by Nancy Moser
Yet even as I despair over his inability to remain silent, I do enjoy his company. For in whose presence but Henry’s can I visit galleries and search for portraits of people who don’t exist? He and I go to the exhibition in Spring Gardens. It’s not thought to be a good collection, but I’m very well pleased, particularly with a small portrait that looks like Jane—Mrs. Bingley of my story. Mrs. Bingley’s likeness is exactly herself in size, shape of face, features, and sweetness. There never was a greater likeness. She is dressed in a white gown with green ornaments, which convinces me of what I had always supposed, that green was a favourite colour with her. I daresay Elizabeth will be in yellow . . . . If only I could find her. But alas, in spite of Henry’s and my searching the exhibition high and low, there is no Mrs. Darcy present.
This one exhibition did not stop our quest, for since then we visit Sir J. Reynolds’s showing, but I’m disappointed, for there is nothing like Mrs. Darcy there either. I can only imagine that Mr. Darcy prizes any picture of her too much to like it exposed to the public eye. I can imagine he would have that sort of feeling, that mixture of love, pride, and delicacy. Setting aside this disappointment, I have great amusement among the pictures, and the driving about in an open carriage is very pleasant.
I even drive alone sometimes. I like my solitary elegance very much and am ready to laugh at my being where I am. I cannot but feel that I have a natural, small right to be parading about London in a barouche.
But enough of such frivolities. Back to chastising Henry for his wagging tongue. Others in the family are far more judicious. I must thank Frank and little Mary for their discreet consideration of my wishes to remain anonymous. And James and the other Mary too, for they have all been so tight with my secret that not even their children know of it.
Only Henry is unable to be silent. A thing set going in such a way . . . one knows how it spreads. I know it’s all done from affection and partiality, but at the same time . . . if only he could do as I wish.
I try to harden myself. After all, revealing my identity is but a trifle and of no care to anyone but me. Society has more important points to think about than this. But I do hate the thought of people believing the stories autobiographical. That an author dips into her own life experience for inspiration or wisdom or fear is a fact I won’t deny. And in truth, shades of Jane can probably be found in all my characters. Yet I don’t need someone bringing it to my attention or (heaven forbid) asking me about it. If I’ve used a name common to the family—and I have with Jane, Fanny, Henry, and Mary—I make certain the character is far unlike the relative so there can be no comparison brooked.
Toward Mansfield Park, I ask Frank if I might use the name of some of his ships, and he agrees, though he warns that such truths might be clues to others looking for the identity of the elusive “Lady A.” And so, e’en though I realize I may be laying myself open to complete discovery, the truth is that the secret has spread so far as to be scarcely the shadow of a secret now. Whenever the third book appears, I shall not even attempt to tell lies about it. Rather I shall try to make money of it, rather than mystery.
Second editions of both my books have released. Although I get not a penny more for Pride and Prejudice, I do earn for the first book. Instead of saving my superfluous wealth for my family to spend, I plan to treat myself with spending it. Next time in London, I hope to find some poplin at Layton and Shear’s that will tempt me to buy it. If I do, it shall be sent to Chawton, as half will be for Cassandra. I depend upon her being so kind as to accept the gift. It will be a great pleasure to me. I will not allow her to say a word. I only wish she could be with me to chuse. I shall send twenty yards, I think . . . .
I am quite the lady of the world now, for I have learnt, to my high amusement, that the stays in dresses are not made to force the bosom up anymore—that is a very unbecoming, unnatural fashion. I am also glad to hear they are not to be so much off the shoulders. When last with Edward and Fanny in London, Edward made a gift of five pounds to each of us, and so we went to Miss Hare’s, and since she had some pretty caps, Fanny insisted she make me one, white satin instead of blue. It will be white satin and lace, with a little white flower perking out of the left ear, like Harriot Byron’s feather. I’ve allowed her to go as far as eleven and sixteen on it. My gown is to be trimmed everywhere with white ribbon plaited on (somehow or other). She says it will look well. I am not optimistic. They often trim with white.
Listen to me. Speaking of dresses and silk caps. And the praise of readers. And a life made busy with concerns hitherto unknown. How can this be happening to me?
I don’t know anything of reasons. Only that it is.
*****
Mansfield Park is complete. I don’t know why it took me twice as long to write as the others.
And yet I do.
It became a more complicated story than I intended. The characters would not stay as I had planned, but revealed hidden places in their constitution—many that I was not entirely pleased to acknowledge. And how exactly does one write a book about one character when one is more pleasantly drawn to another?
For even more than Fanny, I like Mary Crawford. And Henry Crawford. Just as I like Eliza and Henry . . . . Yet to like someone—even love them—does not mean they are without fault or flaw. Charming people like these draw others like moths are drawn to a flame. Fanny, and finally Edmund, is able to fly away—but not without being singed.
’Tis a painful process; singeing one’s own creation. Yet necessary.
’Tis also a painful process to create a character like Fanny, who is so full of virtue and morality, yet so . . . unlikable. Mother has called her insipid. And I expect I shall hear worse.
