"Henry and Eliza" by Jane Austen

The prospect of The Classics Circuit doing a Jane Austen tour is one I have anxiously awaited since I first began participating in these literary sprees, and one that pits Austen against Dickens (though I do think there is enough material from both writers to justify individual consideration) sent me into raptures. Unfortunately, the timing could not possibly have been worse. I am very quickly coming to the end of my pregnancy and any blogging has become a rather secondary consideration. Nevertheless, I could not resist the urge to participate, and while I would like to be posting about one of Austen's novels, and probably later this month about one of Dickens' (A Tale of Two Cities is my favorite), I am instead limiting myself to brief discussion of the former's Juvenalia. The kind people of The Classics Circuit were so accommodating as to let me kick off the tour, for any delay of this post might have resulted in its complete (and shameful) neglect.

While within her Juvenalia it is easy to trace the wit that so defined Austen's adult voice, these early works could not be more dissimilar from the novels that are so beloved. While Austen strove to depict meticulously realistic scenarios, in stark opposition to the high degree of melodrama that dominated the novels of her day, her childhood works took the opposite approach, mocking those outlandish conventions by excessively indulging in them. This much is easy to perceive, but what I find most fascinating about the Juvenalia is the degree to which she pushes her absurdities, creating worlds that anticipate not only those later depicted by Lewis Carroll in his Alice stories, in which the conventions of society are mocked by being turned upon their heads, but also the dramatic works of the mid-20th century playwrights belonging to the Theater of the Absurd, the most famous of which is surely Samuel Beckett, best known for Waiting for Godot. Austen's early voice is stunningly avant-garde, and I would love to take the time here to explore this little regarded aspect of her development in massive detail, having long thought that a comparison of her two short plays, The Visit and The Mystery, to the works of Beckett, Harold Pinter, and Edward Albee was overdue, but instead I indulge my baby obsessed brain by looking at a very different work, and one that just so happens to be about a young lady whose name is the same as that of my future daughter: Henry and Eliza. This "novel" is only a few pages long and can be read in full at The Republic of Pemberley, where I direct all interested readers who have either not had the pleasure of enjoying this tale before, or who would like to indulge themselves once again, simultaneously serving the secondary purpose of refreshing their memories (http://www.pemberley.com/janeinfo/henreliz.html).

This story begins with a depiction of a benevolent couple, Sir George and Lady Harcourt, who, while "superintending the Labours of their Haymakers, rewarding the industry of some by smiles of approbation, and punishing the idleness of others, by a cudgel" (one must stop and wonder if the laborers were more motivated by those condescending smiles or their fears of a thrashing), just happen across a three-month old girl in the haycock, who has the good sense to be not only beautiful but fully conversant. Entranced, the childless couple adopts Eliza and proceed to raise her with "their first and principal Care" being to foster "a Love of Virtue and a Hatred of Vice". Austen takes pains to assure us in their complete success, this task having been greatly aided by "Eliza having a natural turn that way herself" before recounting the adventures of our heroine as an adult, in which she reveals herself to be, in fact, totally devoid of virtue and deeply seeped in not only vice, but also frivolity and vanity.  

We first learn about Eliza's perfidy when she is caught (indicating that this was not, perhaps, her first transgression) stealing 50 pounds, a sum large enough by far to justify hanging at the time. She is instantly cast off by her "inhumane Benefactors", an occurrence not so distressing to Eliza as one might predict, as Austen illustrates:

Such a transition to one who did not possess so noble and exalted a mind as Eliza, would have been Death, but she, happy in the conscious knowledge of her own Excellence, amused herself, as she sate beneath a tree making and singing the following Lines.

There follows a short verse attesting to the heroine's "innocent Heart" and dedication to virtue.

