Second Impressions by Ava Farmer

In form and style, this book is as much like the original as we could hope—so much so that doing anything but reading it as an incontrovertible sequel seems, at first, impossible, disrespectful, and silly. The lay-out, especially, makes the text seem like Austen’s own child, and the way the narrator presents the story—Mr. Bennet has lost his wife, whose nerves had not received “the compassion they merited after all” and all children but Kitty—looks and sounds like a Regency text would, down even to the first word of the following page appearing on the bottom of the previous page (1). The author is similarly credited as simply the author of another work (as Austen was, for P and P), and though the text consists of two volumes, rather than of three, it looks just like the title and introduction page of my (Oxford Illustrated) Austen texts. I actually did a double-take and checked the copyright date, but yes, 2011—it’s new.

Farmer tells us what has happened to our characters since we last saw them, and does so quickly. Charlotte has died “in child-bed,” Lady Catherine has advised Mr. Collins to let her family raise the child, and, in returning to Hertfordshire “for assistance and sympathy,” Mr. Collins finds Mary “his true partner in life” (2-4). Kitty, meanwhile, has becomes “less frivolous, less insipid, and more rational,” Jane is pregnant with her fifth—and increasingly dull and tired, and Darcy takes responsibility for their lack of fecundity (6-7). Georgiana is still single at 25, content to love Elizabeth, Darcy, and her cat, Blanche.

The text is as much about Georgiana as it is about any other character. We get background details of Georgiana’s childhood and George Fitzwilliam’s encouragement of his motherless young cousin. He has been awarded joint guardianship because his aunt and uncle recognized “his temperament and worth” (15). The explanation made me wonder why I have never before questioned why he, and not his parents or his elder brother, became the joint guardian. The narrator explains the effect of the Wickham betrayal on Georgiana’s character (though I had trouble accepting that Darcy says so little to her that she actually thinks “everyone in the world [knows] the depths of her frailty and imprudence” [19]). She’s also poorly understood by people who should know her well; both Colonel Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth have brief moments of sudden clarity about Georgiana’s sentiments, but we’re left rather in the dark about how that suddenly occurs after them not understanding for so long.

We also learn more about Anne and Lady Catherine. Farmer incorporates Austen’s views into her own descriptions, for instance with the development of Rosings. Sir Lewis wishes not “to dissipate his entire fortune in a fruitless attempt to insult nature completely” (30). He and Anne are close, so his death makes us pity her even more (though that pity doesn’t last long). I thought it an interesting link between him and Mr. Bennet in “the impropriety of infusing a daughter’s mind with derision and contempt for her mother” (30). Farmer even explains why we have never seen any “direct opposition” on Anne’s part to Lady Catherine; even Mrs. Jenkinson “could not discern the studied resentment” Anne feels (32, 31). Nonetheless, she is quietly brooding, and she takes revenge on her mother, first by deliberating not attracting a husband by being so inexplicably silent, and second, in a way I wish not to spoil for you. If we didn’t so pity Anne, Lady Catherine’s determined pursuit of Colonel Fitzwilliam for her husband—after it seems all other options have eluded them—would be hilarious. As it is, his rejection of her wishes echoes Lizzy’s rejection of them when Lady Catherine visited Longbourne in P & P.
Farmer also tells us more about Colonel Fitzwilliam’s family. With a somewhat detailed description of the marital pursuits and path of Lord Hallendale, Lady Anne and Lady Catherine’s brother, Farmer gives him a wife who might well be a model for Elizabeth—smart, pretty, but not of his “birth and station”—and he doesn’t care (59). This woman, of course, is Colonel Fitzwilliam’s stepmother, and he is so “genuinely fond” of her that he finds “occasion to return” home often (60). Sure enough, the text soon tells us that Elizabeth likes her and longs “to be held in such esteem at Pemberley” (61). The twist comes when Elizabeth asks some questions of the woman she admires and learns that her father was Jewish! An unusual discussion for a JA book, and though I was only mildly disturbed that one reason Elizabeth “suspect[s] Lady Hallendale of being an Hebrew” is because of Sarah’s “diminutive size,” the incorporation of Jews becomes worse than just awkward in volume two, when “enquiry into the Jerusalem Room . . . reveal[s] that the Viscount had been in debt to the Jewish money-lenders for no less than one hundred thousand pounds” (vol 1, 61; vol 2, 143). I failed to see the purpose of this noxious plot point. At least the murderers aren’t Jewish, but the whole idea that someone dies because he owes Jews money reeks of Shylock stereotypes and NOT of anything Austen ever wrote.

As many books have done lately, Farmer incorporates other Austen novel characters into this story of Elizabeth and Darcy, and also other Austen novel situations. In a Fanny-esque way, Georgiana’s “grateful affection for her cousin was grown into love, as Georgiana changed from a young girl into a young lady,” but her cousin sees her as just “his young, callow cousin” (16). He, meanwhile, is courting a Miss Crawford. The heavy rector Kitty marries talks a lot, and Elizabeth avoids him the way Emma does Miss Bates. The Parkers echo the Palmers. She is pretty but never shuts up; he is an intellect. Darcy has invited “Mr. Knightley of Surrey . . . to accompany him on a tour of the Pemberley collieries” (80). Emma’s sister’s husband knows the Gardiners. Elizabeth and Anne are friends as “Mr. Darcy often of a morning joined Captain Wentworth at the Corn Exchange to review the news” (87). Elizabeth has an odd early-Catherine Morland moment when she voices aloud her sense that she “would rather enjoy being set-upon by highwaymen” with Darcy “heroically” defending the ladies and one of the felons falling “desperately in love with Georgiana” (179). (This, ten years into their marriage, seems oddly immature, but we’ll talk about Elizabeth’s voice later.) When Lady Catherine needs help, Darcy consults Sidney Parker—from Sanditon! Farmer really went all out here. Anne Wentworth is in a similar position with respect to making Mr. Eliot’s character known as Elizabeth was with Wickham’s; now who will save Lady Catherine?

Though the style is elegant, many of the descriptions are a little too long for my taste, slowing down the pace of the story. Elizabeth and Darcy and Georgiana travel together—through Scotland and later through Wales on “tours of improvements” (89). Then they venture off into other nations of Europe, and Farmer gives us, in essence, a travel log. There are, as I see it, two key problems with this choice: 1) I don’t share these interests with Farmer, meticulously researched as I know they are, and 2) These are no longer our beloved characters but voice pieces for Farmer’s research.

The first problem: I just don’t really want to know the ins and outs of “medicinal salts” and “renellated roof[s]” and “castellated turrets” (99, 105). Huge parts of the story read as a travel journey from town to town, but even though the Darcys are there and Darcy keeps “noting” this or that, the descriptions really have nothing to do with Elizabeth or Darcy and are therefore less likely to stimulate pleasure from a reader who was expecting more of them. Nor do I care that the oxen are yoked differently in Burgundy from how they are in England or that the mild climate in Brieg leads to the production of saffron (vol 2, 53, 100). Georgiana and Darcy must read an inordinate amount about foreign climes to spout off information as they do throughout the trip. They travel from place and place and marvel at natural and man-made wonders and compare the people and practices to the English. I love travel, but this feels dry—well-researched, but not fun to read.

The second: Darcy, Elizabeth, and Georgiana seem to have opinions about everything, from the education of poor children to the ornamentation of landscape, but the opinions often feel self-righteous, and more likely Farmer’s than anything that either of the characters is likely to have spent much time contemplating in the past. In some places, they don’t even sound like people we know, but like little narrators. Witness this exchange:
“I have observed that the Crevolans of both sexes wore very coarse woolen clothes, always of a brown or deep red colour, with thick, red stockings, while the dress of the residents of Domo is both varied and more elegant.”
“And art adorns even the smallest of buildings, even though this is but a small place. To my mind, this is the first truly Italian scene, though we have been travelling in Italy a good while.”
Can you distinguish these voices from each other? Does either sound like our heroine or hero? The first is Elizabeth; the second, Darcy, but really they’re both Farmer, given other names to relate history Farmer wants to discuss, no doubt, for reasons of her own (vol 2, 107).

In addition to those key flaws, seemingly random phrases are en francais (and thus italicized) in the section dealing with their trip to the Continent, which I found annoyingly pretentious. If there was any logic behind which phrases were francofied, I missed it. Even a joke (I speak a little French, so I got it, but it’s hardly so basic that you would if you didn’t) is given in French—and not translated (180). Why? Austen doesn’t do that, and Farmer, in many ways, has a strong grasp on Austen’s style. When describing a heavy rector who loves food and wine, the narrator says “on at least one occasion, the sacrament was nearly denied a parishioner because the deceased had timed his dying so ill as to coincide with Parson Overstowey’s supper” (21). Similarly, the narrator’s amusing assessment of Mr. Bennet’s reaction to Georgiana is that “he was grown fond of his new daughter, and ranked her in his estimation above at least two of his own” (123). Farmer also clearly knows her Austen and gives P&P lines to characters in this text, as when Elizabeth tells the Comte that his interruption of their family evening, though unexpected, is not “necessarily unwelcome,” as she says to Wickham when he interrupts her “solitary reverie” in P&P (Farmer 33). Colonel Fitzwilliam does the same, with the same line, when Mary Crawford surprises him: “it does not follow . . . that such obtrusion is unwelcome” (155). So why the awkward intrusion of italicized foreign words so often? And why does Darcy call his wife Lizzy but she calls him “Mr. Darcy” or “Husband”?

There’s a lot I can’t quite reconcile here: I am impressed by the sheer knowledge of the writer, but I didn’t largely enjoy the experience, though there were certainly moments of pleasure.

A Modern Day Persuasion by Kaitlin Saunders

While Saunders’ tale does compel a reader through the end of this version, it is so heavily flawed in both language and style that it would require a major overhaul to earn a recommendation from this reviewer.

There were so many errors in basic language that, after not very many pages, I searched for the editor’s name and then the publisher’s. I found neither. Saunders may be able to craft a modern story based on Austen’s classic, but she has not successfully edited her own work and desperately needs an editor more skilled with the English language than anyone who looked at this text before she published it. Some instances of the errors, so you understand the range:

Apostrophe usage: “Photo’s of the Elliot family” (6), “Look after the ‘little Miss Elliot’s'” (11), Mary didn’t favor “any of the Elliot’s” (35), “Old servant’s quarters” but it’s no specific servant (32). I stopped with the corrections because this wasn’t productive, just frustrating; usually, when I correct a text, I get paid or at least get the satisfaction of knowing the final version will be better for all my work. That this was the final version, and that no one bothered to fix these elementary-level mistakes, offended me.

Assorted errors: Rick says he “could care less about their disgusting money”—1) money is not disgusting, and 2) that means he does care (5); “without a substantial reason other then” (15, my emphasis); no one could ever “compliment” Walter’s looks (16); “by taking the back roads, it increased” (35); “all of the sudden” (36, my emphasis); “that made Anne suspect the couple had previously heard her name before” (104, my emphasis); Lady Russell (Carol) says to Anne: “I’ve tried to council you” (154).

In addition to the errors, there is a heavy-handedness to the writing that reduces the pleasure we might otherwise take from Saunders’ inventions. When Anne first meets the hero, she has tripped, and is rescued, but “she took one look into his concerned face and knew he had captured her heart” (3). Then the narrator tells us “their friendship went way back” right after saying they attended the same university (15). There is so much unnecessary repetition, as though Saunders thought of several ways to say something and didn’t edit any out! Our Anne would not use a cliché when sensitivity is in order, but here, Anne’s response to Ben’s tears is that “time heals all wounds” (107). Will’s eyes “riveted” Anne’s “attention as if being pulled by a tractor beam” (159-60). Good attempt at using figurative language, but this simile just feels awkward. Overall, in fact, this novel reads like it’s the novelist’s first-time, with awkward descriptions (ex: “It was a little hole in the wall, but the coffee was exceptional . . . Soft piano tunes played in the background, lending a relaxing aura” 13), unclear statements (ex: what exactly are “European features”? 16) and, sometimes, too much information (ex: way too much set-up for the letter—tells us what’s at stake; just let us read it and figure out its significance on our own!).

There are also several actions and comments that defy logic. In 2001, why would the Lady Russell (here, Carol) character shudder at the thought of Anne having to “work outside the home” (4)? Why does Rick make Anne choose between college and him? And why is finishing college the caveat Sir Walter places on his daughter’s relationship with an older man? Seems like good parenting to me! Later, why does Anne fall in the hospital? (not an exact parallel to when Anne falls and Frederick helps her in the original, but I think I see the goal here, which helped me forgive the awkwardness in its execution) How do the coffees not get lost if she falls on her “bottom” while holding them? (131) Other plot oddities: The gaudy place of escape (Bath) is California . . . which is not at all logical. Why would people retrench in someplace so expensive? Near the resolution, Will plants “a big juicy kiss on Anne’s” CHEEK (243). That’s how he offends her? A little tame, even for Austen’s era. Elizabeth is upset when Anne’s engagement is announced because she “thought she’d be the first to get married,” but Mary has long been married (245).

Saunders also manages to attempt an appropriation of Austen’s text for her own religious purposes—but with no warning of her real purpose, which might have made it more palatable. At first, it seems like maybe just more overt prayer here than in Austen; when Louisa hits her head, all Anne “could do was stand there helplessly, and pray to her Heavenly Father for a miracle” (123). But a serious religious agenda presents itself shortly thereafter, and again, it’s done with such a heavy hand that it becomes annoying at best and offensive at worst. At one point, rather than cry, which Anne thinks is useless, she decides “the better option would be to find solace in her Heavenly Father” (128). Austen’s characters were deeply religious, but Austen, though she mentions church, never uses the specificity Saunders does, when, for instance, she has Carol light the unity candle at Anne’s wedding (249). If Saunders’ goal was to reflect Austen’s style, her forcing of her own religious expressions down the readers’ throats is yet another piece of evidence of her failure.

Now, if for some reason, you can wade through all its flaws, the story does have a few nice details: Wentworth puts Anne on a little boat, rather than a carriage;
Charles Hayter (here, Chuck) actually proposes and is accepted, so the question of which sister is cleared up more quickly; when Anne first sees Mr. Elliot, she hides behind her menu and tries to cool off her burning cheeks with her cold hands; the singers Anne invites Frederick to hear become a Fourth of July fireworks show here, which works well; and at least I learned who Corinne Bailey Rae is (141). Saunders has potential as a story-teller; I’m hopeful for her and for us that the next book showcases it more effectively.

Darcy’s Voyage by Kara Louise

This one grabs you from the very beginning with an intriguing prologue in which Darcy meets Elizabeth on a carriage ride—he makes a bad first impression, and she’s unnecessarily difficult. Nonetheless, they both enjoy their conversation and are loathe to part–but don’t know each others’ names.

The story picks up two years later when Elizabeth decides to travel to America to stay with the Gardiners; by coincidence, Darcy is on the same ship—which he owns—to meet Georgiana (who has traveled there with Mrs. Annesley, who then gets too ill to accompany the young lady back home). Though there are a few weak spots (why would a “rational argument” persuade Mrs. Bennet to let Elizabeth go? [12] and why would Mrs. Annesley try to persuade Darcy to let Georgiana accompany her to America in the first place? [23]—though, to be fair, the second argument—get her away from Wickham and humiliation—sounds more probable), ultimately the joy of the adventure works to distract us from any small inconsistencies of plot.

On the ship, we begin to enjoy the same Austen lines and characters we know and love, but in very different contexts, several of which are really quite clever. The captain, for instance, says Bingley’s line about Darcy being fastidious, and the new context for Darcy’s barb about no women handsome enough to tempt him is that he’s reassuring the captain there will be no impropriety initiated by him with the unescorted ladies (31). When the narrator describes Elizabeth as being torn between fearing and desiring Darcy’s return to the room, it is after their first kiss (187). In the ship part of the story, we have makeshift Bingley (captain) and Miss Bingley (Eleanor Brewster), so I was actually a little surprised when the real ones showed up later. Similarly, since Elizabeth gets sick in this version, and Darcy nurses her back to health, we don’t necessarily expect Jane to get sick later, but she does. The “first proposal” is so different in nature, but the basic facts are the same—he assumes it is more than she could hope for, and she takes offense at first, but the result is, as Elizabeth would say, “quite the opposite” (86-87). Overall, the effect is that we are not surprised by our destination but often surprised and delighted by how Louise gets us there.

That said, Louise does use some distinctly non-Austen strategies as she flips our expectations on their pretty little heads. Darcy’s valet teases him from the very beginning; if that were true, Elizabeth’s later behavior wouldn’t be so shocking (and Austen wouldn’t have had her hold her tongue because he had not yet learned to laugh at himself and it was rather too early to begin) (25-26). There are several interesting and potentially off-putting discussions of Elizabeth praying . .  . Austen never does that, though we might assume that for Austen, as the daughter and sister of clergymen, prayer was a regular part of her life (52). Elizabeth calls her aunt “Aunt Madlyn” not “Aunt Gardiner” (206). When Caroline suggests Jane only wants Bingley’s money, Darcy is all reason (“I have not had the opportunity to see them together enough to make that sort of judgment,” he says 273). Since Elizabeth hasn’t yet arrived home, it’s Darcy who sees through the Bingley sisters’ “care” for Jane (275). When Wickham finally appears, the ramifications are different from what we expect. And the Pemberley scene is so much fun to read—again, the basic outline is the same, but it’s so different! (Yay, Georgiana!)
This is a love story, of course, but it appeals to other passions as well; ultimately, books bring our hero and heroine together—first on the carriage where they first meet, then during their daily walks on deck, then in Netherfield Library. Darcy’s Voyage—and Elizabeth’s, too—is very clever, and a joy to watch progress.

If nothing else, after reading Louise’s descriptions of steerage, you will never again take for granted the gift of fresh air!

Jane and the Canterbury Tale by Stephanie Barron

Jane Austen is so clever; that’s really what we love most about her, isn’t it? Barron’s Jane uses her cleverness to solve murder mysteries while absorbing ideas she will later use in the fiction we treasure, and it is a pleasure to watch the mind we think we know personally work with such material.

Barron’s Jane is very much a personal one. She narrates the story (I’m not entirely certain she knew her phrases would be “immortal,” and I was definitely put out by Jane’s supposed phrase “frivolity of writing,” in reference to her career) (4, 34) and sounds, for the most part, much as I imagine she would. When Jane tries to read a particular novel, she dislikes it because it lacks “anything of nature or probability” (20). When Jane describes Mr. Lushington, she says that he is “ambitious and insincere—your short men often are” but that he “speaks so well of Milton” she can’t help but be a little in love with him (50). With the full support and aid of her brother Edward, Jane unpacks and analyzes the details around her; in this story, a murder in Kent. Her openness and frank statements are just what we expect from the creator of Elizabeth Bennet and Emma Woodhouse.

Both heroines figure prominently in this murder mystery, largely because, at this point, Austen had already written Pride and Prejudice, and was working on Emma. Mr. Bennet’s line about living to “make sport of our neighbours” is in Jane’s mouth here as she describes what qualities she dislikes in Mr. Moore, a clergyman who “harp[s] upon the grim vicissitudes of human existence” (18). The thoughts of Fanny, Jane’s niece, are said to be “more tolerably engaged” than they would be were she actually listening to the Moores’ marital squabble, as Darcy’s are when he is contemplating Elizabeth’s fine eyes (19). In some instances, the allusion helps shape our thinking; in the previous example, for instance, we wonder if the subject of Fanny’s reverie will turn out as well as Darcy’s did. Caroline Bingley’s comments get a fairer voice when Jane comments that Fanny’s petticoats must be six inches deep in mud, and  Jane’s words to Fanny about John Plumptre sound like Elizabeth’s to Jane about Bingley, which makes us wonder whether we should take warning from the fact that Elizabeth, at least in the short-term, is wrong (21, 89). Fanny reacts to one arrest by crying, a là Lizzy Bennet, “every feeling revolts” (182)!

Emma figures less prominently (though there is some concern with the lot of governesses, which sounds like a set up for Jane Fairfax and her plight, and though an annoying character claims he’s going for a hair-cut, like Frank Churchill, when he’s really doing something else) until the very end, when Jane makes clear that, while Fanny is also “twenty years of age and the mistress of her father’s establishment,” Emma has a much easier time of things—being “happy and vain, secure and carefree, bossy and endearing—“ while Fanny reminds Jane more of Jane’s own self “in the aftermath of . . . Tom Lefroy’s abandonment” (303-04).

Fanny’s happiness, indeed, is not the central concern of this work, and, in fact, though I don’t consider myself a fan of the mystery novel, this one was hard to stop reading. There are so many suspicious characters, even before any murder occurs—Julian Thane, dancing scandalously close to Fanny (8), whoever sent the mysterious pouch with dark brown beans that arrives for the bride and leaves her disturbed (15), Jupiter Finch-Hatton, who wants to play billiards right after he might have shot a man (37), Mr. Moore, a minister who seems to know a lot of details about the honeymoon plans of the woman he once loved (45), even the bride’s mother, whom we know to watch because Jane is (12).

