by Beth Andrews
‘In that case,’ Mama assured me, ‘Laura was the most virtuous woman who ever lived!’
‘Her journal was the most incredible document I have ever read,’ I remarked. ‘I could scarcely credit it.’
‘Unfortunately, most of it was quite true.’
‘I wonder whatever became of poor Janetta?’
My mother adjusted a pearl necklace she wore, and gave a sincere sigh.
‘She perished giving birth to her fifth child.’
‘She had five children by Captain M’Kenrie?’ I asked, astonished.
‘She did.’ Mama nodded assent. ‘By the time the fifth was born, of course, M’Kenrie had abandoned her. The children are being brought up by their grandfather at MacDonald Hall.’
‘How sad.’ I had hoped that fate would be kinder to the young Scottish lass.
‘At least,’ Mama reasoned, ‘her eldest son, Ronald, will inherit her father’s estate and become the leader of Clan MacDonald.’
‘Small consolation for a ruined life,’ I noted.
‘But what of you, my dear?’ Mama leaned forward and held my hand in hers. ‘Have you made a decision regarding your betrothal to Tom?’
I nodded. ‘I am going to marry him.’
‘You seem much more confident in your assertion.’ She raised a provocative eyebrow. ‘But Tom is not as wealthy as John Isherwood, nor so handsome nor dashing as that rake, Sir Charles.’
‘True.’ I smiled saucily. ‘But he is good and kind. I fancy that I would not find it irksome to spend the rest of my life in his company.’
‘He is no hero, like the noble Augustus and Edward.’ She could not resist a jibe at the late Mrs Lindsay’s expense.
‘And I am neither Laura nor Sophia.’
‘Your sensibilities are not so exquisite, perhaps?’
‘I fear that I am hampered by having far too much sense.’
She sighed with complete satisfaction.
‘That,’ she said, ‘is a blemish which I am happy to overlook.’
‘Now I can look forward to my wedding without trepidation.’
‘I am glad for your sake, Marianne. But I am no nearer to solving my own problem.’
I pursed my lips, returning my attention to the task of finding something to say about the recently departed.
‘One could say, at least,’ I suggested, ‘that Laura was true to herself, as Shakespeare might put it.’
My mother gave a not very genteel snort of pure derision.
‘So,’ she said, ‘was Napoleon. So, indeed, was Satan! Every lover follows their own heart, as does every pudding-head and every scoundrel.’
I groaned, feeling that we had failed yet again.
‘If only,’ I muttered my thoughts aloud, ‘she had not swooned that evening.’
To my surprise, Mama brightened at once. She looked as if a burden had truly been lifted from her shoulders.
‘My darling child,’ she said, embracing me in her sudden and apparently unalloyed joy, ‘you have hit upon the very thing. I know now precisely what must be said!’
She went to her desk and pulled out a sheet of fresh white paper, taking quill in hand and beginning to write.
‘What is it?’ I asked, burning with curiosity.
‘Words,’ she answered, ‘which I think Sir Sidney will find more than acceptable.’
It was several months before the marble statue—depicting a veiled lady swooning in a chair—was placed upon Laura’s grave in the nearby churchyard. Mama and I made a kind of pilgrimage there, to see for ourselves how her words looked when carved in stone.
As we stood before the unusual memorial, I read aloud the inscription etched before us:
‘ “Here lies Laura Lindsay,
a most remarkable woman.
She was the victim of
one fatal mistake:
she fainted when she
should have run mad.” ’
As we stood there, silently observing Laura’s final resting place, a stray mongrel ran up to the imposing marble monument, lifted his leg and proceeded to empty his bladder over the base.
‘Well,’ said Mama, ‘I thought that my epitaph was the most fitting that could be found for Laura. I fear, however, that I have been outdone by a dog!’
THE END
AFTERWORD:
REWRITING JANE AUSTEN
Jane Austen’s writings have spawned a cottage industry of prequels, sequels and re-inventions based on her various novels. Almost every character in Pride and Prejudice, for example, has been cast as the hero or heroine (or, occasionally, anti-heroine) of some new novel. There have been murders at Pemberley, adulterous affairs, and enough transatlantic voyages to make even Captain Wentworth seasick. Any day now I expect to see a review of a book detailing the exploits of the jilted heiress, Miss King, or a fantasy based on the pigs who occasionally got into the Collins’ garden. After all, we have already been assaulted by zombies and sea monsters, so we should hardly be surprised to find Martians landing at Netherfield Hall, for instance.
