First Impressions

by Charlie Lovett

  “I thought I might pop down to Oxford and clean out my room,” said Sophie. “I have to vacate by the end of the month. Do you mind if a borrow a car?”

  “Not at all,” said her father. “Take the Vauxhall. They keys are hanging by the door. Have you had some breakfast?”

  “Yes,” Sophie lied. “I had some tea and toast.” She was turning to leave when a thought occurred to her. “Father, Uncle Bertram once told me that there is an old family prayer book in the library with the baptism dates of all the family in it. Do you think perhaps you could save that for me?”

  “Of course, dear,” said Mr. Collingwood. “I’m not trying to sell off the family history; I’m not even trying to empty the library. I’m just trying to keep Bayfield solvent.”

  “I understand,” said Sophie softly. And though it broke her heart, she did.

  “I’ll keep an eye out and set it aside for you,” said Mr. Tompkins.

  She tossed her bags in the Vauxhall and pulled away from the house. Halfway down the long gravel drive she stopped the car and fell against the steering wheel as she thought of Mr. Tompkins carting away treasures from Bayfield House.

  She wanted more than anything to burst out sobbing—to cry the tears she hadn’t been able to cry at Uncle Bertram’s funeral, the tears that had seemed locked inside her ever since she had heard the awful news of his death. But try as she might, she could not unlock them. Her chest tightened and her throat constricted, but there was no release of grief or emotion or tension. After five minutes, she drew a breath and bit her lip and stared herself down in the rearview mirror. She would find time to cry later. She was on a mission. She reached into her handbag for Paul Clifford and instead drew out Eric’s letter. She hadn’t had much time to think about it, but Eric was coming for her. Eric who could be rude and insensitive, Eric who had deceived her about the Jane Austen volumes, but also Eric who knew nothing about Richard Mansfield, Eric who made her laugh, and most important, Eric who had kissed her in the garden. She knew that as long as she kept up the fabulous sex with Winston—which was something she very much wanted to do—there could be no more moonlight kisses. She knew she should feel guilty for even forming this thought—but knowing that Eric was coming somehow made her feel safe. Instinctively glancing around to be sure no one was watching, she gave Eric’s letter a little kiss, and slipped it back in her bag.

  I’m a proper book thief now, thought Sophie as she drew out the copy of Paul Clifford. I’ve stolen from a dealer and a private collector. I suppose a library is next. The book was bound in drab cloth, faded from years of sunlight in the days when the library wasn’t shut tight all the time. The spine was chipped, and the corners were rubbed, but it was still a solid copy. Not exactly collector quality, but then who collected Bulwer-Lytton? She opened to the first page of text and read:

  It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents—except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.

  In the margin next to this opening sentence was a penciled note in her uncle’s hand: You see, Sophie, I told you it was awful. Take better care of English literature than BL did. She tried to fan out the pages of the book to see if it contained any other notes from Uncle Bertram. Only the first few pages would cooperate, however. The rest seemed to be stuck together. Sophie flipped ten pages and stopped, a smile spreading across her face. Not only had the rest of the pages been glued together; their interior had been cut away, leaving a neat rectangular container. The book that Uncle Bertram considered a travesty against English literature had been reduced to little more than a slipcase, and within it lay a small volume, bound in rough green cloth.

  Sophie turned over Paul Clifford and the second book fell into her lap. She opened the cover and read the inscription: “Natalis Christi B.A.C. 1971.” For whatever reason, Uncle Bertram had thought, at the age of nineteen, that this was the most desirable book in the family library. Sophie carefully turned to the title page and read:

  LITTLE ALLEGORIES AND A CAUTIONARY TALE

  BEING THE SECOND EDITION OF

  A Little Book of Allegorical Stories

  —

  BY REV. RICHARD MANSFIELD

  —

  PRINTED AT LEEDS BY GILBERT MONKHOUSE

  1796.

