The Lost Memoirs of Jane Austen Read online

  The Lost Memoirs of Jane Austen

  Syrie James

  To my husband Bill, my own Mr. Ashford, whose love makes me complete, and whose support and encouragement have made it possible for me to enjoy this wonderful life as a writer…

  To my sons Ryan and Jeff, my finest creations, whose insightful input and animated conversations keep me on my creative and intellectual toes. I could not be prouder…

  To Jane Austen, with the greatest admiration, appreciation, and respect…

  To my agent Tamar Rydzinski, and my editor, Lucia Macro, whose dedication to and enthusiasm for this project cannot be measured…

  Thank you with all my heart. You prove to me, on a daily basis, that all things are possible.

  Contents

  Map

  Jane Austen’s Family Tree

  Editor’s Foreword

  Chapter One

  Why I feel the sudden urge to relate, in pen…

  Chapter Two

  At first we divided our time, as James suggested, between…

  Chapter Three

  I had visited many seaside towns of the southern and…

  Chapter Four

  Our walk had brought us down from the Cobb to…

  Chapter Five

  In the waning weeks of 1802, when my father was…

  Chapter Six

  He asked you to marry him?” cried Cassandra in astonishment.

  Chapter Seven

  As my mother agitatedly paced the room beside us on…

  Chapter Eight

  How very wet the weather is!” said my mother as…

  Chapter Nine

  I told Mr. Ashford that a picnic in early March…

  Chapter Ten

  What happened?” cried Maria anxiously, as I paused in my…

  Chapter Eleven

  That night, when I was certain that Cassandra was asleep,…

  Chapter Twelve

  Take care, Jane!” said Cassandra the next morning.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It is cruel to leave me in such suspense,” said…

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mr. Ashford engaged?” I cried with great emotion, when we…

  Chapter Fifteen

  Dear, dear Steventon,” I said, gazing out the window of…

  Chapter Sixteen

  The squire assured Mr. Morton that our journey had been…

  Chapter Seventeen

  Here we are!” cried Mr. Morton, as we turned into…

  Chapter Eighteen

  I froze in surprise, as the housekeeper and half a…

  Chapter Nineteen

  Miss Austen,” said Mr. Ashford, bowing, an urgency to his…

  Chapter Twenty

  This was—at last—the conclusion of his speech?” enquired Cassandra, struggling…

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Unlike the years at Steventon, our social life at Chawton…

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  It was a delight to visit Henry and his wife…

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  A surge of anger and dismay flooded through me as…

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  There are some who might complain that August in London…

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  On the first of October, as I sat down to…

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  A note arrived from Mr. Ashford the next morning.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I never saw Mr. Ashford again. I never returned to…

  Editor’s Afterword

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Other Books by Syrie James

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Map

  Jane Austen’s Family Tree

  Editor’s Foreword

  Jane Austen, who gave the world six beloved novels, was a self-avowed, addicted letter-writer; many of her letters have been preserved and provide valuable insight into the author’s mind, character, and private life. Although biographers have often pondered the question as to whether or not the author kept a memoir or a journal, no sign of any such documents had ever been found. Until now.

  Chawton Manor House—one of the many homes owned by Jane Austen’s brother, Edward Austen Knight (who was adopted by his father’s cousins, and inherited many valuable properties)—has been in the Knight family since the late sixteenth century. Jane Austen lived for many years in a cottage in the village nearby and was a frequent visitor.

  A workman recently employed to repair the roof of the manor house, in an attempt to trap an errant family of mice, discovered an old seaman’s chest bricked up behind a wall in a far corner of the immense, rambling attic. The chest, to the befuddlement of the entire work crew, was filled with what appeared to be old manuscripts. Incongruously, at the bottom of the chest, in a tiny velvet box, lay a delicate gold-and-ruby ring.

  The current owner of the residence, Chawton House Library—a charitable organization that has restored and refurbished the manor house, gardens and park to operate as a centre for the study of early English women’s writing—brought in experts to appraise the ruby ring (of fine workmanship, dating from the late eighteenth century), and scholars to review the documents. Upon even cursory review, the scholars immediately sensed the enormous historical value of this discovery.

  The chest, which is the type a seaman might have used to store his gear during the Napoleonic wars, may have belonged to one of Jane Austen’s other brothers, Frank or Charles, both of whom were in the Royal Navy. To the astonishment and exhilaration of the scholars who were first privileged to review its contents (myself included), the numerous documents stored inside appear to have been written during the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, and have been formally authenticated as being the work of Jane Austen herself.

  Although only one of the manuscripts has as yet been fully reviewed, they appear to be none other than Jane Austen’s long-lost memoirs, relating stories and events that occurred either to the author herself or to her family members, friends, and acquaintances.

