by Nancy Moser
“It is?”
“Of course.” I find I must clear my throat. “I greatly appreciate all you have done for me, Henry. I would not be receiving even ten if it were not for you. And now, with Eliza ill—”
He suddenly stands. “Well, that’s that, then. I think I shall go hunt for Mother. She is probably in the garden with her turnips, don’t you think?”
“You’re probably right. She will be happy for your company.”
And so . . . that is that. Pride and Prejudice will be. All in all, my ultimate goal. What do I need with more than one hundred and ten? I’m presumptuous to believe it will sell beyond that expectation. That a few hundred souls will read it and enjoy its story will be my true payment.
*****
Eliza and Henry stay quietly as our guests, until suddenly, the calm solicitude of Chawton Cottage is broken by the appearance of Charles with his wife, Fanny, and our nieces, ages three and one—with another baby on the way!
There is no quiet in such a crew, especially considering we have never met his family nor even seen him in seven long years. The house runs over, and Henry and Eliza discreetly move on to visit Edward’s.
Charles brings news of another war. Not with France this time. With America. Again. On June 18, 1812, their President Madison declared war on us! Charles says it’s partly over some questionable treatment of their sailors—we are stopping their ships and impressing them into service. He admits our navy is sorely depleted of manpower.
And it’s partly fought over some issues regarding trade. They wish to trade in some ports that we have blockaded in our battles against Napoleon. And there is also something about our inciting Indians to fight against them. I know nothing about such a savage frontier and can scarce imagine it. I, who take great store in deeply set roots, find it hard to understand the excitement sought—and most likely attained—by those who forge ahead in a brand-new world. They are a more courageous sort than I.
At any rate, Charles and Frank are glad of the war’s declaration, because war means the chance for monetary gain in regard to captured spoils. They don’t think America can be much of a bother. The country is too new—and too independent in its thinking—to ever have real power.
Mother has a relapse at the bad news (added to her concerns about Eliza) and, after a few days abed, finds solace with her roses, her spectacles, and gossiping with Miss Benn. Lately, we find it best to keep harsh realities from her as much as possible. For her sake, as well as ours.
Yet Mother is concerned with the health of one and all—especially in comparison to her own. She is very attentive to news regarding the health of King George, feeling a kinship with him because he came to the throne when she was but twenty-one. She states that they, in essence, grew up together.
The Prince Regent has been in charge for o’er a year, and we have suffered the news that the poor King has been near death many times since. Last year, hearing inklings of the newest death scare, Mother had a black dress of bombazine made, knowing (quite wisely, I will admit) that it would be cheaper to have it made then than after the poor King is actually dead. She assured all of us, “If I outlive him, it will answer my purpose, and if I don’t, somebody may mourn for me in the dress. It will be wanted one way or the other before the moths have eaten it up.”
After the news of the war, we, in turn, bring Charles up to date. Frank (or should I say little Mary) has had two more sons: Henry and George, bringing their number to four in five short years. With Charles and Fanny’s soon-to-be three . . . Cassandra and I—and Martha as an adopted aunt—are always busy seeing to the Austen additions.
This is not to say that I neglect my writing. I don’t. I cannot. As soon as they end their visit I work on Mansfield Park and await the publication of Pride and Prejudice that should come with the new year. Cassandra marvels at my new propensity toward being prolific. I cannot help it. The characters speak to me—e’en when I wish them to be silent!
This phenomenon has made me ask, Why now? Why have I suddenly discovered—or rediscovered—this ability to create? And why did it remain so elusive, so long?
I sadly admit I used to blame the city of Bath for my silence. And though our move there was upsetting, and though in that city I suffered the loss of my father, I hold nothing against it in regard to my creative silence. I now see that my own insecurities and failings made my time there so distasteful. And for my attitude I ask Bath’s forgiveness.
I’ve since read a quotation from Daniel Defoe—that gentleman who brought us Robinson Crusoe. He said that Bath was the resort of the sound as well as the sick and a place that helps the indolent and the gay to commit the worst of all murders—to kill time.
That is my largest crime . . . the years that I wasted. How tragic that time, once spent, can ne’er be renewed.
Nor relived.
Lately, I’ve found comfort in a verse: And I will restore to you the years that the locust hath eaten . . . . Although it will take some time, I vow to dispel my guilt regarding those lost years. For the Almighty will restore them, in His own time, in His own way.
Perhaps He is restoring them even now.
It is my newest prayer.
Which I add to the rest.
*****
It’s a small thing to most: buying a sprig of flowers for Martha’s hat, a Japanese fan for Cassandra, and some figs for Mother. Yet until this time, I’ve not been able. But for the charity of others, I’ve ne’er had income of my own.
’Tis a heady feeling.
The world, as I know it, is movable by my own hand.
*****
My own darling child is born.
As the new year of 1813 rises around us, Pride and Prejudice—by the author of Sense and Sensibility—becomes real. And . . . it sells for the lofty price of eighteen shillings instead of the fifteen of my first book.