Jane’s comments, in addition to being insightful, are delightfully funny. Of herself, she observes, “It is unbecoming in a spinster to dwell upon the ominous at a wedding feast” (6). Of Mr. Lushington (the names are positively Dickensian), she observes, “he appeared to hesitate, tho’ perhaps he was merely digesting his sausage” (51). To us, she perhaps implicitly advises, “I had secured my bona fides, from a simple complex of confidence and presumption” (94). We might do the same.

This text uses several expressions with which I had not been familiar. “Jackanapes” is a dis (10). Two characters are described as “smelling of April and May for years together,” which I think indicates some sort of love interest (178). (It appears Georgette Heyer fans have a distinct advantage here because she regularly uses these Regency expressions.) And the word “Corinthian” is used so frequently I had to think about it (and double-check yahoo answers to get “a most desirable man, top-of-the-trees”).

In short, this was a fun read; it really feels like our Jane, or like our Jane mixed with Angela Lansbury’s Jessica Fletcher.

Persuade Me by Juliet Archer

This is a book filled with beautiful moments, just like its namesake, but different moments, in a modern world.

In an intriguing melding of the various worlds Austen crafted, a modern Darcy reflects in the foreword about introducing newly scarred Georgiana to a professor still nursing scars of his own. Professor Rick Wentworth, referred to by The Sun as the “Sex-in-the-Sea Doc” in honor of his new book, travels from Australia to England for a publicity tour and must face some old ghosts that have hindered the development of his love life for the better part of the last ten years (3). Dr. Anna Elliot, lecturer in Russian Studies at Bath & Western University, is also trying to recover from the love affair of a decade ago, and does her best with dear friends Jenny and Tom, and a Russian novel by her bedside.

Following the plot of Persuasion, this version allows us into the heads and hearts of both heroine and hero, fleshes out the would-be romance between Anna and her now brother-in-law Charles, makes clever links between our characters’ lives and the plots of various Russian novels (Anna Karenina, The Idiot), and, though I hardly would have thought it possible, makes Sir Walter and his eldest daughter (here, Lisa) even more naïve, vain, and superficial than before. Anna is the only one not to fall under her evil cousin’s spell, and all details point to his actually genuinely being emotionally moved by her.

The greatest moments in Persuade Me derive, of course, from Austen’s genius, but Archer plays delightfully with several of them. Lou is incredibly forward in both texts, but in the modern world, what was once mildly inappropriate leaning on Wentworth’s arm becomes an open invitation for sex (sample: “The only nuts I’m interested in are yours, Rick Wentworth” 109). Anne’s being picked up by the passing carriage of Wentworth’s sister and her husband now becomes Rick seeing Anna stumble and deliberately calling them on his cell phone to come by and pick up Anna—an even more considerate gesture. We’re all familiar with Wentworth’s poignant line to Anne: ”you pierce my soul”; here, before the letter, Anne is described as giving Wentworth a “conscious look that pierced his soul” (302). In this important reunion, each of them wears the outfit the other so appreciated at the previous encounter; in fact, the parallel emotions and behaviors of the two characters in this rendition of Persuasion serve to reinforce the equality of the partners, and the “rightness” of the match. The narrator even sets us straight on one concern modern people might have above love stories in which the love is so completely consuming with a beautiful line of explanation: “Which wasn’t to say that she depended on another person to make life worth living; it was rather that, for her, a soul mate gave everything a clearer, brighter purpose” (264).

I also learned a few things. Cool Water is a perfume (300). “Rictus” describes a gaping grin (266). “Bloody” can be used in hyphenate form to modify “minded” (115). Leonard Cohen songs apparently offer the same brooding quality as do Romantic poems (138). Feet can be scintillatingly kissable (72). Yet another Austen heroine wears lavender? (72) (Does Anne wear it in Persuasion? And Elizabeth in P & P? I must be due for some revists.) “Enrol” may be spelled with a single “l” (73).

Perhaps you already knew all these things. Let me enlighten you, then, that no good literature instructor marks a stack of essays quite as rapidly as Anna Elliot, but as that detail was perhaps the only flaw I found with this delightful story, it’s a strong recommendation to try it yourself.

The Truth about Mr. Darcy by Susan Adriani

This one begins with an erotic dream in Netherfield Library; Darcy uses images of Caroline Bingley in an orange frock and feathers to cool his ardor.

Though the basic facts of Pride and Prejudice and the great lines of dialogue are unchanged, the chronology of the facts and the context of the lines are vastly different in this highly-charged tale by Susan Adriani. Wickham sees from the start (when the two men have their encounter in Meryton) that Darcy likes Elizabeth. His attentions to her, which here are downright vicious and vulgar, are motivated by his desire to hurt Darcy. (His end is different from the original, and I must say, quite satisfying given his choices in this text.)

The development of the relationship between the primary lovers differs here, too. Elizabeth asks Darcy to accompany her on an errand in Meryton when she sees his strong reaction to Wickham so she can inquire further as to its cause. He tells her right away about Wickham’s character but not Georgiana’s role in it; that revelation comes later, by Georgiana’s own choosing. Elizabeth’s keeping her distance from Darcy happens not because of wounded pride but because Mrs. Bennet and the “very silly sisters” keep teasing her about his attention to her.

Mrs. Bennet is up to her usual antics, but her husband doesn’t always sound quite like himself, as, for instance, when he learns he has a “situation” at hand because of some liberties his favorite daughter has allowed her prominent suitor. Though we lose the great line of Mr. Bennet to Elizabeth about becoming a stranger to one of her parents (you know the rest), it is replaced with a delightful—and more importantly, powerful!—one that has the effect of shutting up Mrs. Bennet on the subject of Elizabeth’s matrimony, at least for a brief while (92).

Other small pleasures here: Mr. Hurst is occasionally insightful, and, even drunk, helpful, in resolving potential delays on Bingley’s part to secure Jane (60). Georgiana is as clever as we would wish and, as Elizabeth’s sister-in-law, has a funny line when she learns that Jane is to marry Bingley (commenting on an irony I had never considered in quite this way): “do you not find it diverting that after all this time Caroline Bingley will finally be able to call herself my sister?” (153) Adriani also includes some intriguing “back stories” including the one of how Darcy came to adore his little sister and how Lady Catherine became such a—well, what she is.

This retelling is highly satisfying, not only for its exploration of the passion between Darcy and Elizabeth, but also because our favorite characters are so honest and direct here—whether it’s Bingley disciplining Darcy for risking both their future happiness for the sake of principles that don’t really matter or Elizabeth confronting Darcy right away when she sees or hears something potentially offensive. The only deceit comes from Mr. Collins (who here is actually evil rather than just repulsive and empty-headed). The mistaken impressions that so plague the four principals in the original are non-existent here; they have other problems, which I won’t ruin for you by sharing any more than I already have; just know there are many happy endings on the journey to the big happy ending.

 

The Wonder Spot and Snow Flower and the Secret Fan

There are a few easy ways to lure bibliophile Natasha into buying a new book:

1)      Place it on the table where all the “reading group” books go, preferably with a cover that looks girly but not lame.

2)      List Jane Austen on the front or back cover as having anything whatsoever to do with the book.

The two books I review here had both advantages, and turned out to be satisfying, educational reads.

The Wonder Spot’s back cover proclaims: “What Austen did for marriage, Melissa Bank does for serial monogamy.” After reading the book, I’m still not quite sure what that means. Marriage—to the right person—seems the desired happy ending in Austen, so I suppose being with one person—at least for a while before moving on to the next—is what is supposed to be sought here. I would not have phrased it that way; however, I enjoyed the story because Banks cleverly takes the reader on a journey through a young girl/woman’s life by telling what are, in essence, eight short stories that deal with pivotal moments in that life. There is little of the “transitioning” we’ve come to expect between chapters, but Banks gives us enough information about the central character, Sophie Applebaum, that we can piece together what happens “between” the stories. Sophie, like an Austen heroine, is smart; like an Austen heroine, she wants to do the right thing and to find the right man—and she, like most Austen heroines and most contemporary Jewish single girls (like Sophie) finds herself doing those things, particularly the latter, under the watchful eyes of the people who love her and “want what’s best” for her. The result is not necessarily Austenian, but certainly entertaining.

A similar conclusion results from time spent with Lisa See’s Snow Flower and the Secret Fan. Its back cover, too, proclaims the tale’s sisterhood with Austen’s corpus. It is “an achingly beautiful, understated and absorbing story of love” and “evokes the work of Jane Austen.” Again, perhaps I need a more advanced degree to prove that (or even understand it), but what matters most to me is that I like reading it and I learn something, and so, in that sense at least, the comparison makes sense. Marriage to the right man—defined not based on love but on social standing, prominence in the community, wealth—is the key goal of families with daughters in this novel, set in nineteenth-century China, and See takes the reader on a journey through the lives of two central women, Lily and Snow Flower, as they weather their own lives. The story includes gruesome details of footbinding and painful reminders of what the lot of women was, not so long ago. Language, and writing, specifically, become key methods of female expression and communication in this story, which, no doubt, Austen, whose letters—largely to female companions—give us insight into her life, would have appreciated. The text also shows us what life is like—in several very different marriages—after the wedding takes place, and how women cope with their inescapable destinies.

I’m well aware that publishers may think me a “sucker” for buying books because they have Austen’s name somewhere in a review.

I’m also aware that, regardless of my being an easy target for book marketers, I have benefited from these choices.

My Jane Austen Summer: A Season in Mansfield Park by Cindy Jones

I’m pretty sure Mansfield Park (hereafter MP) is Austen’s longest novel, and somehow Jones manages to condense its important events to two pages, prepping those who have yet to read it for the story Jones is about to tell (and reminding MP readers about key events they may have forgotten).

Our heroine has four serious problems at the beginning of this work: 1) she lost her mother (to whom she read Persuasion and Emma), 2) her boyfriend has recently broken up with her, 3) she got fired for reading when she was supposed to be working, and 4) she is now faced with the “stark reality [that] there would never be any more Jane Austen novels,” a misery familiar to any reader who has finished the six for the first time (2).

The boyfriend, it becomes almost immediately clear to the reader, is not the right match for our heroine. He, after all, spends time in the bookstores, but only in the magazine aisle, and has no understanding of her real character. She describes herself at one point as having “found [her] perky face,” but Martin is perpetually oblivious that she has more than he sees on the surface (5). Alas, our heroine’s spunk is self-contained, at least at the start of her story. She is also clueless about her own behavior, driving by her ex’s house, accosting him and the new girlfriend in the street, and really, deserving his final admonition to her: “You’re a lost dog. Go home” (9).

The trip to Jane Austen’s England is a metaphorical trip home, but on this journey, Lily discovers more about her family, herself, and her choices than she could have imagined when she first makes the choice to go, largely because she needs an escape and doesn’t know how else to effect one.  Her self-confidence shattered, she thinks of herself as a “secondary character,” someone she just hopes the actor playing Mr. Rushworth would take a fancy to (22). As Austen aficionados, we now know how bad it is.

There are some troubles with plot details being too obvious—we know, for instance, she’s going to lose possession of her precious cross (a nice twist on the cross Fanny receives, and on the ones Jane and Cassandra received) because Lily comments that “the necklace assumed the full burden of [her] memories as well as the connection with [her] mother; [she] could not let [her]self lose it” (25-26). There are also plot points that seem unnecessarily confusing—why is Lily rude to Gary when she first meets him? (35) Why doesn’t she talk to the potential Heathcliff when they’re alone in a church together? (54) Later, when Lily should get distracted by the guy, she doesn’t; instead she’s focused, as no woman—let alone this woman!—really obsessed with a new man would be, on her latest project (130). Worse than obvious or illogical, there’s even an inappropriate mention of Anne Frank’s attic that did not resonate well with me.

The text, however, redeems itself in two classic Austen ways: through language and through characterization. The opening line of chapter four, for instance—“On the first page of my new life, I met my first Janeite”—is direct and simple and perfect (29). The irresponsible woman (whom, at first, we’re tempted to see as the Mary Crawford character) calls her father “The Wallet.” Austen becomes Lily’s “imaginary friend” particularly when Lily arrives in Austen’s “homeland” (34). The Austen character here plays great games when she’s bored (working on “a List of Silly Girls,” for instance) and is really, for some, like a religious figure (149, 60, 115). We get a gay best friend, a conflicted lover who isn’t what he first appears to be, a very wealthy family with a jerky heir, a sham marriage, Regency underwear, literary references all over the place, and, of course, vampires (yuck).

And though we don’t have quite a Jane Austen ending, Jones teaches her heroine “to love herself [so] she’ll find happiness for a lifetime,” which is pretty good, too.

Love, Lies and Lizzie by Rosie Rushton

This is a modern, British teen version of Pride and Prejudice that, when I read it I couldn’t help compare to Sweet Valley High. You’re right to read that as a dis of sorts, but, somewhat to my dismay, I wanted to see how everything was resolved (just as once I did with the twins in the aforementioned series).

Mary becomes Meredith, an annoying know-it-all obsessed with saving the environment. Lydia and Katie are twins, both silly and ignorant, with the former much more popular and confident than the latter until after “the fall.” Mrs. Bennet inherits money (the text says that an old man, a distant relative, had a fond memory of little girl Alice—like the Sense and Sensibility inheritance? But why would he think that the rest of her family was unworthy? What happened to the smart brother, Mr. Gardiner, here Mr. Frognalls? And how did Rushton decide which names to keep and which to scrap?)

Let’s address the annoying facets first: 1. the teenagers are annoying, especially Lydia. They make poor decisions, and with a lot less analysis than most of the teens with whom I work on a daily basis. 2. There are Britishisms that obscured meaning for a nice, American reader who is perfectly happy to pepper conversations with an “indeed” as need be, but who has little knowledge of a dad going “spare,” a mom getting a “bit squiffy,”  or a friend “slag[ging] off . . . mates from the comprehensive.” 3. Lizzie actually refers to “that Pride and Prejudice DVD,” which is over the top.

As for the fun parts, I did genuinely care about the characters, and some of Rushton’s maneuverings are clever, if not subtle. Jane falls off a horse of Bingley’s, much like her mom’s hand got broken in her dad’s company, before they were a couple. Injury brought the latter couple together, and the text hints that it will do the same for the former. Once Jane is injured, Darcy overhears her (deliriously) call out her ex-boyfriend’s name, which provides motivation for him to try to spare his friend from falling too hard for her. (Awkward, however, is that Bingley is not at the hospital because of “family business,” and that Caroline, who witnessed the injury, makes no appearance either.)  When Bingley learns of Jane’s fall and appears on the scene, his concern is genuine, as is his surprise that Darcy would still be there, given Darcy’s recent reasons to despise hospitals. We thus get a hint early on of Darcy’s suffering and either his basic goodness (in staying for Jane’s sake) or his interest in Lizzie (in staying for hers).

Lady Catherine appears as Katrina, a hotel magnate (as she was in Bride and Prejudice) in France, and her new employee is Mr. Collins, here Drew. Mrs. Forster is still party to Lydia’s disgrace, but this time because she goes off with her lover and leaves her daughter, Amber, and Lydia, alone. When Darcy and Wickham encounter each other, Rushton has Darcy turn white, and Wickham, red, which always causes some debate in our circles.

The resolution happens quickly and to “everybody’s satisfaction,” as our Elizabeth Bennet would say, but though I got hooked, I’d recommend this text more for teenage fans of Austen, than for most adults.

Marvel Pride and Prejudice

One of my AP geniuses gave me the first two of five parts of a new Marvel series bringing Pride and Prejudice to the comic book world. Tastefully drawn, the story uses original Austen text (though it occasionally attributes lines to characters who didn’t say them in the original) and retells the story rapidly and entertainingly. A real treat for any Austen fan, and, I dare hope, for any neophyte willing to try.

Jane Austen Book Club filming

What Would Jane Austen Do?

What Would Jane Austen Do? By Laurie Brown

The story begins with Eleanor Pottinger haggling over a non-refundable hotel room booked in England during a Jane Austen convention. Her fiancé has recently left her for a blonde, the clerk at the desk forgot to enter the reservation in the computer and is worried about being let go. The deal: stay in the special tower. The catch? It’s haunted.

Because of all the rules about liquids in the carry-on, Eleanor’s toiletries are packed in her suitcase, which, of course, the airline loses. So she’s hungry and alone, without her cosmetics, in a haunted tower.

Then the scene switches to the ghost world, which is how we learn that Eleanor is from Los Angeles! They debate whether to wake her immediately and get her out of their rooms or to let her rest from her journey. After she rests a bit, they wait to chat with her. And thus the fun begins!

Our ghosts are Mina and Deirdre Cracklebury, and they are sisters who cannot leave the manor. They are trapped, they think, because something is unresolved in their lives, and they want Eleanor to go back in time and help rectify the situation. In exchange, they offer her first-hand experience with Jane Austen, whose amber cross, family legend decrees, Eleanor is currently wearing. She agrees, just so they’ll let her return to sleep, but has no idea they will actually transport her. Even once that has been done, it takes more than a morning of Regency ablutions to make Eleanor realize that she is, in fact, now living in June, 1814.

A host of characters await her interaction: Teddy, Mina and Deirdre’s half-brother who wants to marry Ellen (Eleanor’s Regency nickname), Aunt Patience who seems to have any only for Teddy, Mrs. Holcum, who wants her daughter Beatrix to marry Teddy, and Lord Shermont, who may seduce one of the Cracklebury sisters (though he seems more excited about Ellen than any other woman). She, in turn, feels more stimulated by him than she wants to (so much so that she allows him to kiss her in exchange for a ham sandwich). Meanwhile, he has a secret task on behalf of the British government that leads him to be suspicious of everyone around him, including Eleanor, to whom he so drawn.

I’d ruin much of the joy you will experience if I reveal much more, but this book offers time travel, mystery, steamy romance (thus the half-clad man on the cover; by the way, this book is found in the “romance” section of book stores, so you’ll have to go over to the dark side to find it unless you spare yourself the embarrassment and make the purchase on-line), and a fictional opportunity to recognize the Darcys and the Wickhams before you attempt to do so in real life (I picked the right guy in the book, if that means anything. Here’s hoping, for in real life J.)

Lost in Austen (the book and the film)

Lost in Austen: Create Your Own Jane Austen Adventure by Emma Campbell Webster

* spoiler alert

This has to be one of the cleverest ideas around. As a child, I loved the “Choose Your Own Adventure” series, and any story that offered the reader direct influence over what happened to her. It was only a matter of time, I suppose, before a Janeite decided to make that possible in the world of Austen.

Your adventure begins at the beginning of Pride and Prejudice, and you are Elizabeth Bennet: every (normal) girl’s dream come true. You are granted points for intelligence, confidence and fortune (all of which keep changing, so you’ll need paper and pen on hand while you travel), and you also keep track of accomplishments (mine include screen covering and sharp powers of observation), connections (both inferior and superior), and failures (my list is so long and demeaning I hesitate to glance at it, but, for you, dear reader, I’ll share a bit: according to this test, I have “poorly tim’d liveliness,” “insufficient knowledge of dancing,” “unreasonably high expectations,” and “absolutely no appreciation of the picturesque.”)

Only some of these are even somewhat fair, but this final failure reminds me of one of the great delights of the book: if, at any point, you choose to do something where Elizabeth chose something else, you risk suffering unfathomable hardship OR becoming one of the other heroines, while still, somehow, staying Elizabeth! For instance, when I chose to call on the Lucases, I ended up in Emma’s world, except there was no Emma. Mr. Knightley was there, correcting my behavior in his wonderful way, Mr. Woodhouse had a manor, even Harriet Smith appears (in the form of Maria Lucas), but no Emma, because, of course, I am Emma now, unless I choose differently, in which case she appears.  Similarly, when I chose to visit Bath with the Phillipses, they became the Allens, and I became Catherine Morland, until she showed up when I chose differently. With one set of choices, you even get to be Jane herself, at least in terms of meeting Tom Lefroy, *and a very interesting result of being “too smart” an Elizabeth Bennet leaves you a single authoress on the final page, which suggests that is an option Webster thinks every heroine should have.

All the novels figure into the adventures (if you choose properly; or, rather, if you choose improperly, as the case may be), and I will save the rest of those delights for your own discovery.

While adventuring, the reader has several opportunities for growth and education (symbolized by a quill pen on the bottom of each page) and for demonstrating her current education (I need obvious brushing up on the exact nature of a quadrille, among other things) for points in the various categories.

If she makes an error, however, the consequences are shocking: my first “end” didn’t even get me to stage 3, like any normal heroine. Instead, I was punished by getting smothered in an attic by Fanny Price. Round two was hardly more encouraging: I was tricked into marrying Wickham and then abandoned for his wild debauchery and left to waste away. The narrator commented, “no wonder you’re still single.”

