It Is a Truth Universally Acknowledged
(A Jane Austen Story)
The old house, nestled amid the emerald hills and patchwork fields of southern England, stood as a testament to a bygone era—a portière of moss-covered stones, ivy-laden walls, and sacred memories preserved like pressed flowers, their essence protected between the shelter of parchment sheets, their existence made permanent through the testimony of dried scratches and squiggles.
At first, the scene seemed subdued, a stillness so acute it almost appeared to echo, and then, suddenly, a gathering of figures materialised from the winter mist that flitted delicately between the realms of fact and fiction. At a cursory glance, one might have deemed them peculiar, ethereal beings not quite hewn from the familiar flesh and bone of our reality, but fashioned from a substance more enduring. A wraithlike spirit clung to their forms, a shimmering quality that rendered them otherworldly. Their presence, though seemingly out of place in our terrestrial plane, bore an aura of boldness and beauty—an arresting manifestation that defied all reason. If one looked closer, one would see at once that they were all women, each beloved by many, their very existence, all thanks to one: Jane.
They were Jane Austen's heroines, plucked from the pages of her timeless novels, convened on this day, the 16th of December, to celebrate the anniversary of when their maker came into the world.
With a grace befitting their regency roots, they walked through the gardens, where time itself seemed to dissipate into an eternal fog. The air was charged with a bittersweet melancholy, for they were the children of pretence, tied together by the glue of their bound volumes, editions that had been in their many, delighting new generations in new languages, but the profound message of their words never altered, but remained as inspiring as ever.
Coming to stand as one around the walls of the house, their palms resting on the bricks that had borne witness to their birth, the women—all luminous embodiments of Austen's wit and wisdom—shared the same space as equals. Their gowns, elegant and timeless, rustled as they took their places in the circle, nodding to each other in quiet and fond familiarity, for while they may never have met, they each shared an origin, crafted in a womb of ink.
Linking arms, they all slowly walked into the warm embrace of the indoors and crossed the threshold of the ancestral home, a pilgrimage to the birthplace of their existence, and they entered the cosy parlour with its humble proportions, their collective regard turning with reverence to look at the small, modest desk, whether their creator had once sat and told their stories with faithful devotion.
Elizabeth Bennet, spirited and keen-witted, took her place by the hearth, her fine eyes gleaming with intelligence.
"Ah! There is nothing like staying at home, for real comfort," she sighed, warming her hands by the fire.
Emma Woodhouse, confident and assertive, reclined on a chaise with effortless elegance. Elinor Dashwood, composed and pensive, found solace in the window seat, gazing wistfully at the frost-kissed trees. Each heroine brought with her the essence of Austen's world—a world where love danced a discerning minuet with societal expectations and their thirst for independence that broke free from the restraint of their lot in life, as rigid as the corsets that withheld their breaths.
"How happy I am to see you all," praised Fanny Price shyly. "My idea of good company...is the company of clever, well-informed people, who have a great deal of conversation; that is what I call good company."
"Ah, but there you are mistaken," corrected Anne Elliot gently, "that is not good company, that is the best," she smiled.
As the clock struck midday, a hush fell upon the room, and a soft light flickered in the fireplace, casting a warm glow over the gathering. It was time for the heroines to pay homage to their literary mother, their matchmaker, the architect of their destinies. It was then that the door creaked open, and there, in the entryway, a lone figure stood, Jane Austen herself—or rather, a spectral presence, a shimmering echo of a literary legacy. She smiled at her progeny—the embodiment of emotion, wit, and resilience, a testament to how an ordinary, everyday woman could be oh-so extraordinary.
"Dear ladies, dear friends," she said with clear oration, her words a melody upon their ears. "Welcome home," she bid, opening her arms to them. "Today, on my birthday, I am honoured to be in the company of my cherished children, for while I am gone, you live on."
Jane could not fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, which laid the foundation of her love of writing. It was too long ago. She was in the middle before she knew that she had begun. But here she was, over two hundred years later, and her characters were as real and precious to her now as they had been then.
Elizabeth Bennet, spirited and quick-witted, stepped forward, her eyes sparkling with vivacity.
"Miss Austen, Jane, you have bestowed upon me a sharp tongue and a discerning mind," she declared. "Where once I was guilty of pride and prejudice, I hope, I trust, that I have grown. You taught me not to judge a book by its cover, or a person, and that people have hidden depths that can be seen if one just takes the trouble to truly look. I now see that while only the most profound of love may have induced any of us to marry, love can come from the most unexpected places and persons, and none of us can claim perfection, for, after all, perhaps it is our imperfections that make us so perfect for one another."
