Dearest Cousin Jane (19 page)

June 1810

W
ell, it has been an exceedingly pleasant visit to Chawton. The cottage is charmingly appointed now and Alton is a pretty little town. I enjoyed walking there each morning, usually with Cassandra, though sometimes Jane accompanied us. More frequently though she remained at home and Anna stayed with her, which was a relief to me. We were received very warmly by the staff at the bank—Henry’s bank they call it, though of course he is only a partner with two other gentlemen—which occupies a prime position in the town, next door to the splendid new town hall, the sign above it proclaiming Austen, Gray, and Vincent.

I said to Cassandra as we passed it one morning: ‘It is to be hoped that Henry’s bank prospers as I believe the HAs are to move to an even more grand house in Sloane Street.’

‘I believe so,’ she answered. ‘I think Eliza wishes to entertain on a grander scale than she could in Brompton, though I confess I always thought the house they had in Berkeley Street grand enough.’

I could not help but say rather sharply: ‘But then for Eliza, nothing is ever quite grand enough until she can compete with Godmersham.’

‘Oh no,’ came the reply, ‘she does not aspire to be a lady of the manor, rather she sees herself as a hostess—you know, keeping salons like the French ladies of whom we read.’

‘You and Jane may read of such ladies—I am too busy helping my husband run his parish to read such things.’

Cassandra linked her arm through mine.

‘Come, dear Mary, let us change the subject—you know that talk of Eliza always makes you disagreeable.’

I could not help but smile and reflected that the move to Chawton had even benefited Cassandra—she had always been even-tempered, and now she teased and laughed as I had not seen her do since her terrible disappointment of so many years ago.

‘Now that you and James have spent a week with us, what think you of our new situation?’

I told her candidly that I had not seen any one of them as content before.

‘Jane especially seems to be so happy—she radiates contentment but I cannot believe it can be laid at the door of the Reverend Mr Papillon. He is agreeable enough, but I cannot see her accepting if he makes an offer can you?’

The reverend gentleman had called once or twice during our visit as he was a great friend of their near neighbour, Miss Benn.

‘It is not a man who makes Jane seem content, it is her writing—have you not seen how engaged she is with that?’

‘To be sure, I thought that no one could spend so long on letter writing as does dear Jane, but when we go into the room she covers her work up, so that I have begun to wonder if letters of the heart were involved.’

‘She is working on something she wrote a while ago and it is so amusing, so well observed, that I sometimes dare to hope that this time, at last, she may achieve publication.’

‘You have heard it then?’

‘She reads me extracts but I long to read it all when it is complete.’

‘She once used to enjoy reading to the family—might she be prevailed upon when Edward and his family join us next week?’

‘I am not sure; she may find that too large a group.’

There was, of course, insufficient room at Chawton Cottage for Edward, Fanny, and the two other children who were to join our party soon, but they would occupy the Great House just next to the church, also owned by Edward. Cassandra continued: ‘She has always valued Henry’s opinion though, so perhaps when he arrives on Tuesday she—’

Startled, I interrupted: ‘What are the HAs to be with us? I did not know that and fear I…’

‘No Mary, do not be alarmed. Eliza is not to be of the party, we are all aware that you would not wish to be in company with her. Henry is coming alone on bank business, and I was thinking that if Jane has her work in order we might ask for a reading then.’

Somewhat to my surprise, Jane agreed to this scheme and on the afternoon Henry arrived, after we had dined, we settled in the parlour. My mother-in-law busied herself with the patchwork quilt she is working while Anna sat at her feet, cutting her pieces out for her. Cassandra sat in the window seat, Henry, James, and I upon the sofa. Jane took an upright chair, a small table in front of her holding the piles of small sheets of paper that were, she told us, an almost completed novel that she now called
Sense and Sensibility
.

