Jane Austen Made Me Do It Read online

  Their manner was so friendly and congenial, I could scarcely believe my ears—but I knew better than to expect it to last. “Please,” returned I anxiously, “if you have complaints—if you are angry with me or have found fault with any thing I have done—I would truly rather you did not voice it.”

  “Complaints?” repeated Elizabeth in surprise.

  “Faults?” reiterated Mr. Darcy. “We could not in good conscience find fault with you, Miss Austen. And we are hardly angry.”

  “In fact, it is quite the reverse,” said Elizabeth. “We would like to express our most fervent gratitude.”

  “Gratitude?” said I, astonished.

  Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy exchanged a very loving look and then a happy laugh, as he gently clasped her gloved hand in his. “Everything you devised for us was so cleverly thought out,” said Elizabeth.

  “I shudder to think what kind of man I would have been, had you not thrown my darling Elizabeth in my way,” said Mr. Darcy with a warm smile.

  “I believe we are the happiest two creatures on earth,” added Elizabeth with the liveliest emotion.

  “No, you must reserve that honour to us,” interjected Mr. Bingley, joining us with a bright grin and Jane on his arm. “I thank you, Miss Austen. You have done us all proud.”

  “Truly, I do not deserve such happiness!” cried Jane, her adoring gaze meeting Bingley’s, where it found an identical response. “Miss Austen, you are a heroine in our eyes. And thank you for giving me your name.”

  So fraught with emotion and relief was I at this discourse that I was unable to utter a single syllable. All four shook my hand enthusiastically in turn and said their good-byes. When I had at last sufficiently regained my composure to make my way out of the rooms, I was still so consumed with delight that I barely noticed the coldness of the evening air or the grimness of the ever-present fog.

  What felicity was this! I thought as I wandered along, heedless of the direction in which I was heading. After such a litany of heartbreaking indictments, to find that I had at least done something right! It was in this exultant frame of mind that I approached the wide green lawn of the Royal Crescent, where I suddenly felt a hand on my arm and my musings were interrupted by a feminine voice.

  “Miss Austen! Oh! I have been quite wild to speak to you!”

  I stopped and looked at the young lady in astonishment. It was Susan Morland! It must be, for she was pretty, seventeen at most, and dressed just as I had imagined her, in a sprigged muslin gown with blue trimmings (which was bound to fray upon the first washing). Well, I thought—at least it makes sense that she is in Bath, for I did put her here before sending her off to Northanger Abbey.

  “I must be quick,” exclaimed she, looking about with an anxious expression. “I fear for your safety, Miss Austen.”

  “My safety?”

  “Yes! I will explain in a moment. But first—oh!” (studying my expression) “I dare say you have forgotten all about me. I would not blame you if you had—I have been sitting so long on the shelf!”

  “How could I forget you, Susan? You were my very first sale.”

  “It is that very subject which I long to discuss with you. Oh! Miss Austen—it has been twelve years that I have languished in obscurity at Richard Crosby and Company—twelve years and still I have not seen the light of day! Clearly that gentleman does not intend to publish my story. I understand that ten pounds is a great deal of money—but you are a successful author to-day. Surely you have the means to buy back the manuscript now. Would it be asking too much—could you find it in your heart—please, please, will you rescue me?”

  I took a moment to consider her request. I, too, had long agonised over that book’s fate—but I had written it so long ago, and much had changed during the interval. Would another bookseller—not to mention the public—still find Susan to be of interest? Or would they think it obsolete? Yet how could I voice aloud these thoughts to the sweet, innocent girl who stood trembling so violently before me, gazing at me with such hope and trust in her eyes?

  In a tone softened by compassion, I said, “Dear Miss Morland. If I am fortunate enough to sell Emma, I will use a portion of the funds to buy back your book. You may depend upon it.”

  “Thank you, Miss Austen. Thank you so much!”

  “However, I must warn you, Miss Morland—should I succeed in this effort, there is another problem which I fear may cause you additional distress.”

  “What is that?”

  “It has come to my attention that an anonymous, two-volume novel called Susan was published by John Booth some six years ago. Therefore, even if I do recover my own manuscript, its title—and your very name—will necessarily have to be altered.”

