Jane Austen's Blog
Oh my, I am unprepared to be brought into this world of fast and frenzied motion. Please forgive me, but I am a simple girl from the country. Your world today could not understand the life I lived more than 100 years ago. I am humbled that you invited me to converse with you about my stories, but I have no idea why they are considered great novels even after all these years. Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility are merely stories to me. I wrote with the simplicity of my rural life.
As the daughter of a Reverend in a small village, I saw very little spectacular living, except when a relative visited from London or France. I remember when my cousin, the widow Madame Fenilade, arrived at our humble lodging to stay for a short visit. It was not a short visit. She stayed until she married my brother. I was saddened that they moved away. She was the delight of the household.
As the daughter of a Reverend in a small village, I saw very little spectacular living, except when a relative visited from London or France. I remember when my cousin, the widow Madame Fenilade, arrived at our humble lodging to stay for a short visit. It was not a short visit. She stayed until she married my brother. I was saddened that they moved away. She was the delight of the household.
She even taught us to speak French sufficiently, as my father requested that nothing but French be spoken in the household for a period of time. It was not long before we were all conversant in French.
No one knows of my longing to go to France. I dreamed of it as I committed myself to my daily chores. Father would not allow any of us to be idle, except for when I would tarry at the desk with my writing. It was accepted, for in the evening, I would read to our family the words I had written, and they would comment. I accepted some of their suggestions, including them in the correct places within my renderings or not. My wonderful secret was that I and I alone could indulge in my fantasy life and write what I pleased.
As I have mentioned, if you will pardon me for repetition, we lived a rural life in a small community. One of my delights, aside from writing, was to accompany my father on his rounds visiting the parishioners. When I listened to their tales, I told my father that I sensed a spirit of various identities. As the men spoke quietly over cups of spiced tea, the baker's wife, Amilee, told me of the young man who first captured her heart.
She was born into a family of wealth and prestige in London among the social gentry. She fell deeply in love with a handsome young baron. When it became known she was with child, her parents sent her to our Village of Steventon.
The babe was born out of wedlock and sent to be adopted by a family in Yorkshire. She never saw the Baron after she was banished, nor did ever see the child of their union. She heard from a traveler who had stopped to purchase bread that the Baron died in a tragic carriage accident. Leaning towards me, she whispered how she often imagined he was on his way to her.
The babe was born out of wedlock and sent to be adopted by a family in Yorkshire. She never saw the Baron after she was banished, nor did ever see the child of their union. She heard from a traveler who had stopped to purchase bread that the Baron died in a tragic carriage accident. Leaning towards me, she whispered how she often imagined he was on his way to her.
I was awed by her tale. The vivid description of her lover remained with me long after our visit. I wonder now if it might have been the seedling of the birth of one of the characters I fell in love with my fantasy stories. I certainly do not recall any one of his style and demeanor ever visiting the Parsonage, our home. Was he perhaps the embryo of Mr. Darcy?
I truly cannot say. It was so long ago. It was a time of simplicity and decorum. It was a time to think without distraction. It was simple to go about one’s chores with practiced hands and an imaginative mind. Sweeping the floors of the rectory, I could feel his presence awaiting the turn of my head. Stirring cream to churn butter, I could feel the warmth of his breath upon my neck. I would close my eyes, preparing for his touch. Too often, my sister Cassandra would sneak up on me and startle me from my reverie. Upon occasion, the churn would be dashed to the floor. Cassandra would howl with laughter.
I was very young when I began writing, only twenty. I never planned for my stories to be published. My father wrote to several publishers, who informed him they had no desire to read a country girl's ramblings. It was after Papa passed that we sent my words to a gentleman who agreed to publish them. A very limited printing, I might say. No one was more surprised than I when they were in demand by the public.
Two of my stories were published after I joined my departed Father. Never did I even pretend to be a writer of worth. I wrote for myself, to live in a fantasy world and to amuse my family. I am quite surprised that I have been considered a novelist of some worth.
If I were to live in your fast-paced world, I sincerely doubt that I would know how to be in quietude and retreat to my imagination. The swirling events around everyone and the noise would be intrusive, blocking any meaningful thought. Where could I retreat to capture my ideal life?
No, tis better that I lived in the long ago time where life was simple. I might not have been in a world of grandeur, a life of splendor, except perhaps when I was at the tiny desk in the parlor. It was there I could live in a fantasy world of my imagination. It was a perfect time.
© 2012 M. Bradley McCauley. All rights reserved unless written permission is granted by the Author.
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