Dearest Cousin Jane (8 page)

To:
Madame la Comtesse de Feuillide
Orchard Street
London

Ma chère Femme,

It is scarce possible to believe that this is most likely my last night on this earth. That things have come to this, who would have believed? I still hope for a miracle. You will understand from your knowledge of me as your husband these twelve or more years, I am ever a man to live on hopes and dreams and that is the way I can pass this terrible night—in hope rather than in despair. Perhaps those who have betrayed me may yet recant and may be believed. Their consciences may be troubling them after all—they took my money and yet did not keep their promises.

But dear wife, if indeed I am to die tomorrow as I am condemned, then I must spend the time in writing to you that you may know the facts and that I may convey to you and our son my love and gratitude. Also my sorrow for bringing yet more sorrow to you both so soon upon the death of your dear Mama. I have not been the best of correspondents I know since I returned to France
so suddenly after our all too short stay in Bath. How many times I have thought of our days together there. The walks with our dear boy and most of all our early morning together in our lodgings, your dark hair spread upon the pillow, your eyes filling with tears as we realised I must return here. How a large part of me wishes I had heeded your pleas to stay in England. Though I would have been branded an émigré and my lands would have been forfeit, it seems they are lost to us anyway through the madness of the times.

I know you heard little from me but I hope you have had occasional news of your husband through the communities that are now established in England. These folks have left our dear France and set themselves up to wait for the restoration of the Monarchy, when they will be able to return and, they believe, claim their lands again. I hope with all my heart that they may be able to do so and that you and dear Hastings may one day be able to benefit from all my investment of time, money, and, I may say, my soul, in those parts of the south with which you are familiar. I pray you keep in contact with these good people who will, I feel sure, take you and our little one to their hearts. You will have the names of those in Bath, but I believe they are now established also in London and in Reading—close, I understand, to the place where cousins Jane and Cassandra were at school.

To continue the sad account of my fortunes here—I returned to Le Marais and was delighted with the progress made while I had been absent. At last the place was looking as I had always imagined it would. So much of the land was now dry that a vast deal of crops were sown in the expectation of a great harvest the next summer. There were cattle grazing where only marsh had been and now that the buildings were repaired and our dwelling fully restored I was able to send for the furniture that you, dear wife, had had sent over from England. As the housekeeper supervised the arrangement of it
and we began to list the linens we would require I imagined how it would all look when you and our son were restored to your rightful place there.

Even as I planned though, there was unrest in the village. One day my carriage was stoned and I found the field hands had fled when I went to oversee the next stage of the drainage. The very next day I received a visit from the blacksmith—you will not believe that he has become the prefet for the area and no one may move about without his written permission! He told me that the local ‘citizens’ had made complaints that my improvements had deprived them of the fish and wildfowl that they were formerly used to take freely from my lands and so were in danger of starving! In vain did I point out how many of the so-called citizens had been given employment by my developments—employments that were not seasonal but had brought them wages all year. He told me that unless I restored free access to my lands for all the peasants, he would have to report me to the ‘authorities’ as a betrayer of the republic.

I was tempted to rage and threaten him in return and I hope you will not think me a coward that I did not. As you know, my dear, I have been a good card player in my time but on this occasion I felt that the trumps were all his. I told him I would consider his proposal and left with as much dignity as I could gather.

I realised, perhaps for the first time, that which I daresay you have known for some time—that for the present the cause of the nobility is lost. I decided that I must make my way to England if I were to preserve my life and hope for a return of my property when this madness that engulfs my country is over.

I managed to make my way to Paris—some good friends remain even to a nobleman—and there took lodgings while I sought a means of travelling to England. I think with pleasure of the days when we had free access. You would not recognise the process of
travelling about now—papers are required and there are checks at every town and sometimes it seems at every village. People who we would not have thought fit to groom our horses, still less wait upon us, are now in official positions and act as the whim takes them in forbidding your passage. You will perhaps remember my good friend the Marquise de Marboeuf, with whom we dined several times during one of our visits to Paris. She took me in and was about to put me in touch with those who could help my escape when she was herself arrested. You will scarce believe that a troop of men came to her house in the middle of the night and searched her kitchens. There they found, not unnaturally, large supplies of food. They accuse her of keeping provisions for the Austrians and Prussians she was expecting to come and attack Paris in order to restore the monarchy. I know this charge seems almost ludicrous when considered from a country that is sane. But my country is not at present. The Marquise cried so bitterly when she was taken that I determined to help her. I had large amounts of money concealed about my person and thought that money must surely count for something even in these times. I sought out those who had accused her—two neighbours—and offered them money to retract their accusations. To my infinite relief they agreed to do so and I waited at the house for what I truly believed would be her safe return. Imagine my horror when instead of her horses I heard the footsteps of the prefets once again. Yes, my dear, they had taken my money and yet shamelessly betrayed me also.

