All Roads Lead to Austen: A Year-long Journey with Jane

by Amy Elizabeth Smith

  “There’s a lot about the dances,” Lili assented, “the specific types of gatherings they have—”

  “But this movie deals with love, impossible love,” Victoria cut in, “love that encounters different types of obstacles. You’ve got the secret engagement of Jane Fairfax—”

  She was cut off in turn at the mention of Jane’s name, which provoked a storm of contrary opinions about The Jane Fairfax Situation.

  “Well, maybe the book makes clearer what’s going on,” Lili broke through.

  “What it shows is the social class tension,” Martín offered. “Jane doesn’t have many options. It’s almost like trafficking in women, shipping her off to work.”

  “Yeah, that whole governess thing, boy…” Erna agreed.

  “And it comes up again when Emma made fun of that older woman,” Victoria pointed out. “And Mr. Knightley says, ‘Hey, she used to be rich. You never know how things might turn around for someone.’”

  “Oh, he’s the one who’s perfect, with perfect values.” Erna rolled her eyes, and the others laughed.

  Alicia took up the point. “It’s like he’s Emma’s conscience, pointing out what she should do.”

  “For me, the themes of conversation were completely of that time period,” Dorrie said. “But the human feelings, the psychology, what was happening—that really did seem universal, something that translates across time.”

  “Like the father’s fear that he’d be left alone,” Victoria offered, while several others immediately chipped in, “Yes, that’s right!”

  “When I got here twenty-six years ago,” Dorrie said, “I actually heard of women who’d say, ‘My mother wouldn’t let me get married.’”

  Talking over the end of her sentence, the other women rushed to point out that this wasn’t a thing of the past. “It’s true to this day,” Alicia said, “that there are women here who don’t get to marry because of their parents wanting them to stay and take care of them.”

  “When it comes to high school girls,” Lili explained, “it’s hard to get parents to agree to let them study the regular material, because they only want the girls to learn to sew. ‘Girls don’t need those other subjects!’ And they won’t let them study. Even when people at the school advocate for them, the parents won’t agree.”

  I wondered how Diego, Josefina, and her family would feel to know that this same point we’d discussed in Puerto Vallarta had surfaced here, too. The entire group fell silent over the depressing implications of girls being denied education.

  To pull us out of the slump, Alicia threw down the gauntlet. “Okay, can any of you figure out what Knightley sees in Emma?”

  “But I love Emma!” Dorrie cried in surprise.

  “I know, I know,” Erna sighed and patted Dorrie’s leg.

  “Seriously, I adore Emma!”

  “Oh, Dorrie!” Several of the others laughed, while Erna stuck her tongue out, emitting an eloquent “bleeech” sound.

  I could hardly keep up with who was slinging which insult: “She’s causing trouble with everybody, she speaks badly about everybody!” “She’s a loser!” “What a pain!”

  According to Austen’s nephew James Austen-Leigh, Austen knew she had a controversy on her hands prior to the publication of Emma in 1815. For the subject of her book, she told her family, “I am going to take a heroine whom no one but myself will much like.” Readers have been arguing about Emma ever since.

  “Maybe it’s clearer in the book why she acts the way she does,” Alicia suggested, “but here in the movie, I just don’t see it.”

  “She’s a spoiled rich girl,” Martín agreed, using an expressive word in Spanish that we lack in English: ricachona.

  “She’s adorable!” Dorrie insisted.

  “She’s boring,” Lili said bluntly, “and she’s not even a good matchmaker.”

  “She’s childish,” Martín added, an observation several of the others echoed. Then he gestured toward me. “But now I want to introduce you all to Amy Smart!” The original announcements for my Austen talk had gone out with the wrong name on them, and Martín couldn’t resist teasing Lili as he transitioned away from the Emma debate.

  “I know, that was all my fault!” Lili apologized. “How could I forget the name ‘Smith?’”

  “Hey! Are you related to Harriet Smith?” Dorrie asked suddenly, and the group burst into laughter yet again.

