“For I had many a scene of pleasure planned
When safe returned to this dear native land…”
Of course the region of tactlessness was to Mary something like her natural habitat. But Isabella and Caroline, she could not but notice, were becoming most discomfited.
“Much did I hope (it was a vision fair
And pity it should melt into thin air)
Our friendship soon had known a dearer tie
Than friendship’s self could ever yet supply.”
Cassandra had now to own that she too was feeling discomfited—from the atmosphere in the room, of course. But also—she simply had to admit it, if only ever to herself—by the quite execrable standard of this verse.
“And I had lived with confidence to join
A much loved Sister’s trembling hand in—”
She rose to her feet to bring this nonsense to a close. Really, this was her brother’s writing at its worst. It was not worthy of being read aloud in a family circle; not worthy even of the paper upon which it was written: “Forgive me, all. I am really quite tired from our busy day. Do excuse me, my dears, if I go up a little before you.” To think that they might have enjoyed a few chapters of Persuasion! What a deadweight Mary was on an evening.
She bade them goodnight, and withdrew.
* * *
CASSANDRA FELL WITH RELIEF into the pure solitude of her room, but it took a few minutes of pacing and general, restless physical activity before she could restore her calm spirits. She retrieved the bundle of letters from under the mattress. She opened her valise, removed her patchwork pieces, checked the papers beneath them, closed it again. She brushed her hair, washed her face, gazed for a moment through the window at the gray, starless night. At last her heart returned to its old pattern; her limbs stopped their shaking. Closing the curtains, she settled into the armchair, reached for the letters, and thought how to best use this precious, short time.
She could certainly spare herself from reading the next one. Permitting herself just a glance at the date—18 April 1797—she then, carefully, put it aside.
But what was this? Next, in Jane’s pile, in Eliza’s compilation of Jane’s private correspondence, was a page in a quite different hand. She recognized it at once: This was from Mary. Cassandra was startled. What could it mean? Of course it had been filed in error … It would be criminal to read it … Her head and her heart told her to return it immediately … But her eyes—her poor, old, disobedient eyes—saw that same date. And read on:
Deane Rectory
18 April 1797
My dear Eliza,
I write to tell you that I have fulfilled my sad duties on behalf of the Kintbury family and must report that the afternoon has left me quite depleted in energies and spirit. You will be relieved to know that my dear Austen has been most solicitous to me, so that I now feel sufficiently restored to give my account, as per your request.
We left for Steventon as soon as your letter arrived. While my husband—shocked and fearful of the effect that the news would have upon his sister—was all for waiting and prevarication, I was insistent. Cass. must know as soon as possible. The deed could not be put off. We found the ladies where they are always to be found, alone in their sitting room with the door shut to the world—I must confess to finding this closeness of theirs most unnatural and very excluding of others. No good will come of it. But Austen forbids me from saying so to either parent. There we are. I am forced to keep my wise words to myself. That is what it is like here, I am sorry to tell you. There will be no criticism of The Girls. And I dare say that will be more so after the events of today.
As we mounted the stairs, I could hear their laughter—they do laugh an unusual amount, in my opinion. I used not to mind, but lately have found it a source of great irritation. My poor heart sank further at the prospect of that which lay before me but my courage did not falter. They were both at work of some sort—I got the impression it was an item for her trousseau that Cass. had about her as we entered—so it was as well that we came quickly and spared her more labors. For what use is a trousseau to the poor woman now?
I believe that as soon as C. saw my face, she knew the purpose of my visit—I was and still am quite pale with the shock of it—and when I asked that Jane leave, her air darkened considerably. I came to the point at once. Austen had thought that he might speak first but I feared he would only prolong the misery. When bad things must happen they must happen at once and we women—married women in particular—are so much more sensitive to that which is required in a difficult situation. As when Anna is up to her bad tricks—the child’s terrible behavior shows no signs of abating—why wait for her father to deliver one of his long sermons? I give her a good, short, sharp slap on the back of her legs and there is the end.
So as soon as the door closed upon Jane—and she was reluctant to leave us in privacy—I delivered my message, simply and directly—Tom was dead, of Yellow Fever, and these past two months had lain buried at sea. I regret to say that the ensuing scene was quite desperate. Cassandra fell to the floor and was beset with such a fit of grief that it was quite an agony to witness. In the midst of such a distressing situation, you must know that I did not miss a detail and conducted myself with aplomb. I passed on Lord Craven’s condolences, but even that did not seem to console her. And I remembered to add that His Lordship had no knowledge that there was such an engagement: he would never have taken a betrothed man aboard, but Tom had not thought to mention it. Well, Eliza! One might have hoped for an expression of sympathy for poor Lord Craven’s position. In its place, we had the hysterics.
I am so grateful to have had my own husband there to comfort me. He has been most solicitous ever since. He is conscious that it was the most terrible ordeal for me—especially now, in what should be my honeymoon period, when I have all the excitement and happiness of having become so lately Mrs. James Austen—it does still bring a small thrill to write those words—it is quite tragic that I of all people should have been the one to have to perform such an onerous task. Is it always to be my lot to have to deal with the dramas of my new sisters?
But, dear Eliza, there, ’tis done. You will be comforted to hear that I am now before a good fire with a tisane beside me and that James has had the sensitivity to send Anna to the Austens until I should begin to recover—she will cling to her father so even when I am there in the room—it is most seriously vexing and should be more than my nerves could stand to have to deal with the child now. It was also in my thinking that it may benefit all in the household to have to look after her—a welcome distraction from that dull business of grief. He will soon read to me from his own poetry. I think his Sonnets would be appropriate this evening. They always soothe me and heaven knows I need soothing tonight.
Ever your loving sister,
Mary Austen.
Cassandra’s immediate reaction to the letter was simple astonishment. This could not possibly be genuine. It must be a parody: Mrs. James Austen through the medium of satire. Perhaps—it went through her mind in the very first minute—this was by Jane? She was, after all, quite brilliant at capturing their sister-in-law for their private amusement. Only the other day back in Chawton, Cassandra had come across a comedic letter of complaint her sister had written years before, in Mary’s voice to the portrait painter: You claimed that you had captured me perfectly, and yet my family points out that your picture is of a woman most plain and, moreover, sour … She had enjoyed it anew and then burned it at once.