I am struck though by the intensity of their disagreement about this and about other things. I wish that Henry would return to Oxford so that we might be tranquil again. It is true that Eliza is especially sensitive at the moment. I know that from some of her reactions to my scribblings. I showed her part of a work I called ‘Catherine,’ thinking it might divert her as she loves stories about romance and affairs of the heart that go awry. To my great distress, when I looked up from reading aloud I found her in tears.
‘Oh Jane, how can you write so of my dear mama’s experience? When I think of what she endured on those long journeys and how courageous she was…’
I was astonished and cried ‘But of what are you speaking?’
‘Why, the mock you make of young ladies who journey to India in search of a husband, of course’.
I looked down at the page, at a speech of Catherine’s, and could have torn it in two.
But do you call it lucky for a girl of genius and feeling to be sent in quest of a husband to Bengal, to be married there to a man of whose disposition she has no opportunity of judging till her judgement is of no use to her, who may be a tyrant or a fool or both for what she knows to the contrary.
‘Oh, dearest Eliza, I do not write from life. I know full well that my uncle Hancock was neither a tyrant nor a fool and that he and my aunt were very happy together. I write only to amuse.’
She smiled through her tears and forgave me, but I was careful to be more cautious in what I read to her, given her low spirits, and in truth I never could quite resume ‘Catherine’ with the same enthusiasm as I had begun it. I have now left it on one side.
She and Henry seemed to get over the quarrel about his profession and for a while they seemed to be on easy terms again, but soon another disagreement ensued. It was a fine morning in September when Henry and my father came in from a visit to Basingstoke to tell us some shocking news: ‘They have abolished the monarchy—done away with it,’ my father almost shouted as he entered the vestibule.
‘Great Heaven, Mr Austen, what do you mean?’ asked my mother, running in from the dairy, her cap awry.
‘Just that, my dear, they have declared a republic in France and imprisoned the king and queen.’
‘Where is Eliza?’ asked Henry. ‘She must be told for this is serious news for her.’
‘How so? How will it affect her?’ my mother’s face showed her alarm.
‘Now Henry, do not shock her I pray you,’ my father said. ‘Let us discuss it calmly at the dinner hour and consider whether there is anything useful to be done about the Comte.’
I could not truthfully see the import of this news but was aware that so much in France seemed to be turned upon its head. I was intrigued that their year now divided into ten instead of twelve months. In truth I thought some of the new names for the months rather pretty and very descriptive—Pluviose for January and Thermidor for July, for example—but when I mentioned this once Mama immediately said how very unchristian it was. I did not point out that most of the names for our months came from pagan societies. I started to, but caught my father’s eye and thought better of it.
At dinner I said not a word but only listened as the conversation swayed back and forth and tempers, especially Henry’s, became more frayed.
His view was that as the monarchy had been abolished, it was only a matter of time before the king and queen were executed and that anyone with aristocratic connections would soon be in similar danger. He and my parents both urged Eliza to beg the Comte to return to these shores as soon as was possible. Eliza refused to believe that any such outrage could happen and declared that in no circumstances would the Comte abandon his birthright for the whims of a mob.
‘You simply do not understand the seriousness of the situation, do you?’ said Henry in exasperation. ‘Make no mistake, if you do not act now to urge your husband to flee, your son may well never see his father again.’
Eliza burst into tears. ‘How can you be so cruel? Have I not endured enough this past year without having to face such news as this?’
‘Now my dear, Henry may be exaggerating somewhat but I am sure he speaks only from concern for you and the boy,’ said my father.
‘If he were really concerned he would not frighten me so,’ said Eliza petulantly.
‘You never can face the facts can you, cousin?’ Henry’s voice was fierce. ‘Very well, I shall return to Oxford tomorrow if my presence upsets you so.’ So saying he fled from the room and slammed the door.
How sorry I was that Cassy was visiting the Lloyds at Ibthorpe, as I should have liked to ask her what she made of this violence of feeling on both their parts. I had to content myself with planning another story, and I thought I could make something amusing of a character who was a little like Eliza, although I would make her considerably more wicked. I am struck by how Eliza seems not to be a very good judge of character. I know she writes to our nasty cousin Philly in the most affectionate terms, for example. I have seen an ending to one of her letters:
Do me the justice to believe than no one can be more affectionately or more sincerely attached to you by all the pure and sacred laws of love and real friendship than your Eliza.
Whereas I know that Philly constantly condemns Eliza’s lifestyle and even gloats over her misfortunes when she herself writes to others. I shall try using letters between a series of people perhaps, none of them knowing what the other thinks of them.
I am seated at my writing desk making a note of the names I shall use when Henry comes into the room to tell us that as England has now declared war on France, he intends to go straight to Oxford and enlist in the militia.
‘What, will you give up your studies?’ asks my mother.
‘For as long as this war lasts, I will,’ he replies.
‘How smart you will look in a red coat Henry,’ says Eliza, their quarrel evidently made up.
Better than in a surplice, I expect she is thinking. At least she has her wish.