I have been wounded, I have been tried, and in some versions, I have even been trampled, but alas, I have not given up. Like every resilient heroine before me, I continue to have faith that I will find my hero, even when the odds look less than favorable, and that I, unlike Jane perhaps, will be able to stay true to him and to my professional calling. I continue on my adventures, even recording the choices I make and trying to learn from my errors, confident—even when my intelligence points dip to negative 330 and my fortune to negative 140, my confidence points have never dipped below 200—that all will turn out right.

And if I overcome my failing of a “deplorable weakness for Gothic Literature” on my way, so much the better.

Lost in Austen the movie

I am delighted. The movie starts, to some degree, as does the book (though I’m not even sure the film is based on the book). The heroine is not Elizabeth Bennet officially (her name is Amanda Price), but she’s about to step in to Elizabeth’s shoes in the Bennet home (confidante to Jane, trusted advisor to Mr. Bennet, thorn in the side of Mr. Darcy), though Amanda lives in the 21^st century. Amanda arrives at Longbourne just after Bingley arrives at Netherfield (“we really are right at the beginning!” she says gleefully upon her introduction to Mr. Bennet, her host). Elizabeth, meanwhile, ends up in Amanda’s Hammersmith apartment (we don’t see her again until near the end of the film). For what reason the switch occurs, Amanda has little idea, but we can see that she desperately needs some Regency manners in her world, and they, perhaps, need a bit of modern manners in theirs.

There are so many surprises here, I can hardly go much farther without ruining some savory delight or other. Suffice it to say that, within the four hours of film, we are delighted, shocked, touched, and horrified, by turns. On two occasions, I actually clapped my hands with glee (one involved a certain “post-modern moment,” as Amanda calls it—you’ll know it when you see it; the other, Mrs. Bennet finally angry and enlightened enough to tell the right person off at the right time). Though each reader believes she knows what all this looks and sounds like, somehow in this version, it feels like they got it right—the characters really looked and sounded like this! I’m not sure Austen would be “rolling over in her grave,” as Amanda comments, when events go awry, she would be; I think she might enjoy this new “adaptation” of her beloved characters’ lives. I sure did.

Eliza’s Daughter

Eliza’s Daughter by Joan Aiken

There seems to be a trend in some Austen-based work, I’ve noticed, in which the heroine finds happiness at the end not by marrying her proper companion and intellectual and moral equal, but by writing novels.

So much happens in Aiken’s book about the life of Eliza Williams, the daughter of Eliza, the daughter of the love of Colonel Brandon who was forced to marry his abusive older brother, that I’m hardly ruining the story for you by revealing one part of the resolution. Indeed, there is almost a whirlwind of run-ins with our former acquaintances (Elinor and Edward, Sir John Middleton, the evil Ferrars—Robert and Lucy, Mrs. Dashwood, Meg Dashwood, Marianne, Willoughby) as young Eliza makes her way through the world, figuring out who her parents are, and doing her best to do what’s right for people she recognizes as good.

That turns out to be quite a few people. Eliza becomes a point of light and hope for men, women, and children in nearly all walks of life and successfully defends her honor and her safety from multiple threats.

Her story begins in her childhood in a poor neighborhood where many bastard children are being raised in foster homes. She has a delightful surprise encounter with two young men, around 1798, mind you, whom she calls Mr. Will and Mr. Sam. They speak to each other and to her in poetry that sounds different from any she (or the world, as it turns out) has heard before. As soon as I realized what was happening, I immediately looked for clues in every other detail. Could the woman watching the birds in the remote natural location and predicting the start of a new era be Dorothy?

Alas, she is someone new to us, and the new era is the returning to her of her own child, whose life is about to be saved by the quick wit of her babysitter/guardian of sorts, Eliza, whose extra finger may deny her a husband but currently grants her the respect of Gypsies to whom the child has been sold.

Confused? Aiken achieves here not only beautiful, descriptive writing and a compelling story, but also a fascinating melding of fictional and nonfictional people. In addition to the founders of Romantic poetry, Aiken gives us one version of Mrs. Leigh-Perrot’s story in the fictional character of Mrs. Jebb, in whose home Eliza stays while studying and teaching music in Bath. And the entirely fictional characters are beautifully developed, too, from the Duke, who loved Eliza’s mother so dearly he invites her child to live with him, platonically, and be his ward of sorts, to Hoby, Eliza’s childhood friend and now a somebody; from Lady Hariot and Therese, the mysterious woman and devoted child, to Eliza’s devoted maid, Pullett who survives a potentially fatal sea mishap.

Nothing ends as I thought it would, and though I wasn’t thrilled with the disappointing ends most of our Sense and Sensibility friends come to, I could hardly stop reading. Not bad for a sequel, I think.

Mr. and Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy: Two Shall Become One by Sharon Lathan

Two overall facts:

1. This text has a fatal flaw.

2. I enjoyed it anyway.

Let’s address the fatal flaw first: this text is not really a sequel to Jane Austen’s novel; instead, it imagines what might happen next to Keira Knightley’s Elizabeth Bennet and Matthew MacFayden’s Fitzwilliam Darcy in Joe Wright’s film. To be fair, the writer tells us in her preface that it is the film that sparked her passion for these characters and, eventually inspired her to read the novel. That acknowledgment alone was not enough to cure me of irritation when interpretations based on the film instead of from the novel appeared.  Elizabeth, for instance, tells her husband that he has “bewitched [her] body and soul.” Lathan claims Elizabeth “spied” on Georgiana when she first visited Pemberley; that happens only in this film. I couldn’t help but wonder, does Lathan intend to continue the film? Does she think we won’t know both the novel and this adaptation well enough to know the difference? The marble statues, the mist during the second proposal, the emphasis on the first time their hands touched, the use of “Mrs. Darcy” when Darcy is incandescently happy, Darcy’s question “Are you laughing at me?” and comment, “indeed, most invigorating”—this is the movie! (Even the excerpt from the next book in the series has a movie line—“There is so much to entertain!”—but in the mouth of the wrong character.)

In addition to this grievous distraction, there are some other expressions that lead me to sense I’m not in hands I can trust, lines like “Lizzy had often lamented her, shall we say, less than curvy figure.” Elizabeth doesn’t think about Jane Bennet until page121, which seems unlike our Elizabeth, who would be thinking of her sister and wondering how she was faring, at least once in a while, despite the sexual distractions. And why does Lathan create a Mr. Cole (who gives a party) and a Reverend Bertram, who clearly are NOT the so-named characters in Emma and Mansfield Park? Is she toying with us? Unaware?

Given my obvious levels of irritation, one might ask why I finished the nearly 300 pages and then read the excerpt of the next one. I liked the story. Lathan provides fascinating glimpses at Darcy’s life as master of Pemberley, Elizabeth’s first visit to Pemberley through Mrs. Reynolds’ eyes, Elizabeth and Darcy’s first night as husband and wife, Colonel Fitzwilliam’s parents (the aunt and uncle of whom Darcy need not be ashamed, akin to the Gardiners for Lizzy) and siblings, and a LOT of fun scenes of love-making. I quickly understood the subtitle—two shall become one—because these two are becoming one several times in each chapter (on average), and we are most definitely to interpret their fulfilled passion in the bedroom (and nearly everywhere else) as emblematic of the depth of their emotional bonds. The love is touching, and, as devotees of Elizabeth Bennet (both Austen’s version and Wright’s), the reader is happy to see her live so “happily ever after.”

Seducing Mr. Darcy by Gwyn Cready

If Jane Austen-related fiction came with NC-17 ratings, this book would have one.

Even its cover is a departure from those of “the usual” books we read on the subject, including the books that reveal the sexy underpinnings on which this love story is based. A muscle-clad, open-shirted man caresses the exposed leg of a sexily-clad blond woman in strappy sandals. Textual warnings include the author’s thanking of Linda Berdoll for giving her a “first taste of what Austen may have missed.”

As someone pretty convinced that Austen missed nothing in her novels, I was a bit on edge when I began to read this seeming harlequin romance. Though somewhat mollified by Cready’s acknowledgement of the “incomparable Jane Austen, who [she hopes] can look the other way for a few hours,” I wasn’t expecting to have a positive reaction to the story.

But after reading this text, I have to imagine that, had Austen lived in modern times, she wouldn’t have needed to look away, and might actually have enjoyed the tale Cready has spun from Pride and Prejudice.

The story begins with our aptly-named heroine, Flip, accusing her friend, Dinah, a defensive, know-it-all, high school English teacher (uh oh) of overusing her vibrator. Flip is an ornithologist, and her friend Eve Bloomberg is a lawyer with a pharmaceutical company. Flip is rereading P&P for her book club and keeping track of the time since she was last, uh, carnally satisfied.  An outsider observes that watching these women is like watching Sex and the City except that these women discuss the classics (I think some of the SATC girls could, too!). Thus we are introduced to our cast of several 30-something single, professional women looking for meaning, fulfillment, great sex, and a great book.

Enter Magnus Knightley (forgive the pun; blame the spirit of the book!). Mr. Knightley is a British Austen scholar living in the States and known for showing women a good time in the Rare Book Room at the library. He overhears the ladies’ discussion of how Netherfield is named for the nether regions to which Darcy is so drawn, and is quickly appalled by what he deems willful misinterpretation of the novel that, for him, represents “objective representationalism” and not a lurid fantasy involving sinks and sugar bowls.

In a nice parallel to the mutual faulty first impressions of the novel, Magnus makes a similarly poor impression on Flip, despite physical attraction between them, when he deliberately embarrasses her when she asks for suggestions for her book club. But the stage has been set: they both read Austen, she has not been sexually tended to for two years, and he’s a known lothario. OK. Match! Let’s go.

Flip goes for a massage and finds herself transported in time . . . to Netherfield, where Mr. Darcy saves her from public humiliation about her husband’s cheating (which also caused Flip’s divorce from a Wickham-esque character in the modern world). Jed, like Jared in the alternate P&P, is indiscreet with his affairs and unwilling to give Flip the one thing she wants most of all: a baby. Flip has several significant experiences, both with Darcy and with the discovery of the (now extinct) passenger pigeon, which fascinates her. What she does not know, however, is that her presence and her choices will change the novel (whose characters’ passion she didn’t quite understand until visiting firsthand). Without my revealing too many plot details, know that if you invest your time in Seducing Mr. Darcy, you will enjoy several intense intimate scenes (one outdoors and almost public; and one involving some foodstuffs), several details of a modern P&P story (even the muddy heroine: how does she not see that she’s playing Lizzy?), sexy socks, philosophical discussions about the role of sex in relationships, the destruction of our beloved novel and several attempts to restore it, and more birds than you’ve probably pondered seriously for some time. Our characters will be asked to choose between love of Austen and love of each other, and their choices will both horrify and delight you.

I think it delightfully ironic that, when reviewing a book based on one that teaches that first impressions are often incorrect, I judged the book by its cover and its “acknowledgements” section; I have learned to correct my first impressions, and I have enjoyed the journey. I think you will, too.

The Left Hand of Darkness

The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K. Le Guin

Remember in the film version of The Jane Austen Book Club that Hugh Dancy’s character gives Jane Austen a try and asks the Maria Bello character to try science fiction? He particularly recommends Ursula Le Guin’s The Left Hand of Darkness. Bello’s character resists and resists, but near the end of the film, when she is finally open to trying a new relationship and a new genre—she reads it, and buys the next ones. The books are soon placed on the hood of her car as Dancy draws her into an embrace—an embrace that comes to be because of shared love of literature. So much for my motivation to read this text. Now what were the results?

Le Guin’s introduction to this book addresses a reader just like me, someone who brings preconceived notions of what science fiction entails and who it is for to the reading. I was struck almost immediately by the strong command of language, and the seeming paradoxes reminded me very much of Oscar Wilde’s introduction to The Picture of Dorian Gray, also not in my usual preferred genre, but a work I enjoy and appreciate nonetheless.

We are in a new world here, and it took me some time to adjust (and even to understand what was happening and who was narrating, which is made more confusing by the shifting of narrator, a la Faulkner). The human beings are “five-sixths of the time, hermaphroditic neuters” who can both bear and sire children, depending on their partner during “kemmer.” While at first this difference from us feels a bit creepy, some interesting philosophy emerges about our notion of human sexuality, about duality being part of everything, about war, and about what constitutes a moral entity. The story via which these philosophies are explored is rather interesting (quite an adventure our two protagonists go on), so I enjoyed this book on both levels.

A taste of the philosophy:

1. In order to have war, people must be patriotic.

2. Men’s notions of their own manliness complicates their pride—and their ability to be completely forthright.

3. Without intuiting a moral entity in a fellow being, the perceiver can’t help but feel unease and chill.

But even if you read The Left Hand of Darkness for the plot alone, you won’t be disappointed.

Mr. Darcy’s Decision by Juliette Shapiro

Mr. Darcy’s Decision by Juliette Shapiro

After a quick review of the events of Pride and Prejudice, Shapiro’s narrator tells us that we should not assume that these “perfect ingredients make for pictures of perfection” (5). While it seems, perhaps, unkind, to say that such a text is as true for this work as it is for the story for Shapiro intends it, I would be remiss as an honest reviewer not to make any mention of the numerous grammatical errors that affected my enjoyment of an otherwise clever and well-told tale. My hope is that I somehow stumbled upon a work in progress, prior to its final edits. Though I see no such evidence in the manuscript itself, I do not recall purchasing this work (I found it, to my delight, on the shelf of works awaiting my perusal), so it is possible I received an early copy, in which multiple comma splices (run-on sentences in which commas mistakenly take the places of periods) assault the senses and hinder meaning.

Note taken, we must move on to the delights of the story—and of them, there are far more than there is anything about which to be upset. I was surprised by how much attention Shapiro gives Mary Bennet. Most sequels leave her at Longbourne, tending the nuttiness of Mrs. Bennet and amusing her father with weak stabs at intellectualism. Kitty is usually the one to break free. Shapiro does several unusual things with Mary, all while maintaining her (annoying and) distinctive Mary flavor. Mrs. Phillips’ relations with her sister are a bit sharper than I recall from P&P, and she actually calls Mrs. Bennet on her BS (and calls her Fanny, which she never does in Austen).

At some moments, Shapiro perhaps gets too excited by the prospect of infusing her own Austen knowledge into her characters. I dare say it might be a misuse of the gift to have Elizabeth Darcy call herself “partial, prejudiced, and ignorant,” akin, perhaps to the Rozema film version of Mansfield Park in which our heroine seems a bit more Austen than Fanny Price (and though I enjoyed that film, I found myself instinctively rolling my eyes when Elizabeth here wonders what her own history of England would look like).

Back to commendations now: Shapiro develops the bonds between Mr. Bennet and Mr. Gardiner, Kitty and Georgiana, and Mary and Anne, in a way that is satisfying to any lover of the originals, and a simply shocking revelation by Wickham casts Lady Catherine in a far more negative light that anything in which she was bathed in Austen’s story. But what Darcy’s decision is—or even on what subject!—is a mystery until near the end of Shapiro’s story. It is clear earlier that something is going on, to which we—and Elizabeth—are not privy. The decision, too, resolves satisfactorily to people who want Lizzy and Darcy to triumph.

Shapiro does many things here that I have not seen done before—notably with Mary, with Maria Lucas, and with Wickham. These bold choices work (as does a clever almost hidden allusion to Jane Eyre) because of Shapiro’s set up. She even manages a nice reference to Austen at the end, but the final chapter awkwardly includes the deaths of E and D, which left me deeply sad and a bit creeped out. No one has ever killed them off, I think (except maybe in the Choose Your Own Adventure version, if you make an error in judgment), and that, of all Shapiro’s bold choices, is the only one that didn’t quite work for me. It’s otherwise an engaging, quick-paced read that I can recommend.

Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen Addict by Laurie Viera Rigler

Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen Addict by Laurie Viera Rigler

In the next few days, look forward to the release of a real treat. Viera Rigler’s novel begins with a delightful little scene (though told in present tense, which usually annoys me) in which our Regency era heroine awakes in Los Angeles, circa 2009. Her initial experiences with an alarm clock and the TV are highly amusing, as is watching the various characters come to varying degrees of understanding about why this young woman thinks she is Jane Mansfield, whereas they “know” she is their friend, Courtney Stone, whom readers last saw in the other half of this soul/life swap. It’s a great idea (don’t you wish you came up with it?), and the story is quite pleasing.

At first, we are confused as well. Jane remembers a riding accident; her friends remember Courtney getting a concussion by hitting her head on the bottom of a pool. Okay . . . but why did this switch occur? The answer to that question takes the tale to answer, but it becomes clear fairly early that neither heroine was really happy in her own life. When Wes (the cute, concerned, citrus-scented guy taking care of “Courtney”) tells her that it is her life she is living, those words are refreshing to her, even if not quite true. Though she is often bewildered and occasionally terrified by what she learns in the modern world, Jane also grows excited by the prospects of commanding her own “car”riage, making her own living, having her own apartment, and making the multitude of decisions that come the way of every modern American woman.

Perhaps the most pleasing surprises for Jane center around her favorite writer: she discovers several “new” works that she immediately reads, and the BBC Pride and Prejudice. Enough for any heroine, certainly. My favorite line, in fact, appears just as Jane is trying to reconcile her fear and frustration with her excitement. She says she knows “that any place where there are six novels by the author of Pride and Prejudice must be a very special sort of heaven.” How could one say it better?

Viera Rigler uses common Austen knowledge to help the reader sort through what could be unclear information. There is some suspicion around Wes’ past behavior, but when he calls Courtney’s cell phone, Jane sees Colin Firth’s picture. Lesson: trust him. He’s the good guy. Frank, on the other hand, is described with the same turn of phrase Austen uses to describe Wickham. Check! We know how to interpret him as well. It’s like Lynn Batten always advises us: if we keep a list of Jane Austen characters as we travel through life, we will, at some point or other, meet everyone on the list in “real” form. That’s what happens to Jane, but even still, she needs some help sorting through the information. For that, she relies on her friends, some more than others.

The story made me laugh. The description of our world by someone who could easily have stepped from the pages of one of Austen’s novels sheds light on details we hardly notice anymore—the huge platters of food served to us in restaurants, the written request to be one’s friend (on Facebook—such a clever little insertion without directing naming the site!). Above all, the story makes us remember to value the modern world even as we bemoan the loss of Regency manners. We forget sometimes, when we watch the films or reread the novels, how few were the choices both men, but especially women, had. We forget that open expression of one’s feelings, let alone affections, was discouraged. And we forget to live in the present, and to make every moment right now count. Thus, Rude Awakenings is more than a sheer pleasure to read; it also offers us a valuable lesson, if only we would listen to it over the sounds of “Mr. Beveridge’s Maggot” in the background.

Becoming Your Best: A Self-Help Guide for Thinking People by Ronald W. Richardson

Becoming Your Best: A Self-Help Guide for Thinking People by Ronald W. Richardson

Had Claire Bellanti not recommended I get this book, it is unlikely I would have discovered it. It’s not a novel and thus not located with the other literary works, and Jane Austen’s name is not on the front cover. Her name is, however, all over the back cover, and her work offers instruction in the development of “emotional maturity” that Richardson argues we must develop in our own lives.

People often ask me, when they come to understand how devoted I am to the life and work of Jane Austen, why she resonates so well with me, and with modern audiences. Richardson provides a succinct and clear answer: the stories are “so much more than the conventional romantic love stories” into which Hollywood sometimes morphs them. The stories, Richardson explains, “are truly about her characters struggling to become better people, the best they can be, and how this increases their satisfaction and happiness in life.” Add to that “her wit, her sense of irony, and her exceptional writing,” and suddenly, novels about how better to “live the values we profess” become sheer pleasures to read. The characters, delivered to us by a distinctly-voiced narrator, teach us what we should aim to be—and not to be.

The text begins with a lot of psychological theory, which is somewhat repetitive but which also makes sense. Then Richardson explores how Austen’s novels demonstrate, naturally and comedically, that “being a better person leads to better and happier relationships.” Richardson provides examples from his own therapeutic practice, examples from Austen’s work, and strategies for directly applying the lessons to our own lives. It is a brilliant idea, and if not quite as riveting as a Viera Rigler novel, worth some investment of time. After all, even if we are not motivated sufficiently by principle to become better human beings, should not our own happiness provide sufficient impetus for analysis, and perhaps, change?

The Private Diary of Mr. Darcy by Maya Slater

The Private Diary of Mr. Darcy by Maya Slater

This text has a similar idea to Amanda Grange’s Mr. Darcy’s Diary, which was originally its title in Britain, but, of course, each writer handles Darcy’s life differently. I was horrified by some of the decisions Slater has Mr. Darcy make, and worse, I think some of them fly in the face of the image Austen creates for us. At the same time, I still wanted to know how everything would be resolved, and I enjoyed the read.

