Jane Austen’s First Love

by Syrie James

  But there was more. It was perhaps indulgent, immodest, even slightly immoral; but I had high hopes for myself as well. Although I had never seen Edward Taylor act, he claimed to have experience performing—and based on what I had seen and heard of his many other talents, I presumed he should be equal to the part of Nick Bottom, which required a comedic actor of consummate skill. If Edward Taylor played Bottom, then I could be happy with no other role than Titania, queen of the fairies. Not only was it a marvellous part with some wondrous speeches, but there was a love scene between Titania and Bottom, which I blushed to think of, and very much looked forward to playing.

  The dilemma now became: how was I to persuade my brother Edward and Mr. Taylor that my ideas were not only sound, but imperative—without appearing too assertive nor overly ambitious—and without betraying any indication of my underlying motives, however benevolent they might be? And even more important: how was I to get Mr. Cage to agree to take part?

  I concluded that the best course of action was to begin with the proposed actors themselves, and see what influence I might have which could advance the scheme.

  After the ladies and I had all removed for the night, I ventured down the hall, knocked at Fanny’s door, and announced myself. She bid me come in. I entered to find Fanny at her dressing-table, her lady’s maid in the process of taking down her mistress’s hair.

  “Jane,” said Fanny, “I was just thinking about you.” She directed me to a nearby chair. “What is that play called again? A Midsummer Dream?”

  “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

  “Yes, well, I think it quite brilliant to perform it on Midsummer’s Eve itself.”

  Before I could respond, the door burst open and Elizabeth marched in, crying out: “Fanny! Where is my best hairbrush?” Upon observing me, she blushed slightly, but her eyes still flashed angrily as they fixed upon the gilded object in the maid’s hand. “Ah ha! I see you have taken it again! You have no respect for the property of others!” Holding out her hand to the lady’s maid, she added, “I do not blame you, Barrett—I know my sister is the thief—but give it to me please. It is mine.”

  The maid, upon receiving an almost imperceptible shrug from Fanny, returned the article to its owner, then began fishing in a drawer for a replacement.

  “I only borrowed it for a moment,” said Fanny. “There is no need to act so peevishly about it.”

  Elizabeth, as she turned to go, darted a questioning look in my direction, prompting Fanny to add:

  “I was just talking to Jane about the play. Jane: which character do you think is best for me?”

  Elizabeth now stopped to listen.

  “I do not like to say,” replied I carefully, “without first talking to my brother and Edward Taylor.”

  “But you are so familiar with the play!” cried Fanny, pausing to reprimand her maid for pulling too hard with the newly-found hairbrush. “You must have some thoughts about it.”

  “I should like to know which part you think appropriate for me,” said Elizabeth. “I glanced at the book when Edward was reading it. We could never be expected to read the whole play. Will you tell us the story, Jane?”

  I agreed, and Elizabeth sat down while I gave them a brief overview of the plot, narrating with what I hoped to be theatrical effect. Admittedly, my delivery may have been prejudiced a tiny bit in favour of the characters of Hermia and Puck, as these were the roles I hoped my listeners would wish to play. My scheme seemed to work, for when I was finished, the maid was delighted with the story, Elizabeth said she very much wanted to be a fairy, and Fanny said:

  “Helena sounds too weak and servile to me. I prefer Hermia. I like that she is the daughter of an Athenian nobleman, and that both young gentlemen are in love with her.”

  “You would do Hermia justice, I am certain,” said I with satisfaction.

  There was a gentle knock on the door, and Sophia entered to say good-night. She seemed surprised to find us all assembled.

  “Sophia,” said Elizabeth, “Jane has just been telling us the story of the play.”

  “I think you should be Helena,” suggested Fanny, under lowered lashes.

  “Helena? Oh! I do not know.” Sophia blushed. “Helena is a very big and important part; I wonder if I am equal to it.”

  “Of course you are!” cried I. “Helena suits you, Sophia, for she is a modest young lady, yet she pursues her desires with great fervour.”