Eventually Eliza motivates herself so much as to walk to the local inn, where "her most intimate friend" presides (another incongruity, as the daughter of either  knight or a baronet - Austen does not specify which Sir George is - would not be on terms of friendship with an inn keeper). Expressing her wish to be some wealthy lady's companion (a respectable profession for impoverished women of the gentry), her friend immediately writes to another one of her surprising acquaintances, the Duchess of F., requesting she take Eliza on. Not only does this good lady do so, but Eliza is introduced into her household on the footing of another daughter, an extraordinary kindness which is repaid by our heroine by steeling the affections of one Mr. Henry Cecil, the current admirer of the true daughter, and abandoning her post in order to marry him. At this juncture, the formerly indulgent Duchess sends an army of 300 to track down the couple and return them, "dead or alive; intending that if they should be brought to her in the latter condition to have them put to Death in some torturelike manner, after a few years of Confinement." Such persecution - entirely fantastic under the laws that governed England by this date - causes the couple to flee to the Continent where they remain for three years and have two sons. Through unspecified causes, Henry then dies (making the reader wonder why he received top billing in the title), and due to the extraordinarily lavish lifestyle the couple has been living, spending 18,000 pounds a year, an amount that far exceeds the annual income of any of the gentlemen in Austen's novels and by leaps and bounds Mr. Cecil's, estimated at "less than the twentieth part", Eliza finds herself without any means of support. She does, however, own "a man of Was of 55 Guns" (a ship which would be as unreliable, if not more so, on the ocean as the one Admiral Croft famously mocks in Persuasion), which she uses to return to England, only to be instantly seized by the Duchess' men and thrown into the "snug little Newgate" that had been specially built for this purpose, an indication of the magnitude of the Duchess' grievance.

Eliza's situation now seems most dire, for the builders of her prison were so thoughtful as to provide the door with a lock and the window with bars. Less foresight can be attributed to the Duchess' interior decorators, who for some reason thought to equip the cell with "a small saw and Ladder of ropes", thereby providing Eliza with her means of escape. There is only one impediment: "Her Children were too small to get down the Ladder by themselves, nor would it be possible for her to take them in her arms, when she did." Fortunately, the Duchess did not deprive Eliza of her extremely extensive wardrobe when throwing her into confinement (being poorly dressed would have surely been too much of a hardship), and this our heroine throws out the window, followed by her sons, "having given them strict Charge not to hurt themselves". In defiance of all the child rearing advice I have received in the parenthood classes so recently attended, Eliza, after descending the ladder herself, remarkably finds her boys "in perfect Health and fast asleep."

However, a new predicament now confronts our heroine, and she makes the one attempt at practicality we can ever credit to her, by opting to sell her needlessly opulent wardrobe in order to have the funds to maintain herself and her family. Unfortunately, instead of using the money to procure food, she chooses to purchase clothing "more usefull, some playthings for Her Boys and a gold Watch for herself." Such failed pragmatism is soon repaid when her sons, in their abject hunger, bite of two of her fingers (yes, contrary to all expectations and biased assumptions, Jane Austen did write about cannibalism far before anyone chose to interject zombies into her stories).

Devoid of all other options, Eliza now decides to return to the Harcourts, who for some reason she believes will be more forgiving at presant than they were formerly. Walking 30 of the 40 miles to her intended destination, she establishes herself on the steps of a gentleman's house and sets to begging, a dramatic representation of how very far she has fallen while simultaneously emphasizing her continued readiness to impose on others. Ironically, it is Sir George and Lady Harcourt's carriage that she first approaches. In the style of much 18th century literature, like The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling and Evelina, Lady Harcourt suddenly reveals what she has so long forgotten: Eliza is her true daughter. Sir George (who thus establishes himself as the most reasonable person in this tale, which isn't saying much) begs an explanation from his wife, which she provides by referring back to a time when her husband traveled to America:

"Four months after you were gone, I was delivered of this Girl, but dreading your just resentment at her not proving the Boy you wished, I took her to a Haycock and laid her down. A few weeks afterwards, you returned, and fortunately for me, made no enquiries on the subject. Satisfied within myself on the wellfare of my Child, I soon forgot I had one, insomuch that when, we shortly after found her in the very Haycock, I had placed her, I had no more idea of her being my own, than you had, and nothing I will venture to say would have recalled the circumstance to my remembrance, but my thus accidentally hearing her voice, which now strikes me as being the very counterpart of my own Child's."