Yet I see such promise in Mary Crawford. She could have been a heroine if only she would have learned self-restraint through self-inspection.
I see in her too much self.
Which is the problem.
Cassandra wishes me to change the ending—to let Edmund marry Mary Crawford and Henry marry Fanny. I realize she will not be the only one. And yet, as much as I respect my sister, as much as I seek and appreciate her advice, in this I will remain strong. As with true life, what is expected does not always come to be. Cassandra and I both know this to be true. Too true.
People don’t always make wise choices.
People don’t always have control over the choices made to them.
People don’t always become all they should be.
And yet . . . even within the complicated weavings of life, people can find happiness. If they chuse to seek it . . . differently.
It is a question of survival. Adapt or perish. Learn or be defeated. Venture ever forward or cease to be.
Life is not a fairy tale, and happily-ever-after has many measures.
*****
Mr. Egerton does not like Mansfield Park as much as my others, says he does not expect it to sell as well, and as such, will not publish it on his own coin. And so I’m back to footing the bill for its publication.
I could have said no. I could have put it in a drawer and let it lie.
But e’en as readers might find it disconcerting, I find it to be a good book, one that makes me proud. Perhaps I’ve hit the mark of true emotion and humanity too close.
I enjoy delving in to emotions which most wish to keep hidden. For often, in seeing such traits in others—through a piece of fiction—we can find revelation within ourselves.
Or not. Novels and heroines—pictures of perfection—make me sick and wicked.
I sit in the attic bedroom of Henry’s home in London and compile the letters and verbal comments about my newest creation into a scrapbook. I’ve never done this before and don’t exactly know why I do it now. It seems a bit arrogant—or desperate—to keep track of others’ opinions in such a manner. And yet I am fair as I insert the negative comments along with th
e praise.
I read Frank’s words from a letter: Fanny is a delightful character! You need not fear the publication being discreditable to the talents of its author. Next to them I paste a note from Lady Robert Kerr: Your novel was universally admired in Edinburgh, by all the wise ones.
Whoever they may be.
Next I write down what Anna has told me: I cannot bear Fanny.
Anna makes me smile. Anna, who is the Niagara Falls of our lives, would not like the self-contained and self-controlled Fanny Price.
Enough of this. I close the book and move downstairs. This freedom to roam is quite delightful. As Henry is gone all day at the bank, I have the apartment to myself. It’s my retreat. My writer’s haven. I enter the room that opens onto a lovely garden. I love the ability to move in and out, letting my mind meander, as my thoughts coalesce.
For I am working on my newest book—one that is sure to cause a commotion of its own. I call it Emma, and once again I’ve chosen a heroine who is not completely likable and due the respect that Elinor and Elizabeth so aptly earned. Emma’s largest flaw is that she believes in herself too much. She stands above the world and directs it to her liking. And when people ignore her and do what they will, she is shocked at their ignorance and audacious behavior. Poor Harriet Smith, poor Mr. Elton, and especially poor Mr. Knightly. They are all sorely tested by Emma, and she by them. To see the error and hard truths in someone you love is difficult. Especially when they see no error in their ways, and in fact see themselves as unapproachable.
In all this lies the story. The story of a young woman saved from herself through difficult lessons learned . . .
I pinch a dead bloom from an aster, letting my concern for Emma meld into my concern for my niece Anna.
Her infatuation and desire to marry Mr. Terry is long since past. (She now compares him to my character Mr. Collins.) Yet that infatuation has been replaced with her passionate desire to marry Ben Lefroy—the son of my dear, departed Anne. They are, in fact, engaged.
It came upon us without much preparation, which is to be expected of my niece. There is something about her which keeps us in a constant preparation for . . . something. We are anxious the marriage goes well, there being quite as much in his favour as in any matrimonial connection. I believe he is sensible, certainly very religious, well connected, and with some independence. However, there is an unfortunate dissimilarity of taste between them in one large respect, which gives us some apprehensions: he hates company and she is very fond of it. This, along with some queerness of temper on his side and much unsteadiness on hers, is concerning.
James and Mary do not approve. It seems Ben was offered an ample curacy—and declined. Does he think himself too good? If so, he will have to fight for ownership of the feeling with Anna.
My old fear returns: I fear she longs to marry as a means to get away from a home that is uncomfortable. ’Tis an understandable reason but not a good one. Not one good enough. This, after all, is the girl who cut her hair before a ball just to elicit a response . . . .
To Anna’s merit (and our surprise), she has written a novel. Just the fact that she has completed something deserves our praise. Also to her merit, she asks my advice. I have sent her letters, offering suggestions for her tome, which is titled Which Is the Heroine? I only hope she has an open mind to take it . . . as she asks for criticisms, I would be lax in giving her less than my honest assessments. ’Tis a part of the writing life to hear what one does not want to hear.