Jane Austen nodded, a gentle smile gracing her ethereal features. "Wise words, if I may say so myself," she chuckled. "Ah, Elizabeth, my spirited muse. How I wish I could have lived your story. You are so admired, my dear, and both you and Mr Darcy will continue to be the epitome of true love until literature's dying breath."
Emma Woodhouse approached next. "Miss Austen, while I adore Miss Taylor, I do so wish you too had been my governess, for you have much to teach us. You have given me the gift of self-awareness. My story has been as a mirror, reflecting the flaws that love has the power to mend. I have come to realise that I do not know everything and that my little corner of the world is not the world entire. People are not dolls to be played with told what to do, but have feelings, and the right to choose their own paths in life. I've come to know that love should first and foremost be based on friendship, and from this, the truest bonds can be forged. Real people are not without faults but are willing to admit them and undertake change. And," she said with a mischievous grin, "I've learned that men of sense do not want silly wives!"
The room resonated with the cheer of laughter, a lively and contagious chorus that reverberated off the walls. The infectious sounds filled the space, creating an atmosphere of camaraderie and shared happiness. Each peal of laughter became a vibrant stroke, painting the room with strokes of joy and adding a colourful dimension to the collective spirit of the party.
"Emma, my charming protagonist," Jane said, stifling a giggle. "Your journey from arrogance to humility has delighted readers for centuries. Your match with Mr Knightley is a testament to the transformative power of maturity, and those whom we see every day can turn out to be so much more than friends if only we examine our hearts."
Elinor Dashwood, composed and steadfast, stepped forward, a quiet strength in her gaze. "Miss Austen, for me, you wove a tapestry of love, resilience, and the endurance of the human heart. My character has taught me the beauty of restraint and the power of silent fortitude. Life may test us, and we may be thrown about on the seas of change and chance, but if we have an anchor in ourselves, then we can guide ourselves to shore once more. That is why all of us, men or women, should 'know our own happiness. You want nothing but patience—or give it a more fascinating name, call it hope," whispered Elinor, her voice a balm for the trials of the heart.
The unassuming heroine's words hung in the air, a tribute to the nuances of love portrayed in the novels. In turn, her sister, Marianne, spoke. "I was known once to say: 'The more I know of the world, the more I am convinced that I shall never see a man whom I can really love. I require so much!"' she admitted with a blush. "But how wrong I was. You showed me that love is not forever, and loss is not fatal. So often women are led to think that there is one perfect man for each of us and that it is our destiny to meet and marry him."
"Our own Mr Darcy," Jane replied knowingly.
"Quite so," Marianne agreed. "But the course of true love does not run so smoothly. We should not be dazzled by flattery and false promises, but believe in honour and honesty. The most poetic souls can be silent and yet soulful. So, to take your words and apply them to my own life, I now know my happiness, and it is down to your steady hand steering my life."
Jane felt tears prick in the corner of her eyes as she squeezed Marianne's shoulder, the woman who, in many ways, had been a cathartic character during her youth, having been a fictional representation of her own disappointed dreams when it came to love. She held a special place in her heart for the Dashwood sisters. They were both so similar and yet utterly different. However, their beauty was that neither nature was right while one was wrong. They were correspondingly legitimate and equally lovable. Sense and sensibility are not denied, but adjust within us as we bloom through the shifting seasons of life.
Next, she turned to Catherine Morland. "And what say you, my firstborn?" she asked, addressing her earliest heroine, even if she had been the last to be made known to the world.
For a while, Catherine sat and contemplated her answer, her mind turning to think of muslin, as it so often did.
"That is easy," she said at last. "It is that the person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid!" she declared, and everyone clapped and cheered in a merry chorus of amusement.
Shaking her head, Catherine determined to be serious. "Indeed, I now know that we should not get carried away by stories," she contended. "Life is not a story, regardless of what we wish for. It may be made up of twists and turns, of good and bad characters, and themes that touch us all, but it is not a girlish fantasy. Then again, it is only a novel... or, in short, only some work in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humour, are conveyed to the world in the best-chosen language"
"How I agree!" championed Fanny Price. "There is nothing quite as comforting as a good book, especially one that speaks the unadulterated truth," she said with her usual earnestness. "A fondness for reading, properly directed, must be an education in itself."
A warm smile graced Jane's lips involuntarily. Her affection for Fanny ran deep. Despite not occupying the pinnacle among Jane's esteemed leading ladies, Fanny possessed an abundance of virtues waiting to be acknowledged. Her kindness, patience and unblemished honesty marked her as an unsung heroine. Fanny embodied the essence of women caught between social classes, gracefully navigating the delicate balance. While lacking Elizabeth's sparkle, Marianne's passion, or Catherine's innocent charm, Fanny's strength lay in her steadfast reliability and unwavering loyalty to those whom she held dear.