What Jane Austen would have thought of all of this is a moot point. I suspect she would have been highly amused, as she was by the popular novels of her own day.
My own foray into this field is somewhat different. I felt there was little I could add to Jane’s six mature novels, but her juvenilia was another matter. I always had a fondness for Love and Freindship, but considered that a little more flesh might well be added to what are essentially only the bare bones of a story. Rather than ‘lopping and cropping’, I have ‘added and padded’, freely employing occasional episodes or quotes from other Austen juvenilia, inventing additional dialogue (the main part of my revision), giving a little more substance to Marianne’s character, and creating a totally new ending.
My desire was to remain true to the somewhat subversive tone, and keep as much of the original material as possible, while fleshing it out and making it a bit more relevant for the contemporary reader. How well I’ve succeeded is not for me to judge.
It is surely one of the great literary ironies that Jane Austen is now almost universally categorized as a writer of romantic fiction. That is not how her contemporaries and immediate successors viewed her, however.
Sir Walter Scott, who was one of the first to recognize her peculiar genius, was moved (after reading Emma) to waste a lengthy paragraph in defence of Cupid. Charlotte Bronte’s response to the same novel was one of supreme contempt. Even Anthony Trollope proclaimed, ‘Miss Austen has no romance: none at all.’
Jane Austen was, in fact, the arch-enemy of romance. This may seem a curious statement, considering that all of her books revolve around young women searching for the ‘perfect husband’. It must be remembered, however, that their search was intensely practical, involving head as well as heart. Jane may have had little use for those who married ‘without affection’, as she warned her niece, Fanny, but she was equally contemptuous of those who chose their life partner purely on the basis of emotions which were often as misleading as they were ephemeral.
If one wants to see how she felt about the romantic novels of her time, one only has to dip into her juvenilia—of which Love and Freindship is probably the best-known and most accessible example.
In the real world, marriage provided a woman with security and stability, cementing her social status. It was, therefore, immensely important to choose wisely, because the stakes were outrageously high. Once married, a woman was more or less subject to her husband. Emotional fulfilment was often not even a consideration.
On the other hand, Jane Austen depicts a variety of marriage relationships throughout her work. Mr Bennet, for instance, has been hounded into retreat by his wife’s incessant nagging and whining. Lady Bertram, however, is completely dependent upon her husband and has declined into near-inertia. It is clear that women like Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Aunt Norris were never doormats, but more likely domestic tyrants; while some, like Mrs Collins, firmly but tactfully manipulate their befuddled husban
ds with a fatalistic resignation to their lot.
There are, moreover, happy marriages in the novels. The Gardiners and the Crofts immediately come to mind, as pretty much equal partnerships where there is mutual respect and forbearance. If Jane does not dwell on these, it is surely because they are not nearly as funny as the dysfunctional relationships which she mined so effectively for her comic purposes.
The marriages and friendships portrayed in Love and Freindship are, of course, mere caricatures of those propounded by Rousseau and the romantic novelists. This is satire at its most iconoclastic: outrageous lampoons intended mainly to entertain Jane’s relatives with their exaggerated portraits.
No less a writer than G.K. Chesterton provided a preface for the 1922 publication of Austen’s juvenile fiction. In it, he pinpoints the ‘secret’ of her greatness: she was, he says, ‘naturally exuberant’. Her ability to control her exuberance is what gives ‘an infallible force to her irony’ and ‘a stunning weight to her understatements’.
In her later work, Jane Austen achieved an even greater control over that exuberance, and her irony became more powerful than ever. Some have lamented that she abandoned the overt and almost unrestrained comedy of her early work. They see her later work as restricted, perhaps even repressed. Subtlety and self-control are not qualities to which modern readers respond positively, it seems. However, they represent precisely her maturity and growth as an artist.