TWELVE
Comte de Feuillide in La Bastille Prison
February 20th, 1794, 2 Ventose II
To:
Madame la Comtesse de Feuillide
Orchard Street
London
Ma chère Femme,
It is scarce possible to believe that this is most likely my last night on this earth. That things have come to this, who would have believed? I still hope for a miracle. You will understand from your knowledge of me as your husband these twelve or more years, I am ever a man to live on hopes and dreams and that is the way I can pass this terrible night—in hope rather than in despair. Perhaps those who have betrayed me may yet recant and may be believed. Their consciences may be troubling them after all—they took my money and yet did not keep their promises.
But dear wife, if indeed I am to die tomorrow as I am condemned, then I must spend the time in writing to you that you may know the facts and that I may convey to you and our son my love and gratitude. Also my sorrow for bringing yet more sorrow to you both so soon upon the death of your dear Mama. I have not been the best of correspondents I know since I returned to France so suddenly after our all too short stay in Bath. How many times I have thought of our days together there. The walks with our dear boy and most of all our early morning together in our lodgings, your dark hair spread upon the pillow, your eyes filling with tears as we realised I must return here. How a large part of me wishes I had heeded your pleas to stay in England. Though I would have been branded an émigré and my lands would have been forfeit, it seems they are lost to us anyway through the madness of the times.
I know you heard little from me but I hope you have had occasional news of your husband through the communities that are now established in England. These folks have left our dear France and set themselves up to wait for the restoration of the Monarchy, when they will be able to return and, they believe, claim their lands again. I hope with all my heart that they may be able to do so and that you and dear Hastings may one day be ab
le to benefit from all my investment of time, money, and, I may say, my soul, in those parts of the south with which you are familiar. I pray you keep in contact with these good people who will, I feel sure, take you and our little one to their hearts. You will have the names of those in Bath, but I believe they are now established also in London and in Reading—close, I understand, to the place where cousins Jane and Cassandra were at school.
To continue the sad account of my fortunes here—I returned to Le Marais and was delighted with the progress made while I had been absent. At last the place was looking as I had always imagined it would. So much of the land was now dry that a vast deal of crops were sown in the expectation of a great harvest the next summer. There were cattle grazing where only marsh had been and now that the buildings were repaired and our dwelling fully restored I was able to send for the furniture that you, dear wife, had had sent over from England. As the housekeeper supervised the arrangement of it and we began to list the linens we would require I imagined how it would all look when you and our son were restored to your rightful place there.
Even as I planned though, there was unrest in the village. One day my carriage was stoned and I found the field hands had fled when I went to oversee the next stage of the drainage. The very next day I received a visit from the blacksmith—you will not believe that he has become the prefet for the area and no one may move about without his written permission! He told me that the local ‘citizens’ had made complaints that my improvements had deprived them of the fish and wildfowl that they were formerly used to take freely from my lands and so were in danger of starving! In vain did I point out how many of the so-called citizens had been given employment by my developments—employments that were not seasonal but had brought them wages all year. He told me that unless I restored free access to my lands for all the peasants, he would have to report me to the ‘authorities’ as a betrayer of the republic.
I was tempted to rage and threaten him in return and I hope you will not think me a coward that I did not. As you know, my dear, I have been a good card player in my time but on this occasion I felt that the trumps were all his. I told him I would consider his proposal and left with as much dignity as I could gather.
I realised, perhaps for the first time, that which I daresay you have known for some time—that for the present the cause of the nobility is lost. I decided that I must make my way to England if I were to preserve my life and hope for a return of my property when this madness that engulfs my country is over.
I managed to make my way to Paris—some good friends remain even to a nobleman—and there took lodgings while I sought a means of travelling to England. I think with pleasure of the days when we had free access. You would not recognise the process of travelling about now—papers are required and there are checks at every town and sometimes it seems at every village. People who we would not have thought fit to groom our horses, still less wait upon us, are now in official positions and act as the whim takes them in forbidding your passage. You will perhaps remember my good friend the Marquise de Marboeuf, with whom we dined several times during one of our visits to Paris. She took me in and was about to put me in touch with those who could help my escape when she was herself arrested. You will scarce believe that a troop of men came to her house in the middle of the night and searched her kitchens. There they found, not unnaturally, large supplies of food. They accuse her of keeping provisions for the Austrians and Prussians she was expecting to come and attack Paris in order to restore the monarchy. I know this charge seems almost ludicrous when considered from a country that is sane. But my country is not at present. The Marquise cried so bitterly when she was taken that I determined to help her. I had large amounts of money concealed about my person and thought that money must surely count for something even in these times. I sought out those who had accused her—two neighbours—and offered them money to retract their accusations. To my infinite relief they agreed to do so and I waited at the house for what I truly believed would be her safe return. Imagine my horror when instead of her horses I heard the footsteps of the prefets once again. Yes, my dear, they had taken my money and yet shamelessly betrayed me also.