Is today Mother's Day? Oh dear! Apparently, Eliza was just as conversant at birth as she was at three months, which we must take as a satisfactory explanation of Lady Harcourt's extraordinary recollection. In spite of the matron's fear for her husband's grievance at having a daughter, a notion much contradicted by his readiness to adopt a girl at random, he instantly welcomes his true child back into the fold (perhaps only an adopted daughter can be accused of stealing what might be considered rightfully hers?). Eliza then gratifies herself by raising an army of her own to destroy the Duchess' prison, an act which "gained the Blessings of thousands, and the Applause of her own Heart."

Despite the outlandish nature of the events that transpire in this story, we can detect in it a pattern for Austen's future writing style. Perhaps the most consistent theme in her novels is the notion that people should be judged based upon their actions as opposed to their words. It is in this manner that Mr. Darcy of Pride and Prejudice, despite seeming arrogance, is proven "the best of men", and that Mr. Elliot of Persuasion, regardless of his impeccable manners, reveals himself a thorough scoundrel. In Henry and Eliza, the reader is instructed not to trust that characters are moral and altruistic just because a narrator (or the characters themselves) declare them so, but to instead look to their conduct. Austen thrives in depictions of hypocrisy, and it is this trait that defines some of her greatest comic (and sometimes villainous) creations, like Mr. Collins, Isabella Thorpe, Lucy Steele, Sir Walter Elliot, and Mrs. Norris. But it is all too intuitive to read any writer's juvenalia as a key to their latter style, which is why I began this post in the manner I did. Each time I approach this material I am struck anew with how daring and experimental Austen's early style was. Granted, I am a dedicated Austenite, and therefore, like E.M. Forster, "slightly imbecile about Jane Austen", but to all those so quick to write her off as predictable, boring, and passe, I offer up her truly revolutionary early writings as evidence to the contrary. Furthermore, I can not only argue her place as the forerunner to absurdism, but also to the modern push for simplicity of language, in stark contrast to the Victorian writers, like Dickens, who succeeded her. After all, long before Gertrude Stein said that a "Rose is a rose is a rose", Catherine Morland declared that "I cannot speak well enough to be unintelligible." When Austen's body of work is taken as a whole, by readers unwilling to simply dismiss her work as romantic comedy, experimentation in almost every genre that defined 20th century literature can be detected. Her Juvenalia is key to such a survey, and I highly recommend it to all who have a sincere interest in the evolution of literature.

The Beautifull Cassandra

With all the Heyer I've been immersed in (and I'm not done yet!), I thought it appropriate to take a break for the main lady herself, Miss Jane Austen. I recently flipped through some of my favorite of her Juvenalia, and upon looking for a post topic that pays honors to my muse, it seemed appropriate to settle upon The Beautifull Cassandra, in no little part because it is short enough for me to transcribe the whole here, in case any of my readers haven't had the delightful experience of reading it themselves. Short and sweet, this piece always makes me laugh, no matter how many times I turn to it. The tale is excellently derisive of that type of silly, ignorant, and selfish young woman who appears so often in Austen's earliest work. Being a teenager herself when she wrote the piece (somewhere between 1787 and 1790), we can marvel at the maturity she displayed in being able to reflect so critically on the antics of her age group while still a part of it, a thing I certainly would not have been able to do at such a time of life. It also demonstrates the young Jane's strong appreciation for the ridiculous, as well as her developing satiric prowess. As suggested by the title, the story was written for Jane's older sister, Cassandra, who we can be certain never behaved so ridiculously. I will save all further thought on it until after the text, when I can comment with impunity.

The Beautifull Cassandra

a novel in twelve Chapters

dedicated by permission to Miss Austen

Dedication.

Madam, 

     You are a Phoenix. Your taste is refined, your Sentiments are noble, and your Virtues innumerable.  Your Passion is lovely, you Figure, elegant, and your Form, magestic. Your Manners are polished, your Conversation is rational and your appearance singular. If therefore the following Tale will afford one moment's amusement to you, every wish will be gratified of

Your most obedient

humble servant

The Author

Chapter the First

Cassandra was the Daughter and the only Daughter of a celebrated Millener in Bond Street. Her father was of noble Birth, being the near relation of the Dutchess of -----'s Butler.

