Now to less weighty matters. Has the news reached Hampshire that there is to be a tax on hair powder? It seems the government needs to raise more money for the war and thinks this is a way to raise it without taxing the poor! My brother officers and I are determined to thwart the plan by simply giving up the use of it. I consider my own hair, cut short and combed back, to be quite gentlemanlike enough. Are the gentlemen of our neighbourhood doing the same?
Ever your devoted brother
Henry Austen
Letter from Jane Austen to Her Brother Henry Steventon, June 1795
My dear Henry,
I received your letter some days ago but confess I put it to one side so that I might compose myself before answering it, as it distressed me greatly. However, before I was able to take up my pen certain events have occurred with which it is my sad duty to acquaint you before I come to the substance of your letter.
You will, I know, be shocked to hear that our dear brother James’s wife is dead. We are all still quite overtaken by the suddenness of such news. She had seemed perfectly well but was taken abruptly unwell after dinner five days ago and was dead within hours. James is devastated, of course, but the chief of our concern is with little Anna, just two years old as you know. She is brought to us here, as James has his own grief to bear, and if I could just but explain to you the heartbreak we feel as she goes around the house looking for her Mama. What is to be done for her in future we cannot speculate, but we have told James we shall care for her here as long as he wishes it. Anne was not yet forty, and we had hopes of a brother or sister for the dear little one, so it is a great tragedy. James, I daresay, will in time see the advantage of marrying again as most widowers do and we must hope he might find someone who is kind to Anna.
You may perhaps be thinking that James, too, admired Eliza once but on this it may be as well to be silent for the present.
The other piece of family news that I must impart is that Cassandra’s fiancé, Tom, is today departed for the West Indies as a chaplain to a regiment. His cousin Lord Craven has offered the position and it seems has promised him a good living in Shropshire when the regiment returns. Both he and Cassandra appear to think there was no option but to accept this proffered favour, although I think both are aware of the dangers and discomfort that surround such a posting, not to mention the perils of such a long voyage. It is their way of overcoming the disadvantage of their poverty, which you mention in your letter. My view is that it is too dangerous an undertaking for a man who is engaged, but I could do nothing as Tom was so determined. Cassy herself is distraught, as you can imagine, and begs me excuse her for her lack of correspondence with you at present. She is much taken up with the care of dear little Anna and I trust and pray that the little one may be of some comfort to her.
We, too, were glad to hear of the acquittal of Mr Hastings at long last, and Papa was most gratified to receive a letter from him praising British justice and expressing his thankfulness that, as he put it,
‘my name shall not be blasted from infamy to posterity but be recorded with the many other victims of false opinions, some of higher worth, none of better intentions.’
Frank is indeed proud to be made lieutenant and would like to show off his new uniform when he visits us next week did not navy regulations forbidden him from wearing it except when engaged on His Majesty’s business. It seems he, too, intends to eschew the use of hair powder. If all young men do the same I doubt that much will be raised in the way of tax.
Now, dear brother, I can no longer avoid responding to the severe scolding contained in your letter. I think of all my family you are the one who understands how much my writing means to me. This is perhaps because you yourself have created works of fiction and know the effort involved. You will also be aware of how much the approval of those close to us means. Therefore I will not disguise from you that your censure was hurtful and wounded me greatly. I do not write from life, as I think I have said to you on more than one occasion, and I will therefore pass over your accusation of Lady Susan being drawn from our cousin. Indeed, if you are intent on marrying Eliza, I am astonished that such a thought could have entered your head. It would seem to imply that you believe Eliza to be a character beyond redemption, which is exactly what I created Lady Susan to be. I intended her to be a character so outrageous, so wicked, that no one could take her seriously. She is clever, true, but without warmth or decency. Above all, she is devoid of any maternal feelings, which makes it all the more incredible to me that you could ever have thought her based on our cousin, who is surely a model of maternal and filial love and duty. I intended people to laugh at Lady Susan, to be shocked and wondering also, but above all to laugh at her outrages and those parts of the society in which she moves. Clearly I have failed in my intentions if you, my most devoted brother, can have so mistaken me. I will therefore be putting her aside for the present as you suggest. Do not imagine this is because I have accepted your censure of her morals. It is rather because I have perhaps not yet learned how to create such a character in a way that creates mirth as well as outrage. But be warned brother, Lady Susan, in some guise or other, will live again!
Meantime I have embarked on another work that I have so far only read to Cassandra. Be assured it is quite respectable and concerns two sisters, handsome but poor. Both behave, let me assure you dear brother, in a most ladylike way throughout. One has a tendency to be a little wild but she is always contained by her sister, much as I am by Cassy and, on occasion, by yourself!
Be not afraid, dear Henry, I know your criticism was kindly meant and as you see my good humour is now quite restored. I long to laugh and joke with you again when next you return home. This household is sad at present and we all long for the sight of you to cheer our melancholy evenings.