She read for almost an hour and not one of us wanted her to stop. Her mother stopped sewing, Anna looked at her aunt openmouthed with astonishment, and James and Henry exchanged admiring glances. I own that I was quite overcome—it was so good! The sad situation of the three young ladies, their widowed mother having to move out of a house that was her own, the monstrous behaviour of the daughter-in-law—oh it was all so fascinating, like being at a play reading—no, better than the theatre, for this was all
our own dear Jane’s work. I had heard only her rather silly stories before and always thought the family’s opinion of her writing rather flattering. I had been wont to think that James was a finer writer and only needed to have more opportunity and time to do something very fine. But this, this was quite astonishing, and when she drew to a conclusion after Willoughby had asked permission to call on Marianne next day, having rescued her after a fall in a most exciting scene, we all clapped and begged, ‘More, More.’

‘Oh do tell us,’ cried Anna, her eyes shining, ‘do Elinor and Edward meet again? Will Marianne find happiness with Willoughby? Oh, when may we hear more?’

‘Have a care for your aunt’s voice now,’ said Henry, but he went on, ‘Seriously Jane, this work is by far the best we have heard. Will you not let me—’

‘No Henry, not again,’ Cassandra, who scarcely ever raised her voice, almost shouted at her brother. ‘She has been disappointed often enough—do not tempt her again.’

But Jane quite calmly responded, ‘I am ready to try my talents upon the world, Henry, if you will do me the honour. This time I am hopeful that we will have more luck. Next time you visit us, Henry, I shall have a fresh copied manuscript for you to take to London with you.’

She was as good as her word. She and Cassandra spent most days busily bent over the writing table. We enjoyed some pleasant outings in Edward’s barouche-landau though, and came back in the evening to a fine dinner prepared by Martha and the cook. The evening entertainment was always a reading from the newly copied pages, so that by the end of our three-week stay at Chawton we knew the Dashwood family very well. Anna and Fanny renewed their acquaintance and gossiped as young girls do about affairs of the heart. Anna is turning into something of a flirt and will have to be
watched. I thought Edward looked alarmed at times and may fear that she will lead his little Fanny astray—poor thing, she deserves a little fun to be sure. She is turning into quite a drudge. The girls, of course, hoped that Marianne and Willoughby would make a match: ‘I cannot abide that old Brandon,’ Fanny would say, but delighted in Elinor and Edward’s coming together after so many misunderstandings.

It has been an altogether delightful summer. It will give me something pleasant with which to respond to cousin Philly. Her letter awaits an answer these five weeks. She will certainly scold!

April 1811

C
assandra is so droll,’ I said to Eliza as I read the latest letter from her this morning.

Eliza looked up from her perusal of the Court Circular in the
Morning Post
—she always reads this first each day.

‘How so? I should not have thought Godmersham a merry place to be staying, even near three years after Elizabeth’s death,’

‘No, it is sadly changed—they read prayers now instead of plays in the evenings. But what made me laugh is that Cassandra asks if I forget
S&S
in the round of entertainment you and Henry are arranging for me,’

Eliza laughed. ‘Oh, I see. And what shall you tell her about your ‘darling child’?

‘Why, that I could no more forget it than a mother could forget her sucking child of course!’

We were laughing merrily when Henry came in to bid us good-bye as he went off to his office. He looked exceedingly handsome in his blue coat with gilt buttons and quite a dandy as he mounted his chestnut mare and rode off. I have never quite fathomed just what he does at what he calls ‘his’ bank but it seems to provide income enough for them to live in even better style than when I visited them at Brompton.

I knew Cassy would be wild to know about their new abode,
and I fear she is feeling somewhat neglected since my book has been taken up. I try very hard to let her see she is as important to me as ever, but of course this London life is very entertaining and I confess to a certain sense of pride in saying that I am to collect my proofs from Egerton’s next week and shall spend a week correcting them. The publication date was set for July but they now say it may be September or even later.

When Henry first told me that Egerton’s would publish I was so excited that I did not think to ask what ‘on commission’ meant. It was Eliza who gently explained: ‘It means my dear, that the publisher thinks your work is good but not good enough to ensure sales to cover his costs. Thus the author must be prepared to cover the costs if the book does not sell. But never fear, Jane, Henry, and I are more than prepared to stand surety for that eventuality, which we sincerely believe will not occur. The book will sell and Egerton’s will not only recoup the costs but be delighted to publish more—you wait and see.’