There is little delay here between arrest, trial, and execution and they immediately threw me into this dreadful prison. I was taken thence to a court that I can only call a sham and given but five minutes to explain my actions. No one listened to me and to my further horror I found they had a witness in the form of my housekeeper at the Marais who attested to my traitorous impulses
and my lack of respect for the Republic. There was another witness also and I pray you not to believe the designation given to her. She was not my Mistress dear wife, believe me, then or ever. I have not, as I think you are aware, been an entirely faithful husband and have been grateful for your forbearance but I never, never, betrayed you with this woman.

I have written so long that the sky grows light outside. I fear there is no hope of reprieve now and I must pray to die with dignity as befits my class and breeding. I send my fondest love to you and my dear boy and to your family. Pray tell them I commend you both to their safekeeping.

Adieu, your husband
Jean Capot, Comte de Feuillide

My dearest sister,

I know that you will have heard tell of the disturbances here and will I hope have heard by my letters to Papa that I am unhurt. In fact, when the so-called mutiny occurred I was not here. I had been allowed to return briefly to Oxford to continue my studies. Some of the foolish men from my regiment joined with the poor of Newhaven in rioting for food. To tell the truth, if one sees the condition in which they live it is hardly surprising. It is of no use Mr Pitt, our Prime Minister, telling them to eat meat instead of bread as it becomes too expensive. They are used to and want bread and who can blame them? Nonetheless it was foolish in the extreme of my fellows to join the rioting, and they have paid the price. They were executed yesterday by firing squad. Do not be shocked, dear Jane, when I tell you that I saw this dreadful deed, for the whole of the regiment was drawn up in lines to witness it. I suppose this is thought to be a deterrent to anyone else to mutiny. I myself knew the rising had been brutally put down but did not imagine that they would all, every last man, be shot so summarily and with scarce a trial. But that is war and we grow used to news of violence do we not?

Have you news of how dear Eliza is faring after her dreadful news of the Comte’s execution? I know that she is fled to her friends in the north—Durham County, I believe—and have been hoping to hear from her. She must at least be glad that her dear godfather is at last acquitted, as she was always faithful that he would be. In view of his many instances of his kindness to our family—you will perhaps know that he has spoken to the Admiralty about preferment for brother Frank and he is, as a result, made lieutenant?—I wrote to the great man in the following terms:

Dear Sir,

A humble and hitherto silent spectator of national concerns, permit me at the present interesting moment to transgress the strictness of propriety and though without permission, I hope without offence to offer you the warm and respectable congratulations of a heart deeply impressed with a sense of all you have done and suffered. Permit me to congratulate my country and myself as an Englishman.

I hope you, and more particularly he, do not think my tone too ingratiating, but you will perhaps understand that I have particular reasons for wanting this great man to approve of me. I will not say too much at this stage but I know that our cousin, dear sister is a great favourite of yours. I know, too, that you have ever thought highly of me. It is therefore my earnest hope that when and if a certain event comes to pass you may be willing to intercede with our mother and father to help them see that the match is a good one and all that I could desire. You and I know her faults all too well, but I am perfectly convinced that I can love no other woman but her. She has now been a widow above a year and I do not think it improper to be considering these
matters. When she comes south again I shall put the question and believe from all the favour she has shown me in the past that I shall not ask in vain.

I am happy to hear that our dear sister Cassandra and Tom Fowle have pledged their troth and intend to marry. As you know, he was more James’s friend than mine at Oxford but I always thought him a fine, upright, and principled young man, sincere in his beliefs and entirely to be trusted. I know that Cassandra and he have long admired each other and only their natural reticence has kept them from such an announcement for some while. It is indeed sad that they have not enough on which to marry and, although I would be reluctant to say this to either directly, I fear it may be some years before they may. What a curse poverty is to the wishes of our hearts!

But now, dear sister, because of the love we bear each other I must take up a matter with you that pains me to write and I daresay will pain you to read. I was very pleased to receive from Cassandra a copy, done by her own hand, of what I believe is your longest work yet. Lady Susan is its name and I was expecting to read another of your comic works that have afforded us all such pleasure in recent times—lighthearted, funny, and entirely suitable from the pen of a well-bred young lady such as yourself. But what can I say of this work? Lady Susan is as a character without redemption. That my own young sister could be writing of adultery, deceit, and intrigue in such a way! The entire lack of respect for the institution of marriage, for parental love, for the nobility, were greatly alarming and I must beg you not to circulate this work any farther else ruin your reputation entirely. And Jane, there is a further matter of concern that I cannot ignore. I believe that in creating the character of Lady Susan you have drawn most injudiciously on our dear Eliza. She is not, of course, as wicked as your character is but we cannot deny that she can seem a flirt at times and occasionally speaks her
mind rather too freely for a respectable woman. This is not her fault—rather it is the result of the bad influences she has had to bear at the French Court and in her life in London. She has perhaps lacked guidance and been too indulged, but do not, I beg you, paint such an unflattering portrait. I know she would be shocked and hurt to read this work and I ask you please to put it to one side and begin on something more suitable for a young writer of your age and background.