The faulty moves first: the Darcy we know would not say and do some of what he says and does here. His diary has him explain, for instance, that “normally,” he “would take pleasure in attending a ball full of pretty young women,” but he doesn’t this time because he has just received a disturbing letter from Georgiana. Austen’s text suggests that Darcy does not enjoy mixing with strangers because he does “not easily converse” with them and because he knows that they’re all talking about how much money he has and trying to get him to notice their daughters. Instead of responding to his sister’s letter to offer her some comfort, he writes in his diary. Not Darcy-esque at all. He later “tries” to write back to “G” (I hardly think Darcy would be so informal with his sister’s, of all names, though Slater does later have him use the initial “E” to represent Elizabeth, which is a clue to the level of his intimacy, so at least she’s consistent). He wishes to return to Pemberley to comfort “G” and wistfully ponders, “if she would only permit [him] to travel” home, he would. What can that mean? Since when is Darcy not master of his own estate and his own movement? Frustrated, Darcy doesn’t send his first letter, which means “G” gets no comfort at all, but then he “dash[es] off another” that we don’t see? This makes no sense. Later, Slater offers no justification for his snub of Lizzie (though, to be fair, Darcy probably wouldn’t see the need to justify his choice in his own diary). Darcy’s justification for separating Bingley from Jane is different here, too, and not in a way that does him any credit. He overhears an unsubstantiated rumor and so basically ruins Jane’s and Bingley’s lives over it, rather than the at least somewhat honorable reason of Mrs. Bennet being all out for what she can get.

Darcy’s choice of friends is expanded here, and to no flattering degree. He’s college buddies with Byron, who calls Darcy “Fitz.” Byron and Darcy team up to distract Bingley from Jane with a seductive widow (Bingley, to his credit, is strong enough not only to resist but also to tell Darcy he will not fall so easily). Darcy gives Georgiana Byron’s poems . . . isn’t Byron a little racy for such a gift? The orgies he hosts in his home would indicate as much. Darcy “tumbles” a maid in Bingley’s house and has her be extra quiet when Jane Bennet comes to stay. He observes a woman as having “fine paps to her.” If this is really what Austen’s Darcy has been thinking and saying and doing, I’d rather not know.

The other characters, too, seem a bit different here from how they do in Austen’s book. Caroline Bingley goes strolling outside (per Darcy’s suggestion?), but we know it is Elizabeth who is the hearty walker. Caroline actually shows some compassion for Jane, which would be nice, except that there’s no foundation for it in P&P. Bingley supposedly went to Oxford with Mr. Collins, but then, how did he meet Darcy? Mr. Hurst makes a lot more sense here than he does in P&P—but it seems unlikely that, even if there is a Netherfield servant who makes him, uh, get up, more than he seems to in P&P, he would be so motivated to make his own plans and travel arrangements as often as he does in this text (although maybe that explains why he sleeps so much in the original). This is, to the credit of Slater’s originality, the first sequel I’ve reviewed in which Mr. Hurst factors prominently at all. Caroline and Louisa bicker in a carriage over a shawl (much as Lydia and Kitty do over a hat), but would they actually do that in front of Darcy? And Lydia and Kitty are 15 and 17 . . . Georgiana is too peevish and defiant, and Anne too free from her mother’s influence to make them wholly recognizable to readers of the original. In this version, Wickham blushes (so Darcy must turn white: the debate lives on!). Darcy has a childhood memory of Byron and Wickham raping a servant girl when they were all 14. We’re supposed to despise Wickham, but this is too strong.

Even episodes are changed here in a way that would make any faithful reader of the original uncomfortable at best. The Bennet ladies visit Netherfield when the men are out; that doesn’t happen in the book. Darcy and Bingley are demonstrably present (Mr. Hurst is probably asleep—that, I don’t recall exactly, but messing with the principals seems risky). When Elizabeth refuses to dance with Darcy, he assumes her shoes pinch. If that were true, he wouldn’t be at all excited by her refusal, which he clearly is in P&P since he shortly thereafter tells Caroline that he’s been meditating on Elizabeth’s eyes. Darcy hands Elizabeth his letter through bars . . . aren’t they in the woods? And the letter itself contains falsehoods with respect to how far Georgiana was compromised.

Given my (apparently numerous) complaints, how, you might ask, did I enjoy this task? Part of my enjoyment stems from the realization that each new “interpretation” offers insight not so much into each of our characters as much as into a different Austen reader. I like to see what my fellow devotees imagine. The rest of my enjoyment comes from certain details that fill in the gaps a bit. We learn, for instance, specifically what Darcy is reading from moment to moment. We find out exactly what Darcy understands (that Caroline is reading the second volume of the work he is reading but has lied about knowing the contents of the first) and what he misses entirely (Georgiana can tell how fake Caroline is, but Darcy really doesn’t until very late in the story). We learn how “smitten with grief for [Bingley] and shame at what [Darcy] had done” Darcy is when he realizes that he has led Bingley astray about Jane. Most of all, Darcy uses the diary to question, reflect upon, and alter his own behavior when people he trusts (largely Bingley and Elizabeth) provoke such reflection. By the time the Pemberley reunion occurs, therefore, I was so involved in what felt like a different story that I was pleasantly surprised by the events I know so well from P&P. If that’s an experience that would suit you, I recommend giving this version of Darcy’s world a try.

A Year in High Heels: The Girl’s Guide to Everything from Jane Austen to the A-list by Camilla Morton

A Year in High Heels: The Girl’s Guide to Everything from Jane Austen to the A-list by Camilla Morton

I will admit from the outset two things: 1) I was tempted to buy this book because of the pretty shoes on the cover (Austen’s name pushed me over the reasonable edge of temptation), and 2) It took me several months to finish it (while I read other, more linear works), but that was a result of its length, versus its quality.

Organized on a month by month basis, the text offers information about a whole host of topics, only remotely linked by some date in the month in which something happened historically; goals, superstitions; book recommendations; shoe history; an expert postcard; a city focus; and some great websites.

Lest I ruin all the surprises for you, allow me to take you through January as a model for what you will experience with each glorious month. In January, we are advised to keep a diary or a blog (which is where the idea for this enterprise came from!). We are presented with various diet strategies. Some famous people’s birthdays are mentioned, as are tips for how we should honor the people. Since Pride and Prejudice was first published on January 2, 1813 (according to Morton), we are now instructed to start writing letters (and to use “good punctuation” in them). Pages 17-22 are devoted to Austen, the “muse of the month,” and readers are even given tips for how successfully to explore Austen and Austen-related material in a book club. Our city is London; our shoe, the pump.

The reading experience left me a bit overwhelmed in January since, by January 5 (p. 28), we have undertaken several major books, lost weight, started blogging, cooked, and corresponded with several girlfriends. Even without a full-time job, I’d be unable to accomplish all of this in so little time. (I’m also not sure how they calculate that Sacramento is “a thousand miles” from the original setting of P&P . . .).

Once I realized how easy this format of loosely connected topics makes it to add new information to the stuff already in my head, however, I felt excited. How cool to learn that the British Museum opened to the day 200 years after Elizabeth I was crowned! In Cantonese, the words “pants” and “shoes” come from the words “bitter” and “rough,” so both are to be avoided on new year’s day.  And now if I wanted to make a hot toddy . . .

If you want to learn a lot and have it not feel like any kind of learning you’ve likely done before, this is the book for you. It’s an absolute prerequisite for any Jeopardy! try-out, and it’s the only material I’ve ever seen that addresses the origin of April Fools’ Day.

Frederick Wentworth, Captain: None But You by Susan Kaye

This story puts us immediately with Frederick on his ship and gives us information on the present time (Harville arrives with the news about his sister Fanny) and reflections on the past (his first kiss with Anne, the attempt to get Sir Walter’s permission for them to marry, Frederick telling Anne to consult Lady Russell, which he of course later regrets, etc). The details also helped me understand that, in his current position, Wentworth is very much like Sir Walter in his world: everyone shows respect to him because of who he is, and everyone knows who he is without his saying so. No wonder Sir Walter is so irritated by Frederick: he earned what Sir Walter was born with.

Before Anne appears on the scene, the story offers a lot of ship history, a touching first night with Benwick after Frederick gets stuck telling him the news (which role is later reprised when he has to tell the Musgroves what happened to Louisa; both instances deal with girls somehow connected to Benwick, which I found interesting), an amusing (implied) comparison of what books Captain Wentworth reads versus what Sir Walter reads at the start of Persuasion, and interesting information about young Frederick’s home life, with a father who physically abused Edward (the older brother) and verbally abused the mother and Frederick’s sister, Sophie. At 12 years old, Frederick came under the guardianship of his older brother, and was basically raised by him.

When Frederick visits his charming sister and her husband, Admiral Croft, at first he assumes that Anne is married to Charles Musgrove. (Mary Musgrove is so annoying, but the rest of that family is delightful—so easygoing and genial—both here and in the original.) When Frederick meets the Musgrove sisters, he actually prefers the elder girl but is so in love with Anne that he is not seriously contemplating a life with either Musgrove daughter.  He continues to think Anne lost to him until he sees and hears the real Mrs. Musgrove, of whom everyone says awful things (so he should have known it couldn’t be Anne who married Charles).

Kaye crafts a device that haunts Frederick and reminds us how much he suffers: it is a portrait of Anne’s mother and hangs in a prominent place in the sitting room where his sister and her husband like to rest (away from all the mirrors) in Kellynch Hall. The portrait reminds him startlingly of Anne, and he spends a lot of time staring at it and avoiding it.

In general, Kaye captures these characters very well for they feel much like the ones we know.

She also adds a lot of background information and even an amusing tale of Frederick’s older brother scolding Adm. Croft for sitting alone with his future bride before their engagement.  Wentworth arranges a year’s worth of food and treats for his friend during hard times, but only the wife knows about it, so Harville won’t feel ashamed or indebted. This is all BEFORE the Harvilles are so helpful with Louisa.  In exchange, they remind Frederick what the domestic bliss he once sought looks like. Poor Frederick.  He seems surrounded by people in love—both his siblings, and also the Harvilles. At least the Charles and Mary Musgrove union gives him no cause for jealousy.

Kaye does call Wentworth’s claims about the value of being “firm” (to Louisa) “silly drivel” (174)—was Austen not intending him to be serious in these views? But this was the only moment I doubted Kaye’s accuracy to Austen’s intents, and it was fleeting indeed.

The end of Book 1—Frederick disciplines Charles for not letting Anne care for Louisa, so Anne really hears how much he values and trusts her; Anne, for just a moment, speaks Frederick’s name in a whisper to help him through a difficult moment; and finally Frederick hurries back to Charles and the injured Louisa, only to find that Anne has made sure he has some items of comfort on the carriage—left me teary. I need to order Book 2 right away. (Tip: have them both on hand when you begin Book 1.)

The Matters at Mansfield (Or, The Crawford Affair) by Carrie Bebris

The Matters at Mansfield (Or, The Crawford Affair) by Carrie Bebris

I’m not an unbiased reader. I love the Bebris mysteries and was very excited to find this hardback selling on Amazon for the price of a paperback. I liked that it is dedicated to her brother and her acknowledgment of how key family acceptance is of our spending so much time in this alternate universe.  I liked that Bebris was told she has “the nicest fans!” And with that warm-up, I was ready to go on yet another adventure with Elizabeth and Darcy.

I was surprised that the cute parody of the opening to Pride and Prejudice goes too far and messes it up: the “single child” morphs into “some one or other of her offspring.”  That’s about the only flaw I found in the text.

This was so much fun. We begin with Elizabeth, Darcy, Lady Catherine, and Anne all in Colonel Fitzwilliam’s older brother’s house for the ball in which the brother will introduce his intended bride. The end of chapter 1 closes with us knowing Anne is up to something—possibly with a man—and Elizabeth thinking it’s something else and giving Anne her assurance that she will keep Anne’s “secret.” Let the mystery begin!

You’d never pick the guy Anne does to match up with her if you were handed the novels, but the title of the text suggests which men are possible reasons for Anne to sneak out in the middle of the night. I will try not to divulge any other details that will do anything but whet your appetite to read it.

Now we need some suspicious characters: enter a once heroic, now rapidly declining Lord Sennex, whose son Neville, Darcy recalls beating his own dogs when a hunt went poorly—and Neville doesn’t dance. Two strikes against him.

Anne, on the other hand, does dance, largely because Fitzwilliam is inclined to ask her, and because Darcy and Elizabeth are inclined to conspire with him to distract Lady Catherine, who has other plans for her daughter. We catch the gist of that right away as Darcy suffers at cards with his aunt, but he somehow fails to notice her evil scheme to match up Anne to a man who ignores his father—a father who seems so confused he calls Lady Catherine “Lady Anne” by mistake and doesn’t even recognize Darcy at first.

It’s tough to go much more into detail without ruining one or more of this story’s delightful and gripping twists and turns. I knew, when reading, that Bebris was dropping clues—and things that seemed like clues but weren’t—everywhere, but, in true Bebris style, it was difficult to know exactly what to do with those clues until just before (or as) Elizabeth and Darcy figured it out. What I can offer you is some teasers: several characters understand more than they appear to, Scotland offers both happiness and misery, a character seems to die twice, that character dies for good once I actually started to like the character, there appears to be bigamy, the suspects are many and well-motivated to commit the crime—and still the real mastermind is probably not going to make it to your list of suspects until it’s too late to warn anyone—and even once you know who it is, your explanation for the motive will differ from the motive the character reveals.

Bebris includes many lines from Austen (how great a job would it be to select which line begins each chapter? I wonder what the procedure is for that—does she pick them? Does she write the chapter and then find the line, or vice versa?) and even a few well-placed ones from Shakespeare. In one (a rephrasing of Hamlet’s sarcastic comment that his mother’s wedding followed hard upon the heels on his father’s funeral in order to serve the same food at both feasts), you may even understand something critical to solving the mystery. Or not. Regardless, if you enjoy a fast-paced, hard to put down mystery that involves characters from multiple Austen works and seeks to end with our favorite characters happy, Matters at Mansfield should be next on your list.

Mr. Darcy’s Diary and Mr. Knightley’s Diary by Amanda Grange

Mr. Darcy’s Diary and Mr. Knightley’s Diary by Amanda Grange

One of the most unfair accusations against Austen is that she presents only women’s feelings and thoughts. Any reader truly intimate with Austen’s work knows this claim to be false; we can see what Mr. Darcy and Mr. Knightley, for instance, feel, through their words, the descriptions of their behavior, and their interactions with others. Nonetheless, I found it a most pleasing experience to be taken into the heads of Austen’s leading men, directed by Amanda Grange in two purported diaries: Mr. Darcy’s and Mr. Knightley’s.

In Mr. Darcy’s case, the journal begins with information we already know (principally from Darcy’s letter to Elizabeth after the first proposal): his history with Wickham, especially with respect to Georgiana. Though at first the reader may be troubled by why Darcy would explain details he already knows to his diary, the story quickly distracts from any preoccupation with form.

We actually see the moment of Georgiana telling her big brother the truth about the planned elopement (very differently portrayed than in the BBC, and equally interesting and valid, given that Austen doesn’t provide the details, other than that Georgiana tells him). Also enlightening are Darcy’s first impressions of Mr. Bennet and Darcy’s plans to interest Bingley in his sister, which, in the text, Austen never lets us know for sure. According to his diary, Darcy really believes Bingley will quickly recover from Jane, just as he has from all his previous flirtations—a history which helps the reader, to some degree, excuse Darcy’s interference on behalf of his friend.

Darcy is early annoyed by Caroline (whew! It’s hard to tell at places in Austen’s book if he can see how annoying she is), who is as snippety about Charlotte Lucas’ unmarried state and looming spinsterhood (odd, given Caroline’s own status) as she is about Jane’s low relations. Caroline, in fact, is more wholly to blame for the mess between her brother and Jane. Darcy’s account reveals that he checked his own judgment about Jane’s lack of love for Bingley (thus he did NOT assume he knew all about “reading” women), and Caroline lies to him. The separation, then, is her fault. Bingley is similarly cleared of fault because, as Darcy explains, Bingley wanted to write directly to the Bennets from London and was stopped by his sister, who promised to send his regards in a letter she planned to write, but then of course never did. Darcy’s diary thus nearly clears Darcy and Bingley and slams Caroline (which is A-OK by this reader).

A tip, by the way: I re-read Pride and Prejudice (I was teaching it at the time) at work as I read Darcy’s account of the same events at home—such a treat. Any curiosity I had about what was going on with Darcy when we read about Elizabeth was cleared—and brilliantly, too. The scene with Mr. Collins approaching Darcy without a proper introduction is hilarious—this time, we get to hear Darcy’s thoughts about this episode. Similarly, it’s fun to observe how Lizzy creeps into Darcy’s thoughts the winter after they meet—while she has no idea that she is being thought of in this way. Darcy’s information fills in gaps: how was it, for instance, that he happened to visit Elizabeth in the parsonage in that awkward solitary visit before the first proposal? Why does Colonel Fitzwilliam wait longer than Darcy does after she receives the transformative letter? What does Darcy do when he tries to forget Elizabeth? Grange addresses all these questions and more.

We also see Darcy “learn” of his own errors, just as Austen gives us Elizabeth’s realizations in the novel. He works on a new social policy: to pretend he’s known strangers all his life in order to be agreeable. The modern reader, who wants Darcy to reach out and hug Elizabeth as she cries upon recounting the news of Lydia and Wickham, is touched by his explanation of how badly he wants to buck social conventions and hold her—but why, ultimately, he doesn’t.

In addition to Darcy, Anne deBourgh gets some fleshing out in this journal; we see Anne, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and Darcy playing together as children before she was sick, and we learn how devastating her father’s loss was to her. We see Anne a bit tougher than we ever do in P & P, and we learn that sometimes the quiet characters have strong, unspoken feelings. And of course we get to see how Darcy learns about the Lady Catherine visit to Longbourne and Darcy’s gratitude toward Mr. Bennet for fostering such spunk in his daughter. The first Christmas together as a family extends the story a bit—with funny results—and after a delicious payback to Lady Catherine, Darcy is hopeful for the future.

 In Mr. Knightley’s case, too, Grange fills in gaps in our knowledge. Why wasn’t Mr. Knightley at the Westons’ wedding, for instance? Now we learn that he had business in London. How does it happen that John and Isabella come with all their children for Christmas at Hartfield, despite John’s pressing business in town? Now we learn that it is Mr. Knightley who ensures that Mr. Woodhouse and Emma will be surrounded by family at this important time. What was Mr. Knightley thinking about Elton, other than that he would “act rationally,” as he pursued Emma? We see here that Mr. Knightley—and other people in Highbury—assume Elton is trying to raise his status by marrying Emma. Elton’s excessive—and ridiculous—flattery seemed closer to that of Mr. Collins here than it did when I have read both original works. And of course, in Mr. Knightley’s story, there is a lot more information we don’t know from Emma because the emphasis is on her, rather than on both protagonists, as it is in P & P.

Unlike Darcy, whose “working”s on Bingley in matters of love made the reader say “ick” (even if his journal justifies his interference a bit), Mr. Knightley is right when he advises Robert Martin. Both heroes, however, are oblivious to their own feelings about the heroine, but, much to Grange’s credit, it takes Mr. Knightley much longer to understand himself.

This reveals, of course, a problem readers often have with Emma: if Mr. Knightley was 16 was Emma was born, and if he finally professes his love to her at 37, this means he may well have had sexual feelings towards a child. This journal eliminates that possibility. We see her through his eyes right away—he admires her devotion to her father, he is concerned that all her associates are much older than she is, or simply inappropriate friends for her, and he encourages her to do what is right—but he is unaware of being in love with her for much of the novel. Emma’s name pops up often in his thoughts—so we know what he is about—but as for Mr. Knightley himself, for much of the time, and certainly until Emma is an adult, he is “doomed to blindness” of his own desires. Though he calls her “my Emma” in his journal, he makes no romantic comments about her for the first half of the text, and in his quest for a wife, does not consider her. At the same time, it just feels right to him to be with her.

Mr. Knightley, like Mr. Darcy, tries to interest himself in other women. For Mr. Knightley, it’s because he desperately wants to have the life his brother John has but can’t seem to work up feelings of love for any woman, and he does not intend to marry without love. For Darcy, it’s because he knows he is in love with a woman it would be impractical—or impossible—to take to wife. In Darcy’s case, the pursuit is amusing because he is matched with a woman of inferior intelligence, a woman who doesn’t “get” irony (I’m familiar with the feeling). In Mr. Knightley’s case, it’s just sad. He tries so hard to find love, unaware that the woman he loves is right in front of him. The reader, however, can savor the irony: we know what Emma will do and think very soon, and it’s interesting to see Mr. Knightley experiencing similar confusion just before she does. Mr. Darcy and Mr. Knightley also share the decision to get away from the heroine when marriage seems hopeless—Darcy, after the first proposal; Mr. Knightley when he thinks Emma loves Frank—and to visit the heroine before so doing to take formal leave.