  Sophia admitted that she would be happy to consider the role if my brother and everyone else concurred with the suggestion, but until that was decided, she would not indulge any expectations.

  I retired for the night very pleased with my progress, and set to work planning how best to approach my next object: Mr. Cage.

  The rain persisted. The Bridges family and their visitors made for a lengthy and colourful procession the next morning as we traversed, beneath our umbrellas, the length of the property along the holly walk en route to church, with the younger children (to their mother’s horror) splashing through puddles at the front in the low sections, and Mr. Deedes and Mr. Cage deep in conversation at the back. I managed to elude my own companions by feigning an improperly-tied shoe-lace, and urging them to walk on without me.

  When Mr. Deedes and Mr. Cage had caught up to me, my errant lace was miraculously retied, and I fell into step alongside them. We chatted amiably for a few moments about this and that, after which Mr. Deedes said:

  “What an excellent idea you had, Miss Jane, to do a home theatrical during this turn in the weather. It will, I believe, afford us much enjoyment.”

  “I hope so,” replied I. “It is gratifying that so many young people wish to participate—nearly everybody in fact.”

  “Yes, nearly everybody.” Mr. Deedes gave his friend a look filled with meaning, and received this reply:

  “Why do you continue to press me, Deedes? I have said I do not wish to perform on the stage, and I will not change my mind.”

  “I press you because I think you are making a great mistake. It is nonsense for you to continue resisting in this stupid manner. Everyone is going to be involved; I imagine that the planning and rehearsing of the play will take up all our waking hours for the coming weeks, and the performance itself will be very amusing. You had much better join us.”

  “Yes! Do join us,” added I, delighted to discover that Mr. Deedes, unprodded, was championing my own cause. Our efforts seemed to be in vain, however, for Mr. Cage replied emphatically:

  “I shall not.”

  “Why not?” said Mr. Deedes. “What will you do to occupy your time while we are busy rehearsing?”

  “I shall find something else to do—riding, reading, or walking. I can be a prompter if required. Or, as I have stated repeatedly, I shall be content to watch.”

  “Come, Cage. This is an opportunity which may never come again, to perform Shakespeare in the company of delightful people with moderate expectations. What are you afraid of? That you shall forget your lines?”

  “I am afraid of nothing. I have an excellent memory. Had I a wish to memorise and spout the first two acts of the play entire before a roomful of people, I feel confident I could do so; but I have no such desire.”

  Mr. Deedes sighed and shook his head. “I do not understand it. The love of theatre is, I believe, too strong for most people to resist.”

  “I have as great a love of theatre as you. I make it a point to see as many productions as I can every time I am in town or at Bath. But in one respect, apparently, I differ from you and the others: I have no desire for shew or self-aggrandisement. I prefer to enjoy theatre as a member of the audience rather than as a member of the company.”

  “How do you know that is your preference,” said I boldly, “if you have only tried one of the alternatives?”

  “A valid point!” cried Mr. Deedes.

  “What are you
implying, Miss Jane? That one must experience a thing, before he can tell for certain if he will or will not like it?”

  “That is my meaning precisely.”

  “What if someone dared you to jump off a cliff? Would you be obliged to jump, before making a determination as to whether or not you would enjoy taking the plunge?”

  I laughed. “Certainly, in that instance, I should be able to make up my mind without attempting it. But we are not talking about anything so perilous as leaping off a cliff, Mr. Cage. We are only proposing a bit of harmless entertainment.”

  “Entertainment for some, but a dire duty for others. Pray, allow me to offer a less dramatic example. What if you were offered a dish at table which was entirely coated in black pepper, and you had an aversion to pepper? Would you try it? Or would you decline, knowing without tasting it, that you should not enjoy it?”

