Jane Austen’s First Love

by Syrie James

  It was pleasing to learn that we shared this point of view, yet it still did not answer my primary question. “Did you truly mean to flatter me, then, when you called me noble? Or, as I suspect, was there some other, less than charitable intent behind the word?”

  He regarded me with a deep and thoughtful expression, and at length said:

  “Perhaps, although I was unconscious of it at the time, there is something in what you say; for although I would never deliberately wish to give offence to you or anyone else, there are certain practices of the noble set which I find less than appealing—and one practice in particular, which is very much in evidence to-night.”

  I thought I could guess the practice to which he referred; and the particular direction of his next, brief glance confirmed it. “I take it you mean—hair powdering?”

  He nodded.

  “Then—you did not powder your hair to-night as some kind of—protest?”

  “You could call it that. I prefer to think of it as the expression of a personal conviction.”

  “A conviction? Please explain yourself. What is wrong with hair powdering?”

  “What is right with it?”

  “It is beautiful.”

  “Beauty is a matter of taste.”

  “But—everyone does it.”

  “Not everyone; only those who can afford it. Hair-powder is expensive. It is an affectation of the upper classes.”

  “You call it an affectation; others call it fashion.”

  “And what is fashion, but mannerisms, styles, and clothing which are generally determined by royalty or the wealthy, and imitated by everyone who has the means?”

  His comment surprised me; I had never heard anyone express a similar view. “If people imitate, I think, it is due to admiration and a desire to feel that they belong.”

  “That seems to be so; but is it not sad, Miss Jane, the lengths to which some people will go, simply to feel a sense of belonging, or to chase a perception of beauty? In other cultures, people engage in practices which they think beautiful, but which I consider hideous or ridiculous—for example in China, where they bind feet.”

  “I have read about that. Those poor young girls—to have their feet broken and forever bound—and never to be able to stand for more than a few minutes at a time—it is barbaric!”

  “In some African cultures, long necks are so prized that women wear brass coil rings around their necks to stretch them out, increasing the number of rings as a woman ages, making it impossible to support their own head unaided. In other countries, their lips are pierced and stretched out with a plate or plugs. Head binding was popular in the ancient world, to permanently modify a newborn infant’s skull into a shape thought to exude intelligence.”

  “Oh! But these procedures are truly horrible! They modify the very shape of the body itself. How can you compare them to the simple act of hair powdering?”

  “It is the intent behind the practice which offends me: to alter one’s appearance in a manner which is considered, at that point in time, to be more aesthetically pleasing. Look at all the heads around us, Jane. Everyone looks exactly the same! God gave us hair in such a range of exquisite, natural shades and textures; why cover up that beauty with a wig, or defile it with powder? Particularly white or gray powder, which makes everyone look so incredibly ancient.”

  “I never thought about that before.”

  “The whole thing has always seemed rather silly to me.”

  “Perhaps it is silly.” I shrugged. “But—silly things do not appear quite so silly, when they are done by a sizeable number of rational-seeming people all at the very same time.”

  He laughed. “An admirable defense of many harebrained customs; although, I admit, hair powdering was not entirely foolish when it first came into being.”

  “Oh? When and why did the custom start? And how do you know?”

  “I have read a great deal on the subject. It is an ancient practice. It began in the sixteenth century with the wearing of wigs—” He stopped himself, glancing at the people milling and chatting around us. Coloured slightly, he added, “Forgive me, but it occurs to me—this is not a subject suitable to discuss with a lady, and certainly not at a ball.”

  My curiosity was now piqued. “Mr. Taylor, you must tell me. Why did people begin wearing wigs?”

  He shook his head.

  “I can only suppose it was to improve their personal appearance?”

  Reluctantly, he said, “That was one of the reasons.”

  “And the other reasons?”

  “Are you certain you wish to know?”

  “I do.”

  He hesitated; then glancing meaningfully towards the back of the house, he gestured for me to follow him. We made our way together to the small vestibule at the rear, and from there stepped outside into the evening air, where I sighed with relief, grateful to be enveloped by its invigorating coolness. Another couple stood nearby conversing; or rather, I should say they were quarrelling: it was Fanny and Mr. Cage, and she appeared to be in quite a fit of temper. I caught the phrases not what you promised me and I can never be happy unless—; but heard no more, as Edward Taylor deliberately continued out to the lawn, putting some distance between us and the arguing lovers.

  I accompanied him. It was that hour of twilight which I have always thought very pleasing: not yet dark, yet no longer day; the sun lay below the horizon, diffusing the sky with its soft light. The muted sounds of the musicians starting up again could be heard from within the house.

  “There; now we may safely talk in private,” said he, taking a seat on a stone bench, and inviting me to sit beside him.

  Fanny and Mr. Cage, I noticed, had retreated into the house. “I cannot think why such privacy was required to explain why people began wearing wigs in the sixteenth century.”

  “I warned you: it is not a conversation to be holding with a lady.”

  “You cannot frighten me off with such a declaration.”

  “Then listen at your peril: I read that it was first employed to compensate for a certain illness incurred by men—” Colouring deeply, he went on: “—an illness which promoted baldness.”

