by Syrie James
I awoke just as dawn was creeping through the shutters. On a typical morning at home, I might roll over and enjoy another hour or two of slumber; I would then rise, dress, practice an hour at the pianoforte, take a walk if the weather was fine, or sit by the fire and write until the rest of the household was awake and ready for breakfast. Today, however, there was no possibility of falling back to sleep, for the moment I opened my eyes, I recalled the story I had in progress, and the characters to which I was eager to return.
In short order I was back at work. Two hours flew by in an instant. I was so immersed in my tale that I did not even notice that Cassandra had got up until she was standing beside me, looking on silently but quizzically.
“Oh! Cassandra, I am having such fun. I am not yet finished, but—” I sighed, adding reluctantly: “I suppose I must put down my pen for the day.”
“Yes, you ought to, dearest. But it looks as though you have been very productive. What prompted this sudden burst of creativity?”
“It was Edward Taylor’s doing.”
“Edward Taylor?”
“Yes. I think he was trying to make amends for his part in Charles’s brush with death the other day. He gave me a packet of writing-paper and challenged me to write a new story. If I was tired of writing silly nonsense, he said, I should write something else—something I deemed more worthy. This is my attempt to do precisely that.”
“What is it about?”
“When it is completed, I will let you read it and discover for yourself.”
A busy day followed. Midsummer’s Eve was only three days distant, and we were mounting our first full rehearsal. It was exciting to see the entire play coming together, and the endeavour took over my every thought. With a cast of two dozen active young people, there was constant activity and commotion. My mother had found a new way to keep the youngest children and the Payler boys out of trouble—by recruiting them, along with all the ladies in the production and several housemaids, to help with the costumes. I was not exempted from this duty, either.
“Your sister and I have been slaving away till we can hardly see straight, Jane,” complained my mother. “I appreciate the leaves and flowers which you have been helping us construct, but they require a great deal of time to apply. And the wings! Who ever decided that fairies must have wings? How difficult they are to fashion! If we are to be ready for Wednesday’s performance, I will need more help from everyone, including you.”
Edward Taylor and I were supposed to sit in the audience with my brother Edward whenever we could, to observe the progress of those scenes which did not include us; but as we were all three also playing leading roles, we could not watch as much as we would like. Puck took all my powers of concentration. After leaving the stage, I often retreated to a corner of the green-room to go over my lines; but as nearly all the other actors were doing exactly the same, along with all the wing-makers and flower-sewers gathered around the room, there was hardly a space unoccupied.
What little I was able to observe of the play brought me satisfaction, however, particularly where the real-life lovers were concerned, whose fates were of such interest to me.
When Lysander (Mr. Deedes) declares his love to Hermia (Fanny), and requests to sleep beside her in the wood—
O, take the sense, sweet, of my innocence!
Love takes the meaning in love’s conference.
I mean, that my heart unto yours is knit
So that but one heart we can make of it;
Two bosoms interchained with an oath;
So then two bosoms and a single troth.
Then by your side no bed-room me deny;
For lying so, Hermia, I do not lie.
—I rejoiced to see Mr. Deedes infuse his part with such emotion, and Fanny receive his attentions with such warmth. Their performance seemed to me to presage the future, when they should be lovers in real life.
Mr. Cage, who had watched earlier incarnations of that scene with little expression, now set his jaw and looked away. It must have prompted him to rise to new heights where acting was concerned; for in the third act, when Demetrius awakens under the effects of Puck’s love potion, and declares his love for Helena (Sophia)—
To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne?
Crystal is muddy. O, how ripe in show
Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow!
. . . O, let me kiss
This princess of pure white, this seal of bliss!
—Mr. Cage proclaimed the words with such passion, as to bring a deep blush to Sophia’s cheeks. Indeed, she appeared to bloom before my eyes! I smiled, for it was lovely to see him speaking with such romantic verve to a young lady so deserving of his affections. Cassandra and Thomas Payler, in their scenes as Hippolyta and Theseus, were also sweetly demonstrative. Everything seemed to be proceeding according to my hopes and plans!
At the dinner table that evening, the play was all anyone could talk about. A few were certain that the production was not ready, and that we should embarrass ourselves; others were sure that it was an excellent work, and we should all triumph.
One end of the table, where sat Fanny, Mr. Deedes, Mr. Cage, and Sophia, was peculiarly withdrawn and quiet. All four seemed to be in an introspective mood; why, I could not fathom. All four were remarkable in their parts; soon, all would make their theatrical debuts in one of the world’s greatest plays before an audience of family and friends, from whom I knew they would receive great approbation and acclaim. Why, then, were their faces so grim? Why were they so short when speaking to each other?
I gave no more thought to the matter, for now that the rehearsal was over, my mind had drifted to that other matter which was of such interest to me: my story, which was only half-written, and awaited my attention upstairs. The interval following dinner was given over to the frantic sewing of costumes, and the final coordination of the potted greenery meant to portray the forest of Arden. When, at last, the preponderance of the work was in order, and everyone began to say their good-nights, I hastened upstairs and returned to my writing.