Chapter the 2d

When Cassandra had attained her 16th year, she was lovely and amiable and chancing to fall in love with an elegant Bonnet, her Mother had just compleated bespoke by the Countess of ----- she placed it on her gentle Head and walked from her Mother's shop to make her Fortune.

Chapter the 3d

The first person she met, was the Viscount of ----- a young man, no less celebrated for his Accomplishments and Virtues, than for his Elegance and Beauty. She curtseyed and walked on.

Chapter the 4th

She then proceeded to a Pastry-cooks where she devoured six ices, refused to pay for them, knocked down the Pastry Cook and walked away.

Chapter the 5th

She next ascended a Hackney Coach and ordered it to Hampstead, where she was no sooner arrived than she ordered the Coachman to turn round and drive her back again.

Chapter the 6th

Being returned to the same spot of the same of the same Street she had sate out from, the Coachman demanded his Pay.

Chapter the 7th

She searched her pockets over again and again; but every search was unsuccessfull. No money could she find. The man grew peremptory. She placed her bonnet on his head and ran away.

Chapter the 8th

Thro' many a street she then proceeded and met in none the least Adventure till on turning a Corner of Bloomsbury Square, she met Maria.

Capter the 9th

Cassandra started and Maria seemed surprised; they trembled, blushed, turned pale and passed each other in a mutual silence.

Chapter the 10th

Cassandra was next accosted by her friend the Widow, who squeezing out her little Head thro' her less window, asked how she did? Casandra curtseyed and went on.

Chapter the 11th

A quarter of a mile brought her to her paternal roof in Bond Street from which she had now been absent nearly 7 hours.

Chapter the 12th

She entered it and was pressed to her Mother's bosom by that worthy Woman. Cassandra smiled and whispered to herself 'This is a day well spent.'

Finis

This short "novel" is a lesson in a tendency Austen maintains throughout her writing career: not to believe a word stated about a character unless his or her actions support it. Cassandra is neither "amiable" nor is her day "well spent", and one has to wonder, especially in light of the many virtues attributed to Cassandra Austen in the dedication, if Jane wasn't angry or frustrated with her sister in some way to write such a piece in her honor, especially as this outrageous heroine is named for her. That we can only speculate upon. What is certain is that the fictional Cassandra is a hoyden and a thief (bonnet, ices, cab fare), engaged in antics that landed many a more honest person (including Austen's own aunt, Mrs. Leigh-Perrot) in the goal, or worse.

I must bring particular attention to the first chapter, as I think the second line of it is the most hilarious of the entire tale, and because it is unusual for Austen to write about the merchant class. Perhaps this is why young Cassandra can wander all about London unchaperoned without sacrificing her purity, or can she? She certainly should not have brought herself to the attention of the Viscount, and the discomfort displayed by both Maria and herself upon meeting in fashionable Bloomsbury Square indicates that both are completely aware that they had no business being there, especially alone. Certainly any mother would be relieved at having her only daughter returned after a whole days absence, but if the woman is as "worthy" as Austen claims, we must assume that Cassandra's smile will not long adorn her lips as relief is replaced by outrage, which is certainly only to increase when the complaints pour in from the pastry cook, the Countess, the widow, and, if he can trace her, the hackney driver.

There is so much subtly embedded in these very few lines that it is easy to recognize emerging literary greatness in them. In such sparse space Austen makes us laugh, worry, disapprove, and marvel. Have you long read and enjoyed this piece, or is it your first time encountering it? Either way, please share your thoughts. It is ripe for discussion.    

Giveaway Winners and "Mystery Lady" Revealed!