Had she continued in the vein of her teenage years, she would have been at best a ‘cult’ classic: a writer admired by some but known by few. But she grew up, and her work grew up along with her. Nevertheless, the exuberance Chesterton admired is most attractively displayed in works like Love and Freindship, and is the quality I have struggled to capture in my own re-telling of this youthful jeau d’esprit.
LOVE
AND
FREINDSHIP
TO MADAME LA COMTESSE DE FEUILLIDE THIS NOVEL IS INSCRIBED BY HER OBLIGED HUMBLE SERVANT
THE AUTHOR
“Deceived in Freindship and Betrayed in Love.”
LETTER the FIRST From ISABEL to LAURA
How often, in answer to my repeated intreaties that you would give my Daughter a regular detail of the Misfortunes and Adventures of your Life, have you said “No, my freind never will I comply with your request till I may be no longer in Danger of again experiencing such dreadful ones.”
Surely that time is now at hand. You are this day 55. If a woman may ever be said to be in safety from the determined Perseverance of disagreeable Lovers and the cruel Persecutions of obstinate Fathers, surely it must be at such a time of Life. Isabel
LETTER 2nd LAURA to ISABEL
Altho’ I cannot agree with you in supposing that I shall never again be exposed to Misfortunes as unmerited as those I have already experienced, yet to avoid the imputation of Obstinacy or ill-nature, I will gratify the curiosity of your daughter; and may the fortitude with which I have suffered the many afflictions of my past Life, prove to her a useful lesson for the support of those which may befall her in her own. Laura
LETTER 3rd LAURA to MARIANNE
As the Daughter of my most intimate freind I think you entitled to that knowledge of my unhappy story, which your Mother has so often solicited me to give you.
My Father was a native of Ireland and an inhabitant of Wales; my Mother was the natural Daughter of a Scotch Peer by an italian Opera-girl—I was born in Spain and received my Education at a Convent in France.
When I had reached my eighteenth Year I was recalled by my Parents to my paternal roof in Wales. Our mansion was situated in one of the most romantic parts of the Vale of Uske. Tho’ my Charms are now considerably softened and somewhat impaired by the Misfortunes I have undergone, I was once beautiful. But lovely as I was the Graces of my Person were the least of my Perfections. Of every accomplishment accustomary to my sex, I was Mistress. When in the Convent, my progress had always exceeded my instructions, my Acquirements had been wonderfull for my age, and I had shortly surpassed my Masters.
In my Mind, every Virtue that could adorn it was centered; it was the Rendez-vous of every good Quality and of every noble sentiment.
A sensibility too tremblingly alive to every affliction of my Freinds, my Acquaintance and particularly to every affliction of my own, was my only fault, if a fault it could be called. Alas! how altered now! Tho’ indeed my own Misfortunes do not make less impression on me than they ever did, yet now I never feel for those of an other. My accomplishments too, begin to fade—I can neither sing so well nor Dance so gracefully as I once did—and I have entirely forgot the MINUET DELA COUR. Adeiu. Laura.
LETTER 4th Laura to MARIANNE
Our neighbourhood was small, for it consisted only of your Mother. She may probably have already told you that being left by her Parents in indigent Circumstances she had retired into Wales on eoconomical motives. There it was our freindship first commenced. Isobel was then one and twenty. Tho’ pleasing both in her Person and Manners (between ourselves) she never possessed the hundredth part of my Beauty or Accomplishments. Isabel had seen the World. She had passed 2 Years at one of the first Boarding-schools in London; had spent a fortnight in Bath and had supped one night in Southampton.
“Beware my Laura (she would often say) Beware of the insipid Vanities and idle Dissipations of the Metropolis of England; Beware of the unmeaning Luxuries of Bath and of the stinking fish of Southampton.”
“Alas! (exclaimed I) how am I to avoid those evils I shall never be exposed to? What probability is there of my ever tasting the Dissipations of London, the Luxuries of Bath, or the stinking Fish of Southampton? I who am doomed to waste my Days of Youth and Beauty in an humble Cottage in the Vale of Uske.”
Ah! little did I then think I was ordained so soon to quit that humble Cottage for the Deceitfull Pleasures of the World. Adeiu Laura.
LETTER 5th LAURA to MARIANNE
One Evening in December as my Father, my Mother and myself, were arranged in social converse round our Fireside, we were on a sudden greatly astonished, by hearing a violent knocking on the outward door of our rustic Cot.