  I did not comprehend his allusion, but had no wish to betray my ignorance. “And?”

  “Wigs also became preferable when certain unwholesome conditions occurred in the natural hair.” Raising his hand to his head, he made a scratching motion.

  I understood this reference and made a face, for it was still a common problem.

  “The wealthy often shaved their natural hair,” continued he, “and wore a wig, which could be more easily cleaned. But even though the wearing of wigs rose in popularity for these reasons among the upper classes, it was apparently royal patronage which sealed its success.”

  “Oh! Queen Elizabeth lost some of her hair to small-pox—and ever after wore a red wig!”

  “Yes. And later, in the early 1600s, King Louis XIII of France went prematurely bald, and took to wig-wearing. The practice soon spread to all the European countries and became de rigueur for men and women of social rank.”

  “I see. But what of powdering?”

  He paused. “Have you ever worn a wig?”

  “Never.”

  “Nor have I. But apparently, when worn for any length of time, a wig becomes—shall we say—less pleasant. So they were coated with powder because—”

  “—it carried the scent of orange or lavender,” I interrupted, comprehending.

  He nodded in affirmation.

  “Fascinating.” As I contemplated what I had just learned, I added: “Lately, I have noticed only men wearing wigs; the tendency among women and young men is to simply powder their hair. Why is that?”

  “I think wigs grew too expensive, and so the style changed. I hope it is going to change again, and soon. Hair powdering is still all the
rage among the upper crust in France, but dying out in other parts of Europe—and for good reason. It is not a good time to be emulating the fashions of the French aristocracy.”

  Again, his statement took me by surprise; it was something I had never considered before. “I am, of course, well aware of what is happening in France,” said I slowly. I had read about it in the newspapers, and heard my mother, father, and brothers talk about the crisis amongst themselves and with visiting friends. “The people are poor; many are starving. They feel their king is indifferent and incompetent. Two years ago, they rose up, stormed the Bastille, and formed an assembly to draft a new constitution. They think to govern themselves. But—”

  “It is anarchy! The army is in considerable disarray; commoners have formed militias and armed themselves. To think that a monarchy could collapse so easily—it is terrifying. The king and his family have long since been evicted from Versailles, and now their very lives are in peril.”

  “Surely the people would never harm the royal family.”

  “The people are so angry, there is no telling what they might do. And it is not just the royals who are in danger. Soldiers drawn from the lower classes are turning against and attacking their officers, simply because they are of noble birth; if this continues, every noble could be in jeopardy. The other monarchies of Europe are looking at what is happening in France with grave concern, and considering whether they ought to intervene to support Louis XVI, or to prevent the spread of revolution. I think there will be all-out war soon.”

  “So I hear; but not with England, I hope?”

  “Yes, with England; and no doubt Austria, the Netherlands, Germany—it is coming, Miss Jane. Nothing can stop it, I fear.”

  “Oh!” The idea was very distressing. “I hope you are wrong.”

  Edward Taylor looked at me, softening. “Forgive me; living in Europe, I have perhaps been more privy to this information than have you, and thus more aware of the dire possibilities. How did we get off on this disagreeable subject, in any case?”

  “I believe you brought it up in some connection with powdered hair.”

  “Ah! So I did. I only meant to say that, in the current political climate, considering that Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette powder their hair as a mark of rank and privilege—I should think no one else in his right mind would want any part of it—no matter how popular the custom.”

  “You make an excellent point. But that is not why you refuse to follow the fashion. You thought it foolish long before that.”

  “Foolish and old-fashioned.” He stood and suggested we return to the house. As we slowly made our way thither, I said,

  “You have given me a lot to think about, Mr. Taylor. I am intrigued by your notions; but I admit, I still think it very brave of you to shew up here to-night with natural hair. Is not it rather awkward, being the only person present who looks different from the rest?”

  “A bit. But were I to follow a fashion merely to copy others, I should be no better than the sheep out on that lawn, who will follow their flock blindly wherever they are led—if it came to it, off a cliff to their death. But pray, allow me to better explain my way of thinking, by way of a small illustration. Will you indulge me?”

  “How?”

  “I shall pose three questions for you to answer—three questions which appear deceptively easy, yet not one in a hundred people answer them all correctly. At the end, I will reveal the answers.”

  Mystified, and ever ready to meet an intellectual challenge, I replied, “I will.”

  “Question one. True or false: Queen Elizabeth ascended to the throne on 17 November 1558.”

  I hesitated. It did indeed seem to be a simple question; every educated child in England was obliged to memorise that date. Yet he had said the questions would appear easy. Perhaps, I thought, I had got the date wrong? The year I was certain of; but as to the month, or the day of the month—could it be that I remembered (or had been taught) it incorrectly? Not wishing to be foolish or deceived, I said boldly: “False.”

  “Question two. True or false: King Henry VIII had six wives.”

  Again, I paused. Everyone knew that Henry VIII had six wives! How could ninety-nine out of a hundred people get that answer wrong? I considered the possibilities. I remembered that his marriage to his fourth wife, Anne of Cleves, had never been consummated, and was very quickly annulled. Perhaps this annulment meant that the marriage was not legitimate, and therefore in actuality, Henry VIII had only had five wives? “False,” said I.

