Introduction and Chapter 1 Part 1
Reader –
You are understood to be a knowledgeable and enthusiastic scholar of Austen’s work (the possession of this text confirms it!) You know, therefore, that her most popular narratives (Sense and Sensibility, Emma, Pride and Prejudice) were first issued anonymously. It was not until the publication of her final* novels, Persuasion & Northanger Abbey in 1818 that Henry Austen (brother, not husband – again, you know this) included his “biographical notice of the author”; the cat was finally released from its bag. Though she did not live to see it, Jane Austen would one day become a household name.
Ah, but what of that pert little asterisk above? The one after the word “final?” Could it be that there is yet another, later novel for us to appreciate? Did Austen complete another novel after Persuasion? The answer is yes – and no, we aren’t talking about Sandition (literally who gives a shit).
What follows is the unpublished and truly final novel of Jane Austen.
Your skepticism is palpable, but we beg you suspend disbelief for a moment. For proof, we turn to yet another exciting discovery – the lost letters between Jane and Cassandra Austen (sister, not wife – you know this!)
Cassandra, inheritor of the bulk of her sister’s property, did burn a great many of Jane’s letters after her death. However, it appears that Cassandra was a poor fire-maker, and some of the letters survived in their crispy state long enough to be squirreled away by a maidservant and reassembled years later.
See here, this missive dated April 8th, 1817, written shortly after Jane’s illness confined her to her bed:
My Dearest Cassandra –
What if, (and I beg you hear me out on this one) I revisited Pride & Prejudice once more? I shan’t feign modesty when I remind you that it has done fairly well for itself (proving an appetite exists for such material!) and as it was published anonymously, I needn’t even claim it as my own to comment on it! Isn’t that fun?
You see, Cassandra, I so enjoyed my time with Anne [Elliot, the heroine of Persuasion, YOU KNOW THIS!] that I am not yet ready to quit the realm of the boring heroine. And I thought to myself, I thought, “You know who else was boring? That middle Bennett sister, Mary.”
Why not celebrate the dullards? I am too tired to chase firebrands, but not tired enough for big sleepies. [i.e. “death”]
I really think I’m onto something here!!
Yours most affectionately,
J. AUSTEN.
Cassandra was troubled by this new take on her sister’s classic; she saw it as a sign of Jane’s disease quickening, the product of a fevered mind. She wrote back:
Dearest Jane,
Thank you for your very amusing letter! It gladdens me to see that your spirits have not dimmed, despite your discomfort. I confess, you did startle me for a moment – despite your excellent humour I am not used to such jokes about your own work! I look forward to our next visit. I shall bring you a cheese wheel.
Most affectionately yours,
Cass. Eliz. Austen
Jane’s response was swift:
Dearest Cassandra,
I [sic] not joking.
Love,
J. AUSTEN
Chapter One
No truths are universally acknowledged.
There are truths widely circulated; truths inherently understood (but rarely stated); and then there are truths which are so ridiculous, so irregular, that no member of polite society would dare utter them aloud. Mr. Bennet had to live with one of these truths, which was, impossibly, that each of his five daughters was “Mary.”
There have been many fine stories written about families of daughters, with each young lady shining in their own vibrant hue: the amiable beauty, the headstrong tomboy, the wild little slut (sex-positive!) This, however, is a story of five sisters who are all, more or less, different shades of the exact same color.
The Bennets, you see, were at the mercy of an entailment that would confer ownership of their estate at Longbourne to Mr. Bennet’s next surviving male relative. In their desperation to produce an heir, the Bennets instead begat a crop of young women – tedious, devout, and identical – who were all but doomed to become spinsters: Mary Jane, the demure but plain one; Mary Elizabeth, the forthright but plain one; Mary, the plainly plain one; Mary Catherine and Mary Lydia, the youngest, if not plainest, of them all.
Mr. Bennet did not waste his time contemplating the mysteries of such unlucky biology; rather, he simply allowed each Mary to be the type of Mary she was meant to be and then ignored the rest of his paternal obligations forthwith. Even five completely different daughters would have had a hard time drawing Mr. Bennet’s attention away from the books about funny pirates, to which he was, in the end, fatally addicted.
To-night, however, Mrs. Bennet would not let her husband hide from their parental obligations. She thought of little else besides finding suitable matches for their daughters – and word of a new neighbor at Netherfield Park was the flint to her tinder. Keeping pace, she walked beside Mr. Bennet and twittered all her hopes into his ear.
“I see no reason why this new gentleman at Netherfield shouldn’t choose one of our Marys for his wife! They are all eligible enough, and Mary Jane has particularly washed hair!”
He made no answer. Deep in the folds of his mind, a cadre of pirates fire a cannon at a French naval ship. “Kaboom,” mouths Mr. Bennet.
“Promise me, Mr. Bennet, promise me that tonight you will do all in your power to make an introduction. His name is Mr. Bingley, and he makes five thousand a year! I am certain that once he meets our Mary Jane, he shall fall head over heels in love with her.”