  “I should of course decline it.” I stepped around a sizeable puddle, then continued, “But Mr. Cage, you forget that the instance you describe involves an experience which you already have had; that is, at some point in the past, you must have tasted pepper, in order to recognise your aversion to it. Had you never tried pepper before, and others told you it was delicious, you would have no reason at all to avoid it.”

  Mr. Cage did not answer.

  “I do understand your view, sir,” continued I, “that, all life-threatening activities aside, if a person is given sufficient information about a practice from those who have experienced it, it is valid for him to make a choice as to whether or not to attempt it himself; but to decline can never reflect an accurate examination of a real preference. As my father always says: experience is the best and only true teacher.”

  Mr. Cage looked thoughtful and glanced away, but continued to remain silent.

  This absence of argument seemed to me a promising sign; and, hoping to turn the conversation in an even more productive direction, I said lightly, “Fanny, Elizabeth, and Sophia seem very excited about the play. Last night, we all agreed that Sophia would make the perfect Helena.”

  “Sophia as Helena?” cried Mr. Deedes. “Yes, yes; I do believe she would play the part to perfection.”

  “Of course it is not up to me; my brother and Edward Taylor must be allowed to share their views, and we will find out later this morning if there are others who covet the same part; but Sophia does seem an excellent choice—and Fanny expressed her desire to play Hermia.”

  Mr. Cage looked alarmed at this remark, while Mr. Deedes agreed that “Hermia would entirely suit Fanny, and it would be gratifying to see two women, who were grown close by the connection of being sisters, playing characters who were such good friends.”

  “I should think,” said Mr. Cage quietly, “Fanny more suited to the role of Hippolyta.”

  “She seems to have her heart set on playing Hermia,” replied I, adding guardedly: “Perhaps I should not mention it, knowing how absolutely opposed you are to the idea; but I feel certain that she is counting on you, Mr. Cage, to play her fiancé Demetrius.”

  He hesitated. “Is she? I will be sorry to disappoint her. Even if I were interested in being part of the company, I could not play Demetrius.”

  “Why not?” asked I.

  “I cannot admire him. His infatuation with Hermia caused him to turn his back on Helena, the woman to whom he was once engaged. He is a morally corrupt man.”

  “What do you care?” cried Mr. Deedes. “It is a character in a play, and one of the heroes of the piece at that! Actors portray scoundrels far more villainous every day; certainly, no one judges the person who is playing a part.”

  “Very true,” said I, “and I beg to differ with your assessment, Mr. Cage. Demetrius is not morally corrupt; he is merely human. His abandonment of Helena is a necessary element to the conflict of the story. We do not begrudge Demetrius his change of heart; it only gives him a direction in which to grow and change, and us something to hope for.”

  Mr. Cage took this in, and appeared to be thinking it over (which I took as a point in my favour); but before he could respond, Mr. Deedes cried eagerly:

  “Wait—never mind Demetrius! You ought to play Hermia’s lover, Lysander. Really, you must, Cage. It would be a tremendous case of life imitating art.”

  “Life imitating art?” repeated Mr. Cage. He seemed intrigued.

  I was alarmed by this suggestion, for it did not fit with my plans at all. “Lysander is too passionate a character, I think,” said I, “to suit Mr. Cage’s taste; and his morals are surely even lower than those of Demetrius, for he desires and pursues his friend’s fiancée. However, perhaps you, Mr. Deedes, would not be offended by the thought of playing Lysander?”

  “Me?”

  “Lysander is lively, charming, and well-spoken; I believe nothing could suit you better.”

  “Do you really think so?—That is an excellent part. Well; let us see what the others think. That is—if you are quite sure you do not want it, Cage.”

  “I should never think of playing Lysander,” insisted Mr. Cage.

  My heart quickened, for in the way he emphasised the character’s name, I thought I detected a certain something, which indicated a lessening of disinclination for playing a part in general, but only an aversion to playing Lysander in particular.