I wrote in a fever until I could no longer keep my eyes open, and again rose early to continue my labours. When Cassandra awoke, I put down my pen, gathered my pages, and handed them to her.
“Here, Cassandra. My story—if not absolutely finished—has at least reached a sort of conclusion. You may read it now. It is meant to be funny, but—I hope also it expresses my feelings and attitudes on a certain subject.” With a happy laugh, I added, “I think you will know at once who and what inspired it.”
As I dressed, Cassandra sat by the window and read my story. While perusing it, she cried out “Oh! Jane!” in a slightly shocked tone, shook her head more than once, and I heard her chuckle several times. When she had finished, she turned to me with a look of amusement tempered by concern. “Jane: you are very clever, but I think rather wicked.”
“Am I?”
“Of course I know exactly who this is about. It is about Fanny and her interminable quandary about Mr. Cage.”
“Do you think it humorous?”
“I do; and I am certain our family would find it so—but I fear the Bridgeses will not. I share your frustration regarding Fanny’s indecision, and her attitude towards her fiancé does not seem to me all that it should be; but she is never quite as disagreeable as you have presented her here.”
“Do you really think so? Well; were I not to heighten her weaknesses, the story would not be funny. Oh! Cassandra, I could not listen to Fanny’s moaning and relentless criticisms of Mr. Cage for another moment. Putting her, or this version of her, down on paper was so very satisfying!”
Cassandra laughed. “I admit, having listened to Fanny’s complaints for a fortnight, it was very satisfying to read. But—Fanny might be offended.”
“Only if she recognises herself, which I think extremely unlikely
. People, I have come to observe, are rarely aware of their own flaws.”
“Lady Bridges might see the resemblance to her daughter.”
“Only if she reads it—and I have no intention of shewing it to her, or to anyone else in the house, except—” My voice broke off, my stomach tightening with apprehension as I thought about the one other person whose opinion I truly did wish to have. Edward Taylor had specifically asked to read whatever I might write, but did I have the nerve to shew it to him?
I had determined—very nearly determined—that if the opportunity should arise, if a quiet moment presented itself where Edward Taylor and I were out of the reach of others’ ears, I should mention my story to him, and inquire as to whether he was still interested in reading it. In a house so filled with people, I thought, such a chance might never occur at all.
However, shortly after Cassandra and I sat down at breakfast and poured our tea (the chamber was deserted except for Sir Brook, who was reading the newspaper, and Charles, Harriot, and Brook Edward, who were noisily conversing), Edward Taylor walked into the room.
I gathered my nerves, strove to even my respiration, and forced myself to raise my eyes until I was looking right at him; our gazes caught; he smiled and crossed to sit down beside me. At that, my heart felt as if it were truly in my stomach, and it was all I could do to return his friendly “Good morning.”
He asked if my sister and I wanted toast, and at my nod, presented us the plate. I concentrated on buttering my slice, drumming up the courage to speak what was on my mind, for I knew that time was short; at any moment, someone else might walk in, and the chance would be lost. After glancing up to be certain the children were otherwise occupied, I turned to Edward Taylor, and said in a low voice,
“I have done it.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I have written a new story.”
He stared at me in astonishment. “Already?”
I shrugged, adding covertly, “That packet of paper was staring at me. I had to put it to use.”
Laughing, he picked up the tea-pot and poured himself a cup, and matching my confidential tone said, “When on earth did you find the time? We only spoke of this the other evening.”
“I stayed up late and rose early.”
“Clearly, you were inspired.”
“I was.”
“I hope you will let me read it?”
I flushed with anxiety. “If you are certain you wish to.”
“Please!”
“I would prefer however that you did not shew it, nor speak of it, to anybody else. It is for your eyes only.”
“Absolutely. Mum’s the word.”
I was honoured by his interest and immediacy. At the same time, I was terrified. What if he hated the story? What if he thought my writing to be insipid? Would he be honest and tell me so? And if so, how could I live? It was hard to believe that only two days before, I had been almost too angry with Edward Taylor to speak to him! Now, to have his approval meant more to me than anything in the world.
Immediately after we finished eating, I met him in the first-floor passage and gave him my pages. As this was my only copy of the story, he promised to take good care of it.
“I will read it as soon as I am able, and let you know what I think.”
The day was equally as full of activity as the one which had preceded it. The rehearsal ran very long, and many scenes had to be run twice; but according to my brother Edward, it went well, and he proclaimed himself proud of us.
“Our final rehearsal tomorrow will be in full dress,” announced he to the cast before we broke for dinner. “I hope you will all spend your free time working on your lines. I would rather not have to prompt anybody during the actual performance!”
At dinner, I was delighted when Edward Taylor took a seat beside me. In sotto voce, he said,
“I read it through—twice.”
My heart began to race. I glanced around the table to ensure that no one else was listening, and whispered: “And?”