“Ah, and are you prepared to take responsibility for the man’s injuries should he suffer from this fall?” Mr. Bennet chuckled.
“Oh, Mr. Bennet! What of your responsibility to my poor nerves?”
“I consider it chief among my duties, dearest.”
“Then do agree to make Mr. Bingley’s acquaintance, sir, for your daughters’ sakes! There are five of them unmarried, should you need reminding.”
“I daren’t forget, Mrs. Bennet.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Mrs. Bennet, relieved, turned to her daughters.
“Girls! Put your books away! We are at Lucas Lodge!”
Each of the Marys, walking single-file in tow, closed their individual copies of Sermons to Young Women in orchestral unison. With mechanical efficiency, each holstered her book in her dress pocket and drew out the sheet music she had prepared. Every second mattered for, as usual, there would be a mad dash for the pianoforte.
:::
“And how is Netherfield treating you, Mr. Bingley?” Mr. Bennet inquired. “I imagine it is quite a change from the bustle of London.”
Mr. Bingley scanned the assembly room before him, lush with company. “Merryton seems a charming town, indeed. I am delighted to have settled so near it. I always felt myself bent towards country living!”
Mr. Bennet felt the heat of his wife’s gaze upon him from across the room. Awkwardly, he raised his brandy snifter to toast Mr. Bingley., “Well said. Country life, country wife.”
Mrs. Bennet had been waiting, coiled like a spring, by the refreshments. At the mention of “wife,” she leapt towards the two gentlemen, dragging Mary Jane behind her. The smell of freshly-washed hair bloomed pleasantly.
Taking his cue, Mr. Bennet said, “May I present my wife and our eldest daughter to you, Mr. Bingley? This is Mary Jane.”
Bingley looked at the steady young woman, admiring her the way a man might appreciate a horse.
“A pleasure! How do you do, Miss Bennet?”
“I’m sure–” Mary Jane blushed and glanced at her mother, who seemed to be urging her on telepathically. “I’m sure the pleasure is mine. Or perhaps we may share it? Or, really, I suppose it ought to be yours, since you first laid claim to it.” She spoke as if trying to guess the answer to please her tutor. Mr. Bingley beamed.
“Such an amiable young woman!” cried he. “Such deference! I am charmed indeed!”
Mrs. Bennet agreed and began preaching the many virtues of Mary Jane to a willing Bingley. Mr. Bennet, feeling the onset of a headache, excused himself from the conversation and retreated to a safe distance. There he observed his progeny as one would a collection of marbles on a table one slowly realizes is on a slant.
Mary Jane stood by her mother with the stillness of a wind chime (no wind), doing her best to receive Mr. Bingley’s frequent smiles whilst valiantly ignoring the pianoforte’s siren call. Her mother was not wrong in her estimation of Mary Jane as the most eligible of the sisters. Mary Jane was so obliging, so dutiful, so uncomplicatedly kind, husbands from counties over were often overheard wishing their wives were as temperate and demure. Sir William Lucas himself once, deep in his cups, admitted that marrying Mary Jane seemed as close as a man could get to marrying one’s spaniel.
Mary Elizabeth, “Emmy” affectionately, had herself been drafted into Mrs. Bennet’s stratagem as well. Instead of layering her competent hands upon the pianoforte’s willing keys, Emmy was sent to intercept Charlotte Lucas. Mrs. Bennet had long ago recognized Ms. Lucas’s comely plainness as the Marys’ chief rival. With Ms. Lucas distracted by Emmy’s sermons, Mary Jane’s bloom would occupy Mr. Bingley uninterrupted. Emmy said as much to her friend, for whom Mrs. Bennet’s antagonisms were no mystery.
“As usual, I must thank your mother for the compliment of being considered a threat. I should indeed accept a marriage proposal from any bachelor half Mr. Bingley’s consequence. However Mr. Bingley is as far from my aspirations as I am from his thoughts. I shall wed a suitable match, not a reach.”
“Oh, why must we be wed at all? I myself am little pleased by the prospect. The life of a maid seems far more suitable – ample time for prayer, moral reflection, and the practicing of table manners.””
“And also, perhaps, time for indulging in the pianoforte uninterrupted.” Charlotte winked horribly.
“Time spent in so self-absorbed a manner should never cross a Christian mind! Do you think me French?¹” teased Emmy.
Charlotte chuckled, and then turned serious.
“Oh, but Emmy. Surely you realize the burden an unwed daughter must be to a household choked with bachelorettes. Have you truly no inclination towards partnership?”
“I know it would please my parents,” conceded Emmy. “And in truth, I do know something of attraction, Charlotte. But no match has tempted me from my solitude.”
“Well, it does seem your sister has learned to enjoy Mr. Bingley’s attention.”
“I do say it does. Mary Jane looks as animated as a wind chime (light breeze).”
country wife, country life!!!!!!!!
I'm so mad I have to wait for more