Now to less weighty matters. Has the news reached Hampshire that there is to be a tax on hair powder? It seems the government needs to raise more money for the war and thinks this is a way to raise it without taxing the poor! My brother officers and I are determined to thwart the plan by simply giving up the use of it. I consider my own hair, cut short and combed back, to be quite gentlemanlike enough. Are the gentlemen of our neighbourhood doing the same?

Ever your devoted brother
Henry Austen

My dear Henry,

I received your letter some days ago but confess I put it to one side so that I might compose myself before answering it, as it distressed me greatly. However, before I was able to take up my pen certain events have occurred with which it is my sad duty to acquaint you before I come to the substance of your letter.

You will, I know, be shocked to hear that our dear brother James’s wife is dead. We are all still quite overtaken by the
suddenness of such news. She had seemed perfectly well but was taken abruptly unwell after dinner five days ago and was dead within hours. James is devastated, of course, but the chief of our concern is with little Anna, just two years old as you know. She is brought to us here, as James has his own grief to bear, and if I could just but explain to you the heartbreak we feel as she goes around the house looking for her Mama. What is to be done for her in future we cannot speculate, but we have told James we shall care for her here as long as he wishes it. Anne was not yet forty, and we had hopes of a brother or sister for the dear little one, so it is a great tragedy. James, I daresay, will in time see the advantage of marrying again as most widowers do and we must hope he might find someone who is kind to Anna.

You may perhaps be thinking that James, too, admired Eliza once but on this it may be as well to be silent for the present.

The other piece of family news that I must impart is that Cassandra’s fiancé, Tom, is today departed for the West Indies as a chaplain to a regiment. His cousin Lord Craven has offered the position and it seems has promised him a good living in Shropshire when the regiment returns. Both he and Cassandra appear to think there was no option but to accept this proffered favour, although I think both are aware of the dangers and discomfort that surround such a posting, not to mention the perils of such a long voyage. It is their way of overcoming the disadvantage of their poverty, which you mention in your letter. My view is that it is too dangerous an undertaking for a man who is engaged, but I could do nothing as Tom was so determined. Cassy herself is distraught, as you can imagine, and begs me excuse her for her lack of correspondence with you at present. She is much taken up with the care of dear little Anna and I trust and pray that the little one may be of some comfort to her.

We, too, were glad to hear of the acquittal of Mr Hastings at long last, and Papa was most gratified to receive a letter from him praising British justice and expressing his thankfulness that, as he put it,

‘my name shall not be blasted from infamy to posterity but be recorded with the many other victims of false opinions, some of higher worth, none of better intentions.’

Frank is indeed proud to be made lieutenant and would like to show off his new uniform when he visits us next week did not navy regulations forbidden him from wearing it except when engaged on His Majesty’s business. It seems he, too, intends to eschew the use of hair powder. If all young men do the same I doubt that much will be raised in the way of tax.

Now, dear brother, I can no longer avoid responding to the severe scolding contained in your letter. I think of all my family you are the one who understands how much my writing means to me. This is perhaps because you yourself have created works of fiction and know the effort involved. You will also be aware of how much the approval of those close to us means. Therefore I will not disguise from you that your censure was hurtful and wounded me greatly. I do not write from life, as I think I have said to you on more than one occasion, and I will therefore pass over your accusation of Lady Susan being drawn from our cousin. Indeed, if you are intent on marrying Eliza, I am astonished that such a thought could have entered your head. It would seem to imply that you believe Eliza to be a character beyond redemption, which is exactly what I created Lady Susan to be. I intended her to be a character so outrageous, so wicked, that no one could take her seriously. She is clever, true, but without warmth or decency. Above all, she is devoid of any maternal feelings, which makes it all the more incredible to me that you could ever have thought her based on our cousin, who is surely a model of
maternal and filial love and duty. I intended people to laugh at Lady Susan, to be shocked and wondering also, but above all to laugh at her outrages and those parts of the society in which she moves. Clearly I have failed in my intentions if you, my most devoted brother, can have so mistaken me. I will therefore be putting her aside for the present as you suggest. Do not imagine this is because I have accepted your censure of her morals. It is rather because I have perhaps not yet learned how to create such a character in a way that creates mirth as well as outrage. But be warned brother, Lady Susan, in some guise or other, will live again!

Meantime I have embarked on another work that I have so far only read to Cassandra. Be assured it is quite respectable and concerns two sisters, handsome but poor. Both behave, let me assure you dear brother, in a most ladylike way throughout. One has a tendency to be a little wild but she is always contained by her sister, much as I am by Cassy and, on occasion, by yourself!

Be not afraid, dear Henry, I know your criticism was kindly meant and as you see my good humour is now quite restored. I long to laugh and joke with you again when next you return home. This household is sad at present and we all long for the sight of you to cheer our melancholy evenings.

Your devoted and chastened sister
Jane Austen