A Walk with Jane Austen

by Lori Smith

  By 5:15, my body was desperate to be asleep again. This is the hardest kind of sleep to fight—everything heavy and weighty; I am held to the pillow as if by some kind of great force. But I fought it anyway because I didn't want to sleep through things. I sat up and stretched on my bed in the soft dawn, trying to make sense of the world without success.

  Jack caught me on my way out, just when I was hoping I wouldn't see him. He must have been watching for me and was eager to talk about some passages he was reading to follow up on our conversation of the night before. I told him with some regret that I needed to be alone. Part of me wants him to just disappear. I am too tired to be in love.

  The patisserie is on a small, quiet street full of restaurants, a pub, a sandwich place, and a florist. There is a full window along the front, with a bar running across it. By the time I sat down with everything— cranberry juice, cappuccino, water, and two chocolate croissants—I began to sense just how much trouble I was in. I was devastatingly tired.

  I started to cry and couldn't stop—not a loud, shaking, full-on cry, but a quiet stream, as though God had turned the faucet on low. I was afraid of the surety I felt. I thought I never could have imagined Jack so well. I was overwhelmingly grateful. And I knew I would never be able to sort out my emotions through so much exhaustion. So I decided to let myself cry.

  Jane may have loved, but she never married. You could say her love life was a comedy of errors if it wasn't also a bit tragic and somewhat scant. In addition to her letters, we have recollections from various family members—her brother Henry, her nephew James, and nieces Anna and Caroline. They also recorded some of her sister, Cassandra's, memories of Jane, which she never wrote down. Altogether not a clear picture, but enough to piece together several relationships that did not work out.

  After Tom Lefroy, her friend Anne's dashing nephew, there was Revd. Samuel Blackall,11 a somewhat ridiculous clergyman Anne invited to visit and hoped Jane would form an attachment with (perhaps a model for Mr. Collins?). Jane could never see him as anything but laughable—“a peice of Perfection, noisy Perfection himself.”12 Blackall got the hint and did not return to Hampshire, though he would have liked to. Jane wrote to Cassandra, “It is therefore most probable that our indifference will soon be mutual, unless his regard, which appeared to spring from knowing nothing of me at first, is best supported by never seeing me.”13

  The next significant relationship was with a man from the neighborhood, Harris Bigg-Wither,14 the younger brother of Jane's dear friends. Jane was just about to turn twenty-seven, old enough to no longer expect to marry—Anne's age when Persuasion begins. Harris was an excellent and prudent match, set to inherit the large Manydown estate—ironically the place where Jane had danced so happily with Tom Lefroy—though he was awkward and shy and stammered.15 He proposed one night when Jane and her sister, Cassandra, were visiting. She accepted him, then apparently stayed up much of the night reconsidering, withdrew her consent in the morning, and hastily left the house in disgrace. It seems there was money but no love, and for Jane that would never do. The match would have given her “all worldly advantages.”16 Almost any other woman of Jane's age in this situation would have accepted Harris and hoped to learn to love him, or determined to live without love, but Jane could not.

  There are rumors of another, of a man Jane and her sister met when vacationing at the seaside in Devon. He expressed some interest, which Jane apparently returned. But though the sisters expected to hear from him, they only received news of his death. The details of this relationship are especially murky. They met one summer, and he asked to see the girls the next summer, which doesn't sound terribly promising. But it seems that Cassandra thought he would pursue Jane and expected him to be successful. Either way, what we do know is that he died unexpectedly, and the girls never saw him again.17

  There were others—occasionally rich, sometimes flirtatious, one who may have proposed and another who thought about proposing and never did—but there was no one else Austen seemed to have been genuinely interested in.

  Austens nephew made light of these romantic experiences, praising Jane's imagination and musing that her heart had never been touched, and her brother Henry doesn't mention them at all. But no woman who has fallen in love at twenty or contemplated marrying a man she didn't truly love can believe that Jane was emotionally removed from these situations. They may seem small and unimportant, but no doubt her heart was involved to some degree or another.

