by Ken Methold
Elizabeth asked, ‘How did Cassandra behave towards you?’
‘I was the governess. She behaved as she should have behaved. I have no complaints.’
Sarah said, ‘You said in your letter that you would like to visit her at Chawton.’
‘If it is possible. It would be discourteous for me to be in the district without at least calling and leaving a card.’
Realising immediately that this might provide her with the opportunity for a favourable audience with Cassandra Austen, Sarah said, ‘Then I suggest I order a gig to take you there. We can resume our conversation later.’
Anne Sharp said, ‘You are most kind. Thank you.’
The women left the library and walked back to the hotel. There, Sarah ordered a gig to take Anne Sharp to Chawton and arranged to meet her for dinner.
Chapter-23
Before Anne Sharp returned from Chawton early that evening, Sarah and Elizabeth met in the dining room and Sarah ordered wine. She felt like celebrating that, at last, they were beginning to understand the very complex nature of the late Jane Austen. Before they had each taken more than a sip of wine, Anne Sharp joined them at their table.
‘I hope your visit was pleasant,’ Sarah said.
‘Yes and no,’ Anne replied. ‘Miss Austen expressed her pleasure—and surprise, I might add—in seeing me, but she made me welcome.’
‘I am relieved,’ Sarah said.
Miss Sharp continued, ‘She is devastated by her loss and is still in the deepest mourning. There were times when I wondered whether she will ever recover.’
Elizabeth asked, ‘Did she tell you much about Jane’s last illness?’
‘A little. It was prolonged with periods of what seemed like recovery but then she would have a relapse. They have no knowledge of the actual condition other than that it seemed to be a type of wasting disease. Jane was in considerable pain. I had the impression that much though they regretted her death, they accepted it for the best. At the end, they took lodgings in Winchester to be nearer her doctor, but he explained that without the possibility of a cure, an early death was all they could hope for.’ She paused to sip some wine that had been discreetly poured, and then said, ‘I felt I had to explain what I was doing here.’
Sarah agreed that was appropriate. ‘Of course.’
‘Miss Austen knows you are writing about Jane. Her brother has told her. He is the local curate but doesn’t live with them. There are just three of them in the cottage; mother and daughter and Martha Lloyd. I understand that she is an old friend of the family.’
Sarah nodded. ‘Yes. Her sister, Mary, is married to James Austen, the rector of Steventon. Did you mention that we hope to talk to Cassandra?’
‘I did. Out of courtesy she will receive you, but I think it most unlikely she will want to talk about Jane. I get a decided impression that the family are putting on a united front about her. It’s almost as if her life was an embarrassment to the family, and they are trying to present it as something very different from what it actually was.’
‘I think that often happens in families.’ Sarah smiled. ‘Black sheep change colour on the way to the cemetery.’
A servant came to take their food order. As soon as she’d left, Sarah said, ‘I feel that I am beginning to know Jane a little, but there is much about her life that I do not understand.’
‘Such as?’ Anne Sharp asked.
‘For a start, what happened to the first novel she wrote? I can’t help thinking that it is very significant in her life.’
Miss Sharp replied, ‘I cannot say much about her earlier work as I was not acquainted with the family, but I understand that Jane was very influenced by her cousin who insisted on being called Countess Eliza. She was much older and had a reputation for leading a rackety social life in London. Her first husband remained in France for most of their marriage.’
‘Was she a bad influence on Jane?’ Elizabeth asked.
‘That rather depends on one’s point of view. Young though Jane was when she came under the influence of the woman, she was mature enough, I am sure, to be aware of the rumours surrounding Eliza’s paternity, but—and this is the crux of the matter for Jane—Eliza was confident, well educated and could be very charming. She loved being the centre of attention and knew how to get it. Had she not married the Frenchman and received substantial support from her godfather, I am sure she would have gone on the stage, and, no doubt, become a successful courtesan. She fascinated Jane, but deep down, I think Jane did not really approve of her. If the novel to which you refer is the early epistolary work from which Jane allowed me to read a few short extracts, then it has either been destroyed or is among Jane’s papers, all of which are now in the possession of Cassandra. From the few extracts that Jane sent to me, I formed the impression that the novel is somewhat ambiguous in its tone. It is quite difficult to know whether the author approves of her main character or not. There is no authorial voice, just letters from the main characters. Jane told me that shortly after writing it, she read chapters aloud to the family, but then her mother very forcibly put a stop to it. Her mother could not understand how her daughter, not yet twenty and with little experience of the world outside Steventon village, could write about an adventuress, apparently with such tolerance of her behaviour.’
Elizabeth asked, ‘How did Jane feel when she was criticised for writing it?’
‘It was something of a miracle that Jane did not give up writing. She gave up writing plays because of her mother’s attitude to the theatre and, in particular, to the players.’
‘So she did write plays?’ Sarah asked.
‘As a young girl, yes, a few. And very short novels. Mostly comedies. Social satires. Parodies of what she read. Even as a girl she thought that the behaviour of adults was ridiculous. She made fair copies of everything she wrote as a child and had them bound in three volumes. It was as if she was pretending to be a professional writer. They are labelled Volume One, Two and Three.’