  “Question three. True or false: Shakespeare was baptised with the first name William.”

  I sighed in frustration. Did the Bard have a different Christian name at birth? It was entirely possible. Was this another trick question? For some reason, however, I could not bring myself to say false this time; so very reluctantly I said, “True?”

  “Very good on the last question. It is indeed true.”

  “And the others?”

  “To all three questions, the answer is true.”

  “All three are true!” cried I, aghast. “You said they were deceptively easy—but that nearly everyone gets them wrong!”

  “And so they do.” He struggled to hold back a smile. “Do not hate me, Miss Jane: it was not your knowledge which was being tested, but your conviction—your ability to remain true to what you believe is true.”

  “Oh!” I gasped, blushed, and could not help but laugh as I playfully nudged his arm. “How diabolical you are! A child could have answered those questions. How easily I talked myself out of the proper responses!”

  “Now you understand, I hope, what I was trying to say.”

  I paused and considered. “I think I do. You believe that one should not, must not, be swayed by popular opinion or the ideas of others, to think or act against his or her own convictions.”

  He nodded. “It is not always easy, particularly at our age, when we are still subject to the dictates of our parents; but if possible, we must be true to ourselves, for I believe the only route to happiness is to follow our own hearts.”

  Chapter the Sixteenth

  What a difference an hour or two of conversation can make, with an intelligent, deep-thinking person! I had entered the ball-room that night with one set of ideas, and after my dialogue with Edward Taylor, returned to it with quite another. How strange did the dancers, their every head either encumbered by a wig or doused in powder, all now appear to me! A practice to which I had long aspired, and had considered to be the height of fashion, I now observed in a very different light. I was mortified to think that I had been happy—nay, anxious—to indulge in such behaviour.

  Edward Taylor and I had no sooner entered the ball-room, than he said, “Would you care to dance again, Miss Jane?”

  I shook my head, presuming him to be teasing. “We cannot, Mr. Taylor. We already completed one set. We are not supposed to dance another.”

  “Ah yes, I had forgotten—that is the custom in this country—but I do not see the sense in it. If we enjoy each other’s company and wish to dance together again, who could it hurt? Would you like to dance with me again?”

  “I would, sir. But—I fear Lady Bridges would not approve. And what would my mother think? It would not be proper!”

  “We have already erred against propriety, I believe, in talking outside together unescorted for a considerable period. Why should you worry now about such an insubstantial thing as dancing together in a room full of people?”

  “Oh!” I had not considered that what we did before was wrong. “But sir, having offended against decorum once is no reason to do so a second time.”

  “On the contrary, it is the perfect excuse, since you cannot possibly offend for the first time again.”

  I laughed. “Your arguments divert me; but I repeat, to dance again would be scandalous.”

  “Let us be scandalous, then!” He
offered me his arm, a laughing challenge in his eyes.

  I tried to resist, but could no more do so than I could stop breathing. Again, he led me to the floor and we danced another set—and following that, yet another! He made such a pleasing partner, that for this delightful interval, I took no notice of anyone or anything else around me, other than that which related to the exercise itself.

  When this last dance was finished, and I was so winded as to require a brief respite, I felt a sharp tug on my arm as my mother drew me forcibly away from Mr. Taylor, marched me out of the room to a quiet spot in the central hall, and whirled on me with wrath.

  “Jane! How dare you! Have I taught you nothing? Did not you see the other young ladies standing around the room, waiting and hoping for a partner, while you danced half the evening away with that young rogue! One set only per partner, that is the rule!”

  “I am sorry, Mamma. He asked me, and I felt it would be rude to refuse—”

  “Sorry! A lot of good that does now, with the ball nearly over! And where did you disappear to for an hour or more? I looked all over the house for you but you were nowhere to be seen.”

  I blushed. “I was only sitting outside and talking with Edward Taylor. We did nothing improper, I assure you.”

  “Nothing improper! Nothing improper! Sitting outside together! Unchaperoned! I am shocked, shocked, I tell you, by your behaviour, and by the behaviour of modern young men! A great alteration has taken place in them since my time, when a sense of decorum and modesty marked their characters! All that is gone now, entirely gone. Sitting down and talking together for hours on end! The very idea! You both have set a very bad example. I said you could dance with him, but not six dances in the same evening! What will Lady Bridges and Sir Brook say? Do not think that they have not noticed!”

  “I thought you did not care what Lady Bridges thinks.”

  “What? Such impertinence, I never witnessed before in such a girl!” (lowering her voice to a fierce whisper) “No; I do not care to have her approval, for she is a vain and snobbish woman—but neither do I wish to be turned out of this house as a result of your impudence! And I do care what Sir Brook thinks, for he is a fine and honest man and very honourable!” (resuming her previous tone) “Oh! All I wished for was to breed you up virtuously; I hoped to see you respectable, modest, and good. But I might have spared myself the trouble! Jane, if everyone acted as you did, everything would go to sixes and sevens, and all order would soon be at an end throughout the kingdom!”