  “She’s got a fascinating project, and we’re very glad that she joined us in Paraguay,” Martín continued. “And we all want to know when your book will come out!”

  “Yes, tell us more about your project,” Alicia prompted, so I gave the best short version I could of the previous reading groups and having taught in Chile prior to arriving in Asunción.

  “But is what we did here worthwhile for you, since we didn’t get to read the book?” Victoria asked.

  “I always love to hear people’s reactions, whether to the books or the films,” I assured them. “And I’m going to do a reading group with people from the school where I gave the talk, because they asked me if I would.” The strong anti-Emma sentiment that evening had me more curious than ever now about how the teachers and students would react to Austen’s pampered heroine.

  “What an HP, that Frank Churchill, don’t you think?” Dorrie said suddenly, plunging us back into Emma.

  “Why?” Martín wondered, while I was wondering instead, what’s an HP?

  “Oh, definitely an hijo de puta!” Erna said, answering my question: son of a whore.

  The insult opened the floodgates, and another wave of cross-talking broke out as the group wrangled over who was the most unpleasant: Frank Churchill (“HP!”), Mr. Elton (“He’s a bigger HP than Churchill!”), or Mrs. Elton (“What a bitch! She’s the worst!”). I was on the alert for somebody to threaten violence, but they stuck to verbal abuse. No dope slaps from that group so far.

  Dorrie switched to English to defend her position firmly: “I’ll tell you what. Frank Churchill could have kept his engagement a secret—”

  “Without flirting with anybody,” Erna cut in.

  “—without flirting with Emma!” Dorrie concluded.

  “That was all part of the theater,” Martín argued. “His girlfriend Jane understood that they had to stage a whole play to keep people distracted from their secret.”

  “So he wouldn’t lose his money,” Alicia agreed. “Well, I’ve got a theory. They had to throw people off the scent, and here’s Emma, this matchmaker, who’s so naïve about what was going on with Elton and other people that Frank thought, ‘I can use her now to keep people off my track!’”

  The group fell back into good-natured wrangling over the level of Jane’s complicity and over just how big a skunk Frank Churchill was (or wasn’t). Jane, most seemed to think, was forced into the deception by circumstances beyond her control and was actually quite likeable.

  “So maybe Jane wins out over Emma in terms of the quality of her character,” Martín suggested.

  “Yeeeeeeeesssssss!” Erna cried out triumphantly.

  “In good human qualities—” he continued.

  “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!” Erna punctuated.

  “No, no, no!” Dorrie countered while the others burst into laughter over the revival of the Emma thrashing. “She’s just not adorable like Emma’s adorable!”

  “Emma’s not adorable!” Lili said. In the midst of all the talking, the subject of Mr. Martin and Emma’s meddling surfaced. “All he wanted was a nice, good-natured woman to marry.”

  “Mr. Martin isn’t worried about money like all these other people,” Victoria agreed. “He just wants a good life.”

  “He’s the one real man around that place!” Erna said with a laugh, and the others heartily agreed.

  “Mr. Knightley definitely thi
nks very little of Frank Churchill,” Dorrie said.

  “Well, he’s jealous, that’s why,” Alicia offered.

  “That makes him more human,” Martín said. “He’s the richest of all of them, the most powerful; he’s the one who can help the others.”

  Victoria picked up this point: “He defends Harriet; he defends Miss Bates.”

  “He’s the one who can make them listen without trouble for it,” Lili suggested.

  Dorrie shook her head. “It isn’t just about his power. He’s also a gentleman.”

  “Well, he’s not the only gentleman around,” Erna added. “But the others don’t want to risk their social standing by stepping in to help Harriet at that dance.”

  “When that Elton won’t even dance with her.” Alicia looked disgusted.

  “I can’t stand that guy,” Martín said to approving nods all around.

  “He needs to be squooshed.” Erna laughed.

  Aha! That definitely sounded like violence. But although Erna was a Paraguayan now, she’d been born in the States, so maybe it didn’t count.