Elizabeth smiled. ‘Have you read them?’
‘Yes. Jane showed them to me when I visited Chawton. For a young girl of her background—she was only about fifteen when she wrote them—they are extraordinary. Not at all the kind of thing one would expect a clergyman’s daughter to write. They are an attack on the stupidity of so much social behaviour. I remember one vividly. It’s called The Visit, and it’s about some minor aristocrats visiting relatives. They behave as though they are attending a royal banquet but are being served tripe and onions and similar poor people’s food. At the end, various couples who have only just met, decide to marry. It’s ridiculous but a very biting satire.’
Elizabeth said, ‘I would love to read Jane’s juvenilia. It must tell us a lot about her.’
‘There’s no doubt of that. I expect Cassandra has it all locked away somewhere. It’s a shame. Jane wouldn’t have gone to such trouble copying and binding the work if she had wanted it to remain hidden.’
‘Perhaps there are other plays that only Cassandra knows about,’ Sarah suggested.
‘It’s possible. I tried to encourage her to write plays. Her dialogue is wonderful. But she knew that her mother, and, to a lesser extent, Cassandra would condemn her if she did. They had a not uncommon attitude to the theatre. They enjoyed it but disapproved greatly of the morals and private lives of the players.’
With a laugh, Sarah said, ‘I should tell you that I was an actress for five years.’
Anne Sharp blushed. ‘Forgive me, I didn’t mean to imply …’
‘I know you didn’t. And the way some players behave is far from acceptable in polite society. I suppose Cassandra was concerned that if Jane became a playwright, especially a successful one, people would assume she too had what, for want of a better expression, I’ll call theatrical morals.’
Anne Sharp nodded vigorously. ‘Precisely. And remember the Austens were a clerical family. Jane’s father was a rector, and two of her brothers are in holy orders. And there is the social aspe
ct to be considered. They valued their place in respectable rural society. They ranked as lower gentry.’
‘And Cassandra held the power to prevent Jane from writing plays.’
‘I think so. For most of her life, certainly, though in her last year or so, she worked on dramatising Samuel Richardson’s novel, Sir Charles Grandison. It was one of her favourite books. I do not know this for certain, but I think she knew she was dying and wanted to write something that was important to her, in spite of Cassandra’s opinion. Jane wanted to leave something for the theatre.’
Sarah sighed. ‘This is so sad. If Jane Austen had written a successful play, even just adapted Pride and Prejudice—it’s nearly all great dialogue—it would have provided an income, even if it had just been published as a closet drama, to be read aloud but not acted on a stage. Do you have any evidence that Cassandra prevented Jane from writing for the theatre?’
‘Only what Jane told me. Cassandra once sent her a diatribe against the theatre by a well-known agitator. A clergyman, of course.’
Elizabeth said, ‘You are suggesting quite strongly that Cassandra was very controlling of Jane.’
‘Their relationship is difficult to understand. Jane adored her sister. She went out of her way to please her. Even when by doing so, she was sacrificing her own needs. She hated being apart from Cassandra. They shared a room for most of Jane’s life and shared every thought. Cassandra’s good opinion of Jane was desperately important to her. It is strange that we allow people we love to control us. But we do. Think of so many married women. They love their husbands but are enslaved by them.’
Sarah stared through the window. Even though night was falling, hurrying pedestrians, carriages of all kinds, passenger coaches and carriers’ wagons filled the busy street.
A servant approached and re-filled their glasses with wine. Anne Sharp was not used to alcohol, and it loosened her tongue. Elizabeth also felt the effects of the wine and asked to be excused.
As Elizabeth left the table, Sarah said to Anne Sharp, ‘Do you think that if Cassandra had not been around, Jane would have written different books?’
‘I’ve often wondered. Throughout her life, Jane was experimenting. She stayed within the milieu that she knew. She would not have strayed from that. But in style, all her novels are different. I sometimes think her novels would have been more explicitly radical if she had felt freer to express herself. She would have taken more risks.’
‘Been a reformer like Mrs Edgeworth, perhaps?’
‘Perhaps. But Sarah … I may call you Sarah?’
‘Please do. I shall call you Anne.’
‘We must never forget that the novels Jane wrote are the novels of a woman who is trying hard to be what she is not. It is that tension in them that gives them something of their quality. I believe the novels will last for ever and become increasingly popular in time. I’m afraid I’m not explaining it very well.’
‘Not at all. You are most insightful.’ Sarah sipped her wine and then, as she put down the glass, said, ‘You believe that in her writing, Jane was trying to be in fiction what she was not allowed to be in life. What do you mean by that?’
‘Her novels can be enjoyed as light reading. Cheerful positive books. It’s hard to find tragedy in them. There’s not a lot of weeping. Not a lot of death in childbirth. Not a lot about women desperate to have lives of their own, financial independence, freedom to be themselves, have their own opinions. There is almost nothing explicit about the world beyond the little world that Jane would have known. She was writing during one of the momentous periods of our history. The French Revolution, the loss of the American colonies, the Napoleonic Wars, to say nothing of the incredible social changes taking place. Yet there is scarcely a word about any of them. But what there is, somewhere in every book she wrote, is something presenting the plight of women like me. I am but one of thousands of governesses or teaching drabs. Too plain to seduce a potential husband. Too poor to purchase one, but, if the opportunity presented itself, willing to marry a man for financial security or social position, even if I would find his appearance or behaviour distasteful.