I was touched by their generosity and their faith in me. After all, with two major disappointments behind me success is far from assured. But Cassandra told me, as did Mama, that they could afford such a risk and that Eliza would be willing to risk much more to be associated with an author who would soon be the talk of London. Even if the book does sell I will hardly be the talk of London, since I have stipulated that my name must not be revealed. The title page will say only that the author is ‘A Lady.’

I wanted to make Cassy feel included in the excitement, so I sent her a full description of the new house:

Preparation for the party takes up much of Eliza’s attention but she has other things on her mind, too. When we were walking out in Hyde Park with Henry last Sunday she suddenly said: ‘Jane, I have been thinking again about the situation of poor dear Fanny at Godmersham and am resolved to ask her on a visit to us in London that she may be relieved of those onerous duties she has to undertake at home—what think you of the idea?’

‘She has been to stay with you since you moved to Sloane Street has she not?’

‘Why yes, she came with Edward, young Edward, and her sister Marianne not long after we moved. We had a fine time—we took them to see Mrs Jordan in her new play and gave two dinners in their honour.’

‘I remember—she wrote to Mama saying how much she had enjoyed it.’

‘I think I should not have difficulty persuading her to come again but my scheme is to invite her on her own, that she might enjoy relief from her family for a while. But I also have another plan and you must tell me if it is a good one or if it would cause a family upset.’

I was curious. ‘Eliza you are looking mischievous—what do you have in mind?’

‘Yes, my love, do tell us—are we likely to approve your scheme?’ asked Henry, drawing her arm through his and looking down at her fondly.

‘I think you will approve, but its execution depends on the approval of others. What I have in mind is to invite Anna to join Fanny here. You know how much they enjoy each other’s company and I do think a few weeks in London in the autumn would do them both good.’

Henry looked at me while answering Eliza: ‘’Tis a good plan certainly but the difficulty might be—’

‘Henry there is no “might” about it,’ I said, immediately understanding him. ‘Mary would never agree.’

‘I thought you would say so,’ said Eliza, ‘and we may speak frankly among ourselves. I know that Mrs JA has never cared for me and we all know the reason.’

‘You cannot deny, my love,’ said Henry with an indulgent smile at her, ‘that it is a hard thing for a woman to know that her husband made an offer to another woman and only married her when refused!’

‘I know, Henry, but this family feud has gone on long enough. That Mary and I have never been in the same room since we each married two brothers is ridiculous, you must allow.’

‘So you wish to repair the breach by issuing the invitation to Anna?’ I enquired.

She nodded vigorously. ‘Yes. I thought it would show that I was willing to extend a hand of friendship and that in turn might make her forget the past.’

Henry looked doubtful. ‘What think you Jane? Would Mary see it as a gesture of friendship?’

I was not sure. ‘She might perhaps, and I think James would support Anna coming to London, if only because there is always friction between his wife and daughter—yet she is not a woman of warm feelings, as we all know, and she might interpret it differently. She might even think it a provocation—you know flaunting the amusements of London against the dullness of the parsonage.’

But Eliza was determined. ‘I shall do it and take my chances. If she rejects my offer we shall all be no worse off than at present and if she accepts—why, think how much easier family parties will be. We might even ask Mary and James to fetch Anna at the end of the stay and we could give a fine dinner for them.’

Henry laughed. ‘You are always too quick with such plans, my love. One step at a time will be enough, I beg you!’

She was prevented from replying by a disturbance in the park. We heard cheering and clapping and the sound of a carriage and horses.

‘Oh do look, Jane,’ cried Eliza, running back to the path we had just turned off, ‘it is Princess Charlotte—I recognise her equipage. She must be going to visit her mother,’

We had a very good view as she passed by and I tried to take it all in to tell the family in Chawton. She is rather stout, somewhat like her father, the regent, I believe, and wore a pretty bonnet trimmed with blue and silver feathers. The horses and the livery were very fine, of course, and two footmen sat behind on the rear box as the princess and her lady in waiting waved amicably to the crowd. Eliza says that she often drives this way from St James’s as she goes to visit her mother at Kensington Palace. Of course her parents are estranged, and I believe there is even talk of divorce. That is just such another aspect of London society that I know would not find favour with Mary.