To my dismay, further discourse was impossible, as Sir Brook began to talk to the assembly at large, and the food was subsequently served. An opportunity to continue our conversation did not arise for many hours, for there was still a great deal of work to do regarding the play. When darkness fell, most of the household dispersed or retired, leaving my sister and me alone in the library, working on the fairies’ costumes. Edward Taylor entered and, finding us thus engaged, sank down onto a chair opposite us with a smile, and said:
“Alone at last.”
I laughed nervously, renewed anxiety knotting my stomach as I awaited his verdict. He glanced cautiously at Cassandra, as if unsure whether or not it was prudent to speak.
“My sister has already read my story, Mr. Taylor, and given me her opinion; she is the only other person I felt comfortable entrusting it to.”
“Ah. Very good.” From his coat pocket, he retrieved my pages.
Continuing my sewing, and trying not to betray the intensity of my interest, I said, “Pray tell me. What did you think?”
“I think you have a way with words, Jane. It is a very funny story.”
I felt such relief as can scarcely be described. “Funny in a good way, I hope?”
“Yes indeed. I must have laughed out loud a dozen times. You had so many amusing lines—” (glancing through the pages) “—such as this part here, when Mr. Watts comments on the sizeable settlements he is offering Mary as part of their marriage agreement, and she mumbles out: ‘What’s the use of a great jointure, if men live forever?’”
“I had a good laugh at that, too,” remarked Cassandra, chuckling.
“I loved it when her mother negotiated the pin-money, as if she were selling a mare at market! But best of all is Mary’s long list of expectations—what was it? Ah yes, here: Horses, fine clothes, jewels, servants, a theatre to act plays in, a blue carriage spotted with silver (hilarious!), and the mathematically impossible task of spending all four seasons in different places, and the rest of the year at home giving balls. Ha!”
I set down my needlework, thrilled by his enthusiasm. “I do enjoy poking fun at people’s foibles and exposing their weaknesses.”
“That you did, and quite brilliantly I think.”
“Thank you. I hoped to be amusing, Mr. Taylor; but I admit, I also hoped to do more than that—to inject the silliness with some significance—to present characters who we can recognise and sympathise with.”
“And so you did. Without naming names—we both know people who behave and sound very much like Mary Stanhope and her mother.” He glanced at me slyly, and we both laughed. Hesitantly, he added: “Would you be offended, however, if I made one small criticism of the work?”
“Not at all; please go ahead.”
“There is one sentence which I believe did not fit in.”
“One sentence? Is that all?” I laughed. “What sentence is that?”
“Here, when Mary describes the jewels she expects. She asks for ‘pearls as large as those of the Princess Badroulbadour in the fourth volume of the Arabian Nights, and Rubies, Emeralds, Toppazes, Sapphires, Amythists, Turkey stones, Agate, Beads, Bugles, and Garnets.’—you go on and on. It adds an element of buffoonery which is absent in the rest of the story, and should be truncated, I believe.”
“Oh! Thank you for pointing that out. I was falling back into my old ways with that line.”
“I agree, that line is a bit too silly for this story,” interjected Cassandra, who was still dutifully stitching away, “because your characters feel so real here; but that being said, Jane, I cannot help but think that you are very harsh on poor Mary.”
“Poor Mary?” cried Edward Taylor. “Do not tell me you feel sorry for her? She is very weak, and her motives for marrying are all wrong.”
“True,” answered Cassandra, “and
yet still I sympathise with her. Marriage is, for most women, the only possible way to avoid poverty—to have a house and carriage of our own, and spending money of our own. It is not pleasant to think of negotiating for such things, but I can understand why some women might feel it necessary to do so.”
His eyes narrowed in contemplation. “I never gave the subject a single thought before, but now that you mention it—was that your point, Miss Jane? To call attention to this very dilemma?”
“It was. In Mary’s efforts to secure a future for herself, she takes everything to an extreme—”
“And becomes ridiculous in the process.”
“Yes! Exaggeration, in my opinion, is the very definition of parody.”
“Brilliant. You have found a clever way to deliver a message, while being thoroughly entertaining.” Edward Taylor quietly applauded.
I could not remember when I had ever felt so happy.
“It is wonderful,” continued he, “when one’s truest passion is not something which has been forced upon you by your family, but something unique and particular which you discover for yourself.” A little silence ensued, and I knew he was thinking about his own thwarted desires and passions. At length, he added, “I hope you will continue to write.”
“I intend to; but I am aware that I am but a fledgling at this art. I long to write an actual novel! But usually when I begin such an enterprise, I lose my way and cannot think how to complete it.”
“You will learn how in time,” said Cassandra.
“Indeed you will, Miss Jane. You must learn by study and by doing.”
“By study and by doing?” repeated I.
“It is the way I learned to play the violin. Under my masters’ tutelage, I studied the music of the great composers, then listened to that music played by the world’s best violinists at concerts across Germany and Italy. I developed my own skills by beginning with short pieces, eventually moving my way up to longer and more difficult ones. I would imagine it is the same with writing. You have already made an excellent beginning, Miss Jane. You read; you write short works. This is your school. I say: read all you can, and then write, write, write!”