‘You are a fortunate one, Sarah. You have a rare talent that can produce an income. As has your beautiful friend. You have the courage—or perhaps the support of an understanding family—to strike out for yourself. Jane could not. She was trapped by poverty, religion and class. Her novels are about that, but they do not upset readers who do not want to be upset. Husbands are happy for their wives to read Jane Austen because they don’t know what the books are really about.’
Sarah could hardly believe her good fortune in having met Anne. She felt as if she’d struck a rich seam of gold. ‘Can we discover Jane’s own views on many issues from a close reading of the books?’
‘That is a dangerous practice. Do you want your audiences to think that the opinions of your characters are your opinions?’
Sarah retorted, ‘Most certainly not.’
‘The same applies to Jane’s writing. If we wish to know what she feels and believes, we need to read her letters.’
‘Did she keep a journal?’ Sarah asked.
Miss Sharp replied, ‘I don’t know. She never referred to one. Most women like her keep them, of course. And I assume that all writers do. If she did keep one, it will be in Cassandra’s keeping along with her other papers, her letters, and drafts of unpublished novels. Who knows what else she left? Cassandra is her executor and firmly in charge of what the world will be allowed to know about my beloved Jane. And that is why I am willing to talk to you. The real Jane Austen was not a contented woman spending her life arranging the flowers for the church, reading uplifting sermons, living a life of piety, relieved to have survived the birthing of ten or more children and determined that her daughters shall be like her. The real Jane Austen was angry at the plight of the poor, of middle-class women, of women in general, but she had to hide her anger.’ Anne Sharp took out a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes.
Elizabeth returned to the table and presented a head and shoulders pencil sketch of the elderly governess. ‘May I give you this, Miss Sharp?’ she said, handing her the drawing, ‘as a memento of our meeting?’
Anne took it and gazed at it. ‘My dear, that is so sweet of you. That’s very kind. It will be the second treasure I have been honoured with today. Miss Austen gave me a lock of my dearest Jane’s hair.’ Overcome with emotion, she rose from the table and hurried out of the room.
Chapter-24
The next morning, Sarah and Elizabeth arrived at the dining room shortly before Anne Sharp.
‘I hope you will forgive me,’ she said as she joined them, ‘but I must return to Wakefield today. It will be two days before I get there.’
‘I was hoping,’ Sarah said, ‘that you would stay with me in London for a few days.’
‘You are most kind, but I am expected back. I have enquired with the inn keeper, and he assures me there is an available seat in the London coach.’
‘I’ll organise it for you,’ Sarah said. ‘It has been so good of you to travel all this way and you have provided much upon which I shall ponder. When I write my article about Jane Austen, I will be greatly indebted to you.’ Anticipating this situation, she handed Anne an envelope. ‘This is a very small token of my appreciation, dear Anne, and an attempt to ensure that you are in no way out of pocket. I am deeply obliged to you.’
She had given considerable thought to how much she should give the governess. Too little would be disgraceful. Too much could have the appearance of charity and be almost as equally insulting. She had settled on ten pounds, of which she thought about half would cover the travelling costs. The coach would have cost six shillings for every forty miles, plus a shilling for the driver and another shilling for the guard, a total of eight shillings. She estimated the round trip at four hundred and fifty miles, a total cost of just under five pounds. The extra five would be an acceptable gift, she thought.
Anne hesitated in taking the env
elope but realised that to decline it would be ungrateful.
Conversation remained general during breakfast. After which, Sarah and Elizabeth took their leave to drive to Chawton. Sarah promised to stay in touch with Anne and send her a copy of her article about Jane for her comments before it was published.
Sarah said nothing during the hour’s journey to Chawton, rehearsing in her mind what she would say to Cassandra Austen and what she would ask. Anne Sharp had not been optimistic about the meeting but had not wanted to discuss it.
When they reached Chawton, Elizabeth said, ‘I’ll stay with the gig and sketch the cottage, and also the village if I have time.’
Sarah nodded. Then, feeling very apprehensive, she got down from the gig and walked along the short path to the front door of the cottage. After knocking, nothing happened for several long moments, then the door opened sharply revealing a short, middle-aged woman dressed from head to toe in deep black. Sarah opened her mouth to state her business, but the woman, who she soon realised was Cassandra, spoke before she could utter a single word.
‘I know who you are, and I have nothing to say to you. I have nothing to share with the Grub Street gutter press whose hacks take delight in spreading wicked gossip about innocent people.’
‘Please, Miss Austen, I …’
‘Everything you need to know about my beloved sister is in her novels. Read them with care and respect.’
‘Of course, and I have, but …’
‘We are entitled to our privacy. Why do you think you have any right to spread rumours and lies about my family? What business is our family life to the world outside our homes? What is to be gained by your speculation about this and that event?’
