Jane Austen’s First Love

by Syrie James

  At the same time, my group chanted:

  Here he comes with flaming bowl, Don’t he mean to take his toll, Snip! Snap! Dragon!

  Take care you don’t take too much, Be not greedy in your clutch, Snip! Snap! Dragon!

  With his blue and lapping tongue, Many of you will be stung, Snip! Snap! Dragon!

  For he snaps at all that comes, Snatching at his feast of plums, Snip! Snap! Dragon!

  The game proved both hilarious, and as usual, slightly perilous. At one point the bowl nearly turned over, threatening to send burning brandy spilling to the ground. I burned my fingers and tongue on some of the raisins, as did several of the others, but we intrepidly kept on playing. Towards the end of the game, however, when Charlotte cried out upon plucking out a burning raisin, Edward Taylor came to her aid; taking her hand, he examined the red marks found there, then called for a servant to bring ice and salve, and removed himself from the game to attend to her.

  With so much commotion, it was difficult to observe everything that was going on, or to keep track of how many raisins everybody ate, so the scoring was on the honour system. Sophia and Mr. Deedes were both particularly avid players; but although they did very well, it was determined that my brother Edward had won by a small margin.

  “I simply had to win,” cried he when the game concluded, “as my wedding is in December. I want there to be no doubt that I am marrying my one, true love.”

  This statement was met by a sweet clamour from the assemblage, and a look of surpassing affection from Elizabeth. I was happy for my brother, and their loving display made me smile with pleasure; but another such display produced a very different effect. Sitting on a sofa across from me, Charlotte’s valiant knight still hovered over her with concern, and she was all blushing gratitude. Observing these familiarities made me warm with envy and confusion. How unfair it was that she, as his cousin, could accept such attentions with impunity, in a manner which I could never hope to do!

  Cassandra came over and sat beside me. “You are sulking, Jane,” whispered she with both sympathy and reproval.

  I averted my gaze and sat in silence, reminding myself that such behaviour on my part was unattractive and unworthy. But oh! At that moment, how dearly I wished that I was Edward Taylor’s cousin!

  All the players seated themselves on the chairs and sofas around the room, and various conversations erupted. My mind continued in a fog, barely conscious of what anybody was saying; but in time, I became aware that Sophia was commenting to Edward Taylor,

  “How lucky you are, to think that you have visited Rome and so many other extraordinary places, and seen so many ancient wonders.”

  “I have been to Rome as well,” interjected my brother Edward, “and it is indeed a marvel of antiquity, but some day I should dearly love to see Athens.”

  “As would I!” cried Edward Taylor. “The closest I have got to that venerable city however is what I have read in books, and a few rehearsals for A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

  “Rehearsals?” repeated Cassandra with interest. “Have you participated in theatricals, Mr. Taylor?”

  “Only home theatricals, strictly amateur proceedings.” Leaping up from his seat, Edward Taylor arranged himself apart from his cousin, on the floor. “My father, in addition to a fondness for music, has always had a decided taste for theatre; he encouraged it in us as children, and we came to enjoy it as well. I cannot tell you how many times my brothers and sisters and I have mourned over the dead body of Julius Caesar, and to be’d and not to be’d, for my father’s amusement—or our own.”

  “We did the same thing,” said Cassandra. “We put on a great many plays in our barn at Steventon.”

  “I was there for many of them in the early years,” added my brother Edward, “and what fun it was! I shall never forget our first play: Matilda by Dr. Francklin, a tragedy complete with passionate threats of murder and suicide. My brother James always directed, and wrote the most amusing prologues and epilogues in verse; I spoke the former on that occasion.”

  I sat up, invigorated by this conversation. “After that we turned to comedy—Sheridan’s The Rivals. The scenery we painted for it is still in the barn.”

  “We all played parts,” added Cassandra, smiling, “but—I can never forget it—the best of the company, the standout was you, Jane. How old were you then?”