Your devoted and chastened sister
Jane Austen
FOURTEEN
James Austen at Deane parsonage
June 1796
I did not want to attend the ball—of that much I was certain. It was not so much that I thought it improper. Sufficient time had passed from the death of my dear Anne for that not to be a consideration. No, it was more that I have never been of much merit as a dancer and could not see myself in a ballroom in the role of a single man, or, rather, a recent widower. How did one go about choosing which young lady to engage for which dance? Were the dances I knew still in fashion or would I be expected to know a whole series more? Was it now the custom, as I had heard, to escort the lady back to her seat instead of leaving her immediately the dance was ended? There was so much I did not know.
‘Nonsense James,’ said my sister Jane briskly when I confided my fears. ‘None of this is of any consequence whatsoever. A widower such as yourself, especially one with a young child to consider, has a duty to seek another wife, and what better place to do it than at a ball?’
Cassandra, too, was encouraging and so I decided to attend the next Assembly ball with them. Basingstoke was not too far away and would have the added advantage of being populated with many of our neighbours, so that I would not lack partners.
‘Lack partners?’ said Jane when I confided this to her. ‘Indeed, there will be no question of that. Sadly, ladies always outnumber gentlemen at these affairs and many a fair young woman is forced to sit down for half an hour together for want of a willing partner. You will be in great demand, never fear.’
Cassandra smiled and added, ‘And your sisters will give you instruction before the evening in order that you will be the most proficient gentleman there.’
So it turned out that by the time of the next Assembly I felt much more confident in my ability to tread the measure and really enjoyed my evening. I danced the two first with Mary Lloyd, the two next with Althea Bigg Wither, and by the end of the evening had not got around to favouring either of my sisters because of the number of other young ladies who were eager to favour me.
‘You see James,’ said Jane in the carriage of the Bigg Withers on our way h
ome, ‘how much more valued a man is than a lady in such circumstances. Why, both Cassy and I were forced to sit down during the course of the evening whereas you were never off the floor.’
I did, in fact, find this most gratifying and bethought me of the times before I was married when Henry and I used to vie for Eliza’s attention like young bucks. Of course she, too, is widowed now. I must take up my pen to write to her. I believe Jane has her location. In truth, I found myself looking forward to the next ball.
‘What do you think, girls?’ I said ‘Shall we make up a similar party next month?’
They both smiled as they glanced at each other.
As things turned out though, my next experience in a ballroom was not in Basingstoke but at Manydown, home of the Bigg Withers, and this time only Jane accompanied me, as Cassandra was gone to stay with her betrothed’s family in Berkshire. Once again I enjoyed the evening greatly and found myself flattered by the numbers of young ladies who greeted me warmly and expressed a desire to be my partner. Even I felt that my dancing was improving, and I began to feel quite the eligible young man once again.
The evening was marred for me in one way though. I overheard two of the older ladies who habitually sit by the fire on such occasions and act as chaperones. Rather, perhaps, they act as commentators on what passes and exchange gossip. I was most discomfited to hear one of them describe my sister Jane as ‘madly husband hunting’ and another agrees that she was indeed becoming ‘quite the flirt’.
I was sorely tempted to remonstrate with them but knew that the ballroom of my friend’s house was not the place to do so, and was perhaps also made rather uncomfortable myself by observing some of Jane’s behaviour during the evening. Her great friend Mrs Lefroy had her nephew visiting from Ireland, and it was apparent almost immediately that he and Jane were attracted to each other. He asked her to dance and I saw how animated their conversation was as they went down the line. After she had favoured Harris Bigg Wither, Lefroy asked her again and this time took her in to supper. I was seated on the other side of the room during supper, but could not help but notice that they talked to no one but each other and, to my astonishment, when her agreed partner for the first dance after the supper interlude came to claim her, she refused him and continued her nonstop conversation with Lefroy. I did not know what to do. I felt that had Cassandra been there she would have upbraided her or at least reminded her of the rules of good manners at a ball, but as her brother should I feel that it was my duty to do the same? I am not a person who feels able to make quick decisions about such matters, but, in any case, before I had time to decide what should be done, I actually observed her walk back into the ballroom with Lefroy and take her place in the set! To refuse the gentleman to whom you had promised the dance and then accept another was simply the worst insult one could pay in a ballroom, and I resolved that at the end of the dance I must take her discreetly to one side and remind her of her manners. I could not ignore the disapproving looks the couple were receiving from all sides, even though they themselves appeared to be in ignorance or oblivious. Accordingly, at the end of the dance, I left my partner at her seat and turned to look for Jane. She was nowhere to be seen! I did not want to make it obvious to all that I was seeking her but tried to stroll up and down casually while running my eyes over the ballroom crowd. Still no sign of them, nor in the supper room or in the vestibule. Eventually I passed Mrs Lefroy at the entrance to the hall and she whispered from behind her fan, ‘Try the conservatory.’
I walked in and there they were, sitting among the palms, talking as earnestly as before. I could not believe my sister would be so indiscreet. Anyone would think she had not been set a good example at home, and I felt that my position both as her brother and a clergyman made it vital that I tell her immediately that her behaviour was bringing shame upon her family.