The build-up to the happy resolution here is particularly fun and cleverly handled, with even an allusion to the hen-house! Mr. Knightley plays often with his nephews and nieces, foreshadowing his own success as a father, and the passion he feels for Donwell Abbey reflects well on his character, too, as do his understated generosity to the poor and his skill managing Mr. Woodhouse. Even more telling: he loves his home so much; yet we know he will voluntarily leave it to make Emma and her father happy in just a few months. The reader gets truly to savor Mr. Knightley’s goodness.

As soon as he realizes what he is feeling for Emma—boom—he plans to propose, and, according to this text, wants to do so at strawberry picking at Donwell and, when that fails, at Box Hill. We, who well know what will happen at Box Hill, can again enjoy irony—just as the hero wants to claim the heroine forever, she distances herself from him in a way that could ruin everything. Grange also elucidates how Harriet could imagine that Mr. Knightley returns her affection, and though he misinterprets what he’s seeing as affection for Robert Martin, we see that a woman in love could easily interpret Mr. Knightley’s new familiarity with Harriet as love. Mr. Knightley, in this version more than in the original, has flawed judgment; he, after all, completely misreads Frank Churchill and even his own feelings once Frank arrives, but that kind of flawed judgment, in a good, generally well-judging character, is often what draws us to an Austen heroine. It seems fitting, then, that the hero shares it at last.

Colonel Brandon’s Diary by Amanda Grange

Colonel Brandon’s Diary by Amanda Grange

The latest in Grange’s series of journals of the key Austen men begins with an enlightening reunion between James (Colonel Brandon) and Eliza as he returns home from Oxford for the summer at age 18. That joy is quickly tempered by two subsequent reunions: 1) with his pig-man brother who emerges from a barn after an encounter with some girl and 2) with his brutal father, who mocks James mercilessly and demands to know how James’ friends can be of “use” to James. (Otherwise, he argues, why have them?) The sister is just as bad, but we don’t meet her until life takes a serious downturn for our hero: he is forcibly removed from the house when his plan to elope (because his father insists on marrying off his ward, Eliza, to the horrible older brother) gets foiled.

We meet our next familiar character—Sir John Middleton—on page 84. At that point in time, we are told that Mrs. Dashwood has just two daughters, which helps us put the events of the diary in the chronology we know. Shortly after James meets John, he hears that a former servant of his brother’s is in a sponging-house and goes to offer assistance—at which point James finds his beloved Eliza, and her daughter. James rescues all three by hiring the servant to help care for Eliza, who is already dying, and her daughter, whose life now has some real chance at happiness. There is a beautiful scene of the emergence from darkness into light, and we see just what a hero Marianne is about to catch.

James’s friends turn out to be of great use—but because they are friends, rather than their being friends because they are useful, as his father had taught.

I read 95 pages in about an hour at this point because the story just flew, and I wanted to know what would happen (even though, of course you could reason, I already knew what would happen). What fun it was to watch Colonel Brandon inherit Delaford and bring little Eliza there—but oh! Two set-ups for bitter disappointment. Since we know what will happen to her, this was a bit hard to watch, but . . . (no more spoiling now).

I also never really noticed Mary Middleton in S&S, but now I really like her and could at least get a glimpse of her in the shadows of John and her mother, Mrs. Jennings.

Grange adds scenes between Willoughby and Colonel Brandon that Austen would not show, and, suffice it to say for here, they are quite pleasing to the reader who wants to see the former thrown down and the latter raised high. And I’m sure learning a lot lately about pistol duels, deloping (shooting straight into the air, which our sequel heroes seem to do), and issuing challenges to ne’er-do-wells.

Most important, the diary reminds us that James Brandon and Marianne Dashwood have a lot in common. Besides the love of music and poetry, they also share a passion for their first love and an initial determination never to veer from it. Interesting—somehow I never thought about it this way before—that Marianne ever feels adamant about the futility of second love given that she is, herself, the product of a second marriage. There are deeply emotional scenes during Marianne’s illness and, when she is finally ready for a hero, some beautiful Marianne-esque lines of poetry and reason—now directed to, and about, James, as we always imagined it must be.

Frederick Wentworth, Captain: For You Alone by Susan Kaye

Exactly one month after I finished reading Book 1, I finished reading Book 2. I usually can resist the siren song of the sequel to a sequel, but this one is pretty compelling. It begins shortly after Frederick leaves Anne with the Musgroves after telling them of Louisa’s accident. We see Frederick’s interactions with many people from his perspective.

Lady Russell is still rude to him. (Why? Doesn’t she see by now how miserable Anne is without him and what a good guy he is?)

Benwick appears to be in love with Anne, and Kaye sets up a nice parallel. Frederick expects to hear news any day that Anne and Benwick are engaged, just as we know from Persuasion that Anne expects any day to hear news that Frederick is engaged to Louisa.

He takes on a needy kid (who has reason to fear clergymen) and becomes a hero to the child.

And he spends time with his brother, Edward, whom he comes to know quite differently than he ever had opportunity to before. Edward is newly married and quite happy; now he understands Frederick in a way he couldn’t before his own heart was captivated.  This seems to enable Frederick finally to confide some of his suffering to his elder brother, and it turns out that the brother has need for fraternal confidence as well.  Edward also provides wonderful romance prior to the Anne reunion: the scene in which he reunites with his wife while Frederick watches and tries to avert his eyes enables Frederick to see his brother animated and to have his own hopes for love reignited.

Once Frederick goes to Bath for Anne, the tone shifts to his own and is therefore often amusing. Mr. Elliot becomes “the nefarious cousin,” for instance, as Kaye gives us access to Frederick’s thoughts, analysis of every situation, and self-beration.

Once Anne accepts him, and he understands her once more, Kaye gives us Anne’s perspective as well, a beautiful example of style reinforcing meaning.

Just before Frederick asks Sir Walter for Anne’s hand, he notices how empty the library is—except, of course, for Sir Walter’s favorite book and for a low shelf with books about sailing—they’re Anne’s. She, like Frederick’s brother, Edward, has been following his career all along in whatever way she could, given his lack of communication.

Anne is awesome here; her sweetness enables her to knock down evil with such finesse. It’s beautiful to watch. She and her fiancé announce the engagement to Sir Walter, Elizabeth, and Lady Russell, and Anne is distressed that no one has sincerely wished them joy. Where does her clever man take her? Why, to Admiral and Mrs. Croft, of course, who throw an impromptu party of sorts. Frederick’s immediate solution to Anne’s distress after her immediate, suave addressing of his discomfort at Lady Russell’s reminds us how truly companionate their marriage will be.

Intimations of Austen by Jane Greensmith

Intimations of Austen by Jane Greensmith

Greensmith has written a series of short stories that involve Austen’s characters, sometimes simultaneous to the Austen work, and sometimes some time after its conclusion. The narrators range from the daughter of Anne and Frederick to Mrs. Bennet; the subject matters range from a nighttime discussion with the Fates to a study of human character through “color” readings.  These nine stories offer glimpses into the Austen world in a quick, sweeping way. Though they can be read one right after the other, this reader enjoyed some time to reflect on what Greensmith had done with each work before plowing into the next.

In at least two of the tales, Greensmith cleverly leads the reader to certain assumptions about who the characters being described actually are or about what will happen to them, only to turn those assumptions on their pretty little heads within the span of a few pages. We are taught through this device, for instance, that Anne Elliot’s adherence to Lady Russell’s advice might not have been so foolish as we often believe through the example of Mrs. Price, who had no Lady Russell to advise her. We’re also cleverly led to sympathize with Mrs. Bennet’s plight as a not-so-smart woman who knows she isn’t (don’t we often assume that the not-so-smart aren’t aware of it, so it’s not as bad as we’d imagine?) and even envies Lizzy’s intelligence and Mr. Bennet’s attention to it.

Greensmith’s stories often take characters through pain and insecurity, but they conclude with peace, and hope, and even sometimes happiness. It’s important to keep that in mind as we go to dark places with our heroines and heroes. Greensmith asks us to contemplate:

1) What if a Mrs. Danvers-like character were the housekeeper at Thorton Lacey? Though at first, I was a bit put off by the idea, the parallels began to assert themselves (Mary Crawford as Rebecca, Fanny as the unnamed heroine, Edmund—the slightly older man who has little idea what his wife is suffering—as Max DeWinter).

2) What if Jane Bennet really had fallen in love long before Charles Bingley came around? What if Gideon were the reason her heart wasn’t, as Mr. Darcy observes, likely to be easily touched?

3) What if Darcy never came back to Longbourn to assess Elizabeth’s feelings towards him, so she married Colonel Fitzwilliam instead? This story confused me a good deal at the beginning (probably because many of the characters are new to us and because Greensmith actually changed what I knew about the characters in Austen’s work), but it also brings new meaning to the expression “delayed gratification.”

Given the length of these stories, you won’t need much delay to get the gratification each provides.

Edmund Bertram’s Diary AND Captain Wentworth’s Diary

Edmund Bertram’s Diary AND Captain Wentworth’s Diary—by Amanda Grange

It seemed fitting, since I reviewed Mr. Darcy’s Diary and Mr. Knightley’s Diary, together, to honor the next two, the diaries of the heroes of Mansfield Park and Persuasion, together as well. In sum: I eagerly await Grange’s version of the thoughts of Henry Tilney and Edward Ferrars.

These books, in essence, tell the stories we know and love, from the heroes’ perspectives. In Edmund’s case, that means he’s rather blind to Mary Crawford’s defects and his own lack of comprehension of Fanny’s true feelings for him, for most of the diary. We have to wait almost until the end, just as we do in Mansfield Park, for his comprehension. In the meantime, there is much to delight.

The first scene between Edmund and young Fanny is beautiful. What’s new here is what Edmund sees in Fanny, even when she first moves there, as he helps her write to William Price, her brother. We are also made almost immediately aware how alone Edmund is in a veritable sea of selfishness in his house, though he, like his father, doesn’t quite see it as we do. Edmund actually asks Maria and Julia to shield Fanny from Mrs. Norris while he’s at Eton, when each girl is far more concerned about her own comfort (to her credit, Julia does once speak up for Fanny). When Tom returns from Antigua, it is amazing Edmund can stomach him at all. And the play sets up a lovely foreshadowing as Maria enacts a fallen woman, and Mary, a shameless one.

In Edmund’s absence, Fanny learns a lot, largely by reading what he has told her to, and contemplating the ideas. We see more dramatic changes in her in this version of the story because he has been away. It is Fanny who helps Edmund realize he can do good in the church and has natural ease comforting the needy. It is Fanny to whom Edmund turns when Tom’s debts cause Sir Thomas to sell the Mansfield living. When Edmund goes to the Owens for his ordination, we see how much he misses Fanny and longs to share their passions for poetry and for nature with her. And though Edmund seems not to realize how often he consults or thinks about Fanny, we see where this could lead if only he would judge differently, and his later love is certainly well established.

Edmund is not most Janeites’ favorite hero. During a discussion of female manners among Edmund, Tom, and Mary, it is almost impossible for us to understand how Edmund misses how wrong Mary would be for him, but this diary reminds us that he is, in fact, seriously disturbed by many of her remarks throughout the text—about her uncle, about the clergy—but he always excuses her because he assumes it is faulty education, not faulty morals, that leads to such commentary. To his credit, he also has warm feelings for Mary every time she appears to befriend Fanny.

That, after all, is what Edmund is all about, most of the time. He helps Fanny grow more comfortable speaking in public. He helps her exercise regularly (even the time he neglects her, the diary reveals he did wants to bring the horse back, but Mary persuaded him not to). He thinks he’s protecting her (even when he’s hurting her, which, I admit, I found a bit annoying). Though he corrects her already correct observation about Henry and Maria, he does so because he knows he and Fanny share a sense of what is right and wrong, and because, for the first part of their relationship, he has been the appropriate teacher, and she, the pupil. As she matures, together, Fanny and Edmund restore order to the Bridge home (is this scene in Mansfield Park? I didn’t recall it, but I enjoyed it) and to their own home when tragedy strikes, or seems to.

Grange has a little fun giving other Austen lines to characters in Edmund’s diary. He himself uses Jane Bennet’s line to Elizabeth that she should do anything rather than marry without love. Mrs. Norris uses Mrs. Bennet’s line—“I knew how it would be”—about Maria and Rushworth; alas, she could not have known how it would be between them, and all three suffer from what is after the affair is revealed. Maria and Julia reminded me, for the first time I think, of Lydia and Kitty, but a bit smarter, more sedate, and more mature.

Reading the diary made me long to reread Mansfield Park, which is what great Austen-based fiction should do.

Frederick Wentworth’s diary, much to my surprise, is very funny! It begins with Wentworth and Harville being alarmed on land that the ground is still, as opposed to “rolling and dipping like an honest element.” The first 120 or so pages of the diary record Wentworth’s actions and thoughts before the beginning of Persuasion, so all the background information at which Austen hints in her novel is well detailed here. In that sense, this diary is very different from the other three, which deal primarily with what’s happening in the hero’s world while the events we already know about are occurring in the heroine’s. (There are also a lot of typos, which struck me as depressing; this book is being sold in stores! Who was the copy editor?!)

Frederick is trying, even before Anne appears on the scene, to make his fortune, and meets Anne as he stays with his brother, Edward, a clergyman (whom I don’t recall at all from Persuasion; did we meet him?) Young Frederick is drawn to Anne but, at first, only because he’s disgusted with how Miss Eliot speaks to her—having no idea Anne is the younger sister! Frederick’s friend Harville is smitten with Harriet, and Frederick finds such devotion amusing and almost incomprehensible at their young age—until, of course, Anne’s sweet, intelligent disposition makes its imprint on him. At that point, Wentworth is drawn to Anne not only for Anne herself but also for his own effect on her.

We learn a lot besides how Frederick and Anne fall in love. We see Charles Musgrove courting Anne. We get an interesting explanation for the rift between Mr. Elliot and Sir Walter; Miss Elliot and her father have been husband hunting too obviously, and Mr. Elliot apparently has no interest there.

When Lady Russell enters the picture, the reader begins to get a sense of foreboding. She watches Frederick attentively when Sir Walter invites Edward and Frederick to dine with them at Kellynch Hall. An ambiguous conversation between Lady Russell and Frederick does nothing to ease our suspicions, and little to ease his. And yet—it is such a happy moment when Wentworth proposes to Anne, and is gladly accepted by him, on a morning walk together. They are so right for each other, though we dread Sir Walter’s answer, and Lady Russell’s influence. Though it is rude in a Lady Catherine-esque way, Sir Walter’s reaction to the news yields a positive answer for Frederick: because it “is only Anne,” Sir Walter agrees to the marriage. But Frederick underestimates the power of Lady Russell’s influence on Anne, as we well know, and it’s only a matter of time before Anne rejects her lover’s offerings.

Grange gives us the dramatic encounter between Frederick, immediately upon learning of Anne’s change of mind, and Lady Russell, who knows she is responsible for it. In a reverse gendered way, this conversation between two intellectual equals reminded me of the conversation between Elizabeth and Lady Catherine, except that Lady Russell’s arguments have undeniable merit to them. Even Edward, Frederick’s brother, asks what would happen to Anne if she accepted Frederick, and then he was killed.

The diary picks up eight years later, in 1814, when Persuasion actually begins. Admiral (Benjamin) Croft and Sophie, Frederick’s sister, invite him to stay with them at the home they’re renting, but he agrees without reading the letters carefully because he is distracted by an onerous task ahead of him: Harville has asked Frederick to break the news of Fanny Harville’s death to Benwick, the man who had been waiting far too long to marry her and now is financially able to do so. Frederick nurses Benwick back from emptiness, and when he is ready to stay with his sister, realizes that he will be returning to the scene of some emotional moments of his youth. His diary reflects, however, that he thinks Anne has no power over him, but the reader can see obvious signs of his still thinking about her.

When he travels to Kellynch, Wentworth assumes, based on an ambiguous conversation, that Anne is the Miss Elliot who has married Charles Musgrove, and it isn’t until he learns the truth that Mary Elliot married Charles that Frederick begins to admit he has feelings for Anne. Thus begins the fun of seeing everything we’ve seen from Anne’s perspective in Persuasion from Frederick’s, here. He sees that they still have similar reactions and thoughts, and though he completely misreads Anne’s feelings towards him at some moments, the reader knows she feels very much as he does. Frederick wonders at one point if Anne “had ever missed” him when we know she has never NOT. He does not begin to hope, as we might have suspected from Persuasion, that she might still love him, until Louisa tells him that Anne rejected Charles Musgrove.

Frederick decides to propose again the night he tells the Musgroves what happened to Louisa and even leaves a note for Anne at Lady Russell’s (I don’t remember that happening in the original) keeping her posted on Louisa’s condition, not realizing that most everyone, Anne included, thinks he is in love with Louisa. He cannot, meanwhile, stop wondering what would have happened had he proposed again to Anne as soon as he had made his fortune (she later tells him she would have said yes). No one knows what Frederick suffers—until he visits his brother Edward, and tells him everything. The closeness of these brothers (even though I don’t think Frederick should have waited so long to visit his newly married brother and sister-in-law) and of each of them to their sister, Sophie, suggested to me either that their parents must have been really cool, or that the siblings bonded because their parents were so awful J.

The resolution unfolds beautifully here as it does in Persuasion (“You pierce my soul”—has anything ever been said to woman that approaches this?), and I leave it to you to decide who best deserves his or her fate: Anne and Frederick, or Mr. Elliot and Mrs. Clay.

Pride and Prescience (Or a Truth Universally Acknowledged): A Mr. And Mrs. Darcy Mystery by Carrie Bebris

This book is riveting.  Filled with humor, playful banter between our beloved Darcy and his witty bride, and heart-stopping moments of terror, the story takes us on the “honeymoon” with the Darcys and Bingleys, but this is no honeymoon we dreamed of for them. Instead, their sojourn in London offers danger beyond anything Austen ever showed us.

Some of the most entertaining figures from Austen’s work appear here: notably Caroline Bingley, whose behavior and mental capacity are most intriguing in the face of her new marriage to—of all things—an American. We also see Mr. Bennet’s predictions about Jane and Bingley’s household come true: they employ orphans and other destitute people, mostly without experience or any skill, out of pity. Louisa Hurst and her useless husband seem even more reprehensible here than before, in their preoccupation with money and finery, even in times of trouble.

The murders and violence of this ilk would never appear directly in Austen, but our characters handle such trouble as Austen, no doubt, would have had them handle it—with grace, with bravery, and sometimes (poor Bingley) with confusion. Bebris enters the heads of both Lizzy and Darcy as they face their first drama as a married couple, and the result is a love story/murder mystery/action adventure tale that, as novelist Michael Bowen writes, Austen herself would have picked up “to relax after a demanding day of astute observation and well-crafted prose.”

A Little Bit Psychic by Aimee Avery

I really wanted to mock this one.  It has 110 pages, and the cover makes it look like it’s written for 12-year-olds dreaming of high school. Elizabeth Bennet has psychic powers.

Alas, it hardly seems fair to mock a book I so enjoyed. The Bennets are American. They know the Darcys through work. Little girl Elizabeth has her first psychic vision—of herself as a princess being rescued by a handsome older prince—but in the first sexual psychic vision to which we are witness, it becomes clear that this is not a book for 12-year-olds, no matter how precocious they are.

So then, it must be for people like us. Those of us who know Pride and Prejudice will take delight in a character named Caroline Younge, who seems to combine the traits of Miss Bingley and Mrs. Younge—but then who so, doesn’t. (Twist not to be ruined here by me, but twist there is). We will enjoy seeing the same scene first from Elizabeth’s and then from Darcy’s (here, Will’s) point of view.  Figuring out who Wickham is (or ARE) is fun, and Avery makes the choice to have Elizabeth confide in people she doesn’t in P &P (first Jane, which is such a relief to any reader who desperately wants Elizabeth to tell Jane what happened, and later to a person who is surprisingly lucid—again, won’t ruin it for you!). This book names Mrs. Bennet, Fanny (we’ve seen that before—because it’s so silly to name a child after a posterior?) and Mr. Bennet, Tom.

(Side note: I suspect the author has seen Bride and Prejudice: Georgiana is Georgie, and Darcy is Will. Wickham impregnated, rather than just seduced, a young Georgie.)

At 110 pages, the story moves rapidly. Within the span of a few pages, our characters experience police stations, mansions, and shopping dates with future sisters-in-law. There are descriptive sexual scenes, many “visions,” and touching family interactions. Possibly the only less than delightful moments are the ones in which Avery has our characters watch Jane Austen adaptations on the BBC or Will take a snapshot of Elizabeth putting her hands in concrete Colin Firth handprints. There’s no logical way these characters could be watching their own story unfold—with characters sharing their very names—without understanding they are what they read or see. These details could have been eliminated, and we’d have a near perfect (several typos in my copy aside) 109 page treat for an evening in.