Well, perhaps she wasn't such a mystery this week. Everyone who entered saw right through me and guessed that it is Mary Bennet who Mr. Collins peruses. I have always wanted them to be together and none of the JAFF I have read (and that's a good deal) has ever allowed this to happen. However, only one person successfully guessed the identity of the person who directs Mr. Collins towards Mary: Mrs. Bennet. I have attached, for your gratification, the scene in which this occurs. But you all want to know who won, don't you? Two books were up for grabs this week: a copy of First Impressions or of Love and Friendship and Other Early Writings, by the great lady herself. The winner of the signed copy of First Impressions is:

vvb32

And the winner of Love and Friendship is:

Maria Grazia

Congratulations! You shall both receive emails from me soon. For those of you who did not win, the giveaways will continue through this month so come back on Friday and try again.

Now back to Mr. Collins and Mrs. Bennet. I hope you enjoy this scene, as it is one of those which directly corresponds to Austen's original, which are the most fun to write. It is one of my favorite in the book, so please be so kind as to leave a comment and let me know your thoughts! Enjoy!

           After making such a stalwart resolution one might think that Mr. Collins would have been disheartened the next morning when, upon finding himself tête-à-tête with Mrs. Bennet, he received a caution against pursuit of the very Elizabeth he had fixed on, but then one would not be accounting for the flexibility of this astonishing specimen of humanity. For a conversation beginning with his parsonage house and leading naturally to the avowal of his hopes that a mistress for it might be found at Longbourn, elicited this presumptuous comment from his hostess, “I have reason to believe, sir, that Lizzy's affections are already quite attached to a wealthy gentleman of large fortune who has recently come into the neighborhood, though I know of no existing predisposition amongst my younger daughters.”

              It was a natural progression for Mr. Collins to turn his sight on the next chronologically eligible daughter, despite some understandable disappointment that the ladies of the house were not as ripe for the picking as he had imagined. There was some minor indignation to overcome as he felt his station entitled him to the pick of the litter, but his eager mind quickly perceived how much more appropriate Mary would be as a companion at Rosings than the elder, more showy Bennet girls. Though not a sensible man, no one would dare underestimate how keenly aware Mr. Collins was of his duty to his illustrious patroness and her daughter; readily he grasped at the notion that Miss Mary would be of far more assistance in upholding his claim that Miss De Bourgh was superior to the handsomest of her sex (and other such homages he thought due the ladies) than a sparkling Miss Elizabeth or breathtaking Miss Bennet.

            In many more words than need be recounted here, Mr. Collins assured Mrs. Bennet that he would very much enjoy getting better acquainted with her middle daughter. What were her pursuits and accomplishments? Happily Mrs. Bennet recounted Mary's diligence and piety, suddenly valuing these qualities more than she ever had before. What a surprise blessing a household of daughters could prove to be! Mary was perfect for Mr. Collins – it now appeared that she had been raised purposefully for the role of clergyman's wife and Mrs. Bennet happily took the credit for educating one of her daughters thusly. She treasured up the hint from Mr. Collins and trusted she might soon have three daughters advantageously settled. Mr. Collins, formerly loathed and despised from afar, now stood high in her good graces.

            Though Mary was not privy to this conversation she would not have found it disagreeable. It was difficult being the middle child amongst such sisters and she had often experienced great anxiety regarding her desirability. Mrs. Bennet's constant preoccupation with the disposal of her daughters only heightened these concerns: each of the many times her mother bemoaned their fate should Mr. Bennet die, Mary would picture her particular lot in that scenario and saw much to bemoan. Surely her prettier, livelier sisters would make matches of some sort or another but what was she to do? Work as a governess? Spend her life caring for an aging and unloving mother? While she had long ago determined that she would not shirk from fulfilling whatever role life demanded from her, she also prayed fervently that it would be one of wife, not caretaker. So when Mr. Collins began to pay her attentions she felt both flattered and receptive, having rarely been the recipient of any masculine notice. From her perspective Mr. Collins was an excellent match – she honored his profession, his role as her father's heir, and the good sense he showed in wishing for a practical and pious wife above a beautiful one.

            After parting from Mr. Collins, Mrs. Bennet rushed into the library in order to share her good news, “Mr. Bennet! Oh Mr. Bennet it is too perfect!”

            “What is it my dear?”