  Hampshire, 1796

  “JANE, WHAT DO YOU THINK?” exclaimed Cassandra, entering the dressing room and waving a letter in her hand. “It is a letter from our aunt. We are to make a visit to Bath.”

  “Not for Christmas, I hope,” said Jane, laying aside her quill.

  “For a fortnight only, but what a delight for us. And how kind of Aunt Jane and Uncle James to have us both together. It is still the autumn season and there will be balls and concerts and visitors galore.”

  “And no time for writing, I fear,” said Jane.

  “The whole winter will stretch before you when you return,” said Cassandra. “First Impressions will wait.”

  “Actually, I think of calling it something else, to distinguish it from . . . the original version,” said Jane, standing up and taking her sister by the hand. “And you are right—Bath will be a delight and doubly so because we are there together.”

  While Jane would never have said so to either her aunt or her sister, she did not find Bath a delight. She found the whole city to be much like her first ball there—crowded, noisy, and, in spite of a plethora of persons, impersonal. On the first morning Jane accompanied her uncle on his walk to the pump room for his daily glass of the bitter local water, and unlike her walks in Busbury Park, this excursion involved navigating around the dresses of approaching women, the refuse in the gutters, and the puddles on the pavement—all the while being deafened by one passing wagon after another. Her aunt had laid before them a schedule of visits, concerts, and theatrical evenings which promised to leave Jane little time for correspondence, let alone any real writing. The social calendar began with a ball on their third night in Bath. The following afternoon, in a rare moment of quiet, Jane composed a letter to Mr. Mansfield.

  Bath, December 4, 1796

  My Dear Mr. Mansfield,

  It may surprise you to find that, in your absence, I have been forced to seek other companionship for my walks. Of course none of the residents at Steventon or Deane would do, nor anyone from Basingstoke or Andover or even Winchester. No, your abandonment has forced me to seek all the way to Bath, where I walk with my uncle on a morning circuit around the city. All work on First Impressions has ceased. But do not think my visit wasted. Every time I meet a young woman, whether in the street or in my aunt’s parlour, I am reminded of your idea about writing a satire on the gothic novel. Where better to find a heroine than in Bath? I assure you I have no model in mind, having learned my lesson about using my imagination to embellish the lives of others, but consider our experiences at the ball last evening if you need any convincing that Bath is the proper starting point for a gothic heroine.

  My aunt and uncle accompanied Cassandra and myself. The room was crowded, and we squeezed in as well as we could. As for my uncle, he repaired directly to the card-room, and left us to enjoy the mob by ourselves. My aunt made her way through the throng of men by the door; Cassandra and I kept close at her side, and linked our arms too firmly within one another’s to be torn asunder by any common effort of a struggling assembly. Though by unwearied diligence we gained the top of the room, we saw nothing of the dancers but the high feathers of some of the ladies. By a continued exertion of strength and ingenuity we found ourselves with a comprehensive view of all the company. It was a splendid sight, and I began, for the first time that evening, to feel myself at a ball. We were not long able, however, to enjoy the repose of the eminence we had so laboriously gained. Everybody was short
ly in motion for tea, and we must squeeze out like the rest.

  When it was all over, I was struck that such a struggle might well suit the introduction of a heroine who will later face the dark challenges of Northanger Abbey—whatever they may be. You will accuse me, I am sure, of living altogether too much in the world of my own thoughts and tell me that I ought to have danced, no matter the crowd, to which I respond, sir, that had you been here, I most certainly should have.

  I trust this letter finds you well and that you will soon be returned to Hampshire as I shall be myself.

  Yours very affectionately,

  J. Austen

  Jane had intended to put the letter in the next morning’s post, but found when she came downstairs to breakfast that she had left it in her bedchamber. She resolved to post it in the afternoon but the letter that awaited her at the breakfast table—not from Mr. Mansfield, but from her mother, at the rectory—rendered posting a letter to Yorkshire unnecessary.