Mr. Darcy’s Daughters . . . a review in conversation

a 2003 review by Ms. Natasha Zwick and Mr. Collins (as voiced by Ms. Elizabeth Johnson)

Ms. Zwick: The most obvious temptation when reading Elizabeth Aston’s Mr. Darcy’s Daughters is to figure out which of the five Darcy daughters matches which of the five Bennet daughters, and which potential suitor and relative matches similar characters in Pride and Prejudice. Despite finding myself intrigued by the story itself, my greatest joy here was in being right in my predictions. But even I, self-declared master of P and P, made mistakes in my perhaps premature evaluations, which I suppose serves me right for enjoying my own brilliance, as opposed to Aston’s.

First, my successes: Camilla is Lizzy. Page one reveals she has “dark expressive eyes,” and we immediately know to trust her. She is the second daughter. Aston gives us Camilla’s feelings in free indirect discourse (we know her thoughts without anyone saying these are her thoughts), much as we get Lizzy’s—and they’re rational and feeling, though not always correct, especially with respect to two principal men, Mr. Wytton and Mr. Leigh. She has a sense of decorum, but it doesn’t force her to do things that she feels are wrong. She is witty, and prudes consider her dangerous.

Mr. Collins: You’re giving away too much. Who will read the book if you don’t control yourself now?

Ms. Zwick: Very well. I have brilliant commentary about Wytton, too, which I shall keep in check for the moment. Instead, my failures: I didn’t see the Sidney Leigh problem coming. I knew something was wrong, but on my first reading, I had no clue. On round two, I noticed some clues I felt that round one should have yielded me:  he is fashion-conscious, disapproving of moralistic clergymen, and not a hunter. He shudders when he thinks about Camilla being attracted to him and keeps notably handsome serving-men. Even Camilla, who falls for him, feels “chagrin” at his ease with women who are married, but of course, for the wrong reason. No wonder “gossip had never linked his name with any of the flightier high-born ladies in his circle”! Let every woman beware of men who always look good.

Mr. Collins: I pride myself on rarely attending to my external appearance.

Ms. Zwick: Austen would never have used this as a plot device, nor would she have used the now-insulting Biblical word to describe his behavior. There are disturbing implications: all of the characters, once they learn of Leigh’s behavior, are horrified (with the exception of Pagoda). Fitzwilliam wants him shot. The guy ends up moving to Italy for his own safety. How horrible to live in such times. That being said, Sidney Leigh was prepared to sacrifice poor Camilla’s happiness for the sake of an heir, deceiving her for her money and her “better than most women” company. So I have difficulty feeling pity for him as I normally would such a person.

Sidney, it almost needs not be said, is the Wickham figure—dashing, good-looking, smooth, spirited, knowledgeable about money and eager to discuss it, and cynical about marriage. He has sexual proclivities which overwhelm any concern for one of our heroines.

Mr. Collins: Excellent overview, Ms. Zwick. I have often noticed a tendency in well-educated women to make excellent points, though I sincerely hope our reading audience is entirely male.

Ms. Zwick: Aston introduces several other “changes” in her novel that Austen would not have used. Aston takes us into the club scene, so we finally hear the men talk. We see actual church scenes and hear about characters’ religious feelings. There is open anti-Europe sentiment. Aston moves some of the characters, including, of course, Darcy and Elizabeth, out of England, which Austen didn’t do with hers. Tom Busby has illegitimate red-headed children all over town—shocking! Miss Griffin writes a lurid novel—shocking!

Mr. Collins: Shocking indeed. Your own hair, Ms. Zwick, is decidedly modest and brown.

Ms. Zwick: Some of the changes are disturbing. How could Lizzy go to Constantinople after her own wise advice to Mr. Bennet about silly, improperly-chaperoned girls? Doesn’t she see what Georgiana and Belle are? Lizzy, unlike Camilla, would not have openly admired her footman’s “handsome calves.” Why so much emphasis on squished breasts in new dresses? And why did Fitzwilliam have to become so priggish? He was so affable in P and P, but here I can’t stand him. I could perhaps have allowed this to happen to Bingley, but to Fitz? He seemed to have such potential, but here he sounds frightening similar to everyone’s favorite villain, Lady Catherine de Bourgh! Oh horror!

Mr. Collins: Here I must disagree. Lady Catherine de Bourgh is the finest lady in all of Britain.

Ms. Zwick: Other changes are delightful. The Gardiners have finally come into money, but they are still their normal, charming selves. Their kid is a mess, but they know it. Lady Warren, the former Caroline Bingley, is hilariously wicked and ineffective, and the older Lydia is even more vulgar than before. Mrs. Rowan is a wonderful creation—delighted to be single, with a style of her own, and no shame in showing it to the world. The hunky but “imposingly vacant” Captain Allington is fun. And Alethea! This 16-year-old has to be the most intelligent, defiant and talented of any baby sister we’ve seen before. She takes no flack from anyone; she interrupts vile Lady Warren to rescue her older sister and pities Fitzwilliam for his musical ignorance.

Mr. Collins: Lady Catherine de Bourgh has often mentioned the evils of a defiant child. Althea should be spoken to about her nature immediately, Ms. Zwick.

Ms. Zwick: Fanny is an interesting character to place. In her desire to marry off her charges, she is distinctly Mrs. Bennet, but she’s so much more intelligent and sensitive (and not at all selfish). Letitia, too, troubled my mathematical mind that sought direct parallels between Aston’s characters and Austen’s (which, of course, is futile). Is she new? Is she Mr. Collins? Mary? Given to hyperbolics, Letty knows “herself to be in the right”—but is invariably not—intolerable! She reads boring tracts and makes public shows of it, but privately enjoys novels and other such intrigues. She is also the most beautiful, like Jane. I even thought she might be some mutant version of Elinor Dashwood trying to “control” and “curtail” her sisters’ passions while trying to mask her own.

Mr. Collins: I dare say that though repetition of old art is the safest kind of new art, neither has Ms. Aston successfully cloned me, nor could anyone.

Ms. Zwick: Characters aside, inevitably we compare P and P sequels’ opening lines to our favorite “It is a truth universally acknowledged” that every Janeite can recite in her sleep. Mr. Darcy’s Daughters begins: “Town and country are different worlds.” Though it would pale by comparison, Aston makes little attempt to duplicate Austen’s line here, instead modestly introducing a change in scene and conduct for the Darcy girls.  This is not Pemberley—and Aston is wise in this remove from what we know.  In shifting the scene, Aston enables readers to embrace new—many familiar—characters and situations without feeling disloyal to P and P and without making regular comparisons to the Pemberley we know, by which any modern work must suffer.

And Aston gives us some delightful lines. My favorites include:

“Politics are the ruin of any woman’s dinners.”

“Kittens were all very well in their way, were it not that they had an unfortunate tendency to grow into cats.”

And of course . . . “All men shed their morals with their breeches.”

Waiting for Mr. Darcy by Chamein Canton

This is the tale of three friends, the Austen aristocrats, who bonded in school over their plus-sized figures and their love of Jane Austen and who, in their late 40s, have found or tried to find love like that between Darcy and Elizabeth in their own lives. One found her Darcy—and lost him to cancer. The other two have yet to experience anything approaching the real deal.  Alicia has MS and a cooking show that makes her want to keep her illness a secret. Lauren is a producer and the separated wife of a philandering football star. Gabby is a hip art gallery owner. Alicia and Lauren are African-American, which matters only in that this book reminds us that Austen speaks to all of us, regardless of race or religion, and regardless of whether, in our race or religion, we could have lived anything resembling the lives of an Austen heroine in Austen’s own time. It is a thought that has occurred to me many times, and I found this twist strangely comforting for that reason.

The dedication is so hopeful and yet simultaneously annoying as it suggests that a reader hasn’t yet met her own Mr. Darcy because her eyes are closed to what is standing before her.  That seeming paradox recurs throughout the text. The tale is gripping and feels like such a “regular” novel that this reader did a double-take when a character quoted Emma in a conversation about her own celibacy. But then, Lauren misunderstands the famous opening line of P and P and tries to modify it as: “a woman in possession of a good fortune must be in want and need of a husband, too.” Groan.  How can an Austen expert not know that Austen’s use of “want” in that line MEANS “need”? Alicia, too, stains her Austen credentials when she describes her affection for “that sexy pre-Victorian/Victorian way of romance.” Victorian?! The text has some very funny lines (e.g. SPF is “essentially long sleeves in a tube”), but is a little too obvious in some of its maneuvering (a character crosses her legs in a car, the car swerves because the driver glances at the legs, and she immediately realizes to herself “I guess my legs look better than I thought”). I cared about the characters, each of whom is experiencing some sort of life trouble and new romance, but the dark moments are brief and not frightening enough. There are no real delays in mutual understanding (nothing approaching the real Elizabeth/Darcy  dark period), and all the problems get resolved neatly and quickly.

But I liked it anyway .

Bargain with the Devil by Enid Wilson

Well, this is a weird twist: the covers, both back and front, suggest that Darcy is, in fact, the devil, and that Elizabeth is forced by events to make a bargain with him. Though the text does begin that way, the bargain about which the title speaks is more literally with the devil, and it’s not Elizabeth doing the bargaining.

The story begins with a meeting in a London park as Elizabeth asks Darcy for help in finding Lydia. He asks what she’ll do for him in return, and, if a bite is any suggestion, the favors will merit the title of the website of this writer (www.steamydarcy.com).

The text uses a lot of original Pride and Prejudice language but, more often than not, not in the same context or even by the same character who utters the words in the original (e.g.: Elizabeth says the “I never knew myself” line directly to Darcy this time). This version of Darcy makes several grammatical errors (Bingley “will invite my sister and I to journey to Hertfordshire,” and Elizabeth could “return the favour and invite my sister and I to Longbourne”)—object pronouns in particular seem to give him trouble—and some of the scenes of passion are a bit disturbing inasmuch as they involve Darcy forcing himself on Elizabeth (and Elizabeth enjoying it). At one point, for instance, he squeezes her breast and then kisses her hard to muffle her scream.

This is not Austen’s Darcy.

Elizabeth fares a bit better, but even she is transformed, and, arguably, deformed by this text into someone more interested in a man than in her own family. When her father falls ill, she leaves him with the Gardiners while she secretly joins Darcy on a dangerous mission, after he has already told her to stay away. Upon the sad end of that affair, she is thinking more about her evening with Darcy than about the family member of hers who will never be the same.

The words Wilson gives these creatures may, indeed, be Austen’s, but these are not her characters.

The plot is exciting if not quite believable (it’s one thing for a small village to believe in witchcraft but quite another for witchcraftt to work!), but it was a fun little book for a weekend.

Darcy’s Story by Janet Aylmer

The premise is intriguing: What was Darcy thinking? What were Darcy’s motivations for his actions? What is . . . Darcy’s story?

Janet Aylmer finally tells us all—or some, anyway.

The story begins before Wickham seduced Georgiana, and we get a lot of interesting background that could easily work with what we know from Pride and Prejudice. George Wickham, for instance, was named for his godfather, George Darcy, our Darcy’s dad. Georgiana doesn’t really like Caroline Bingley. Darcy mentally compares Lydia to Georgiana when Lydia demands that Bingley throw a ball.

Despite some interesting set-ups, for the first several chapters, the text feels alternately as though the narrator is explaining things to us (such as lines we already understand), and as though we’re reading a less perfect version of the story we already know and love. In fact, the best lines of Darcy’s Story are Austen’s, and we have already read almost entire chunks of this story.

Another weakness is that there are “revelations” that feel a bit inappropriate, like Elizabeth’s refusal to dance with Darcy at Netherfield exciting him, and an absence of revelations where we might benefit from some (for instance, what was Darcy thinking when Louisa and Caroline mock Elizabeth at Netherfield?)

But if a reader is patient, this story has some little gems awaiting discovery. Darcy’s view of Caroline Bingley, for instance, is brilliant wit: he “reflected to himself that she would not be an easy companion to any man.” The Netherfield Ball now reveals why Darcy looks so upset: he sees Lydia and Denny and Elizabeth and knows they’re talking about him and Wickham. There is the suggestion that Wickham has been performing his seduction of 15-year olds for some time. Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bennet start to build their relationship at Netherfield—talking about books. Aylmer explains how it happens that Darcy returns to Pemberley before he is expected—a day before his sister, and several days before his guests. There’s a great image in Darcy’s mind of him strolling across the Pemberley green with Elizabeth—just before it actually occurs. The well-versed reader has much irony to savor here.

And, best of all, Aylmer flushes out Darcy’s relationship with Georgiana. It is through his confiding in his sister that Darcy comes to understand that he did wrong by Elizabeth in his first proposal. It is best, she tells him, a la Hillel and later Jesus, to “treat people  . . . with the politeness and consideration with which you would wish them to treat you” (but, of course, phrased as tentative question because of the nature of their relationship). Their relationship, and, in fact, all his coping after we see him propose disastrously, are skillfully handled here.

There are many good lines, and several of them don’t come directly from Austen but are clearly inspired by her. “There can,” Darcy thinks, “be no better way of appreciating the sufferings of those whose hearts have really been touched by love than by having the same affliction yourself.” Indeed, we now understand that Darcy leaves Meryton just as Bingley prepares to propose because he can’t bear to watch their joy in light of his own failed attempts to achieve it.

And Lady Catherine’s visit to Darcy AFTER her scene with Elizabeth is just tremendous fun, as is finally getting to hear what the “asking for her hand” conversation between Mr. Bennet and Mr. Darcy sounds like. These heretofore hidden scenes, when combined with an Austen-ish flair in dialogue, make Darcy’s Story a worthwhile read.

The Politically Incorrect Guide to English and American Literature by Elizabeth Kantor, Ph.D.

The Politically Incorrect Guide to English and American Literature

by Elizabeth Kantor, Ph.D.

When my brother first gave me this book in the PIG series, I had little suspicion that I would be tempted to review it for this publication. The time given to Austen, however, and the strong sense of the writer that Austen, and the great literature of which she is a part, is key to civilization, merits at least a cursory review here. The premise of this work is, essentially, that many leftist centers of higher learning have eschewed the teaching of canon literature in favor of theory-based “readings” that, when all is said and done, demean the works of literature that come from patriarchal, racist, homophobic, and otherwise problematic eras and cultures. Dr. Kantor argues that theory-based instruction robs students not only of the pleasure of reading the stories on which Western civilization was founded, but also of the “moral education” we so desperately need.

Jane Austen gets a lot of space in this book. Kantor blasts the often-touted claim among people who simply don’t understand what Austen is saying, that the patriarchal system is what oppresses women, who need to break free from it. As we know, Austen was a religious Tory, a person who valued order and making the best use of the system to find true happiness. She mocks ridiculousness and smallness of moral stature in individuals, but she does not mock the system that holds this society together. Kantor persuasively argues, in fact, that, in Austen’s works, the “chief causes of women’s unhappiness” are “the failure of female self-control, on the one hand, and men’s abdication of their proper responsibilities, on the other.”

Kantor offers fresh and compelling evidence for her views about Austen’s perspective, and, to the delight of Janeites everywhere, regardless of political standpoint, uses Austen as a touchstone for moral education throughout the text. The conclusion of the book, which offers both an easy-to-digest review of the “greats” in English and several strategies for how to engage in literary analysis despite the current focus in education on “contextualizing,” is a fitting return to Austen. Kantor encourages us to gossip with our friends about the characters we meet in novels and plays we share, and to treat these characters “as if they were real people”—because “that’s just what Jane Austen did.” Good enough reason for me.

The Confession of Fitzwilliam Darcy by Mary Street

The Confession of Fitzwilliam Darcy by Mary Street

I hardly thought Darcy had much to “confess,” but, in a delightful, insightful manner, Street delivers his perspective here on the events we see from Elizabeth’s angle in Pride and Prejudice. Darcy begins by thinking of Elizabeth much as his aunt later will, as a woman employing some sort of evil art to capture his attention. He misunderstands a light sarcastic remark she makes to her family, and that mistaken first impression sets the scene for the errors in judgment he makes with respect to snubbing her at the assembly rooms.

There are a few details with which I might quibble before sharing everything I enjoyed here. First, Street has a comment about Darcy not enjoying dancing, but I always understood him as enjoying dancing only with the right partner; he certainly doesn’t dislike it with Elizabeth, even here. Street also has Darcy deliberately insult Elizabeth as “tolerable” within her hearing range, which seems too cruel for his character to me, even given his assumptions about Elizabeth’s character and motives. When Wickham and Darcy see each other in Meryton for the first time in the book, Street says the color drained from Darcy’s face. Wouldn’t that make his, then, the face that turned white, and Wickham’s the one that turned red? I had always read the colors as being fear/shock of Wickham (white) and anger of Darcy (red). Wickham would be unlikely to blush, and Street even says later how angry Darcy is, so . . . What is the usual reading of this passage? The text offers other thought-provoking additions, and a few strange ones, including Darcy’s belief that Elizabeth stayed home from Rosings (on the occasion of the first proposal) hoping he could find her alone to propose.

Street fills in some very interesting gaps that I had never really contemplated as “missing” before. The Bingley sisters, for instance, actually think Mr. Bennet showed less desperation than the other fathers who rushed to welcome Bingley to the neighborhood on behalf of their unmarried daughters—because Mr. Bennet, after all, had five single daughters of whom to dispose, and he bides his time. The opening scene of P &P, then, reveals Mr. Bennet’s wisdom in the delay that so torments his wife. Street also nicely explains why Darcy went to the assembly rooms in the first place if he was so uncomfortable with strangers assessing him based on net worth; he goes to avoid staying home alone with Caroline Bingley, who, he assumes, would stay at Netherfield with him were he to refuse to go with Bingley. He is all too aware of how his wealth and status invite female calculation, and many of his seeming rude behaviors stem from that awkwardness and desire to avoid women who want his money. Darcy here actually has a reason to refuse to dance with Elizabeth, but he realizes the error of his first impression within a few visits.

Street also provides some explanation for why Darcy admits he admires Elizabeth’s fine eyes to Caroline Bingley, of all people; he does so to discourage Caroline, whom he notices fawning over him. Street explains why the Bingley sisters invite Jane to dine with them; it isn’t just, as Caroline writes, so that she and Louisa will not kill each other from sheer boredom, but rather to inquire of Jane who her more distant relations are, as they assess her suitability for their brother. Once Elizabeth is staying at Netherfield, Darcy picks on Bingley about Bingley’s supposed boast of his speed in all things; it never occurred to me to question Darcy’s being a bit harsh to his friend, or Bingley teasing Darcy. Street makes it all clear: Darcy is jealous of Elizabeth’s warm praise for Bingley, and Bingley is trying to impress Elizabeth. Later, Georgiana is particularly shy when she first meets Elizabeth because Colonel Fitzwilliam has told her that Darcy told Elizabeth of Georgiana’s indiscretion with Wickham.

The scenes between only men are always new to an Austen sequel, and here some of them are quite interesting, particularly the one in which Darcy reads a letter from Lady Catherine, mistakenly understands that Elizabeth accepted Mr. Collins’ proposal, and snaps rudely at Bingley for no reason that Bingley can discern. When Darcy sits with his sister, Elizabeth, and Bingley’s sisters while Georgiana plays piano, it had never occurred to me to question where Bingley and Mr. Hurst were, but Street has them fishing, and has Darcy take leave of them only briefly. We also see Darcy with Georgiana, as she begins to deduce that her brother has, at the very least, a very strong crush. Even the Bingley sisters get some extra time—for good—when they return from Longbourne after having invited the Bennets to the Netherfield Ball with the news about how Mr. Collins is connected to Darcy. They decide not to tell him, to save the good joke for the ball, which explains how Darcy doesn’t know who Mr. Collins is when the latter introduces himself so comically at the ball. Of course Bingley and his sisters must have already met Mr. Collins, but the thought had not occurred to me (maybe because the BBC handles it differently .

In essence, Street provides logical explanations for parts of the story to which we have incomplete information in our favorite classic, everything from why Darcy goes to Lambton (at the moment when Elizabeth learns about Lydia’s elopement) to how much exactly Colonel Fitzwilliam knows about Georgiana, Wickham, Elizabeth, and Darcy. Street also provides parallels, such as Darcy needing to reject one offer of marriage (Lady Catherine’s, of Anne) to please one parent (his father) while upsetting the other (his mother, at least according to Lady Catherine), much as Elizabeth rejects Mr. Collins, to her father’s relief and her mother’s chagrin. Street also provides some good fun, such as the comment Darcy makes about standing Caroline Bingley and Elizabeth next to each other before a mirror and seeing how Miss Bingley fares, or the glorious second kiss.