My Father started—“What noise is that,” (said he.) “It sounds like a loud rapping at the door”—(replied my Mother.) “it does indeed.” (cried I.) “I am of your opinion; (said my Father) it certainly does appear to proceed from some uncommon violence exerted against our unoffending door.” “Yes (exclaimed I) I cannot help thinking it must be somebody who knocks for admittance.”
“That is another point (replied he;) We must not pretend to determine on what motive the person may knock—tho’ that someone DOES rap at the door, I am partly convinced.”
Here, a 2d tremendous rap interrupted my Father in his speech, and somewhat alarmed my Mother and me.
“Had we better not go and see who it is? (said she) the servants are out.” “I think we had.” (replied I.) “Certainly, (added my Father) by all means.” “Shall we go now?” (said my Mother,) “The sooner the better.” (answered he.) “Oh! let no time be lost” (cried I.)
A third more violent Rap than ever again assaulted our ears. “I am certain there is somebody knocking at the Door.” (said my Mother.) “I think there must,” (replied my Father) “I fancy the servants are returned; (said I) I think I hear Mary going to the Door.” “I’m glad of it (cried my Father) for I long to know who it is.”
I was right in my conjecture; for Mary instantly entering the Room, informed us that a young Gentleman and his Servant were at the door, who had lossed their way, were very cold and begged leave to warm themselves by our fire.
“Won’t you admit them?” (said I.) “You have no objection, my Dear?” (said my Father.) “None in the World.” (replied my Mother.)
Mary, without waiting for any further commands immediately left the room and quickly returned introducing the most beauteous and amiable Youth, I had ever beheld. The servant she kept to herself.
My natural sensibility had already been greatly affected by the
sufferings of the unfortunate stranger and no sooner did I first behold him, than I felt that on him the happiness or Misery of my future Life must depend. Adeiu Laura.
LETTER 6th LAURA to MARIANNE
The noble Youth informed us that his name was Lindsay—for particular reasons however I shall conceal it under that of Talbot. He told us that he was the son of an English Baronet, that his Mother had been for many years no more and that he had a Sister of the middle size. “My Father (he continued) is a mean and mercenary wretch—it is only to such particular freinds as this Dear Party that I would thus betray his failings. Your Virtues my amiable Polydore (addressing himself to my father) yours Dear Claudia and yours my Charming Laura call on me to repose in you, my confidence.” We bowed. “My Father seduced by the false glare of Fortune and the Deluding Pomp of Title, insisted on my giving my hand to Lady Dorothea. No never exclaimed I. Lady Dorothea is lovely and Engaging; I prefer no woman to her; but know Sir, that I scorn to marry her in compliance with your Wishes. No! Never shall it be said that I obliged my Father.”
We all admired the noble Manliness of his reply. He continued.
“Sir Edward was surprised; he had perhaps little expected to meet with so spirited an opposition to his will. “Where, Edward in the name of wonder (said he) did you pick up this unmeaning gibberish? You have been studying Novels I suspect.” I scorned to answer: it would have been beneath my dignity. I mounted my Horse and followed by my faithful William set forth for my Aunts.”
“My Father’s house is situated in Bedfordshire, my Aunt’s in Middlesex, and tho’ I flatter myself with being a tolerable proficient in Geography, I know not how it happened, but I found myself entering this beautifull Vale which I find is in South Wales, when I had expected to have reached my Aunts.”
“After having wandered some time on the Banks of the Uske without knowing which way to go, I began to lament my cruel Destiny in the bitterest and most pathetic Manner. It was now perfectly dark, not a single star was there to direct my steps, and I know not what might have befallen me had I not at length discerned thro’ the solemn Gloom that surrounded me a distant light, which as I approached it, I discovered to be the chearfull Blaze of your fire. Impelled by the combination of Misfortunes under which I laboured, namely Fear, Cold and Hunger I hesitated not to ask admittance which at length I have gained; and now my Adorable Laura (continued he taking my Hand) when may I hope to receive that reward of all the painfull sufferings I have undergone during the course of my attachment to you, to which I have ever aspired. Oh! when will you reward me with Yourself?”