As if able to read her creator's thoughts, Fanny continued. "I know people think me dull, but while I was quiet, I was not blind. My story, my life may have seemed but a quick succession of busy nothings, but it is in these nothings that real life happens. And in this, in my duty to others, I was so anxious to do what is right that I forgot to do what is right, but I remembered in the end, and I took care to care for my own heart."
Following suit, it became Anne Elliot's moment to share her thoughts. Tilting her head slightly, Anne, distinguished as the senior among the ladies, or at least the one who had married latest in life, believed that time had endowed her with a measure of insight, if not outright wisdom, then certainly a wealth of experience.
Clutching a letter that she held close to her heart within the weaves of her dress, she whispered: "I can tell you that love pierces our souls; we can live in half agony, half hope. But that time is a great healer, and if we trust in ourselves, if we have faith in our convictions and our character, we find the best compass in ourselves, pointing us home. We should not be led astray by others, we should be open to advice, but not to persuasion that goes against the instincts of our heart," she explained. "And here, Miss Austen, I must thank you, we must thank you," she insisted, looking round at her friends.
"Me? How so?" Jane inquired, her curiosity evident in the arch of her brow and the lilt in her voice, eager to unravel the threads of Anne's perspective.
"Why, for giving us a voice!" Anne exclaimed. "Before you, I do not think a lady ever opened a book in my life which had not something to say upon woman's inconstancy. Songs and proverbs, all talk of woman's fickleness. But perhaps you will say, these were all written by men…Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story. Education has been theirs in so much higher a degree; the pen has been in their hands. I will not allow books to prove anything. But you have changed all of that. You have given us, and all women, worldwide, a voice, a chance to tell their stories in their own words."
"Without you," added Catherine, her voice carrying a sincere weight, "there would be no us."
In this poignant moment, Jane turned her attention to the final character—a lady with shoes lightly dusted by sand. As their eyes met, Jane offered a tender smile, recognising with regret the incomplete story of happiness waiting within the unwritten chapters of this character's life—a tale that, she acknowledged, would have to be concluded by the pens of future writers. The unspoken narrative held a promise yet to unfold, awaiting the creative touch of those who would seek to finish what she had not been able to.
"And Charlotte, what of you?" she said quietly, and all eyes turned to Miss Heywood.
Charlotte thought for a moment, and then, standing to envelop Jane in a warm embrace, she whispered in her ear: "I have learnt that our story is never done. That we still have new chapters awaiting us, and with every turn of the page, we live...thanks to you."
As the clock continued its measured cadence, the heroines gathered closer, forming an unspoken sisterhood that transcended the boundaries of their individual stories. The room hummed with an intangible energy, a celebration of characters who had become timeless companions to generations of readers.
With a graceful bow, Jane Austen addressed her heroines one last time, her voice tender and filled with gratitude. "Ladies, you have breathed life into my words, and in turn, you have become immortal in the hearts of those who have ventured into the world of my novels. If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more. Therefore, I humbly thank you…and I sincerely thank them," she sniffed sentimentally.
The heroines, acknowledging the profound connection they shared with their creator, responded in unison, quoting a line that had become the anthem of Austen's legacy: "I declare after all, there is no enjoyment like reading!"
Jane clasped her hands over her mouth, and with eyes that shone bright with tears of joy, she bid them farewell with the words: "We have all a better guide in ourselves, if we would attend to it, than any other person can be. Go now, my children, live your lives, live your love as I could not. Be wives. Be mothers. Be friends. And most of all, be true to yourselves. Your story is not done, it is only just beginning. But know this: It is a truth universally acknowledged, that an author in want of characters, could not have asked for better than you."
As the echoes of their voices faded, a mist began to envelop the room, ethereal tendrils reaching out to claim the timeless figures. The heroines, with a final exchange of glances, walked towards the dawn, their figures gradually fading into the obscurity of literary immortality.
And so, on that December day, the heroines of Jane Austen's novels, having paid homage to the author who brought them life and love, returned to their pages, carrying them back to the realms of imagination from whence they came. Each became a creation of fiction, forever alive and real in the hearts and minds of those who continued to seek solace and inspiration within the pages of Austen's enduring tales, an everlasting ode to love, literature, and the enduring magic of the written word, leaving us with one final thought:
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that Jane Austen is our heroine.
Happy Birthday, Jane! X
Please do forgive any mistakes in this story. I only remembered this morning that this was Jane Austen's birthday, so I scribbled this very quickly on the train on the way home from work, so it is very short, basic and unedited.