I find it amusing that with his own money at stake, Mr. Egerton has found a way to bring the book to print in but a few short months . . . .
I hold the three volumes in my hand and admire them, turning the pages, checking the spine, making sure it has ten fingers and ten toes.
“’Tis too bad Martha and Cassandra are away,” says Mother.
I had not realized she was watching me. “They will see it soon enough. I’ve had sets sent to the brothers and to my friend Anne Sharpe.”
“Very good, then.” She sets three plates for dinner.
“Who joins us?” I ask.
“Miss Benn. The long winter evenings spent alone make her melancholy.” She sets the spoons. “Perhaps you can read some of your book aloud. She does love when we read to her.”
This is not how I had dreamt the arrival of the book-of-my-heart would occur. But I suppose a corps of drums and trumpets are not readily available in Chawton.
At least not upon this January night.
*****
Dinner complete, we read half of the first volume to Miss Benn. She is unsuspecting of the author and is amused, poor soul. That, she cannot help, with Mother and I to lead the way, but she really does seem to admire Elizabeth Bennet. I must confess that I think Elizabeth as delightful a creature as ever appeared in print, and how I shall be able to tolerate those who don’t like her, I do not know.
There are a few typical errors, and a “said he” or a “said she” would sometimes make the dialogue more immediately clear; but I don’t write for such dull elves as have not a great deal of ingenuity themselves. The second volume is shorter than I could wish, but the difference is not so much in reality as in look, there being a larger proportion of narrative in that part. I’ve lopt and cropt so successfully, however, that I imagine it must be rather shorter than Sense and Sensibility altogether.
I continue to read—about Mr. Collins: “‘He was interrupted by a summons to dinner; and the girls smiled o
n each other. They were not the only objects of Mr. Collins’s admiration. The hall, the dining room, and all its furniture were examined and praised; and his commendation of every thing would have touched Mrs. Bennet’s heart, but for the mortifying supposition of his viewing it all as his own future property.’” I glance up to take a breath and see Miss Benn’s head nodding. I whisper to Mother, “Apparently the duplicity of Mr. Collins is not enough to keep her interest.”
“She is an old woman,” says Mother. “And uneducated. Don’t take offense, Jane. It reads a fine book, and I take particular pleasure disliking Mr. Collins.”
I take it as high compliment and close the book. Mother exits to call for Robert to take our neighbour home. I do my duty and gently nudge Miss Benn to wakefulness.
She opens her eyes with a start. “Is it over?” she asks.
“For tonight.”
I help her to stand. “You read well, Jane. And your mother says you write. Perhaps one day you can read one of your books to me.”
*****
Our second evening’s reading to Miss Benn didn’t please me so well, but I believe something must be attributed to my mother’s way of reading too rapidly. And though she perfectly understood the characters herself, she could not speak as they ought. Upon the whole, however, I was quite vain enough and well satisfied enough.
And yet . . . the work is rather too light and bright and sparkling. It wants shade; it wants to be stretched out here and there with a long chapter of sense, if it could be had. If not of solemn, specious nonsense, about something unconnected with the story—an essay on writing, a critique on Walter Scott, or the history of Bonaparte, or anything that would form a contrast and bring the reader with increased delight to the playfulness and epigrammatism of the general style.
The greatest blunder in the printing is on page 220, verse three, where two speeches are made into one. Also, there might as well have been no suppers at Longbourn; but I suppose it was the remains of Mrs. Bennet’s old Meryton habits.
Listen to me. I ramble on with opinions as if they matter. I doubt Cassandra would agree with me. Being a good Christian, she sees the good far above the bad.
As the months pass on, my authorship remains a secret. I heartily wish it to be a means of saving my family from everything unpleasant. Yet someday they will find out. Secrets don’t remain secrets, not even under death.
On the subject of nieces, I’m quite enjoying my two grown nieces, Fanny and Anna. If these two would but like my work and tell me so . . . I’m exceedingly delighted that Fanny is pleased with the book. My hopes were tolerably strong of her, but nothing like a certainty. Her liking Darcy and Elizabeth is enough (she might hate all the others if she would).
Why do I seek praise?
And yet I do. I heard that the playwright and statesman Richard Sheridan has deemed Pride and Prejudice one of the cleverest things he has ever read. And Henry said a literary gentleman of his acquaintance stated it was much too clever to be the work of a woman.
I agree. For everyone knows women can never be clever.
Mr. Egerton has informed me that the first printing has been bought and he begins another. Interest has also increased in Sense and Sensibility.
But best of all is that readers seem enraptured with Elizabeth Bennet. And so, my heart is fulfilled.
We are sisters, you know . . . .
Sometimes I wish she were here. With Cassandra and Martha gone, I could use her wise, witty, and welcome ear.
And she mine.
Twenty-One
It’s odd I have been summoned to London, to Eliza’s bedside. Henry has come to Chawton to accompany me. There is an urgency in his actions and a tightness across his usually animated face.
“It’s most serious, Jane. She wants to see you.”