There is little delay here between arrest, trial, and execution and they immediately threw me into this dreadful prison. I was taken thence to a court that I can only call a sham and given but five minutes to explain my actions. No one listened to me and to my further horror I found they had a witness in the form of my housekeeper at the Marais who attested to my traitorous impulses and my lack of respect for the Republic. There was another witness also and I pray you not to believe the designation given to her. She was not my Mistress dear wife, believe me, then or ever. I have not, as I think you are aware, been an entirely faithful husband and have been grateful for your forbearance but I never, never, betrayed you with this woman.
I have written so long that the sky grows light outside. I fear there is no hope of reprieve now and I must pray to die with dignity as befits my class and breeding. I send my fondest love to you and my dear boy and to your family. Pray tell them I commend you both to their safekeeping.
Adieu, your husband
Jean Capot, Comte de Feuillide
THIRTEEN
Letter from Henry Austen to His Sister Jane
June 1795, Portsmouth
My dearest sister,
I know that you will have heard tell of the disturbances here and will I hope have heard by my letters to Papa that I am unhurt. In fact, when the so-called mutiny occurred I was not here. I had been allowed to return briefly to Oxford to continue my studies. Some of the foolish men from my regiment joined with the poor of Newhaven in rioting for food. To tell the truth, if one sees the condition in which they live it is hardly surprising. It is of no use Mr Pitt, our Prime Minister, telling them to eat meat instead of bread as it becomes too expensive. They are used to and want bread and who can blame them? Nonetheless it was foolish in the extreme of my fellows to join the rioting, and they have paid the price. They were executed yesterday by firing squad. Do not be shocked, dear Jane, when I tell you that I saw this dreadful deed, for the whole of the regiment was drawn up in lines to witness it. I suppose this is thought to be a deterrent to anyone else to mutiny. I myself knew the rising had been brutally put down but did not imagine that they would all, every last man, be shot so summarily and with scarce a trial. But that is war and we grow used to news of violence do we not?
Have you news of how dear Eliza is faring after her dreadful news of the Comte’s execution? I know that she is fled to her friends in the north—Durham County, I believe—and have been hoping to hear from her. She must at least be glad that her dear godfather is at last acquitted, as she was always faithful that he would be. In view of his many instances of his kindness to our family—you will perhaps know that he has spoken to the Admiralty about preferment for brother Frank and he is, as a result, made lieutenant?—I wrote to the great man in the following terms:
Dear Sir,
A humble and hitherto silent spectator of national concerns, permit me at the present interesting moment to transgress the strictness of propriety and though without permission, I hope without offence to offer you the warm and respectable congratulations of a heart deeply impressed with a sense of all you have done and suffered. Permit me to congratulate my country and myself as an Englishman.
I hope you, and more particularly he, do not think my tone too ingratiating, but you will perhaps understand that I have particular reasons for wanting this great man to approve of me. I will not say too much at this stage but I know that our cousin, dear sister is a great favourite of yours. I know, too, that you have ever thought highly of me. It is therefore my earnest hope that when and if a certain event comes to pass you may be willing to intercede with our mother and father to help them see that the match is a good one and all that I could desire. You and I know her faults all too well, but I am perfectly convinced that I can love no other woman but her. She has now been a widow
above a year and I do not think it improper to be considering these matters. When she comes south again I shall put the question and believe from all the favour she has shown me in the past that I shall not ask in vain.
I am happy to hear that our dear sister Cassandra and Tom Fowle have pledged their troth and intend to marry. As you know, he was more James’s friend than mine at Oxford but I always thought him a fine, upright, and principled young man, sincere in his beliefs and entirely to be trusted. I know that Cassandra and he have long admired each other and only their natural reticence has kept them from such an announcement for some while. It is indeed sad that they have not enough on which to marry and, although I would be reluctant to say this to either directly, I fear it may be some years before they may. What a curse poverty is to the wishes of our hearts!
But now, dear sister, because of the love we bear each other I must take up a matter with you that pains me to write and I daresay will pain you to read. I was very pleased to receive from Cassandra a copy, done by her own hand, of what I believe is your longest work yet. Lady Susan is its name and I was expecting to read another of your comic works that have afforded us all such pleasure in recent times—lighthearted, funny, and entirely suitable from the pen of a well-bred young lady such as yourself. But what can I say of this work? Lady Susan is as a character without redemption. That my own young sister could be writing of adultery, deceit, and intrigue in such a way! The entire lack of respect for the institution of marriage, for parental love, for the nobility, were greatly alarming and I must beg you not to circulate this work any farther else ruin your reputation entirely. And Jane, there is a further matter of concern that I cannot ignore. I believe that in creating the character of Lady Susan you have drawn most injudiciously on our dear Eliza. She is not, of course, as wicked as your character is but we cannot deny that she can seem a flirt at times and occasionally speaks her mind rather too freely for a respectable woman. This is not her fault—rather it is the result of the bad influences she has had to bear at the French Court and in her life in London. She has perhaps lacked guidance and been too indulged, but do not, I beg you, paint such an unflattering portrait. I know she would be shocked and hurt to read this work and I ask you please to put it to one side and begin on something more suitable for a young writer of your age and background.
Dearest Cousin Jane Page 9