            “Mr. Collins of course! He is interested in our Mary! She will make the perfect clergyman's wife and break that odious entail. Have I not arranged everything admirably?”

             “It is your affair to arrange as you will, Mrs. Bennet,” he replied, barely containing the smile that threatened to destroy his nonchalant mask. “If you desire to live out your years in residence with Mr. Collins the match will of course receive my blessing, but I for one will be glad to be dead, buried, and rid of the man.”

             “Oh, how you do vex me Mr. Bennet!” she exclaimed before bustling back out the door. Mr. Bennet listened to the sound of her shrill voice as it carried down the hall before standing and moving to the window. There he spent many happy moments envisioning his grandchildren, the future heirs of Longbourn, playing merrily on its ancient lawn.

The Three Sisters

After all this talk of Bronte, Heyer, and now Dumas, as I prepare for his Classics Circuit tour, I needed some Austen time. Not Austen spin off, rewrite, or continuation time, but just the lady herself. So I've been rereading some of her juvenalia and would like to focus today's post on a short piece of epistolary fiction, presumably incomplete, entitled The Three Sisters, about the three Misses Standhopes response to a marriage proposal. Follow this link if you would care to read it online at Pemberley.com.

Many of Austen's novels have the marriages of three sisters at their core. Sense and Sensibility has the Dashwood sisters: Elinor and Marianne are of perfect, marrying age, though Margaret is rather too young to fit this pattern well. Mansfield Park begins with the three sisters Ward, whose fates we discern after many years as Mrs. Norris, Lady Bertram, and Mrs. Price. And of course Persuasion finds the daughters of Sir Walter Elliot in a mixed way, one acceptably married while the other two are quickly surpassing the common marriageable years. Parallels are easy to draw between these many sets of sisters' circumstances, and have been done so to particular effect particularly in Jane Greensmith's story Three Sisters, which I will return to in a moment. However, when I review Austen's The Three Sisters, I think it is the antecedents of Pride and Prejudice, a story of five sisters, which are most obvious in this quirky text, certain of it's characters baring a strong resemblance to those of her most famous novel.

In this story, the eldest sister has been proposed to by a man her mother approves of, for he has "six times as much" income (which makes her's five hundred a year, approximately the Dashwoods' - if you include the three thousand left by their grandfather to the girls), but there are other objections to Mr. Watts, namely that Miss Stanhope declares, "He is extremely disagreeable and I hate him more than any body else in the world." If Miss Stanhope declines the offer, he will ask Sophy, and then Georgiana, much in Mr. Collins' style of deference to the claims of birth order. The story lasts only long enough to see the decision made, reveal some of its consequences, and demonstrate the character of each sister.

Mary, Miss Stanhope, is immediately revealed to be a shallow lady as she writes to her friend Fanny of the honor of the proposal. She says, "I do not intend to accept it, at least I beleive not, but as I am not quite certain I gave him an equivocal answer and left him." Quite in the manner of "elegant females", isn't it? Why is Mary uncertain of her intentions? Because, while it would be "such a triumph to be married before Sophy, Georgiana, and the Duttons" and she "could not bear to have either of [her sisters] married before" her, she cannot decide if that would be worse than being married to a man who would make her "miserable all the rest of [her] Life, for he is very ill tempered and peevish extremely jealous, and so stingy there is no living in the house with him." Imagine how Lydia Bennet would have felt about the import of marrying first had she been the eldest rather than the youngest! Miss Stanhope decides to turn to her sisters, not for advice but to learn if they would accept Mr. Watts if she rejected him. If they will, she will marry the man, if not, it is safe to refuse.