‘Jane…,’ I began as I approached them.
Her smile was wide and warm and showed not the slightest degree of discomfort.
‘Why James,’ she said, ‘allow me to present my newest acquaintance, Mr Tom Lefroy.’
He rose and turned to face me, bowing slightly. ‘Delighted to meet you, sir. Miss Austen here has been telling me all about her fine family and I had already marked out her eldest brother by the proficiency of his dancing.’
Well, I thought, ’tis true what they say about the Irish having the gift of the gab. I returned his bow. ‘But I fear I must ask you to return with my sister to the main party in the ballroom. Her parents would not approve of her sitting out here with a young man not known to them.’
I saw Jane colour and look most annoyed.
‘Really James…,’ she began.
But Lefroy took the point immediately. ‘My dear fellow, of course. I must apologise for monopolising her. I had quite forgotten the rules about such things are stricter here in the country than in town, and I do hope I have not caused any distress to you or our hosts.’
I could do nothing other than reassure him while feeling all the time that if he did not know the rules, my sister certainly did and was choosing deliberately to flout them.
‘Perhaps,’ the smooth-tongued charmer went on, ‘when I call upon Miss Austen at home tomorrow, she may do me the honour of presenting me to your parents and allow me to apologise in person if I have done anything to offend them.’
Jane has certainly never met a more articulate and polished young man—it is impossible not to be impressed by him. Whether he is to be trusted is another matter though.
The following morning I had my own calls to pay, as was the custom, on the young ladies with whom I had danced at the ball. I had promised Mama to take my cold meat at Steventon and when I got there she greeted me with raised eyebrows and lowered voice.
‘Who is this young fellow? He has been here above an hour sitting with Mr Austen and Jane in the library. They seem to be vastly entertained by him, judging by the laughter we are hearing.’
Indeed, I could myself hear peals of laughter and animated chatter from my father’s room.
‘Am I to invite him to take some refreshment with us?’ went on my mother. ‘His family are respectable enough but he seems a little forward for my taste.’
Before I could answer, the door opened and the three of them emerged.
‘Mr Lefroy must leave us now,’ said my father, ‘but I hope we shall see him again during the course of his stay with his aunt. We rarely have the opportunity for such stimulating company.’
I tried to ignore the look of triumph that Jane shot at me behind my father’s back as he shook hands very warmly with our visitor.
When I rode over from Deane the next day—I was to take little Anna home with me as her grandfather the general was to visit—I found that the ‘stimulating company’ had been there again. Jane was seated at her desk, writing to Cassandra, and was, I must say, looking remarkably pretty, her hair tied up in a green ribbon and her cheeks glowing.
‘Only consider, James, what dear Cassy will make of my profligate behaviour with my Irish friend,’ she said, seemingly rather proud of such behaviour. I am telling her that the only fault I can find with Mr Lefroy is that his morning coat is a good deal too light.’
I did not trust myself to respond. If my parents will not take a hand in correcting or restraining her, what am I to do?
Besides, I have other things on my mind. Mama has just told me that Eliza is finally returning from her long stay in the north and that she will be at Steventon within a sennight. My mind is made up. I shall court her while she is here. She has shown herself to be a devoted mother to that poor little boy of hers and I know she would be kind to my Anna. I must put my domestic affairs in order. It is no longer right for Anna to be constantly with her aunts, though they love her dearly, and I need someone to order my household and tend to parish matters. I have long admired Eliza and I believe she cares for me. It must surely be likely that she, too, wishes to remarry, and her long sojourn in the north country must have shown her that she is
ready to relinquish that rather fast life she was leading in former times. She would, I am sure, find contentment at Deane, which is after all a fine house if not a grand one. Yes, I shall woo her and will even go back to writing verses. She is a romantic and poetry will appeal to her. I will start writing tonight.
FIFTEEN
Philly Walter at Tunbridge Wells
March 1797
My cousin Eliza certainly is unfortunate in some ways, though she always has a pretence of cheerfulness even in her misfortunes.
When we were in Brighton together recently she told me she had an abscess on her breast and even went so far as to show it to me—though truth be told I thought I should faint when I looked upon it. She consulted a physician when we were there but I advised her most earnestly to seek the advice of a specialist when she returned to London. Always in my mind was the fate of her poor mother, and I daresay she, too, had such thoughts before her.
I have heard that she has consulted some famous knight surgeon—Eliza may be trusted always to have such people dance attendance on her, and she can in any case afford it. She assures me the condition is improving, though she has had to bear the horror of having leeches applied—I shudder at the thought of it. In spite of this rather serious indisposition she still seems to drive out all the time—she told me in her last letter that she was in Hyde Park that morning alongside the Princess of Wales, and she continues to attend the salons that she adores. I hope with all my heart she may not be sorry for her propensity for indulging in such pleasures.
Dearest Cousin Jane Page 10