You’ll have to read it to see for yourself.

Harry Potter’s Bookshelf by John Granger

I wanted this book anyway because I’m also a moderate fan of the Harry Potter series, but chapter 2, entitled “Pride and Prejudice with Wands: How Jane Austen Haunts the Heart and Soul of Rowling’s Artistry,” sealed the deal. Rowling has apparently said that her “big three” favorite writers are “Nabokov, Collette, and Austen,” and Granger’s goal here is to explore “the various streams of the English literary tradition in which [Granger] lives and writes.”  To do so, Granger employs what he calls the “iconological” reading of the Potter books, which “assumes that writers are writing for the readers’ edifying transformation rather than for pure, mindless entertainment.” Given Austen’s social satire, I think most of her regular readers would agree that she’d like us to learn something about how to behave and how better to judge other people’s behavior, while we are deliciously entertained.

Prior to reading Granger’s book, I had not realized how many Austen references and allusions there are in the HP books. Most of us picked up on the direct dis of Fanny Price’s Aunt Norris through Rowling’s naming an annoying cat after her, but how many of you, educated readers, made the parallel between Ms. Rowling’s “stunning end-of-story surprises” and the end of Emma as resulting from the third person limited omniscient narration, which makes the reader think we’re seeing everything because the protagonist isn’t the narrator? Rowling apparently believes that the surprise ending of Emma is “the best twist ever in literature,” but she uses Pride and Prejudice, too. In the Harry Potter books, “the obstacles to the successful resolution” of all the problems “are essentially prejudice.” Harry, like Emma, and like Elizabeth and Darcy, must overcome his own faulty assumptions in order to make things right.

Austen appears throughout this text even if only one chapter is officially named for her, and reading it was like a fun ride through literary history. Granger reviews complicated terms (doppelganger, anyone?), purposes of various forms of literature (satire’s is “to invite the reader to laugh at a particular human vice or folly, in order to invite us to consider an important moral alternative”), and a whole lot of books whose influence extends to the Harry Potter series. When Granger explains allusions, they suddenly seem so obvious we feel silly not having noticed them—or not now remembering that we had noticed them—while reading.  Granger analyzes J.K. Rowling’s interviews and statements with reverence for her achievement rather than for the person herself, and most importantly, he has helped me devise some homework for myself:

Reread Plato. Try to stay awake this time.

Consider Dostoyevsky, even if he was an anti-Semite.

Assess for myself whether Enid Blyton appeals to Americans or just to the British.

Find C.S. Lewis’ Preface to Paradise Lost.

Read David Hume to contemplate how vast the gulf is between him and Austen.

Sanditon, Jane Austen’s Masterpiece Completed

I had all but forgotten how charming Sanditon is. The distinct and contrasting personalities of the straightforward Mr. Heywood and the polite but hasty, dramatic, Bingley-esque visitor, Mr. Parker, leap from the page in chapter 1. Parker’s leg, he says, gives him no pain when he “is quiet,” but that almost never happens when first we meet him. Austen is in fine form here, ridiculing the silly. Mr. Heywood has relatively brief moments of speech (akin to Mr. Bennet’s compared with his lady’s in chapter 1 of P and P); Mrs. Parker gets no word in here at all. We are left with quite a first impression of this man with “more imagination than judgment.”

Austen gives us many of her trademark comic treats here—free indirect discourse, juxtaposition of direct characterization with contradictory statements by the characters in question, and some great axiomatic lines. In chapter 3, we learn that “every neighborhood should have a great lady,” an axiom Shapiro picks up later with several key twists. We are also told that “those who tell their own story, you know, must be listened to with caution.”

This is Austen at her funniest. There are several reminders of earlier works. Austen hints at Northanger Abbey with a man who scorns novels (and plans to abscond with an innocent woman), in the tradition of John Thorpe. Persuasion’s Mary Musgrove’s hypochondria finds even more devotees in the three Parker siblings who spend more time discussing their ailments than actually suffering from them. Even when the Austen section ends, the hints at other works appear, such as the topaz crucifix (though Fanny’s was a cross) Miss Lambe wears, and the comments on “the intimacy of whispering” that reminds us of Emma asking Mr. Elton to refrain from sharing such a thing with her.

This vivacious Austen shares with us actual words of thoughts of the heroine in a way that feels new. The narrator tells us, for instance, that “the words ‘unaccountable officiousness!’ and ‘activity run mad!’ had just passed through Charlotte’s mind. Is there another work in which she directly tells us the words with which the heroine thinks? Initially, the reader appreciating this wit at its freshest experiences sadness when Austen’s text stops and Shapiro’s text begins. One of Austen’s last images is of a happy mother walking with her friend and her own little girl, and one can’t help but wonder if Austen wished that type of happiness for herself, and what she must have been feeling in her last weeks alive.

It seems fitting, then, as we prepare emotionally for a transition, that our heroine, Charlotte Heywood, stumbles upon trouble. Because of her emotional maturity, she knows she is falling in love with Sidney, but, despite her emotional maturity, she makes a huge error in judgment with respect to understanding his feelings for her. That said, the misunderstanding between Charlotte and Sidney happens too quickly—as does her realization of her own mistake—to be completely believable. The characters need more time with the suffering to make the resolution sufficiently rewarding for the reader! Charlotte’s sudden awareness of her feelings and the situation feel like a sped-up version of Elizabeth Bennet’s “till this moment, I never knew myself.” The second proposal, too, seems a bit too close to Pride and Prejudice (certainly a good model for any such story, but obvious to readers who know Austen’s work).

Shapiro makes departures from Austen, some that work, and some that don’t. She makes the interesting choice to have the hero and heroine reunite significantly before the rest of the story is resolved. Many a sub-conflict needs to be unraveled after Charlotte and Sidney are secure, including a seemingly oddly-placed Rapunzel-like story (Rosamunde), Maisie’s real background (does she remind anyone at first of Molly, Jaggers’ maid in Great Expectations?), and a death scene that brings everything together (and occurs with jocularity, rather than with real sadness). Shapiro does more than repeat Austen’s own aphorisms; she also adds her own, sometimes successfully (it is merely latecomers’ “lack of punctuality that affords them undue allure”) and sometimes less so (“What a monstrous dictator money is!”—too strong and direct for Austen. She’d have one character comment upon another’s mercenary motives rather than have the narrator directly rail against society’s ills.). The narrator often speaks directly to the reader, and sometimes even about her task as the writer (“I must confess I do not like the idea of writing for such dull elves”). Austen does that in Northanger Abbey, but not afterward, so this seems an odd choice for the last-written work, unless Shapiro intends to have Austen’s oeuvre come full circle.

More likely, however, Shapiro brings Austen’s work from the neoclassicist era in which all the novels are grounded to the Romantic one, in which a scene of nature inspires individual rapture. Sanditon, beginning with Mr. Parker’s solo rhapsodies, but including nearly all its inhabitants by the final chapter, is clearly such a place, and Shapiro bridges the periods with this delightful continuation of Austen’s final fragment.

Austenland by Shannon Hale

This book takes a new twist on Austen in our world. Our heroine, Jane, is 32, and has “learned to love from Austen,” as all normal 32-single women have. She, unlike any heroine I’ve reviewed in these columns, is sent by a deceased relative (in a will) to Austenland, a world located physically in modern England but socially in Jane Austen’s England. There, actors are employed to give (mostly married, looking for a little adventure) women some fun on holiday.

The story begins with a great intro to Colin Firth, and the prologue even captured my favorite moment in the BBC P&P—when Darcy looks at Elizabeth over the piano after she has just rescued Georgiana from embarrassment at the hands of Caroline Bingley. One of this book’s best attributes, really, is its ability to make every fan of the novels, of the customs of the time, of real love, and of Colin Firth, feel we are not alone; we, in fact, have real camaraderie and shared values with an unseen number of women, and possibly men. We feel vindicated when the heroine says something that reminds us so much of our favorite adaptation (e.g. “that’s a fair prospect”), that it really is an allusion to the film, and not our own obsession inventing allusions that aren’t there.

Jane’s goal at the beginning of the book is to be “perfectly normal” and, rather than hide the BBC version in the plants when guests come over, to have the strength of will to toss it once and for all. It is obvious she has a lot to learn about what “normal” is.

And learn she does. Though the heroine knows what part she is playing before she decides to play it, she—and we—has/have a lot to learn about who Darcy, Edmund, Colonel Fitzwilliam, Captain Wentworth, etc. really are, if they exist at all. She knows how to handle women; she even goes along immediately with the claim of “Miss Charming,” a 50ish woman, that she is just 22, a decade younger than Jane. There are traces of Sense and Sensibility (Uncle John has a cottage, but this Uncle John is a bit of a letch) and Persuasion (the jilted military man who comes back rich), and Mansfield Park (the quiet man who thinks play-acting inappropriate entertainment in the home of a lady while the husband is away), but there are so many possible links to stories that the sensible Austen reader begins to see plot links to Austen that don’t actually develop! Is Martin Wickham? Is Nobley Darcy? Edmund? Is Captain East Fitzwilliam? Wentworth? Colonel Brandon? It’s enough to drive a reader near mad—or at least to keep her up at night reading when she should be getting her beauty sleep.

The text seems to suggest that the Austenland experience prepares a woman for an imperfect man—a description of each of her lifetime boyfriends is scattered through the text and provides a fascinating psychological study—and Jane concludes at one point near the end that “fantasy is the opiate of women.”

I was horrified. But, much to my relief, there is a neat plot twist at the end (I shan’t reveal it here) that argues otherwise. We can keep our BBC P&P on the shelves with our other DVDs, we can keep Darcy in our hearts, and, if we’re very lucky, we can find some version of him in the real world.

This time, when I got all choked up at the end, I think it was more than joy for our heroine and a longing for my own happiness in love. This time, I took comfort in having such a bond with countless women and men who want real love and a world in which to enjoy it. For many of us, that seems more likely in Austenland than in our own, but the point really is that Austenland can be our own world—if we let it be.

Mr. Darcy Presents His Bride by Helen Halstead

This sequel begins with a threatening letter from Lady Catherine (Elizabeth feeds it to the goats) and a loving embrace (verbally, from Mr. Bennet, and physically, from Darcy).

Halstead seems less than confident that her readers know their Austen. She doesn’t use Kitty and Mary’s names in chapter 1 (as though we don’t know them yet), and she makes a few changes to characters that don’t necessarily jibe with how we remember them.  Mrs. Bennet, in a twist of strange discernment, quickly realizes that Georgiana is shy, rather than arrogant. Later, she calls Elizabeth “Daughter,” which she certainly doesn’t do in P & P. Elizabeth asks Mrs. Hurst to make sure Kitty stays away from redcoats in Scarborough. Mr. Hurst is sometimes articulate (did he even speak a full sentence in P &P?), and Caroline speaks oddly to Jane (with lines like “Dearest Jane, you are not tired, my love?”).  Occasionally, there is a line that jumps out as distinctly NOT something Austen would say.  When Jane cleverly separates Mary from Elizabeth, the narrator says, “Jane was splendid.” Far more egregious, however, is the uncouth narratorial comment following Mary Bennet’s first view of Pemberley. The text says, “’It is very large . . .’ answered that upright virgin.”

Along with changes, however, come some new ways of looking at things. Caroline Bingley, for instance, becomes, as much as is possible, a sympathetic character when we get her age (24) and when she rejects a proposal of marriage from a wealthy widower because “when he seize[s] her hand, “ she is “filled with revulsion.” She is actually kind to Georgiana and distracts everyone when Georgiana inadvertently reveals her feelings for a man and blushes. We get a new first name for Mr. Bennet (John), a clever strategy for getting what she wants from her husband by Charlotte (she tells him she has been thinking about what he said earlier—he, of course never said any such thing—and has decided that he was right), and Anne de Bourgh uses her backbone in a most delightful way! (Apparently, there is some spirit in those genes because Anne’s uncle, Lord Maddersfield, is delightfully encouraging of Anne’s bravery, even as he reassures Lady Catherine that he simply cannot get Anne to listen to him.) For the first time that I recall, perspiration and its corresponding odor is mentioned; perhaps most modern readers like to imagine Regency England sans its warts, but Halstead doesn’t allow us that luxury. Thus, we watch with curiosity as the London Ton embraces or rejects Elizabeth Darcy, but we also must watch the Hursts show shockingly little interest in their first born son.

Most interestingly, Halstead develops the relationships among the Bennet sisters in new ways. Mary has become cruel, wielding her Bible as she tells Elizabeth that all tragedies result from human imperfection as divine punishment (but Mrs. Bennet threatens to slap Mary, which seems not in line with Austen’s development of that character). Lydia offends Kitty, who is finally learning to be better. Kitty probably offends Lydia (though we don’t see Lydia’s reaction) with her rhetorical question:  “Can you imagine what it would be like to be married to a man who pursues other women? I should hate it, should not you?” Kitty and Elizabeth have a frank talk in which nothing is off the table, including the effect of Mr. Bennet’s words on Kitty over the years, and Elizabeth’s awareness of her last place finish in her mother’s affections. Kitty’s fate is very different than you might imagine, but its placement in the story helps balance out some of the heavy-handedness in the Caroline Bingley engagement (it is too obvious that the situation is not what it appears to everyone else to be) and in the destruction of the statue of the muse (symbolism that screams its own significance). Austen’s special skill is her subtle humor, and Halstead demonstrates it well here in some places (such as the Lady Catherine epistle) and not so well in others.

There are also several connections to other Austen works. Lord Bradford, for instance, experiences something akin to Edmund Bertram’s feelings when his older brother Tom, who stands to inherit Mansfield Park, is so ill he may lose it. Though she doesn’t pursue it with the same relentless drive, Elizabeth, too, is drawn to a little Emma-esque matchmaking; she, however, having already been suitably matched herself, does so more subtly than the other heroine.

And Mr. Bennet reads carefully through the marriage articles to make sure Elizabeth is protected in case she is widowed before producing a male heir; it’s just what my dad would do, but more to the point, it is perfectly in keeping with Austen’s Mr. Bennet. Halstead does here what a sequel writer should do: embrace Austen and do her very best to write a story that keeps the reader engaged in the characters’ lives without violating their essence.  Though she doesn’t do so perfectly here, I enjoyed the read and can recommend it to my faithful readers.

The Other Mr. Darcy by Monica Fairview

Why are so many writers determined to find love for Caroline Bingley? She’s so horrible in Pride and Prejudice! Is it an extreme desire to have a happy ending for all? Why not a little love story for Lady Catherine then? Wait—I lay claim to that idea. Or is it that Caroline is smart, and we have a natural sympathy for her and want to believe that, really, she has a good heart?

Whatever Fairview’s reasons are, this Caroline Bingley is not the one we love to hate. This book opens with Caroline sobbing because “her Mr. Darcy” has preferred and thus married Elizabeth Bennet. In Pride and Prejudice, of course, Miss Bingley sought to marry Darcy for his wealth and status, so his choosing another should not logically feel to her like her heart is “breaking.” In P & P, Jane Bennet/Bingley finally understands that Bingley’s genuine kindness is very different from anything residing in his sisters; here, however, Jane wants Caroline’s company at Pemberley (where they are travelling to provide comfort to Elizabeth who, in yet another text, struggles to conceive and carry an heir). There are several references here to the plan to separate Jane from Bingley in P & P being entirely Darcy’s, despite our knowledge of Caroline and Louisa’s role. Why the changes? Because making us like Caroline (which we can only do if Fairview changes her from what she is in Austen’s novel) is a prerequisite to Caroline’s finding a happy romantic ending—and for us wanting her to find it.

Fairview’s strategy is fairly simple: in addition to altering a few facts from the original, Fairview adds some details to make sense of Caroline’s reserve and coldness.  We learn about her parents (close bond with her father who was “made” a gentleman by the mother’s desire to inhabit that part of society and who was unable to marry the woman he really loved), her education (her instructor told her to flatter men constantly, which fails her with Darcy), and her instincts for self-protection. Fairview also tones down Elizabeth’s spunk here to enable Caroline to shine a bit. Elizabeth is unwell for most of the text, and even when we see her, her comments are uncharacteristic at times (she actually reacts to a reasonable concern about her desire to travel with “Fiddlesticks”), and she does not joke nearly so much as we would hope (especially about Caroline’s increased attentions to her). The most significant part of the strategy is that Fairview has shifted most of Caroline’s vituperative spite and mean littleness to her sister, Louisa, a new widow who speaks and behaves much less well here than she does in P & P, which isn’t saying much. Louisa absorbs the “yuck” factor, so Caroline can be a likeable heroine. Louisa is shockingly more like Lydia than any other character, and we expect more based on her age and supposedly correspondent maturity.

Mostly, it works. Fairview invites comparisons between Caroline and Elizabeth, the heroine who got the first Mr. Darcy, on several occasions. She is embarrassed by the poor etiquette of a silly sister. She thinks she despises a man who actually is just the one for her. She contemplates marrying Colonel Fitzwilliam. She even says something she really shouldn’t have said (or thought) and wounds Darcy #2 because of it. He, in response to her refusal to think well of him says, “This, then, is your opinion of me!”

Darcy #2, by the way, is our Darcy’s cousin. He’s American and believes in the values of laughter, freedom, and marrying for love; in short, he’s Elizabeth (besides the American part). That similarity facilitates an interesting parallel between a conversation here and a pivotal one in P &P. Here, American Darcy and Caroline argue about what constitutes a gentleman (versus a lady); Elizabeth’s role is played quite well by the new Darcy, who begins his work on Caroline, much as Elizabeth (but less deliberately) began hers on Darcy—through laughter. The text says that with one such episode, “some of the ice inside [Caroline] began to crack.”

When finally she thaws, she—and we—find a resolution that is perhaps not entirely suitable for the original Caroline Bingley, but nonetheless fulfilling for this new one.

Captain Wentworth’s Persuasion by Regina Jeffers

In the dramatic opening chapters of this sequel/prequel/retelling of Persuasion from Frederick’s point of view, he gets shot by an American assisting the French—just as he finally has enough money to purchase an estate for himself and Anne.  They are in love as ever.  Then we leave “future” Anne and Frederick and travel back in time to when they first met. This version of the lives of our Persuasion characters cuts in and out of various periods of their lives, making connections between what is happening now and what in the past inspired it. Anne’s rejection, for instance, spurred Frederick’s determination to advance, and that advancement enables the rest of the story to occur as it does.

Though Jeffers sometimes ruins moments with jarringly modern, or at least seemingly modern, turns of expression (“up close and personal,” 52, “a real trooper,” 220, “hook me up,” 175, “hands on types,” 362), for the most part, this was a compelling read, offering new details both about the past to which Austen alludes, and about the future, which she leaves largely unchartered. Most readers of Persuasion will, I think, enjoy learning what Frederick is thinking when our favorite scenes (such as when Frederick insists Anne ride home with Admiral and Mrs. Croft) are happening, and certainly they will love watching his clever sister, Sophie, figure out where his interests lie much earlier than we know she does for sure in the original. Jeffers successfully develops the relationship between Frederick and his brother, Edward, the only person who really knows what happened with Anne and its long-term effects on Frederick. It becomes a relief to the reader to have Frederick finally have someone to whom to talk openly, almost as much as it is for Frederick to unburden himself.

When, finally, Anne and Frederick reconnect, Jeffers suggests that, in this reunion, they are “more exquisitely happy” than they would have been had things worked out when Anne was 19; is that why the resolution of Persuasion strikes such a deep chord with readers? All Austen’s novels provide delayed gratification, but a much more delayed one exists in this novel than in any of the other five. The delay after the wedding is, no doubt, not Jeffers’ fault but almost absurd: the couple has been waiting a long time to be alone legitimately, but after the morning ceremony, they have to spend all day traveling, eating, and shopping—and then he is bound to take drinks with the men while she nervously bathes. Odd, odd tradition. In this version, at least, we really get to see what happens to them next (after that first night), and Jeffers is clearly having fun with this, often at Sir Walter’s expense. Though Lady Russell reveals that Sir Walter and Anne’s mother, Elizabeth, married for love, he is not redeemed enough in our eyes that we feel at all sorry for him with the twist that will really bunch up Mary Musgrove’s knickers as well.

That twist sufficiently compensates for some awkward language (the pre-consummation of the union dialogue included) and situations (Jane Austen is Anne’s favorite writer, but she claims that Austen’s books argue that the “economic structure . . . paralyzed [their] efforts for independent thinking,” which doesn’t seem to me to be Austen’s argument). A jarring grammatical error also bothered me: Frederick asks Anne to “come lay next” to him, and she responds that she “will lay” with him. (I just taught my freshmen the difference between “lie” and “lay,” so presumably Frederick and Anne should have learned it by now.) To her credit, Jeffers has selected an excerpt from various poems that compose our literary canon with which to begin each chapter (I didn’t actually even attempt to connect each snippet to the events of the chapter, but I liked rereading some of my favorite snippets).