  Steventon Rectory, Dec. 3

  My Dear Jane,

  We have had news from Busbury Park that your friend Mr. Mansfield has returned but was taken ill on the journey south. I do not like to ask you to cut short your visit, but we are told that he asks for you and the illness seems quite serious. My love to your dear sister.

  Your Loving Mother

  As much as she enjoyed the diversions of Bath, Cassandra was in agreement with Jane that they must return to Hampshire at once.

  “But you’ve only just arrived,” said their aunt. “And there are so many engagements. Surely if Jane must go there is no harm in Cassandra staying on until the end of the fortnight.”

  “I would not have my sister travel alone in distress,” said Cassandra.

  “But why should she be in distress?” asked Aunt Jane. “This man is not a family member. And from what Jane says I gather she has only known him for a few months.”

  “It is difficult for me to express, Aunt,” said Jane patiently, “what he is to me. He is more than a dear friend, and hardly less than family. If he is ill, and it is in my power to offer him any succor, I shall do so with all expediency.”

  They departed Bath by the midday coach.

  Oxfordshire, Present Day

  LITTLE ALLEGORIES AND A CAUTIONARY TALE, thought Sophie as the car idled on the drive of Bayfield House, looked distinctly unpromising as far as literary treasures were concerned. Just as she was turning over the title page, she heard the sound of an approaching engine. Probably her father on some early morning errand, she thought. She had no desire to be subjected to questions about the book she was holding, so she shoved Richard Mansfield and Bulwer-Lytton back into her bag, put the car in gear, and headed toward Oxford.

  She stopped off at the services on the way into town and bought two sausage rolls and the biggest cup of coffee they would sell her. Ten minutes later she was back in her old familiar room. She took Richard Mansfield’s book out of her bag and began to flip through it, comparing it to her memory of the first edition she had examined at the British Museum.

  “You have a superb textual memory,” Uncle Bertram told her one day when she pointed out a difference between the first and second editions of Sense and Sensibility he had not noticed. They were standing at the booth of a high-end dealer from California at the international book fair in London. “It will make you a good book collector—that ability to spot variants that other people might miss.”

  The second edition of Richard Mansfield’s book was filled with variants. Even without a careful reading, Sophie could see changes and additions on almost every page. The story formerly titled “General Depravity of Mankind,” she was pleased to see, had been renamed “Lucy and the Hare,” and even included the slightest hint of wit. But all the changes did not add up to more than a slightly less dull version of Mansfield’s original text. After scanning two of his allegorical stories, she decided to skip to the big difference in the book, according to the title page, at least—the addition of something called “A Cautionary Tale.” It must be a tale of some heft, thought Sophie, for this copy of the book was significantly thicker than the one at the British Library. She flipped through the pages until she saw the heading: “First Impressions, A Cautionary Tale.” It couldn’t be, she thought, and she began to read.

  —

  AFTER THE FIRST SENTENCE, Sophie found it hard to breathe. By the end of the first page she was forced to stand and open the window, hoping fresh air would help. A moment later she shut the window and pulled the drape, afraid that someone else might see what she was seeing. Even if her memory for text hadn’t been almost photographic, she would have known these words—they were among her favorites in all of literature. But three things made reading them a breathless experience: Quite a few of them were missing; they were published in 1796, seventeen years before the version known to all the world; and they appeared to have been written by Richard Mansfield. First Impressions was an epistolary story, and the first letters had made it clear what story it was. Sophie sat nervously on the edge of her bed and read on.