  “Oh! I would not mind that a bit,” replied Susan earnestly. “In truth, I have never much cared for my name. Please feel free to change it. Although I do hope you will not call me Milicent or Lavinia or Eunice—that would be too, too horrid!”

  “I promise to give you only the most delightful name.”

  “You fill me with relief, Miss Austen. And now—” She looked about us with an expression of renewed dread and apprehension. “To that other matter of which I must speak without further delay. I am very concerned about you. You must leave Bath this instant!”

  “Leave Bath? Why?”

  “A little while ago,” confided Susan with rising agitation, “I was strolling through Sydney Gardens when I observed Mr. Wickham engaged in a heated discussion with Mr. Willoughby, William Walter Elliot, and John Thorpe. All four appeared to be very angry about something.”

  My heart leapt in sudden alarm. I had already witnessed the wrath and disdain of several of my creations whom I thought I had portrayed in a most becoming light. What manner of reception could I expect to receive from those characters whom I had represented in a less than favourable manner? Indeed, I could not deny that with the most deliberate of intentions, I had conceived a great many characters who were truly selfish, vain, vulgar, greedy, wicked, stupid, thoughtless, or senseless—or, as in the case of the four scoundrels Susan had described, a combination of most of those traits.

  “You say that all four of those men are in Bath to-day?” replied I with unease.

  “They are! While strolling by, I overheard some of their conversation. It was dreadful!” She moved closer. “I heard Mr. Wickham and Mr. Willoughby mention your name, Miss Austen, in the same sentence as the word murder.”

  “Murder? Pray, Susan, do not let your imagination run away with you. Did you learn nothing from your own story?” Despite my brave words, in truth I was growing quite afraid.

  All at once I heard the ominous sound of approaching footsteps. Appearing out of the dark fog on the rise of lawn before me came the very four male figures Miss Morland had just named, steadily advancing with torches in hand and no kind looks on their countenances.

  I swallowed hard and stepped backward. “Miss Morland—” I began, but strangely, Miss Morland had vanished. I was alone, quite alone, except for the men who were bearing down upon me. The heavy trampling of feet began to grow into an ever-louder, thundering din. To my dismay, just behind the angry four, I saw another group of people coming at me through the fog: Mr. Collins, Mrs. Bennet, Lydia and Mary Bennet, Louisa Bingley Hurst, Caroline Bingley, and Lady Catherine de Bourgh.

  I gasped in terror. From a different direction, an additional, furious assemblage was descending: Mr. and Mrs. Elton, Sir Walter and Elizabeth Elliot, Mary Musgrove, Isabella Thorpe, and General Tilney. Behind them strode Fanny and John Dashwood, Lucy Steele, Mr. Price, Mr. Rushworth, Maria Bertram Rushworth, Lady Bertram, Mrs. Ferrars, and Robert Ferrars. Many of them carried pitchforks and flaming torches. Some had guns. All of them were staring at me. The hatred and malice in their eyes is beyond my power to describe.

  Panic surged through me. I screamed in horror, but no sound escaped my lips. I turned sharply in an attempt to flee, when I heard Lady Catherine de Bourgh call out in fury:

  “Not
so hasty, if you please. Unfeeling, selfish girl! I am most seriously displeased!”

  Her piercing tone so paralysed me that my feet were rooted to the ground. The fuming horde drew closer and closer. They were chanting now: “Jane! Jane! Jane!” Again, I tried to scream.

  “Jane! Jane! Jane! Wake up!”

  Cassandra’s voice broke through my consciousness, hurtling me out of that terrifying reality and back to the warm cocoon of my own bed. I awoke to find myself bathed in perspiration, my heart pounding, my sister’s gentle hand upon my arm as she looked at me through the moonlit darkness from the next pillow.

  “Oh! Cassandra!” I struggled to catch my breath. “I have just had the most horrible dream.”

  “What was it about?” asked Cassandra softly.

  I told her everything, as I always did.

  “Well,” said she after I had finished my story, “your dream does not surprise me. Your characters have become very real to you—as real as life itself. It is only natural that you should hear their thoughts and feel their emotions as they do.”

  “Yes, but what does it signify? I can understand why many of my lesser characters would despise me. But my heroines? I love them all! To think that four of them are so unhappy makes me absolutely miserable. Have I done a terrible thing? Am I the most vile and ignorant authoress who ever dared to put pen to paper?”

  “Of course not, dearest,” replied Cassandra soothingly, as she found and tenderly squeezed my hand. “If all writers were obliged to atone for the portrayals or fates of their creations, think what Shakespeare owes to Romeo and Juliet or Iago and Richard III. Should Defoe and Richardson feel remorse for the trials and tribulations they inflicted on poor Mr. Crusoe, Clarissa, or Pamela?”

  “Of course not. Their work has afforded me and the public untold hours of reading pleasure.”

  “So it is with your books, Jane. You have told me time and again that a perfectly smooth course never makes a satisfying story, that it is an author’s job to make his or her characters suffer so that they might learn something at the end.”

  “True. Although after hearing Fanny Price’s complaints, I believe I may have erred in her creation. I ignored my own model! Her suffering did not culminate in a lesson.”

  “I did try to persuade you to let her marry Henry Crawford.”

  “I know.” I sighed. “I have learned my lesson. People do not appreciate pure goodness in a character in a novel. Even Fanny does not like herself! Given the complaints of the others, perhaps I ought to strive for a more happy medium in my next effort.”

  “A happy medium? What do you mean?”

  I thought for a moment. “Next time, I will create a heroine who is modest and good, but not entirely perfect. She will have made mistakes that she regrets.” My mind fixed on one of my greatest regrets in life: the day I was obliged to say good-bye to Mr. Ashford. “Marianne asked for a second chance. Well then—I will fill this new character with longing and regret for a lover she was persuaded to refuse many years past, and I will give her a second chance to make things right.”

  “A lovely idea. Who will this lover be? A clergyman or a landed gentleman?”

  “Neither.” New ideas spilled into my brain with lightning speed. “In my dream, I saw a young officer in the Pump-room—a naval captain with sad eyes. Perhaps he was regretting his lost love. I will write about him, and thus honor Frank and Charles and all men of that worthy profession.”

  “A naval captain! I approve of this notion.”

  “I think I shall set the book primarily in Bath.”

  “Bath? But Jane, you hate Bath.”

  “That is precisely why it is the ideal location.” I sat up, hugging my pillow to my chest, my heart pounding with rising excitement. “My heroine will be obliged to quit her beloved home in the country and remove with her family to Bath—just as we did when papa retired—and she will despise it as much as I did. Think of the drama! Imagine all the intriguing circumstances which may ensue! And to make up for the odiousness of Bath, I will include a visit to a place I love—” (recalling the precise spot where I met Mr. Ashford) “Lyme, perhaps. Yes, Lyme.”

  “I declare, Jane, this must be the book you are supposed to write next. I have not seen you this impassioned about any thing in months.”

  “Speaking of passion,” said I with enthusiasm, “do you recall how Marianne accused me of giving passionate feelings a bad name? This time, I will allow my characters to better express their emotions. And something else occurs to me. In my dream, all my female heroines seemed so incredibly young. I would prefer to write about someone a bit closer to my own age and experience now.”

  “What age do you have in mind?”

  “I don’t know, seven-and-twenty perhaps.”

  “A heroine of seven-and-twenty is very old indeed,” returned Cassandra dubiously. “Has such a thing ever been attempted before?”

  “Not to my knowledge, but I could be the first to do it. And what would you think if I named her after our dear friend Anne Sharpe?”

  “I should think Anne would be flattered.”

  “Then it is done! Anne she shall be.” I leapt from the bed and threw on my shawl, ignoring the brief, painful twinge in my back which I had been experiencing infrequently of late, clearly a sign of my advancing age.

  “Jane, what are you doing?”

  “I am getting up.”

  “It is the middle of the night.”

  “Do you imagine that I could sleep, with all these ideas spinning in my head?” I lit a candle and strode to the door. “No, I must go downstairs at once, write out the dream I had, and then jot down my plans for this novel, before all these thoughts scatter to the wind.”

  “Of course you must,” said Cassandra with a smile as she lay back upon her pillow. “Do not stay up too long, dearest.”

  “I will not,” replied I, although we both knew very well that I would be up until my fingers were stained black with ink and the first light of dawn was creeping in beneath the shutters.

  SYRIE JAMES, hailed as the “queen of nineteenth-century re-imaginings” by Los Angeles magazine, is the author of The Lost Memoirs of Jane Austen (the untold story of Jane Austen’s love affair), an international bestseller named Best First Novel by Library Journal; The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë, the Audie-nominated story of Charlotte’s life and romance, selected by the Women’s National Book Association as a Great Group Read; and the critically acclaimed Dracula, My Love, Mina Harker’s passionate love affair with the most famous vampire of them all. Syrie insists that her very romantic Dracula is inspired by a combination of the most swoon-inducing traits of Mr. Darcy, Mr. Knightley, Mr. Rochester, and Heathcliff—as is the hero of her most recent novel, Nocturne. A lifetime member of WGA and JASNA, Syrie is an admitted Anglophile and is obsessed with all things Austen, although she lives in Los Angeles.

  www.syriejames.com

  @syriejames on Twitter

  Captain Wentworth was awake early to witness the greyness of the day, mists rising in a smoking pall above the city along with the icy rain which lashed at the windows of his lodgings in a manner fit for any storm at sea. His spirits were high, though truth to be told, he was more than a little nervous at the prospect of the interview he was about to face. As he adjusted the cuffs at his wrists, he glanced out of the window to observe the dash of carriages rolling round the square depositing new arrivals in Bath.

  Had it only been yesterday when the unimaginable had happened at last? Frederick recalled every second of the encounter, revived every feeling. They’d met in Union Street. He’d been almost afraid to witness her reaction to the heartfelt letter he’d sent. But he needn’t have worried. Her eyes had spoken the sentiments she could not immediately express. Anne Elliot had taken his arm, and he’d sheltered her from the rain with his umbrella.

  From his viewpoint past the railings on the other side of Queen Square, Gay Street effortlessly progressed up its steep incline, elegant façades on either sid
e ascending to the Circus much as he and Anne had advanced before turning off to find the relative quiet of the Gravel Walk. Heedless of the sauntering politicians, bustling housekeepers, and flirting girls around them, they had confessed all their hidden, secret feelings, buried for so long.

  “She loves me, as I love her,” he said out loud to confirm the truth to himself. He wanted to open the window and shout it out to the muffin man below. “Anne Elliot never stopped loving me from the day we parted. Oh, that my stubborn pride had not prevented me from seeking her out sooner. I’ve wasted almost nine precious years when we could have been together! I admit; I felt very differently all those years ago when she rejected me. I held her in contempt then, although sweet Anne, I now believe, was perfectly justified in withdrawing from our engagement. I was proud, made to feel that I was not good enough for a baronet’s daughter, and the truth of it stung me to my very soul. But there is little point in grieving over the past; I must look to the future with the girl I love most in the world by my side. My only fear, nay dread, concerns the interview I am to have with her father this morning. Not that his consent really matters. Anne will not be persuaded against her wishes this time, not like the first time. We are older, and, I hope, much wiser, both secure in the knowledge that our love is ever true and constant. But, this will not do, I have an appointment with Sir Walter, and I must not be late!”

  In the most imposing house on Camden Place, Captain Wentworth’s beloved Anne Elliot was looking out anxiously through the window in the drawing room, though she tried to give an air of calm. Her thoughts and ideas ran on similar lines to the gentleman whose attendance she expected. Half elation, half dejection, her mind veered from the images of yesterday, which had her spirits dancing in private rapture to the imagined scene of what was about to take place. That is, if he kept his promise and came. She could not help but smile at her own fleeting misgivings, because if she truly examined her heart, of one thing she was certain. He would come. Captain Wentworth would ask for her hand. Anne did not think he would be refused, but she knew that her father and the rest of her family would be shocked by their news.