  I started dating at sixteen: Miller, a great-looking guy from my small, overwhelmingly Baptist school. Blond hair, blue eyes, football player. Nice. He played King David in one of our high-school dramas when he was a sophomore and I was in ninth grade, and I fell in love with him in the “man after Gods own heart” role. That year I asked him to be my escort for homecoming. It wasn't a dance—we never had any dancing because according to Baptist doctrine dancing is sin—but a ceremony between basketball games (our homecoming was in January) where all the class representatives walked out, for some reason in this case in matching long skirts carrying fake flowers. I got the biggest zit I've ever gotten right on the top of my nose, and he walked with me across the gym floor, and I didn't know what to say to him. Two years later we were dating. He gave me such sickly sweet gifts—a necklace that said “Someone Special” (which I still have), a big white teddy bear carrying a red heart—that I had to call it off.

  Ten years later, after several college near misses, after dating the wonderful preacher's boy from our church whom I had little in common with, I dated Brian. From time to time, I thought I would marry him. We dated a year, and then he broke my heart and continued to flirt with me for a year at work. Devastated me would get my hopes up and have them crushed, get my hopes up and have them crushed again, over and over. Finally he moved to North Carolina. We sat outside at Anita's, the cheap Mexican place right by Route 50, before he left. He cried and held my hands as we talked about saying good-bye. And then he left. And finally I moved on.

  Now, after a years-long drought, here I am in England, unable to finish my chocolate croissant.

  Six

  Simple Conversation

  Mary wished to say something

  very sensible, but knew not how.

  —PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

  At some point, every relationship becomes quotidian. It becomes about the daily things, the mundane and menial things; sometimes those menial things, completely unimportant to others, have the greatest effect on our happiness. Especially at the beginning of a relationship, I think, we as women sift through this daily stew of conversations and mannerisms like tea leaves, looking for signs of future happiness or disappointment, love or loneliness. It is a skill we acquire in junior high and never lose.

  I made the decision to talk to Jack, looking for reassurance. I wanted him to know that I was a mess, temporarily, but I was really okay. I sensed that this was perhaps a mistake, but when I am overwhelmingly tired and emotional and begin to feel that something must be done, I am compelled to do it.

  I waited on the lawn for him to finish breakfast, my eyes still streaming as I sat on a green plastic chair under a tent and tried not to make eye contact with anyone, shakily drinking my cappuccino. Who knows what I looked like; I felt like I never entirely made it into the real world that morning and couldn't help it.

  And who knew what Jack was expecting—certainly not me in my fragile state. I told him that the last couple days had been intense, that I had not been sleeping well, that I was feeling emotional and couldn't process things, that if I lay low today that was why.

  “Wow,” he said. “I don't really know what to do with that.”

  I laughed through tears. “Yeah. Most guys don't.”

  As I began to sense that assurance would not come, he said, “I'm glad you said something because I've been thinking, we need to make sure we're getting everything we're supposed to out of this week, meeting everyone we're supposed to meet. It probably would be good if we didn't sp
end so much time together.”

  I felt the full weight of the blow. I had given him reason to think I am a bit crazy. And I am. Of course, I agreed. It would be good to not spend so much time together, take a step back, hang out with other people. But inside I thought, Buck up, little camper.

  I imagined him discussing this with the other guys, all of them wondering at my instability, and longed to hang out with a girlfriend who could help me put it all right again, at least in my head.

  I got a sandwich from down the street and ate lunch by myself on the library steps. I made plans to go to dinner with someone else and was generally awkward all afternoon, thinking, Perhaps this Big Thing will end up being nothing after all I will go back to my quiet little life.