  “Eight years old.”

  “Jane played the pert maidservant Lucy, and we all thought it a remarkable performance in one so young.”

  “That was just the first of many,” said my brother Edward. “Jane is quite an accomplished actress.”

  Their compliments, so sweet but undeserved, made me blush.

  As the two Edwards and my sister shared additional anecdotes with regard to home theatrical experiences, I happened to catch sight of Fanny and Mr. Cage, who were seated nearby on the same couch, yet in an attitude so distant as to suggest that they hardly knew each other. They had, as far as I could tell, barely spoken a word to each other all day; it was almost impossible to believe that they were engaged, or that they felt anything more for each other than antipathy.

  As the theatrical discussion continued around me, a thrilling notion suddenly came to my mind—an answer, nay, the answer—to the dilemmas which I had been previously pondering.

  “Oh!” cried I, an exclamation so startling that it caused everyone in the room to cease speaking abruptly and look at me.

  “Jane—what is it?” said Marianne.

  “I have just had the most wonderful idea!” said I. “We ought to put on a play.”

  Chapter the Nineteenth

  Who should put on a play?” said Sophia.

  “Why, we should. All the young people here,” answered I.

  The rehearsing and performing of a play, I knew, required many long hours spent together in a confined setting. It was the perfect activity in which to engage, in order to promote the romantic conclusions to which I aspired. Were my prospective lovers to be so occupied, I thought, it would surely give me the opportunity to do that small amount of directing which might be required to throw them in each other’s way, and propel them onto the desired course—particularly if the right play was chosen (I already had one in mind), and appropriately cast.

  I had an additional reason for desiring such an enterprise; a reason which I knew was not quite proper, yet I could not help but think of it: were Edward Taylor to agree to be in the play—and should we each be assigned the roles which I was imagining—a certain amount of cousinly interplay might be required. The idea filled me with excitement and anticipation, and made me blush.

  “We are to be together for nearly a fortnight more, until Midsummer’s Day,” continued I matter-of-factly, determined to give no hint of my secret aspirations. “Several events which Lady Bridges went to such trouble to arrange have already been cancelled; if this rain continues as we fear, it will mean the abandonment of a great many more activities in which we had all hoped to engage. But if we are to be cooped up inside all week or even longer, we need not be idle. Let us make the best of it! How better could we spend our time than in an endeavour so infinitely enjoyable as rehearsing for, and acting in, a home theatrical?”

  Mr. Taylor, who had been lying casually on the floor, now sat up at attention. “I think it a capital idea. I have not done anything theatrical in a while, and any obligation that keeps me here, and out from under my father’s steward’s thumb, would be very welcome.”

  “I have always wanted to be in a play!” said Sophia with enthusiasm.

  “So have I,” admitted Mr. Deedes, “but I never had the opportunity.”

  “Could I be in it?” exclaimed Brook Edward and Charles simultaneously.

  “And me!” cried Louisa.

  “If we are particular about the play we choose,” remarked I carefully, “and ensure that it has a great many characters, then
everyone who wishes to can be in it.”

  “A play could prove very diverting,” agreed my brother Edward. To his intended, he added: “What do you think, my love?”

  Elizabeth brightened. “We used to put on short sketches as children in the nursery with our older brothers, and my sisters and I did one or two readings at school. I believe I proved myself then to be quite an accomplished actress; now I should surely be even more capable.”

  “All you proved then,” cried Fanny sourly, “is that you can read lines from a book while standing on a stage.” Elizabeth looked put out by this remark; but Fanny, taking no notice, added to the company at large: “I, on the other hand, have a genuine flair for drama; no one in my family is more theatrical than I, and I dare say, had I ever been in a real production, I should have been given the leading part every time.”

  “Whenever we thought of putting on an actual play,” said Sophia, laughing, “we were never sure how or where to go about it, and it seemed like such a monumental effort, we never made any headway beyond the preliminary idea.”

