the afternoons in their dressing room. Work on her trousseau was abandoned, those lovingly sewn items packed away, carefully: Another, luckier bride might, perhaps, one day have use for them. For Cassy there would be nothing but black from here on.
All her free time was now spent on letters of condolence. Her post was quite overwhelming, more even than when she was newly engaged. Conscientious as ever, she committed to reply promptly to every one. Meanwhile, Jane still wrote. She was finishing First Impressions, and reviewing an earlier composition, Elinor and Marianne—all for Cassy’s own entertainment. She listened, even smiled, sometimes. But she could no longer laugh.
One such afternoon, perhaps a month after the collapse of her world, Cassy opened a letter and let out a gasp.
“What is it, dearest?” Jane jumped and ran to her. Her nerves, too, had been shattered to pieces by the news of Tom’s death. It would be a long time before either sister—so recently cheerful, untouched by tragedy—could find it within her to trust fortune again.
“This, from Eliza.” Cassy’s hand shook as she passed Jane the paper. “Tom’s will has been read.”
Jane took in the message and then looked at her sister. A young lady did not need a strong grasp of arithmetic to interpret the figure there on the page, and these two intelligent daughters of the parsonage understood it at once.
“One thousand pounds!”
“One thousand pounds.”
“Oh, how he loved you!”
“What a good and kind man.”
“Then good Lord Craven did pay Tom most handsomely for his short service. That must be on your account, dearest. Because he was soon to be married.”