To her credit, she writes in an amusing way. There is a great deal of respectable reading, though she can express in fewer words what might be expressed in fewer words. There are details about locale and distance, and some dialogue that is too formal. I try to help her in regard to her characters, for I know how they can seem right and yet be wrong. I’ve advised her not to let her story leave England. She wishes to let the Portmans go to Ireland, yet as she knows nothing of the manners there, she had better not go with them at the risk of giving false representations. It’s best she sticks with places she knows.
Cassandra is involved too, giving her opinion. She does not like aimless novels and is rather fearful Anna’s will be too much so that there will be too frequent a change from one set of people to another, and that circumstances will be introduced of apparent consequence, which will lead to nothing. It’s not so great an objection to me, if it does. I allow much more latitude than Cassandra and think nature and spirit cover many sins of a wandering story.
Anna describes a sweet place, but her descriptions are often more minute than will be liked. She gives too many particulars of right hand and left. She is collecting her people delightfully, getting them exactly into such a spot as is the joy of my life. Three or four families in a country village is the very thing to work on, and I hope she will write a great deal more and make full use of them while they are so favourably arranged.
She is now coming to the heart and beauty of her book; till the heroine grows up, the fun must be imperfect. Her character, Devereux Forester, being ruined by his vanity, is extremely good, but I wish she would not let him plunge into a “vortex of dissipation.” I don’t object to the thing, but I cannot bear the expression; it’s such thorough novel slang, and so old that I daresay Adam met with it in the first novel he opened.
I give her a more detailed accounting of the pros and cons than she probably seeks, but so be it. If Anna is old enough to be married, she is old enough to deal with hard truths.
Perhaps they will aid in her maturity.
Perhaps not.
*****
As news of my authoress identity spreads, I’m suddenly the expert in all things literary. And I’m suddenly inundated with the need for opinions from a bevy of budding authors in the Austen clan. For it’s not just Anna who has decided to dip her creative pen; now it’s James Edward and his sister Caroline and a few other nieces and nephews who have taken to writing stories—albeit blessedly short. I don’t begrudge them their attempts, but it can be wearying to be expected to be a teacher, editor, and aunt—as well as continue to do my own work.
It’s also wearying because, where they never have shown interest in my life before—in any way other than thinking of me as their aunt who made them laugh and listened to their problems—they are now interested in my writing: how I write, where, when . . .
What was a discreet and normal occurrence about Chawton Cottage is now studied by too many curious eyes.
I often like to write on a small mahogany table in the drawing room. There is a creaky door from that room to the offices, and I’ve resisted all attempts at getting it oiled, as the creak gives me warning that someone is coming. It’s then I can quickly put my pages beneath a book and pretend I’m doing nothing. Among Mother, Cassandra, and Martha, I hold no such ruse. They go about their work and leave me to mine, but with a bevy of nieces and nephews coming in and out, I have learned to play this hide-and-seek as a means of keeping what is mine, mine.
Yet one day Caroline spots me when I’m none too quick, having a particularly delicious sentence flowing between thought and pen. Seldom, very seldom does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised, or a little mistaken. I put the page away but find her standing before me, her brown eyes seeing too much and wanting to see more.
“What are those pages?” she asks.
“My work.”
“They are the size of a book. You fold them like that? Why?”
Too many questions. There is no way out but to order her away, and I cannot do that. Not and stay her favourite aunt.
I pull one of the pages free and unfold it. “I fold it in half so it appears as a book. Then I stitch the pages together.” I shrug. “It’s a folly. A habit.”
“You have a book right from the start,” she says.
“I do.”
/> With a nod she says, “I will do the very same with my books.”
“You do that.”
She skips away, and I return to the line I’ve barely born . . . something about truth disguised and a little mistaken . . . .
*****
Anna married Ben Lefroy today. My niece married into the family that had been denied to me. Tom Lefroy. My first love.
I suffer few regrets that Tom and I didn’t marry. He is off in Ireland now . . . . In retrospect and wisdom I see that our love was a young love—frivolous, spontaneous, and flighty. There were no firm roots. And yet there will always be that unknown question: could a union between Tom and Jane have endured and flourished?
It’s a moot query. The question at hand is: can a union between Ben and Anna endure and flourish?
They are two stubborn souls. I don’t doubt that Anna will force it to work, if only to peeve her parents, who are still against it.
Neither I, Cassandra, nor Mother attended the nuptials, but I heard an account of it from Anna’s half sister Caroline, who was a bridesmaid, along with another small Lefroy. The wedding day was dreary and the church in Steventon—my father’s old church—held tight to a November cold. There was no stove to give warmth or flowers to give colour or brightness, no friends, high or low, to offer their good wishes. Mr. Lefroy read the service, and James gave his daughter away.
Caroline informs me that she and little Anne wore white frocks and had a white ribband on their straw bonnets. She does not say what Anna wore.
There was a breakfast after, at the rectory. A festive breakfast in spite of the gray of the day: buttered toast, hot rolls, breads, tongue, ham and eggs. There was chocolate at the end of the table, along with a wedding cake. But the bride and groom left early due to a long day’s journey to Hendon. The Lefroys returned to Ashe, and it was done.
I only pray the grayness and solemnity of the ceremony don’t portend badly to their future.