  Desiring no remunerary compensation for their find, the Chawton House Library graciously donated the chest and all its contents to the Jane Austen Literary Foundation for authentication and preservation.

  The physical aspect of the memoirs is interesting; they were composed and assembled in a similar manner to the manuscript of Jane Austen’s last, uncompleted work, Sanditon; that is, they were all written on ordinary sheets of writing-paper which had been folded in half, then assembled into small booklets ranging in size from forty-eight to eighty pages, and neatly hand-stitched along the spine. They appear to have been written in a variety of formats; some are day-to-day entries, as in a diary; most are divided into chapters, resembling her novels. A few have been damaged by mould and decay, but most (thanks to the air-tight nature of the chest, and inherently dry conditions of the attic in which they were stored) have survived in a nearly pristine state.

  These manuscripts are now being painstakingly preserved by a team of experts; they will each, in turn, be reviewed and edited for a modern audience. Although there are undoubtedly a great many other Jane Austen scholars equal to or more worthy of the occupation than I, the enviable task of editing these precious works has fallen to me.

  The memoir you have before you, although it covers an earlier period in Jane Austen’s life, was apparently written sometime between 1815 and 1817, when the author began to suffer from the illness that resulted in her death. Although it seems to be the final volume of her memoirs, it was selected for publication first, partly because of the immaculate physical state of the document itself and partly becaus
e of its surprising and revealing subject matter.

  Several theories have been put forward as to how the manuscripts came to be bricked up and forgotten behind an attic wall at Chawton Manor House. Many of the bricks used were fired in 1816, but the dates of the remaining bricks are more difficult to determine. It is possible that Jane Austen herself, ill and knowing that she might die, arranged for some trusted family member or hired hand (with or without her brother Edward’s knowledge) to hide these documents in his attic, feeling that they were of too personal a nature to be read by others at the time but unwilling to destroy them.

  It is also quite possible that the chest was placed there, years later, by Jane’s sister Cassandra. It is well-known that the sisters were very close, shared every thought and confidence, and exchanged frequent, lengthy letters when they were apart. Cassandra, who lived to be seventy-two, kept all the letters Jane had written her, and she may have been the keeper of Jane’s memoirs as well. However, a few years before Cassandra died, she admitted to her niece, Caroline Austen, that she burnt the greater part of Jane’s letters (thought to be many hundreds in all), and cut out or otherwise expunged parts of those remaining. This loss to history is incalculable.

  The reason for Cassandra’s censorship was, no doubt, a desire to preserve her sister’s privacy, as well as an act of diplomacy. It is unlikely that Cassandra could have foreseen a time when her sister’s work would be so popular, and public interest in her so great, that her letters would be published; it is more likely that she feared Jane’s letters might have contained criticisms of people and descriptions of persons and events of a very personal nature, which Cassandra did not wish the younger generations of her family to read.

  Jane does say, in the first pages of this memoir, that she is writing to “…make some record of what happened, to prevent that memory from vanishing into the recesses of my mind, and from there to disappear for ever from history…”

  Perhaps Cassandra, after burning the letters, could not bring herself to destroy her sister’s memoirs as well, (resembling, as they did, the manuscripts of her revered novels) and so decided to “entomb” them instead. The plan was quite successful; if not for an extensive roof renovation, an inquisitive workman, and a wayward mouse, the manuscripts might have remained undiscovered for many more centuries to come.

  This memoir is of remarkable interest, not only because it offers a new, particularly intimate window into the workings of Jane Austen’s mind and heart, but in that it reveals, for the first time, the existence of a love affair that she was apparently determined, during her lifetime, at least, to keep secret. It may also shed light on one of the most infamous stories in Jane Austen lore—a subject that has been endlessly discussed and debated amongst historians, concerning a “seaside gentleman” with whom Jane reputedly fell in love.

  As the story goes, Cassandra told her niece Carolyn (many years after Jane’s death) that Jane met a curate in the early 1800s while on holiday at a seaside resort, and that they became attached and agreed to meet again; she later learned that he had died. Cassandra never named the man, the place, or the date of the meeting, but insisted that this mysterious gentleman was the “only man Jane ever truly loved.”

  Considering that Cassandra was so particular about the type of information she allowed to be disseminated about her sister, it is possible that the “mysterious, nameless, dateless romance” that she described was only a partial truth, intentionally vague and misleading—a theory that is backed up in this memoir by Jane Austen herself. Apparently, Jane did meet a man at a seaside resort; they did indeed fall deeply in love; but, according to Jane, he was not a clergyman—and he did not die.

  To conjecture further would be to give too much away; the reader is left to draw his or her own conclusions from Jane’s romantic and poignant tale.