That is all that is said.
And so I go. I, who am not particularly well versed in bedside manner. Cassandra is the one called when nursing and consolation are needed. Like Henry, I’m not quite comfortable or capable with the ill and their needs.
Yet she asks for me. There is a responsibility in the request that frightens me.
I hold off my questions until we round the last bend to Sloane Street. “What shall I say to her, Henry?” I ask.
“Whatever she wants to hear.”
I nod, then shake my head. “And what would that be?”
“That it has been all right. That it will be all right.”
I assume he is talking about a life not wasted as well as the life hereafter.
“What does she believe?” I ask. “About heaven?”
He shrugs.
Oh dear.
*****
She is much withered away. It’s clear this long and dreadful illness will soon be victorious.
I sit by her bed, still uncertain how I can help. I’m relieved her eyes are closed. Do I receive credit for merely being here? I hope—
She opens her eyes and sees me, but the spark is dim, the voice weak. “Jane.”
I’m glad my name has no more syllables, for by her effort it’s clear the one causes more than enough effort.
“I’m here, Eliza. If there is anything I can do for you, just—”
“Was it enough?”
I’m taken aback. I don’t know what she is—
“My life.”
Ah.
“Henry loves you. We all love you.”
She shakes her head, ever so slightly. “I did . . . little.”
My thoughts rush to the Mary Crawford I’m now creating in Mansfield Park. It’s a line Mary would say—if she ever gained wisdom enough to consider all that she is and is not.
Fiction becomes fact, as my cousin, my sister-in-law Eliza, lies before me. Waiting for an answer.
It’s not an easy answer, for Eliza did not do . . . much. My view of her has always been a woman in constant motion, flitting around like a bird looking for the best seed cast upon the ground. Yet she has never been the type willing to dig for it. It had to be there, waiting for her or she would do without and make the seed seem unworthy of her effort. That a little digging might have proffered her nourishment most delicious and satisfying . . .
With a burst of energy, she reaches for my hand. Her face pulls with worry. I must answer. Now. “You did much, Eliza. Your home was always ablaze with merriment and light. People flocked to your door and vied to be your guest.”
As I say the words they sound shallow, as if people came to Eliza’s parties for the food and fun, not—
She smiles and closes her eyes. “Yes.”
I’m surprised by her pleasure but relieved.
She opens her eyes again, the worry returned. “Henry . . .”
“I will make sure Henry is well taken care of. He will sorely miss you, but—”
She shakes her head. “Children. I wish . . .”
They’d had no children. Eliza had not been able, and after the infirmity of little Hastings, even if her body had complied, I’m not sure she would have tried. Henry had never spoken of it, but by the way he spent as much time as possible at Godmersham, roughing and laughing with his nieces and nephews, I’ve always known he would have made an agreeable father.
I have nothing to offer her regret about children, for I suffer my own. I take her hand and squeeze it gently, hoping it says enough.
She puts a hand to her chest, pressing against the pain.
Her face contorts.
She moans.
I stand. “I will get Henry.”
*****
On April 25, 1813, three days after I arrive in London, Eliza de Feuillide Austen dies. She is buried beside her mother and son. Henry wrote the epitaph:
Also in memory of Elizabeth wife of H. T. Austen Esq. formerly widow of the Comt. F
euillide a woman of brilliant generous and cultivated mind just disinterested and charitable she died after long and severe suffering on the 25th April 1813 aged 50 much regretted by the wise and good and deeply lamented by the poor.
It was oddly worded, but I didn’t help Henry edit it. A husband has a right to say what he wishes to say, even if only he comprehends the meaning.
*****
As we believed, but moreover newly discovered, Henry’s mind is not a mind for affliction. He is too busy, too active, too sanguine. As sincerely as he was attached to poor Eliza, and as excellently as he behaved to her, he was used to being away from her—perhaps more away than together. Because of that, her loss is not felt as harshly as that of many a beloved wife might be, especially when all the circumstances of her long and dreadful illness are taken into the account. He knew for a long time that she must die, and it was indeed a release at last.
That he quickly finds female companionship is nearly a relief. Although many who don’t know him might be put out by his propensity to let life go on as it may, most of the family is relieved.
However . . . Henry’s penchant for being Henry notwithstanding, I would appreciate he be better at keeping my secret. It seems wherever he goes, he cannot resist saying that the author of my books is . . . me.
He was in Scotland of late and heard Pride and Prejudice warmly praised by Lady Robert Kerr and another woman. In the warmth of his brotherly vanity and love, he immediately told them who wrote it! Then he traveled to see Eliza’s family benefactor, Mr. Hastings, and told him. The latter’s admiration of Elizabeth Bennet is particularly welcome to me.
When I visit Henry in London, he says that a Miss Burdett wishes to meet me. I see nothing wrong in that until I hear the why of it—because I’m a novelist—the novelist. I’m rather frightened by hearing that she wishes to be introduced to me. If she deems me a wild beast, I cannot help it. It’s not my fault.