  “Well, I liked his wife,” Dorrie said, and the others howled in protest until Erna finally said, “Okay, now you’re just trying to provoke us!”

  As we laughed over the character debates, Dorrie turned to me and asked, “Amy, are there continuations of this story?”

  “Not by Austen, but there are sequels by other people. One even has a lesbian twist. There are people who think Knightley is too old or too stuffy for her—like some of you did—so they change the outcome. There’s one where Emma, feeling bored, is eyeing a French governess who shows up in the neighborhood.”

  “Not a French maid?” Martín said in mock disappointment. “But what about Bridget Jones’s Diary? That’s a great update of Austen!”

  Most of them had seen the film, although not all had realized it was an adaptation of Pride and Prejudice. I was about to bring up Clueless when Dorrie and Martín’s son Tommy arrived home for the evening.

  “You can take our picture!” Dorrie said, greeting him with a kiss on the cheek.

  “Okay, people, let’s get this right, because she’s writing a book about us, after all!” Erna teased as we scrambled around the sofa, trying to fit everyone in.

  “Emma!” Dorrie called out, and the others took up the cry, posing and smiling. “Emma!”

  “Sorry,” Tommy said in frustration. “The camera just died! I don’t think I got the picture.”

  Shoot—my battery problem again, just like in Mexico. But now I was prepared. “I’ve got some batteries upstairs. I’ll be right back!” After rummaging around in my bags for several minutes, I found the batteries, rushed back down to the living room, and handed them over to Tommy.

  “Party!” Erna shouted, putting a big happy smile on every face in the photo.

  ***

  Later, as I listened to the recording of the discussion, I reflected with pleasure on the film viewing. There’d been no need to ask if the Emma viewers felt a connection with Austen. They’d quickly transitioned back and forth between Highbury and Asunción on romance, parents controlling their children, and basic human emotions.

  But there was a surprise in store for me near the end of the recording—because when I’d left the room to get my batteries, I’d also left the recorder running…

  And so, seated at my computer, I listened to the sound of my feet pounding up the stairs and heard a silence fall over the group. Then soft laughter, a comment, and Erna saying in a theatrical Mrs. Elton voice, “All right now, if we talk while she’s gone, we’ve got to tell her everything!”

  “Listen to us, gossiping!” Alicia laughed.

  “Let’s tell her I’ll match her up with someone!” Dorrie’s suggestion was greeted with laughter and teasing, as they discussed my single status and the pros and cons of the plan.

  “Well, I’m good at this!” Dorrie insisted. “I introduced Peter and Mike, after all!”

  “Who are Peter and Mike?” asked Lili.

  “And are they still together?” Alicia, cutting to the chase, set off another wave of merriment.

  Wow. I was barely out of the room, and there was Emma casting her matchmaking spell over the group! And better still, she’d adapted to gay matchmaking, if I was interpreting the names correctly. Very heartwarming. No doubt about it: Austen was alive and well in Asunción.

  ***

  Señor Guapo the Chihuahua and my big-eyed Mexican owl, the decorations that helped each new country feel like home, had traveled with me to Paraguay, along with my fish blanket and some colorful Ecuadorian table runners. They’d been joined in Chile by a fanciful troupe of wooden llamas and a delicate copper alpaca inlaid with lapis lazuli. I accommodated my animal retinue in Dorrie and Martín’s daughter’s room in a spot where I didn’t have to move any of her belongings.

  Shortly after the movie group, I noticed the maid had carefully dusted and rearranged them.

  This polite act set me brooding. How much of Asunción was I really seeing, here in a house with servants where, happy as I was, the surrounding walls were so high I couldn’t see the neighbors? A house where, coming home late after my San Lorenzo talk on Austen in Spanish, I was confronted by an armed guard who, I was later told, patrolled there every night? I had no doubt that every precaution the family took was reasonable for their political situation, but I couldn’t help but feel that I was a bit too sheltered there.

  When I announced over dinner that I wanted to take a hotel room downtown for a few days, I was greeted with skepticism and concern. Martín was the only one who thought it was a good plan.