  One final note, regarding the editing of this text:

  There were many idiosyncrasies in Jane Austen’s manuscript, including abbreviations, misspellings, alternative spellings such as “chuse” and “choose,” the use of capitals where they would not be expected by rule, and the use or disuse of paragraphs and quotation marks, which would no doubt have been changed, had the work been made ready for publication during her lifetime. I have made such corrections as I thought necessary (while maintaining most period and alternative spellings), to ensure a smooth and fluent reading experience by a modern audience; but for the most part, this is the memoir exactly as Jane Austen wrote it.

  All editorial comments are my own.

  Dr. Mary I. Jesse

  Ph.D. English Literature, Oxford University

  President, Jane Austen Literary Foundation

  Chapter One

  Why I feel the sudden urge to relate, in pen and ink, a relationship of the most personal nature, which I have never before acknowledged, I cannot say. Perhaps it is this maddening illness which has been troubling me now and again of late—this cunning reminder of my own mortality—that compels me to make some record of what happened, to prevent that memory from vanishing into the recesses of my mind, and from there to disappear for ever from history, as fleeting as a ghost in the mist.

  Whatever the reason, I find that I must write it all down; for there may, I think, be speculation when I am gone. People may read what I have written, and wonder: how could this spinster, this woman who, to all appearances, never even courted—who never felt that wondrous connection of mind and spirit between a man and woman, which, inspired by friendship and affection, blooms into something deeper—how could she have had the temerity to write about the revered institutions of love and courtship, having never experienced them herself?

  To those few friends and relations who, upon learning of my authorship, have dared to pose a similar question (although, I must admit, in a rather more genteel turn of phrase), I have given the self-same reply: “Is it not conceivable that an active mind and an observant eye and ear, combined with a vivid imagination, might produce a literary work of some merit and amusement, which may, in turn, evoke sentiments and feelings which resemble life itself?”

  There is much truth in this observation.

  But there are many levels of veracity, are there not, between that truth which we reveal publicly and that which we silently acknowledge, in the privacy of our own thoughts, and perhaps to one or two of our most intimate acquaintances?

  I did attempt to write of love—first, in jest, as a girl; then in a more serious vein, in my early twenties, though I had known only young love then; 1 in consequence, those early works were of only passing merit. It was only years later that I met the man who would come to inspire the true depth of that emotion, and who would reawaken my voice, which had long lain dormant.

  Of this gentleman—the one, true, great love in my life—I have, for good reason, vowed never to speak; indeed, it was agreed amongst the few close members of my family who knew him, that it was best for all concerned to keep the facts of that affair strictly to ourselves. In consequence, I have relegated my thoughts of him to the farthest reaches of my heart; banished for ever—but not forgotten.

  No, never forgotten. For how can one forget that which has become a part of one’s very soul? Every word, every thought, every look and feeling that passed between us, is as fresh in my mind now, years later, as if it had occurred only yesterday.

  The tale must be told; a tale which will explain all the others.

  But I get ahead of myself.

  It is a truth (I believe, universally acknowledged) that, with few exceptions, the introduction of the hero in a love-story should never take place in the first chapter, but should, ideally, be deferred to the third; that a brief foundation should initially be laid, acquainting the reader with the principal persons, places, circumstances and emotional content of the story, so as to allow a greater appreciation for the proceedings as they unfold.

  Therefore, before we meet the gentleman in question, I must go further back to relate two events which occurred some years earlier—both o
f which altered my life, suddenly and irrevocably, in a most dreadful and painful way.

  In December 1800, shortly before the twenty-fifth anniversary of my birth, I had been away, visiting my dear friend Martha Lloyd. Upon returning home, my mother startled me by announcing, “Well, Jane, it is all settled! We have decided to leave Steventon behind us for good, and go to Bath.”

  “Leave Steventon?” I stared at her in disbelief. “You cannot mean it.”

  “Oh, but I do,” said my mother as she bustled happily about the small parlour, pausing to study the pictures on the wall with a look of fond farewell, as if making peace with the thought of leaving them all behind. “Your father and I talked it over while you were gone. He will be seventy in May. It is high time he retired, after nearly forty years as the rector of this parish, not to mention Deane. 2 Giving up the post, you know, means giving up the house, but your brother James will benefit by it, as it will go to him; and as your father has always longed to travel, we thought, what better time than the present? Let us go, while we still have our health! But where we should go, that was a matter of great debate, and we have at last come to conclusion that it should be Bath!”

  My head began to swim; my legs crumpled under me, and I sank heavily into the nearest chair, wishing that my beloved sister was there to share the burden of this distressing news. Cassandra, who is three years older than I, and far more beautiful, is possessed of a calm and gentle disposition; I can always depend on her to rally my spirits in even the worst of situations. But she was away at the time, visiting our brother Edward and his family in Kent.