This is where Georgiana claims the pen, and the rest of the story is told via a letter to her friend Anne. She and Sophy have been warned by their mother that "she certainly would not let him go farther than our own family for a Wife. 'And therefore' (says she) 'If Mary won't have him Sophy must, and if Sophy won't Georgiana shall.' Poor Georgiana!" Echoes of Mrs. Bennet perhaps? Anyway, these two younger Stanhopes are not so silly as their elder sister, and, not wanting to be forced into the marriage themselves, engage in a "little deceit" with which they "are not perfectly reconciled". In short, they allow Mary to believe that they would certainly snatch up an opportunity to marry Mr. Watts, though their feeling are quite the opposite. In the following quote the younger Miss Stanhopes are assessing the predicament when Mary comes in to feel out their opinions of Mr. Watts. Notice that both have qualms about their deception, but that it is Georgiana who can laugh them both into comfort while Sophy demurs, deterred by her conscience:

"Let us flatter ourselves (replied She) that Mary will not refuse him. Yet how can I hope that my Sister may accept a man who cannot make her happy."

"He cannot it is true but his Fortune, his Name, his House, his Carriage will, and I have no doubt but that Mary will marry him; indeed, why should she not? He is not more than two and thirty, a very proper age for a Man to marry at; He is rather plain to be sure, but then what is Beauty in a Man? -- if he has but a genteel figure and a sensible looking Face it is quite sufficient."

"This is all very true, Georgiana, but Mr. Watts's figure is unfortunately extremely vulgar and his Countenance is very heavy."

"And then as to his temper; it has been reckoned bad, but may not the World be deceived in their Judgement of it? There is an open Frankness in his Disposition which becomes a Man. They say he is stingy; We'll call that Prudence. They say he is suspicious. That proceeds from a warmth of Heart always excusable in Youth, and in short, I see no reason why he should not make a very good Husband, or why Mary should not be very happy with him."

Sophy laughed; I continued,

"However whether Mary accepts him or not, I am resolved. My determination is made. I never would marry Mr. Watts, were Beggary the only alternative. So deficient in every respect! Hideous in his person, and without one good Quality to make amends for it. His fortune, to be sure, is good. Yet not so very large! Three thousand a year. What is three thousand a year? It is but six times as much as my Mother's income. It will not tempt me."

"Yet it will be a noble fortune for Mary" said Sophy, laughing again.

"For Mary! Yes indeed, it will give me pleasure to see her in such affluence."

Thus I ran on, to the great Entertainment of my Sister, till Mary came into the room, to appearance in great agitation. She sat down. We made room for her at the fire. She seemed at a loss how to begin, and at last said in some confusion,

"Pray Sophy have you any mind to be married?"

"To be married! None in the least. But why do you ask me? Are you acquainted with any one who means to make me proposals?"

"I -- no, how should I? But mayn't I ask a common question?"

"Not a very common one Mary, surely," (said I). She paused, and after some moments silence went on --

"How should you like to marry Mr. Watts, Sophy?"

I winked at Sophy, and replied for her. "Who is there but must rejoice to marry a man of three thousand a year?"

"Very true (she replied), That's very true. So you would have him if he would offer, Georgiana, and would you Sophy?"

Sophy did not like the idea of telling a lie and deceiving her Sister; she prevented the first and saved half her conscience by equivocation.

"I should certainly act just as Georgiana would do."

"Well then," said Mary, with triumph in her Eyes, "I have had an offer from Mr. Watts."

We were of course very much surprised; "Oh! do not accept him," said I, "and then perhaps he may have me."

In short, my scheme took, and Mary is resolved to do that to prevent our supposed happiness, which she would not have done to ensure it in reality. Yet after all, my Heart cannot acquit me and Sophy is even more scrupulous. Quiet our Minds, my dear Anne, by writing and telling us you approve our conduct. Consider it well over. Mary will have real pleasure in being a married Woman, and able to chaperone us, which she certainly shall do, for I think myself bound to contribute as much as possible to her happiness in a State I have made her choose. They will probably have a new Carriage, which will be paradise to her, and if we can prevail on Mr. W. to set up his Phaeton she will be too happy. These things however would be no consolation to Sophy or me for domestic Misery. Remember all this and do not condemn us.