Eliza will certainly extend the invitation, but I doubt that Mary
will allow it, even though she is usually glad for Anna to be anywhere but at home. For the moment though, Eliza will concentrate on the musical party. Even I begin to grow excited at the prospect.

Letter from Jane Austen to Cassandra, Sloane Street
April 25th, 1811

I did not detail the food to my sister, fearing she would be envious of our excesses now she is back at Chawton and eating mutton pies! But Madame Bigeon excelled herself. There was hot lobster, oyster patties, and chicken in aspic jelly. There were ices of every flavour
and little cakes soaked in rum. There was even French champagne, as Henry had found someone who could supply it and of course all the émigrés quite raved about it.

I did tell Cassandra that I was flattered to be surrounded by gentlemen all evening but worry that they all seem to know about
S&S
—how are we to keep it a secret when the publication date arrives?

Just as I sealed my letter, Eliza came into room, the
Morning Post
in her hand.

‘Only see Jane,’ she cried, ‘our party is in the newspaper, but how stupid they are—they have not spelled my name right.’

I looked and saw the notice: ‘On Tuesday Mrs H Austin had a musical party at her home in Sloane Street.’

‘How well it looks.’ Eliza was delighted. ‘I must get the butler to go out and buy more copies. I am sure your dear mama would like to see it when you return home.’

I wondered what Mary would think but did not mention it.

May 12th, 1811

I am to return home tomorrow and will be escorted not only by Henry but Mr Tilson also, as they both have business in Alton. If Eliza did not have her good companions with her I should have suggested putting off the journey because she is not at all well. She caught cold a week or so ago and it seems to have gone to her chest. Her cough is quite troubling. She is also not sleeping well and has left off having tea in the evening, as her friend Madame D’Entraigues says it impedes proper rest. In fact, it was on the way to visit these friends that Eliza caught cold.

As we approached Hyde Park Gate the horses seemed very restive and the coachman could not settle them. A fresh load of gravel had
been put down and this made the going hard for the poor beasts and one of them, it seems, had a sore shoulder. He reared up and made a great noise, which was alarming I confess. Nothing would placate Eliza but to get down until the horses had gained the hill and so we must walk up. The evening was chill and damp and Eliza had only a thin shawl about her, though Henry solicitously wrapped her in his evening coat when he saw her shivering. She is not robust and has such a delicate frame—she looked quite done in when we reached our destination. The D’Entraigues were kindness itself when we arrived, setting Eliza close by the fire and proffering gruel as well as warm wine. But Eliza, as ever, responded to being in company and was soon her usual gay self. We had a most pleasant party, as they were all in high spirits about Lord Wellington becoming colonel in chief of the army in the Peninsula.

‘At last Boney has met his match—his lordship is not afraid of him and will wear him down, you mark my words,’ said Monsieur. The gentlemen all seemed to agree while the ladies were more interested in the new empress.

‘The emperor did well to choose a Hapsburg,’ said Madame. ‘Through Marie Louise the little Corsican upstart can claim kinship to every royal house in Europe.’

‘Oh surely the nobility will not recognise him, however astutely he marries,’ said Eliza, horrified.

‘Perhaps not, but their son, the king of Rome, as they have created him, will make him more secure on his throne.’

I was curious about what had become of Josephine since the divorce and was told that Napoléon still visited her at Malmaison and that they were on the best of terms!

‘It was only her lack of ability to conceive, you know, that led to him to putting her aside for a young princess who looked fertile,’ said Madame.

I felt myself blushing and reflected, not for the first time, on the differences between this society and the one I was used to in the country. I was greatly diverted by the evening in spite of the sometimes shocking nature of the conversation and was as reluctant to leave as Eliza. Henry had noticed that she was feverish and finally insisted upon calling the carriage.

‘We must ask Madame Bigeon to take good care of you while we are away, my love,’ he said. ‘You are too precious to us all for us to take any risks with your health.’

I would have expected her to laugh off such thoughts as she usually did, but she only smiled rather weakly and leaned back against the cushions.