  One topic every Austen biographer must address is her quiet, seemingly eventless life, which is how Jane's brother described it in his first biographical sketch and how her nephew characterized her. To her brother Henry, she was the homebound sister, and to nephew James, she was dear Aunt Jane—funny, charming, full of life, and no doubt unquestionably talented. But what really happened in her life? And so the biographers dig and find love, heartbreak, family conflict, the loss of her beloved childhood home, periods of great financial insecurity, dear friends, and tragic deaths. “Her life was not without event,” they say.

  And I think, Of course. How many of our lives would people judge as entirely unremarkable—lives in which perhaps love fails, careers are made or broken, deep friendships and family relationships endure, tragedy is in some form or other inescapable, and the future is murky. These are our realities, and that's where Jane specialized: the drama of ordinary life, lives not inflated beyond recognition and not with unbelievable goodness or incredible tragedy. Just mothers and fathers, sisters, friends. Pesky neighbors and rich neighbors and neighbors who like you but still want to get the better of you. At times, ridiculous clergy. Good-looking, weak-charactered men; good-hearted plain men; unbelievably rich men with character faults all their own. Fabulous romantic beginnings that may end up being nothing after all. Everyone's foibles on display, with a bit of grace for nearly every character.

  Somehow I ended up in Jack's group for dinner, sitting next to him, and by the end of the meal, after trading a few small sharpish sorts of comments and a lot of laughter, we were friends once again.

  Several of us decided on a whim to go to a Baroque candlelight concert at Exeter College Chapel after dinner. On the sides, from about eight feet up, the walls are gorgeous stained glass, images of biblical stories clear to the top. It reminds me of a heavier version of Paris's glorious, tiny Sainte-Chapelle. We sat listening to the cello and harpsichord, the readings from Shakespeare (“Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments…”) and Queen Elizabeth (“I have the heart and stomach of a king…”), trying to sort out which stories were which in the glass. It was lovely.

  We got ice cream and stood talking on the bridge over the Isis, and I was afraid I might pass out from exhaustion.

  Walking back, I said to Jack, “I'm not sure exactly what I said to you this morning, and I'm even less sure about what you heard.” He laughed a little. I was determined: “I just want to make sure I didn't communicate that I'm not interested, because I am.”

  “I appreciate that,” he said. And quietly, “No, I just heard you say that, you know, you were feeling emotional and needed some space.”

  “Good.”

  “You know, it's like I said,” he continued. “This other thing just started, and I didn't expect to meet someone—especially someone I had so much in common with. I'm sure you weren't expecting to meet anyone either.”

  “No, I wasn't.” I lied through my teeth. What's a girl to do?

  Back in the lobby, I practically whispered, “So then, I'm like, are we just hanging out or what? And I know I don't need an answer to that question now.”

  But Jack answered me anyway. “Yeah, we should view it that way and not feel like we need to sit together in lectures all the time or spend all our time together. You know, I just don't know what God's going to do with this.”

  I thought, Yes, in some sense that's true, but doesn't it just come down to what Jack wants? Isn't that how God generally directs in these situations? And how could he want the girl in North Carolina instead of me?

  We sat in the common room with Spencer, laughing until about midnight when I went upstairs. Jack smiled at me when he said goodnight, said it was a nice night and he'd had a good time. It was.

  Officially, nothing is going on between Jack and me.

  Strangely, that feels remarkably good. And still, I am treasuring these days and these simple conversations.

  Perhaps I should make an effort not to see everyone else's faults so clearly. I love everyone close to me, and as for everyone else, I am naturally inclined rather not to like people, to just be content with my small group of lovely friends.

  All of my wash has gone slightly gray, and I'm afraid that I dropped underwear on the lawn and they will be pinned to the notice board in the morning. We were sitting outside for a couple of hours with a group, talking, waiting for the washing machines. I just wanted Jack to myself, but he was so incredibly happy to be with people.

  I think he is predisposed to love everyone he meets, to want to know everyone. He is like Bingley and Jane; he looks around and sees only good. I look around and catch ridiculous tendencies and sometimes am just too tired to put forth the effort not to be bored. I have been considering the character flaw to be his, but I suppose it must be my own.