  Dear Charlotte,

  Jane has made quite an impression on Mr. Bingley, who danced twice with her last night at the Meryton Ball. It is decided by the Bennets, and I cannot dispute the conclusion, that Bingley is sensible, good-humoured, lively, and a gentleman of happy manners—much at ease, with perfect good breeding. I need hardly add that he is also handsome, which a young man ought likewise to be, if he possibly can. His character is thereby complete. What a contrast between him and his friend Mr. Darcy. He is the proudest man I have met—though I cannot be said to have actually met him. Mr. Darcy danced only once with Mrs. Hurst and once with Miss Bingley, declined being introduced to any other lady, and spent the rest of the evening in walking about the room, speaking occasionally to one of his own party. At one stage of the evening I was obliged, by the scarcity of gentlemen, to sit down for two dances and during this time I overheard Mr. Bingley encourage Mr. Darcy to allow him to make our introduction. Darcy replied, loud enough for me and many others to hear, “She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me; I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men.” I was amused and repeated the story with great spirit among my friends, but you can imagine the reaction of Mrs. Bennet who proclaimed Darcy a most disagreeable, horrid man, not at all worth pleasing. Bingley promises to throw a ball at Netherfield soon, for which I trust you will have returned from town.

  Affectionately,

  Elizabeth Bennet

  —

  “DID YOU KNOW,” SAID Uncle Bertram, as he and Sophie were basking in the glow not just of the fire in the sitting room but also of having finished reading Pride and Prejudice to one another for the third time, “some scholars think the first draft was a novel of letters.”

  “Epistolary,” said Sophie, rolling the word about on her tongue. She was sixteen and hungry for words of more than four syllables.

  “We know the first draft of Sense and Sensibility was written in letters,” he said.

  “But it was called Elinor and Marianne.”

  “Exactly,” said Uncle Bertram. “And not long after she finished that she wrote Pride and Prejudice. Between 1796 and 1797.”

  “And was it always called Pride and Prejudice?” said Sophie, who thought it a perfect title.

  “That title actually came from a novel called Cecilia by Fanny Burney,” said Uncle Bertram.

  “We should read that,” said Sophie.

  “But the first version,” said her uncle, “was called First Impressions.”

  —

  JANE AUSTEN HAD WRITTEN First Impressions from 1796 to 1797. The book that Sophie now held—with its story in letters of the Bennet family and Fitzwilliam Darcy and George Wickham—was published in 1796, early enough for her to have . . . but it was unthinkable. Had Jane Austen plagiarized Pride and Prejudice from Richard M
ansfield? The same Richard Mansfield who had written appallingly bad allegories with titles like “Sickness and Health” and “Youth and Vanity”? The text of First Impressions did not seem to fit at all with the rest of Mansfield’s work. But she had noticed a marked improvement in his stories in this second edition. While they were in no way suggestive of Jane Austen, Sophie could easily imagine scholars making the case. Mansfield had been improving, and then, like many authors, he had had a breakthrough. Sophie could be holding in her hand the greatest literary scandal in history.

  Did it matter, she wondered, that the most sublime novel of all time had, in a day before copyright laws, been pilfered from another source? Didn’t Shakespeare take all his plots from other books? Well yes, he did, she told herself, but this was more than that. This was the wholesale lifting not just of an original plot and characters, but of sentences, even paragraphs of text. First Impressions wasn’t just a source for Pride and Prejudice; it was the first draft.

  When Sophie got to her favorite scene from the novel, she read Elizabeth Bennet’s letter to her sister Jane over several times. She had never felt such a mix of emotions. On the one hand, everything she believed about her literary idol was crumbling. On the other hand, she was probably the only person alive who had ever read this original version of Eliza and Darcy meeting at Pemberley. It was as if the meeting were happening for the first time and, instead of being witnessed by a hundred million lovers of literature, it was seen only by Sophie.

  My Dear Jane,

  I write with news of a startling character. Of all places, the Gardiners were this day set on visiting Pemberley. I consented only because I believed Mr. Darcy to be away from home, but after the housekeeper had showed us round the house—which I shall describe to you on my return—we ventured into the park. As we walked across the lawn toward the river, the owner himself suddenly came from behind the stables. Our eyes instantly met, and both our cheeks were overspread with the deepest blush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed immovable from surprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced toward us, and spoke to me, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least of perfect civility. He asked if I would do him the honour of introducing him to my friends—a stroke of civility for which I was quite unprepared. That he was surprised by our connection was evident; he sustained it, however, with fortitude, and even entered into conversation with Mr. Gardiner.