  “You know you’re welcome here as long as you want to stay,” he added. “But some time in the center will give you a better sense of the city.”

  “Please be careful!” Dorrie urged. “This isn’t California!”

  According to my new policy of being more open with my mother, I called and let her know about the move, reassuring her that I’d still load up on bug spray and promising not to venture out alone at night.

  Because of my fondness for morbid historical spots, I chose a hotel converted from the home of one of Francisco Solano López’s brothers. When the War of the Triple Alliance ground closer to a total defeat, López turned viciously on his own family. Among other atrocities, he had his brothers shot and mother and sisters publicly flogged.

  Much of Asunción was burned during the war, but some beautiful, well-maintained colonial architecture survives today. Decades of economic struggles, however, have also taken their toll. There are attractive newer structures, but many of the oldest buildings have damaged or deteriorating façades. The interior of the city’s striking central cathedral has also fallen into disrepair, although when I visited, it was brightened by the arrival of a truckload of flowers and the happy banter of a wedding party preparing for an upcoming ceremony.

  Many major cities in South America are ringed by what Old Hollywood referred to as “shanty towns,” but their reach is much more extended in Asunción, with some dwellings near the river built onto the city sidewalks. While the downtown parks and squares are pleasant and nicely laid out, one was completely occupied by tents. The tenants there cooked, did their laundry, and generally went about their business as a form of protest against the unequal access to the country’s land: about 77 percent of the land in Paraguay is owned by 1 percent of the population.

  There were fewer bookstores than I’d found in Santiago, although more than in Guayaquil. I was surprised to see that a number of them opened at 7:00 a.m. One owner told me it was a holdover from the days of the dictatorship. Frequently, lengthy curfews made evening hours impossible, so enterprising book dealers added hours to the earlier part of the day. Another told me instead, “We just like to get up with the sun around here!”

  I’m an early bird m
yself, but now that I was downtown, it was easier to take advantage of the nightlife. Since the Emma film gathering, I’d been eager to get to know Erna better, and we made plans for dinner at a Brazilian restaurant. It was a veritable meat marathon, with waiters cruising the tables offering cuts of beef, lamb, chicken, and whatever other animals the cooks could lay their hands on. Each diner had a small wooden device painted half red, half green. When you displayed the green half, that meant “More meat, please!” while the red signaled “I’m about to burst, thank you!” After tasting the chicken hearts (yes, I love chickens, but I love to eat them, too), I decided to pack it in.

  “I’m stuffed!” Erna groaned in agreement. “Now we’ll be able to soak up plenty of alcohol!” Sated, we set off for a downtown bar to attend a “Cuentería.” A “cuento” is a story, and a Cuentería, a public storytelling event. A sexy vampire tale was in progress when we entered. We ordered some beers then scanned the crowded, colorful locale, full of Asunción’s artistic set, for a place to sit. In the press around the storyteller there were two seats left, one on a bench and the other on a wooden rocking horse.

  “Guest of honor gets the pony!” Erna said, raising her glass for a toast. This could work out well; when I couldn’t hold the horse upright, it would be time to cut me off.

  The featured storyteller was a handsome Colombian touring South America to share stories, and I was thrilled that I could follow his tales without trouble. I’d been told that Colombians speak the clearest Spanish on the continent. I was also impressed that this group of people, drinking heavily, was up for an experience that took some concentration. I’d certainly never attended anything similar in the United States.

  Several nights later, Erna and I headed out for more cultural diversion. The same school that had hosted my talk on Austen was, I’d been pleased to learn, staging a version of Casaccia’s La Babosa. When the curtain rose, however, Erna and I could only gawk and giggle like schoolgirls. The announcements had failed to note that the play was in Jopará, a mix of Spanish and Guaraní, the local indigenous language. Even Erna, linguist that she is, was at a loss. We stuck it out, however, trading whispered quips throughout. “Well, now I can still read the novel without having the ending spoiled,” she said as we left, “since I have no idea what the hell just happened!”