  We had nearly reached the church now, where Fanny and Sophia stood waiting by the portico. As we made our final approach, I said pointedly: “Demetrius is a conscientious gentleman, with only one very relatable flaw; and he is the one betrothed to Hermia. If you like the notion of life imitating art, Mr. Cage, you can do no better than that. Only think how pleased Fanny would be, were you to play that part! But if you do not—well, it will be interesting to see who else, besides your friend, ends up making love to your fiancée.”

  Mr. Cage’s countenance drained of colour. After a moment’s hesitation, he turned from me and joined his waiting lady. Mr. Deedes bowed to Sophia; all closed and shook off their umbrellas, and proceeded into the church.

  Watching them go, I felt an immediate pang of conscience. I had no wish to make Mr. Cage truly uncomfortable, but only to put into play such steps as might be required to help him recognise and rectify a relationship which I knew to be a terrible mistake.

  Had I gone too far? Was he offended, or would my manoeuvrings result in a positive effect?

  Only time would tell.

  Later that morning, Edward Taylor joined my brother Edward and me at a corner table in the drawing-room (whose furniture remained intact for the moment, the grand removal from the dining-room postponed until the next day), where we shared our views with regard to the casting of the play.

  “If there is no objection,” said my brother at the start, “I should like to play Oberon.”

  We all agreed that he would make a very fine King of the Fairies.

  “I imagine you as Nick Bottom,” I told Edward Taylor. “I realise it is a very great undertaking—I believe he has the most lines—but you said you preferred a comic role, and there is nobody more humorous than Bottom.”

  “Yes—thank you—why not?” replied Edward Taylor. “Bottom is a very deluded and ridiculous fellow—to play him would prove both a challenge and an amusement.”

  I struggled to contain my delight. This was going very well, indeed. Now, I had only to put forth my preferred role for myself. “I was thinking I could play Titania.”

  “Titania? Oh, no,” insisted my brother. “You can never be Titania, Jane; that part can only be played by Elizabeth.”

  “Elizabeth?” cried I, dismayed. “But she said she wished to be Puck.”

  “She told me, only this very morning, that she wished to be Titania; and I could not agree more.”

  “But—I had my heart set on playing Titania.”

  “Did you? I am sorry, but a brother and sister cannot play those parts; they are lovers; it would never do. Elizabe
th alone must be my Queen of the Fairies.”

  “You will make a very handsome pair indeed,” agreed Edward Taylor, adding, “Jane: you ought to play Puck.”

  “Puck?” My heart sank. “Puck is a male role.”

  “Every role in Shakespeare is a male role, when it comes down to it,” responded Edward Taylor.

  “True! If men could play women in Shakespeare’s time, then let us be equally as liberal, and allow women to play men,” said my brother. “I have heard you read aloud, Jane, and seen you perform; although it was some years ago, you had a great gift for it then, and I can only imagine that you have improved since. As such I can only second the motion, that you should be Puck.”

  I was too devastated to reply. I had lost out on the role which was so important to me, and instead I should be playing a man!

  “Do not look so downcast, Jane,” added my brother. “Have you forgotten how marvellous and important is the role of Puck?”

  “He is, arguably, the leading part in the play,” noted Edward Taylor. “It requires someone of a particular talent—which I feel certain you possess.”

  At length, I forced a smile. If I could not be Titania, then Puck was indeed a most excellent part; I knew I should be flattered and content. “I accept; that is, if you think all the others will agree.”

  “Let us not leave it up to the others,” said my brother. “That will lead only to chaos and confusion. I say, we are managing the play, therefore we ought to assign the parts. If anyone objects to his own casting, we can listen and reconsider.”

  I quickly admitted to a similar view, and shewed them the list I had written out, with all the parts and actors specified. We went over it together, and with only a few exceptions, they thought my ideas to be sound. Their only change was to insist that Marianne ought to play the fairy in Act II Scene 1, for although it was a charming part, it was small enough that it would not tire her beyond her strength; and Charlotte Payler would be the ideal person to play Flute. This development I did not welcome.