  Biographers sometimes wrestle with Austen's complex character— the good Christian girl with the biting wit, with the ability to see and desire to expose the laughable and ludicrous. Most of the things that surprise them are in her letters to her sister, Cassandra, where (and perhaps the only place) she could freely say whatever she wanted.

  Maybe this doesn't surprise me because of my own experiences. My closest friends and I, if unquestionably faithful, are not overwhelmingly or unnaturally good—at least not blandly so. Our conversations range from incisive devotional thoughts to solving poverty to the creepy, ogling married guys buying us drinks downtown. It's no surprise to me that Jane's life encompassed both as well—that she had a capacity for devotion as well as an ability to wryly, if at times harshly, engage the world around her.

  She was not quick to love people outside her little circle, and that is a failing with which I can easily sympathize—one that, at some level, surely comes from some kind of insecurity. Oh well. It is much more fun to be annoyed with Jack and his determinedly loving everyone than to ponder my own failings.

  There is a woman who walks St. Aidâtes and the Folly Bridge at night. Seeing her for the second time, I notice how she mumbles and shuffles, rather well dressed for someone who may be crazy, in a matching long skirt and blouse. She works her hands together and looks at the ground and sort of hunches along. I wanted to know what she talks about and if anyone ever listens to her. I wondered, does she have children, and do they know this is how she spends her evenings? Does she have friends? Our loud group passed her on the way to the Head of the River pub, after our farewell banquet in Wadham College's four-hundred-year-old dining hall. I was in my favorite red Ann Taylor dress that's sleeveless, cut in to bare all of my shoulders, and falls to midcalf, grazing my minimal curves. I got to see that instant look of the best kind of surprise on Jack's face when I walked out on the lawn.

  As we walked to dinner—together in the crowd, as always—he said, “I was thinking, we should get pictures together.” So there we are, looking couplish, standing on the manicured lawn of the Wadham quad.

  I laughed that night like I hadn't laughed in ages, healing laughter. Lily got a Long Island Iced Tea, and they doubled the alcohol by mistake. The rest of us didn't need much motivation; our hearts were limber.

  I had spent an hour that afternoon back at the spot by the river, lying in the sun. I drifted in and out of sleep, afraid that I could actually s
leep soundly there in the middle of the afternoon and not wake up until the sky was gray and I had missed everything. When you live like this—awake and exhausted almost all the time—you can never tell when sleep will come. You sort of have to obey it whenever it wants to make an appearance, but here I was denying it again. I paid for it later, as the unending laughter had me fighting off dry heaves, which have been making regular appearances every morning.

  In England they shut down all the pubs at 11:00 p.m. for some reason, as the result of some horrible law (which I understand they have now changed). When they kicked us out, we split up into smaller groups and wandered slowly back through town. We passed Christ Church again, curtains blowing by an open pane, passed lines of people on Cornmarket waiting for the midnight release of the new Harry Potter book, walked up St. Giles, always the quiet heaviness of the Oxford college buildings playing the counterpoint to our lightness. I walked next to Jack, close and connected somehow in spite of the fact that we did not touch—him with his arms crossed, me occasionally letting my hand hang free by my side. We didn't stop laughing, nor did I try to conceal the occasional dry heaves, until we got back to Wycliffe, and then with the sad realization that this was the end of our party. Everyone leaves tomorrow. Spencer goes back home to a job he wants to leave, Paul to a busy practice. Lily is going on a missions trip to work with disadvantaged youth in London, Jack to Jordan for research for his masters degree, me to a quiet Benedictine monastery in Hampshire, near Jane's home.

  have no idea what to expect, but I long for the peace of the monks.

  Seven

  Alton Abbey: Incense and Blooms

  A lady's imagination is very rapid;

  it jumps from admiration to love, from love

  to matrimony in a moment.

  —MR. DARCY, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE