Jane Austen Made Me Do It (3 page)

“I always behaved with the utmost of propriety,” said Elinor,
“no matter how difficult or oppressive the circumstance. At only nineteen years of age, I was required to be the model of patience, perseverance, and fortitude, obliged to keep my entire family financially and emotionally afloat, and to conceal my pain beneath a façade of complete composure, even when my heart was breaking.”

“Yes, and you are
admired
for your strength of character, Elinor,” insisted I.

“Admired perhaps, but not
liked
. No one likes a character who is flawless, Miss Austen.”

“It was the same for me,” remarked Fanny. “How I succeeded in maintaining even a modicum of self-respect in such a hostile, belittling, and unfeeling environment as Mansfield Park is purely due to God's grace and your pen. You made me sit timidly by while the man I loved chased after another woman, had me refuse a charming man because you deemed him insincere, and would not even allow me to participate in a private play, insisting that it was indelicate and wrong! How I disliked myself! No one is fond of a shy, priggish, and passive character, Miss Austen. No one!”

“
I
am very fond of you,” returned I emphatically. “Henry and Mary liked you. And Edmund
loves
you.”

“Only because you made him just as good and virtuous as I.”

“The book has oft been praised for its morality and sound treatment of the clergy!” insisted I a little desperately.

“That may be so,” said Fanny, “and please correct me if I am wrong, but your own mother finds me insipid, your niece Anna cannot bear me, and the reading public at large finds Edmund and I both annoying and as dull as dishwater.”

To my mortification, I could not refute her statement.

“People love strong, outspoken characters,” said Elinor, “who will not allow themselves to be trampled on by others—characters who have flaws but overcome them. Yet in
our
books, you imply
that by being consistently patient, good, and silent, a woman can rise above difficult circumstances.”

“Surely this message controverts everything you told us about life in that
other
book,” said Fanny.

“What other book?” asked I.

“Why, the book that is everyone's favorite,” answered Elinor with a tight little smile. She then said good-day, and after Fanny made a final comment about the weather, the pair linked arms, turned, and made their way down the damp, grey pavement.

My thoughts were in such a state of disarray that I hardly knew what to think or feel. I strode off in the opposite direction, crossing the road, when a carriage suddenly appeared out of the fog and nearly ran me down. It was some time before my heart returned to its natural pace. How long I walked on in this distracted manner along the nearly deserted streets I cannot say, but at length I passed the Abbey Church and found myself standing outside the Pump-room. A cacophony of voices issued from within, proof that not all the inhabitants of Bath had stayed at home.

As I was cold and thirsty, I hurried inside the Pump-room, where a crowd milled about in spacious elegance, and musicians in the west apse performed a pleasant air. A cursory glance revealed that I had no acquaintance there. Appreciative of the heat emanating from two large fireplaces, I made my way to the fountain, where I paid the attendant for a glass of water and drank it down. As I turned, I nearly collided with a handsome young man smartly dressed in the uniform of a naval officer, exactly like that of my brothers Frank and Charles.

“Forgive me,” said he with a bow, before purchasing his own glass and moving on. The naval captain made a most arresting figure, and I wondered what lay behind the sad look in his eyes.
My attention was soon diverted, however, by the sight of an attractive, fashionably dressed young woman who was intently studying all the passersby, as if seeking out some one in particular. She looked strangely familiar. All at once I knew why: it was Emma Woodhouse.

Emma! In my view, one of the most delightful creatures I had ever conceived! Upon catching sight of me, Emma started with recognition, a look that quickly turned to worry as she glided to my side.

“There you are! I have been looking every where for you, Miss Austen. Have the others found you?”

“The others?”

“Word has got out that you are in town. There are quite a few people who are—” (she hesitated) “—most
anxious
to speak with you.”

Oh dear, I thought, my heart sinking. This could prove to be a most exhausting day. “Thank you. I will keep an eye out for the others, whoever they may be. But how is it that
you
are here, Emma? My book about you is only just completed. It has yet to be sold or published.”

She shrugged. “I suppose since it is written, I therefore exist?”

“I see.” I smiled hopefully, praying that, unlike my previous encounters,
she
might have some kind words for me. My hopes on that score, however, were soon dashed.

“I admit, Miss Austen, that I too have been hoping to have a word with you. You know it is not in my nature to criticise. And far be it from me to give
advice
—Mr. Knightley is for ever counseling me on that subject, and he is never wrong—but I believe it my duty as a friend to share certain thoughts which I feel might prove to be of benefit to you.”

“Do go on.”

“You must be the judge of what is best to write, of course—I would not
dream
of interfering—but I cannot help but think that you presented me in a very disagreeable light in your novel.”

“Disagreeable?” I sighed, knowing full well what was coming. “How so?”

“It started out so well. You called me handsome, clever, and rich, and you gave me a happy disposition. You placed me in a comfortable home, I was original in my thinking, and admired by all who knew me. But then you went off in such an unacceptable direction! You made me oblivious to every real thing going on around me. I spent the entire novel completely blind to the truth of my affections, while trying in vain to elevate Harriet's status and procure her a husband. I was dense, obtuse, manipulative—yet all the while firm in my belief that I knew what was best for every body!”

“Yes, but Emma: every thing you said and did, you did from the fullness of your heart and with the best of intentions.”

“Not everything,” insisted Emma. “I gossiped wickedly about Jane Fairfax, I flirted outrageously with Frank Churchill, and I was unpardonably rude to Miss Bates at Box Hill.”

“That is true, but in each instance, you learned from your mistakes—and this ability to learn and change is the very definition of a heroine. Consider your many positive and attractive qualities. Your temperament is cheerful, patient, and resilient. You are not given to self-pity. You are intelligent and have an excellent sense of humour. Your errors are the result not of stupidity but of a quick mind—a mind so necessitous of stimulation that you were obliged to invent interesting diversions for yourself. You are an
imaginist
, Emma—like me.”

Emma puzzled briefly over all that I had said, then charged, “Nevertheless, there is one offence so egregious, it negates all the positive qualities you mentioned: you portrayed me as a
snob
.”

“Dearest Emma,” returned I quietly and with affection, “compare yourself to Mr. and Mrs. Elton.
They
are my shining examples of true vulgarity, self-importance, and boorishness. You, by contrast, are a charming and amusing creature—a
loveable
snob.”

“How can a snob be loveable?” retorted Emma sharply. “That is a contradiction in terms. Even
you
admitted that you were writing a heroine whom no one but yourself would much like.”

“Perhaps I will be proven wrong. My sister read the manuscript, and she loves you as you are.”

“She is hardly the most impartial judge, is she?” cried Emma. Lowering her voice now and speaking with great feeling, she added, “I must depart, but please allow me to leave you with two vital pieces of information. First: tell your cook to try gooseberry jam in her Bakewell Pudding, it is quite delicious. Second: I have just been speaking with a Mr. Thurston, a most
interesting
, unattached clergyman with good teeth and a nice living in the parish of Snitterfield. Do you see him standing over there by the great clock?” With a slight inclination of her head, Emma gestured towards a stout, red-faced, nearly bald-headed clergyman who was smiling at me. “I made all your charms known to him and he is hoping to speak to you. No, no, do not even think of thanking me,” said she, turning to go. “Just to know that my actions
might
bring you some future happiness gives me great joy. Good-day, Miss Austen, and good luck.”

“Wait!” cried I, darting after Emma, as anxious to continue our conversation as I was to avoid the man in question, “may we not return to the earlier topic of our discussion? You are the second person to-day who has alleged that I gave her too many faults, while two others insist that I made them too perfect. How am I to reconcile these opposing points of view?”

Emma glanced back at me and shrugged prettily. “That is for you to decide. I cannot give you an opinion. If you prefer to go on
writing flawed heroines who must continually humiliate themselves on the road to learning life's lessons, then be my guest—do not hesitate. You are the author, not I. Not for the world would I think of influencing you either way.” With a parting smile, she whirled round and vanished into the crowd.

In a state of great agitation, I hurriedly navigated my way out of the Pump-room and into the yard beyond. How could it be, I asked myself, that all the characters whom I loved and had created with such care should prove to be so unsatisfied with themselves? Had I erred in their conception? Was it better to be good or flawed? If neither option was acceptable, what was an author to do?

Half a minute conducted me through the empty Pump-yard to the archway opposite Union-passage, where I paused in great surprise. Even Cheap-street—which was normally so congested with the confluence of carriages, horsemen, and carts entering the city from the great London and Oxford roads that a lady was in danger of losing her life in attempting to cross it—was entirely devoid of traffic. The bleak, eerie stillness was not even broken by the advent of a single female window shopper or a gentleman in search of tea and pastry. Where was every body? The only evidence of life in Bath had been the congregation in the Pump-room. The late afternoon light was quickly fading into early evening. Perhaps, I thought, there was a ball taking place in the Upper Rooms.

I had only just conceived this notion when, to my astonishment, I suddenly found myself halfway across the city, standing immediately outside those very Assembly Rooms, enveloped by an eager, jostling crowd making its way in through the open doors.

I had no wish to go within. In my youth, I had greatly enjoyed a ball—I loved music and dancing, and had welcomed the opportunity
it afforded for animated association with friends and neighbours or, at times, new faces—but I had never cared for such diversions at Bath, a city of peripatetic visitors of little sense and even lesser education, where young ladies made overt displays of themselves in search of husbands.

Nevertheless, I was pulled along by the crush of people into the hall and the adjoining ball-room. At length the bustle subsided, depositing me at a vantage point from whence I was able to obtain a good view of the dancers. I felt very out of sorts, and was mortified to be standing amongst this well-dressed crowd clad in my day gown and bonnet (although a brief glance in a nearby looking-glass revealed that the bonnet
was
trimmed with the loveliest blue satin ribbon and a very fine spray of forget-me-nots).

I was fanning my face from my exertion when my gaze fell upon two couples dancing nearby, at the end of a line. Did my eyes deceive me? Could it possibly be? The first couple looked for all the world like Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy. Dancing directly beside them—I was absolutely certain of it—were Jane and Mr. Bingley. The music ended and I watched in wonder as Elizabeth slipped her hand into the bend of Mr. Darcy's arm and, smiling and chatting, they made their way across the floor. Jane and Mr. Bingley followed behind at a leisurely pace, engaged in a similarly affectionate tête-à-tête.

A great thrill coursed through me. Was it possible that I was actually going to meet those four dear souls with whom, for so many long years, I had been acquainted only in my mind? My initial exhilaration, however, turned to alarm at the thought of another demoralising scene such as the ones to which I had just been subjected. Hot tears threatened behind my eyes. Oh! I could not bear it! Despite my desperate wish to leave, I was frozen to the spot. In moments the first couple stood before me.

“Good-afternoon, Miss Austen,” said Elizabeth, beaming.

“What a pleasure it is to see you!” exclaimed Mr. Darcy.

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.