  “A home theatrical does require a lot of effort,” returned my brother Edward, “but it is doable; and between Mr. Taylor, myself, and my sisters, it seems we have enough people of experience here to direct and manage it—if everyone is interested.”

  “I feel up for performing any role that was ever written,” said Edward Taylor, “although I would prefer to do something humorous; I am in no mood for a tale of woe.”

  Excellent, thought I; for the part I had in mind for him was very much comedic.

  “I agree! We simply cannot do a tragedy,” cried Mr. Deedes. “This is a summer to be happy.”

  “Only a comedy will do,” agreed Sophia with a smile.

  I was delighted by the direction the conversation was taking. Frederic said:

  “I was in a play once. I had six speeches, and I wore a red coat and a green hat. My mother said I performed just as I should have done, for I received a great deal of laughter and applause from the audience.”

  “Who would be our audience?” inquired Charlotte softly.

  Her remark surprised me, not only because she had actually spoken aloud, but due to her emphasis on the word our, which implied that she wished to participate in the endeavour as well. I could not even imagine Charlotte Payler on the stage. She was so quiet and introspective, I had presumed she would decline to be involved.

  “An audience is not required,” replied I. “We could do it only for our own amusement.”

  “Oh, no! If we do a play, then we must have an audience,” insisted Elizabeth. “What is the point of going to all that effort, if no one is to see it?”

  “I agree,” said my brother Edward. “We ought to have all our parents attend the performance at the very least, and the servants as well.”

  This idea met with general approval; but Thomas Payler in a grave tone said,

  “I have acted myself a bit at school, and nobody is fonder of such an exercise than I; but a fortnight is not very long to rehearse and put on an entire play.”

  “It is long enough,” insisted I, “if everyone makes a strong effort.”

  Cassandra nodded. “We put together full-length productions at Christmas and during the summer holidays in the barn at Steventon, in a briefer span than that.”

  “So did we,” agreed Edward Taylor. “It really depends on which play you do—and how and where you produce it.”

  “Where would we perform the play?” asked Elizabeth. “We have nothing like a theatre at Goodnestone; and our barn is part of our working farm.”

  “We do not need a theatre or a barn,” answered I. “Any room in this house would suffice, provided that your mother and father do not mind a little shifting of the furniture.”

  “Oh! I am sure they would not mind,” said Marianne. “Papa loves a play!”

  “Which play do you think we ought to choose?” asked Mr. Deedes eagerly.

  “Wait.” Mr. Cage rose from his chair with a frown. “You cannot all be serious about this idea. Fanny, do you truly mean to act?”

  The disapproval in Mr. Cage’s voice was so marked as to cause me some little alarm. Thankfully, the others shared my own enthusiasm for the project. Fanny replied warmly:

  “If there is to be a play, I must be included, and I will accept nothing less than the very best part.”

  Mr. Cage shook his head. “I am not certain that a private theatrical is a proper endeavour for gentlemen and ladies.”

  “That is very old-fashioned thinking,” said my brother Edward. “It is not as though we were going to act five nights a week in a theatre and be paid for it, or have our names splashed across a wealth of advertisements! No one but us need ever know a thing about it.”

  “We think only of a very respectable private production at home,” added I, “with no audience other than our own most intimate friends and relations—just as my family, and the Taylors, have been doing for years on end.”

  “I understand,” said Mr. Cage, “yet I fear Sir Brook and Lady Bridges would not approve; and I am not sure I approve of the idea of my future wife acting.”

  Fanny turned to him with imploring eyes and a sudden, sweet smile. “What is the harm in a little acting, Mr. Cage? Many women of the first consideration are so employed every day of their lives. My father was our biggest proponent in such activities when we were young, and you said yourself that you have often gone up to London expressly to see a play.”