While I can't actually imagine Jane and Elizabeth Bennet behaving quite so shabbily (and it is fortunate their circumstances never required it), I can't help but see parallels between their sisterly confidences and those portrayed here . Clearly, Sophy and Georgiana are far superior in understanding to Mary, and it is Georgiana who has the wit while Sophy is a kinder creature. Do I reach too far in seeing a resemblance to the eldest Bennet ladies? When Mary and Mr. Watt squabble over her very unreasonable demands for the marriage, he, with absolutely no sensibility, proceeds to carry out his threat of pursuing her sisters:

"And pray, Miss Stanhope (said Mr. Watts), What am I to expect from you in return for all this."

"Expect? Why, you may expect to have me pleased."

"It would be odd if I did not. Your expectations, Madam, are too high for me, and I must apply to Miss Sophy, who perhaps may not have raised her's so much."

"You are mistaken, Sir, in supposing so, (said Sophy) for tho' they may not be exactly in the same Line, yet my expectations are to the full as high as my Sister's; for I expect my Husband to be good-tempered and Chearful; to consult my Happiness in all his Actions, and to love me with Constancy and Sincerity."

Mr. Watts stared. "These are very odd Ideas, truly, young Lady. You had better discard them before you marry, or you will be obliged to do it afterwards."

Sophy's scrupulously honest reply so reminds me of Jane's sincerity. This indeed seems how she might respond if confronted with such a situation, though the frankness is more reminiscent of Elizabeth. We feel bad for Mary marrying such a man, as do the Duttons, for whom "that anyone who had the Beauty and fortune (tho' small yet a provision) of Mary would willingly marry Mr. Watts, could by them scarcely be credited," but see the tragedy would have been far worse for Sophy and Georgiana, who would find no solace in mere material triumph. Young ladies of small fortune, especially those without father or brothers to aid them, certainly did face a terrible position during Austen's time. We modern readers tend to be harsh on characters, like Charlotte Lucas, who succumb to the very real pressures of survival in their choice of spouse, while undermining what courage rejecting a suitable offer really took, as well as the consequences for
such actions.

Here's where I return to Jane Greensmith. If you do not own a copy of Intimations of Austen, I highly recommend you buy one (read my review of the book here), but the short story Three Sisters can be read at The Derbyshire Writers' Guild, where it was originally published under the name Jane GS. Before you read this, read that. It will only take a few minutes and will prevent me from spoiling an excellent tale, as I have every intention of now doing.

Three Sisters crosses the story of the Misses Elliots with that of the Misses Ward. It begins with what is clearly a description of the Elliots:

Sadly, their mother died when they were still young—the eldest being sixteen and the youngest but twelve when this sad event occurred. The girls were left to the care of their father, a vain man, more concerned with the hue of his complexion than the order in his household. Fortunately, an old family friend stepped into the breach left by the mother's passing, and this lady—Milady as she was called by the girls—counciled the daughters of her friend as if they had been her own.

Each sister declares her hopes for marriage - the eldest wants wealth, the youngest respectability, but the middle sister will marry only for "the deepest love". A young sailor comes into her life and they fall in love but, unlike Lady Russell, "Milady" does not succeed in stopping the engagement. The fate of what seems to be Anne Elliot becomes that of Francis Price, living in squalor, with too many children, and demanding of Milady, "Why did you let me marry for love and love alone? You were the one I looked to after my mother died. Why didn't you persuade me to give him up? I would rather be alone than to have married for love."

I adore this story, turning as it does all our assumptions about Austen on their head. Seen in this different context, Lady Russell's persuasion becomes admirable prudence and Francis Prices' choice far more sympathetic. It reminds us how very different was Austen's world from ours and that those dear beliefs and moral code that pervade her work, which Janeites so proudly promote, can be seen as rash and foolhardy in their contemporary context. Three Sisters highlights the extreme difficulty of the Miss Stanhopes' circumstances, even as I laugh at Mary's contradictory nature and Georgiana's feisty social critique. While Austen's work is almost always humorous, it is useful to sometime stop and remember that the issues she tackled were of the utmost consequence. Truly her work is a towering example of laughter therapy.

Just one last thought I cannot resist sharing - how about that song from Fiddler on the Roof, "Matchmaker"? Could the writers of the musical have found inspiration for their three young, Russian Jewesses, Tzeitel, Hodel, and Chava, in Austen?