  Mr. Cage softened somewhat. “That is different, dear; in town, I went to see acting by hardened professionals. Although a few of you may have some experience, you have not been bred to the trade. Any efforts you should make would be raw and amateurish.”

  “And what of that?” Sophia smiled. “It is summer, Mr. Cage! Let us be raw and amateurish! Let us have our fun. It would be so amusing!”

  Mr. Cage shrugged, now visibly uncomfortable at pursuing a direction which was clearly so different from the popular opinion. “Well; perhaps it could be considered—if the right play were chosen—it must be something perfectly unexceptionable—and Sir Brook and her ladyship must be applied to before any decision can be made.”

  “It occurs to me,” said Elizabeth with sudden worry, “even if Mamma does agree to the idea of a play in general, she might complain that it would be pulling too much attention away from what is supposed to be a celebration in honour of our engagements.”

  “As it happens,” replied I hastily, “I have a play in mind which I think—I hope—your mother would consider to fit in perfectly with the theme of the occasion.”

  “Oh? Of what play are you thinking?” inquired Edward Taylor.

  I paused and took a breath, barely able to contain my excitement. “Midsummer’s Eve is twelve days hence, on the 23rd of June. In honour of that occasion, and in keeping with the subject of love, which is the very foundation of the two betrothals we are honouring—” (with a smile to the engaged couples) “I suggest we present our production on Midsummer’s Eve, before the bonfire; and that the play ought to be A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

  A pause succeeded. Everyone looked surprised. They seemed to be considering my proposal; and then there came a general, approving uproar as opinions were expressed and exchanged.

  “To perform A Midsummer Night’s Dream on Midsummer’s Eve itself!” exclaimed my brother Edward. “What an inspired notion.”

  “The 23rd is my birthday!” cried Charles.

  “Is it?” replied Edward Taylor. “We have nearly the same birthday, Charles; for I was born on the 24th.”

  “Would not a home theatrical be a fine way to celebrate both of your special days?” said I.

  “It would,” agreed Edward Taylor; and Charles nodded with enthusiasm.

  “It is the perfect play,” remarked Cassandra, smiling, “at the perfect time of year.”

 
Fanny appeared bewildered. “I am all for doing a play, but what is A Midsummer Night’s Dream?”

  “It is a play by Shakespeare,” answered Sophia, “a romantic adventure involving fairies and magic and couples who are comically re-arranged, before a happy ending reunites them with their own true loves.”

  “Fairies? Oh! It sounds delightful,” cried Elizabeth; and at the same moment, her voice joined with Fanny’s as they both inquired, “Is there a good part for me?”

  “There are good parts for everyone,” said I.

  In a very brief time, it became apparent that there exists in many people a powerful ambition for acting, for everyone began to talk at once upon the subject with unabated eagerness. Not everyone was familiar with the play, but many had either read it or seen it on the stage (an experience I could only dream about). It was one of my favourite works by Shakespeare; I had perused it with pleasure many times. After issuing the further elucidation that it had a large number of major characters for both male and female performers which were nearly equal in importance, and a great many smaller parts which were excellent in and of themselves, it was almost universally agreed that A Midsummer Night’s Dream would be the ideal vehicle for our company and purpose. Everybody loved the idea; everybody wanted to participate.

  Only one person made an objection: Mr. Cage. Very calmly, he said,

  “I can see that you are all determined to do a play; but are you certain you are up to taking on a work as complex as Shakespeare? He is not for amateurs. He wrote in a language and style very different from the way we speak today.”

  “I do find his plays hard to comprehend,” agreed Thomas Payler, “and they are all so incredibly long!”

  “A Midsummer Night’s Dream is one of Shakespeare’s shortest plays,” responded I. “I believe the entire thing can be done in under two hours; less, if we make a few judicious trims.”

  “I have not looked at a volume of Shakespeare since I was nineteen,” cried Mr. Deedes, “but I have seen several of his plays acted since then. I feel certain we can rise to the challenge!”