Finally, Sophie Croft is 35?! I always imagined her as a much older woman. I don’t know if I should feel inspired, surprised, or just depressed J.

My BFF: A Friendly Romance by Ruth Phillips Oakland

I already miss reading this book.  I’m a little embarrassed to say so, given the somewhat salacious content of it, but I must be forthright with you, my faithful readers.

The flaws first. There are spelling and grammar mistakes. I’m not sure how, in our digital world, this keeps happening, but this book contains several errors that the writer should not have written and that the editor(s) should have caught before publication. Among them, a run-on sentence with “however” used in lieu of “but” (p. 32), a singular possessive instead of a plural (“Gardiner’s,” p. 66), the wrong “affect” (versus “effect,” p. 25), and a contracted “it’s” instead of possessive (“for it’s safekeeping,” p. 256). I found myself distracted from this juicy tale by errors. (By the way, the two sentence fragments in this paragraph are there by design, for purposes of style. It was not my sense that the errors that halted my enjoyment of scenes in this book were there for similar reasons.) In addition to errors in language, I found some of the situations awkward, uncomfortable, and creepy. Darcy’s playful teasing of Georgiana about her losing her virginity is among those situations, as is Mrs. Reynolds appearing in the dark to usher lovers into their bedroom. Problem #3 is the overuse of footnotes. While some were compelling and others just mildly interesting, they, like the grammar errors, distract from the story and became annoying. Do we really need a precise definition of “flatware” in the middle of the story? The most egregious flaw with this text involves over-the-top, hyperbolic, or clichéd expressions, including “This man was a studmuffin if ever there was one” (169), “dressed for battle” (p. 23), “could not help but fall to the floor with laughter” (p. 31), and “his eyes seemed to devour her soul” (30). Yuck.

Despite all its troubles, this book was hard to put down. It opens with young Darcy having been tricked by a scheming, clever woman and then being shamed by, and in front of, his family and his community. Though his father protects him as much as possible from Lady Catherine (who is trying to control them both), Darcy vows never to let that happen again. To prevent himself from falling in love and getting hurt, he turns to high-end prostitution in lieu of real relationships, and until he meets Elizabeth Bennet, thinks this arrangement is perfectly fulfilling.

By the time we meet him again in chapter 2, he has become rather a jerk, redeemed only by his love for his sister and his cousins. This is also when Elizabeth first meets him. She is an award-winning musician and professor with a body about which Darcy can’t stop fantasizing. She, too, has some pain and secrecy in her past, alluded to early on as a scandal with a “Billy Ray Collins,” who is now in jail.

Lest this review do anything but whet your appetite to read this book, suffice it to say that there are twists and turns in the plot that will surprise and delight and horrify any hot-blooded reader. As Oakland surprises us with parallel struggles in our hero and heroine, she gives us a lot of fun watching them become “BFF”s (best friends forever). She names characters after many Jane Austen characters (Thorpe is an errand boy, Harville and Benwick are bodyguards, Mr. Knightley is a doctor, Lucy Steele is a porn star, etc) and also some Bronte ones (Edward Rochester, Thornton), and she incorporates into this modern tale several Pride and Prejudice lines, often spoken by a different character and in a different context. Reading becomes a treasure hunt: what names or lines will appear next? What new significance will they assume? (ex: Mrs. Bennet’s exaggerated prediction in P&P that, if Elizabeth rejects Mr. Collins, Mrs. Bennet will never speak to her again, takes on new meaning here.) Oakland also gives us some memorable lines, including this one that occurs when Elizabeth is annoyed with the giddy Darcy and Mrs. Reynolds: “It looked like a Bingley convention.”

If you’re looking for gripping reading that will keep you turning pages (even when you wish to be doing other things), My BFF will be a good choice for you.

Two Guys Read Jane Austen by Steve Chandler and Terrence N. Hill

During a lunch not long ago with our dear Mimi, I was given a gift in addition to her scintillating company. This fun book has a hilarious premise: “two grown men in their early sixties . . . reading Jane Austen together . . . [which] sounds like something an army psychological warfare unit would turn to if waterboarding were outlawed . . . as a way to break a man . . . down and surrender his manhood forever.” The book delivers on its comedic promises, which sometimes means our joint epistolary narrators make mean comments about stars (ex: Meg Ryan reminding us of “the little yellow duck we used to float in the bathtub when we were children”), and other times means we’ll hear these men’s ideas on a lot of seemingly random things—from aging to bad TV, from America’s weight problem (we don’t play piano) to horseracing. Most of the time, these interesting diversions lead back to Austen, and ultimately, a real appreciation of her art.

Lest you worry that the men read Austen in a vacuum, we are almost immediately informed that one of the long-time friends is also a longtime Austen reader (and fan); only one is a newbie. Both of their wives are encouraging of their new endeavor. They use Nabokov’s lectures to help with Mansfield Park (did all of you know about this resource?) And the men really get Austen. One comments that Mr. Collins is so skillfully set up that, by the end, readers are laughing every time he shows up, let alone every time he speaks. Terry addresses the age difference between Elizabeth and Charlotte, Jane Austen’s view of Charlotte’s choice, and his own, very different view of it. Throughout their readings of Pride and Prejudice and later, Mansfield Park, both men reflect deeply and lightly on the texts and connect the principles to what is happening in their own lives. The reader, then, is entertained on multiple fronts simultaneously.

Though we might appear to have differing perspectives, the gentlemen and I had similar thoughts on several occasions. When Ursula LeGuin pops up in a letter, I was immediately reminded of Grigg’s (Hugh Dancy) interest in her in the Robin Swicord film of The Jane Austen Book Club. Then, within just a few pages, Terry tells Steve that he and his wife should see the film! Steve watched the bio of Jane Austen on the DVD, which means he must have seen our own Claire Bellanti! Terry compares Austen to Oscar Wilde at one point. My AP class the very week I read that passage planned to don shirts they designed themselves with the profile of Wilde battling with the profile of Austen. Under Wilde, text reads: “Women are a decorative sex.” Under Austen, “Only stupid men are worth knowing after all.” My brilliant teenagers saw the same satirical bent in these two writers that Terry did! And these guys cry at the happy parts of the novels, and celebrate Jane Austen’s birthday like we do, too.

They’re also very funny. After observing that Jane Austen heroines are “classy women who combine high intelligence with inner strength and virtue,” Steve contrasts them with what he calls “the opposite of a Jane Austen heroine.” One example might be the woman on her cell phone who seems to be in need of some immediate group therapy. Given that I was at the gym while I read this section of the text, I found the comments particularly amusing. I am often shocked (and remember, I work with teenagers, so very little should shock me) by the deeply personal discussions I overhear people having on their cell phones (when they should be working out too hard to have meaningful conversation). I had never really connected my frustration with that type of self-centered and simultaneously not self-aware behavior with my respect for the Jane Austen heroine (not as much Marianne Dashwood as the others) who shows some propriety. But it makes sense.

Many of the observations in the letters make sense. Terry comments that as he ages, he is “less amused by fictions.” (Pride and Prejudice makes the cut nonetheless). Steve calls Mary Crawford “Elizabeth Bennet’s evil twin—Elizabeth without the conscience.” Now perhaps we all feel a bit better about being drawn to her. Jane Austen is so great, one letter tells us, because she is the “absolute master at presenting love as a function of the mind.” The men disagree politically, but, rare as this seems to be in our world, they are still close friends who respect each other’s intellect and morality (isn’t that how it should be?!). Steve and Terry, then, offer wisdom that includes, but is not limited to, Pride and Prejudice and Mansfield Park, and they do it with spunk, irreverence for some subjects, and reverence for Austen, which is, I think, as it should be.

One of my masters advisors, Professor Richard Kroll of UC Irvine, passed away last February, much too young. I think if he had read Two Guys Read Jane Austen, he would have commented in his distinctive, straightforward way: “This is a very smart book.”

Jane Austen Ruined My Life by Beth Pattillo

I know we’re not supposed to think this, let alone put it in writing, but I knew when I saw the cover that I’d love this book. Picture this: a forest scene in mostly sepia and muted greens and browns; a bench with a beautiful woman in a red dress and strappy sandals lying in a swoon with one Kleenex-holding arm over her eyes, apparently overwhelmed; above the woman, the words “Jane Austen ruined my life,” with Austen’s name in the red of the fallen heroine’s dress.

The story’s pretty good, too.

Emma is our 33-year-old heroine, an Austen devotee who believed in happily ever after until she arrived home to find her scholarly husband in flagrante with her teaching assistant on the kitchen table. The lovers conspire to ruin Emma’s own academic reputation and get her fired from the university, and, in one foul swoop, she loses her home, her husband, and her belief in happy endings.

If ever a girl needed a trip to Jane Austen’s England  . . .

When Emma arrives, she has a Jane Austen mystery to solve (involving letters believed to be, but not actually, burned by Cassandra and now preserved by a small group called the Formidables), and a handsome male friend who also despises Edward (Emma’s soon-to-be ex: why’d he have to be a Milton scholar?) with whom to reacquaint herself. There are some tasks to undertake before her source will give her the information she so desperately seeks, both to satisfy her curiosity and to salvage career.

I like to think I’m pretty skilled at recognizing the Wickham-type character, the one who threatens to lead our vulnerable heroine astray, but I think, though he looks at Emma as if she “were his favorite dessert” (is that simile borrowed from The Jane Austen Book Club?), the real threat to Emma’s security, both morally and emotionally, is herself. She wants to get revenge on Jane Austen for making her believe in happy endings, but she needs to learn about her own destiny as well as Jane’s before she can realize that such vengeance is not only unnecessary and unmerited, but also useless.

Along that journey, there are several mysteries—so much fun to read!—and several visits to key Austen places in England (Steventon, Lyme, the Portrait Gallery, Bath, Chawton, but notably not Winchester). The Chawton scene is particularly touching. Emma sneaks a touch of the actual table where the original, specially-designed desk rested (my brother Alex built me a replica of Austen’s desk with the slanted workspace and the hidden compartments for a special birthday, so I particularly enjoyed this scene). This encounter helps reinforce the shared bond between Jane Austen and Emma as writers, and, ultimately, helps Emma walk away from evil—her own—into which the Wickham-esque character leads her.

The lesson about happy endings employs both hopeful optimism and practical realism: “Happy endings, lifelong ones, are the products of both effort and luck.” Emma learns that lesson and tries to steer her course properly for effort, but she also knows that luck is part of the equation. Jane taught her that, she says, and she helps teach it to us.

The Trials of the Honorable F. Darcy by Sara Angelini

If you’re trying to relax before going to bed, this is not the book to read. If however, you’re looking to stay awake for a while, consider reading it aloud with a partner. There are several X-rated scenes here, but they are handled tastefully, and with proper anticipation—on yours, and the characters’, parts.

The story begins with Darcy (a descendant of our beloved hero) advising Bingley about the purchase of a new Lamborghini (Netherfield). Darcy tempers Bingley’s enthusiasm with a warning to slow down his actions with thought, just as our Darcy did, but this Darcy uses the F word as he does it.

In this modern version of our tale, Darcy is a judge (fitting, I thought, since that is, after all, what he does throughout the text), and Elizabeth is a confident lawyer in his court. When he first meets her, he assumes she’s on trial for speeding, only to have his first impression put quickly to rest as she defends a Mr. Collins, on trial for solicitation of prostitutes. (Darcy mentally gives him herpes to punish him).

This is a “thoroughly modern” version of our story, according to the back cover, and while, at first, the use of profanity and sometimes obscene situations may be off-putting to readers of this publication, I’d venture to recommend reading it anyway. This story is fun and light, and many of Angelini’s changes work well, if you can stomach an occasional Harry Potter reference (too lowbrow for some of you, but perfectly acceptable for others), many sexual puns and intimate scenes, and Mr. Hurst’s metamorphosis into a gay hottie who resembles Rupert Everett. 

Bingley is a doctor (you might wonder, is he smart enough for that, until you recall some of the doctors you have met), and Jane a resident in his circles; Darcy has meaningless sex with Caroline until he decides not to anymore; the Netherfield Ball is a Halloween party; the first proposal Darcy makes to Elizabeth is of writing a joint law review article; and karaoke is as you’ve never seen it.

This is a sexed-up version of our beloved tale, and if you’re one who has always read much of the tension between Darcy and Elizabeth as being sexual in nature, you will probably be more comfortable with the openness of that tension than those of you who prefer chemistry to be understated. The latter group does not likely imagine Georgiana warning her big brother not to “dip [his] stick in” a woman she dislikes, but regardless of your reaction to such lines, the sex is intense here because the connection on all levels is intense here. Darcy and Elizabeth belong together, and one barometer of that fit is their sexual chemistry.

There are others. Each is a professional who works to develop a plan for any situation that requires attention. Each is smart and successful and wants, long-term, to find love that transcends the “relationships” of the past. Both exercise to absorb desire (Elizabeth runs; Darcy rides). Both agree to keep the affair short—and then almost simultaneously realize that they have fallen in love with the other.

The relationship—or rather—the break-up of it—feels very real. It is mutual, but it makes them both miserable. She was so tough, and becomes so broken, even as she tries desperately to resurrect her world. She wears his shirt just to smell him, even when it starts smelling like her.

Before you know it, you’ve been reading for an hour, when your plan was a few minutes before drifting to sleep. And I haven’t even started on all the links to the original novel. I thought I spotted Wickham right away, only to discover that the guy flirting with Elizabeth had to be the Colonel Fitzwilliam character. I thought the proposal of the brief was the real thing; it isn’t. Then I thought the suggestion to get back together was the real thing; it isn’t either. Two decoys! Darcy reaches out to Elizabeth’s boss—Mr. Gardiner—when he needs help with Elizabeth. Then it turns out there is a Wickham, but he appears much less often (and in an even worse context) than I had imagined. Georgiana is not the subject of Darcy’s letter to Elizabeth—she’s the one who suggests he write it. These are smart twists that kept me constantly revising my assumptions, as, one might argue, Elizabeth and Darcy must do, both in the original novel and in this one.

Lines from P&P are sprinkled throughout the text, in contexts that make sense. One of my favorite changes occurs when Elizabeth (who thinks Caroline and Darcy are dating when they aren’t) comes home to Jane snuggling with Charley, and groans inwardly that the house is “overrun by Bingleys.” Even Lady Catherine’s infamous shelves in the closet are included in this veritable treasure hunt for details from Austen’s novel.

This is indeed a story of the trials of a man, and the pun works well. It is also a deeply emotional, romantic, sensual, and literary exploration of a companionate relationship in our complicated world. And I’ll never look at pears in the same way again.

Darcy’s Passions: Pride and Prejudice Retold Through His Eyes by Regina Jeffers

The preface endears Jeffers to me right away—she, too, is a teacher whose students think her a “Jane Austen freak.” She calls Colin Firth “the ultimate Darcy” but also calls herself “a Matthew Macfadyen fan” (2). But I quickly became uncomfortable: Jeffers calls the Firth version six hours (we all know it originally aired in six installments of 50 minutes each, which makes it five hours), admits her Darcy is a combination of “the best of both actors” rather than Austen’s own Darcy, and comments that Anne and Wentworth are very similar to Elizabeth and Darcy (3). Suddenly, I’m having trouble not judging the acumen of the writer in whose hands I place myself for the next several hours.

More cautious, I begin the actual story and am struck again by two trends I have observed recently in various sequels and their like: 1 Modern expressions have no place in Regency England and cast doubts about the accuracy of any such tale, and 2: Something is serious amiss with the copyediting process.  Both problems rear themselves fairly early. Darcy and Georgiana are said to need “solo time each day” (7). Darcy later says to Elizabeth: “please do not stress over my finding you here” (149). (“Stress yourself”—the verb is transitive—would be fine for Regency England, but “stress” as an intransitive verb has no place anywhere but in our own world.) The grammar errors are more than simple typos, although those are here, too (“Can one image such a mother?” 30) (“Has your urgent estate problems been resolved?” 202). In the first meeting of the protagonists, the narrator gives us this sentence: “Although handsomer than Mr. Bingley and now rumored to have ten thousand pounds per year, most of the assembly found him haughty and formal and possessing a superior bearing” (14). If the narrator/editor does not recognize a faulty referent (“handsomer” should describe Darcy, but the subject of the independent clause is “most of the assembly”), how can a discerning reader trust any of this material? It happens again when Darcy realizes he should have offered assistance: “A bit embarrassed by his behavior, his gentility took control of his actions“ (his “gentility” is not “embarrassed”) (61). How, I ask you, can this keep happening? And again, with respect to Elizabeth: “Dressed in a white, Empire waist muslin gown, Elizabeth’s appearance took on classical lines” (her “appearance” is not “dressed”) (67). Elizabeth’s uncle, apparently, is getting quite hot, according to this text: “Warmer than what was expected for this time of year, Mr. Gardiner took advantage of the weather” (357). And Darcy is apparently a wuss of sorts with this butchered line: “More vulnerable than he ever saw her, Darcy knew the horse symbolized her fear” (301). (This one is so convoluted you may have thought the sentence describes the horse; it doesn’t.)

If this narratorial havoc weren’t enough to cause worry, Jeffers also butchers some of the language in her characters’ mouths. Darcy has some trouble with subject and object pronouns:  “Monday next would serve Georgiana and I well,” he tells Bingley (139). His thoughts also have faulty grammar: “If he could confine himself to places of solitude, the hours would pass quicker” (57). No surprise, then, that impressionable Georgiana would emulate her brother’s example, as she does to my chagrin in her comment to Elizabeth: “your being part of our family makes both my brother and I richer in what matters” (300). We might hope that Elizabeth could explain the rule to them, but—oh no!—Elizabeth, too, struggles with pronouns, as in this line about the Gardiners—“They were very instrumental in bringing Fitzwilliam and I together” (347)—or in this one about her wedding—“You made Jane and I happy brides today” (300).

My confidence in Jeffers’ authority was shaken multiple times, and thorough editing might have eased some of my concerns. Some errors, however, can only be ascribed to the writer. There are supposedly rumors that Darcy “despised” dancing (14). Jeffers then has Darcy tell Bingley that he “detest[s]” dancing, which he certainly never says in Pride and Prejudice, and a “shudder of disgust rack[s] his body” when he contemplates Elizabeth the next morning; Darcy should never be disgusted by Elizabeth (15-17). Jeffers also describes Wickham, in Darcy’s thoughts, as “normally” preferring women of substantial inheritance to those of the Bennet’s wealth, but isn’t Wickham usually looking for his own entertainment? (67) For that, he would not need a woman to have any money; in fact, we are led to believe in P & P that he is considering marriage to Miss King because his debts have run so high that he must marry—worse than his “normal” state.  Jeffers’ Lydia is far too rational and self-aware. She defends her conduct to Elizabeth with: “Lizzy, that is all I have. Jane is beautiful; you are smart; Mary is talented [me: WHAT?]; Kitty is creative” [me: um, okay]. What do I have besides my childish innocence—that is all the charm I have to offer?” [sic] (282) After the wedding, Darcy starts a fight with Elizabeth in the presence of Mrs. Annesley, a public display of anger that is highly unlikely if this Darcy is the one we know. And Elizabeth’s definition of real love is more than mildly disturbing: “Real love . . . changes your life; your own needs no longer exist” (286).

There are also several moments that seem lifted from the script of one of the two P & P films. Elizabeth is described as running (BBC), the music stops when Bingley et al enter the assembly room (MacFadyen), and Lydia tells Bingley to invite the militia to his ball because they “make excellent company” (45) (MacFadyen). In the proposal scene, especially, I heard both movies, which I found mostly disturbing and slightly comforting. Worse, this text seems to consist mainly of scenes we have already seen at their best (written by Austen) written much less well here, with occasional insights into Darcy’s motivations and thoughts, and occasional insights into Elizabeth’s (Doesn’t Austen already give us at least the latter?). Darcy also seems to know more than he should, almost as if, sometimes, he has access to the narrator’s script. He immediately thinks Mrs. Bennet sent Jane to Bingley’s on horseback in the rain on purpose so she’d get sick and have to stay. That plan is so absurd Mr. Bennet is still reeling from it; how could Darcy just guess it? Darcy also supposedly predicts that Elizabeth will come to Jane to care for her, which surprises everyone else in the house (and Darcy himself in the original). Jeffers adds scenes, most of which are interesting and involve Darcy, but there are several between Elizabeth and Darcy that never occur in the original, which seems an odd choice to make if we’re to believe everything else Darcy says and feels is consistent with Austen’s Darcy.

Given all the faults, does this book merit reading? It is not without its pleasures. It made me realize, for instance, that Georgiana would realize Darcy had told Elizabeth Georgiana’s secret; that had never occurred to me before, and I think Jeffers handled the brother-sister scene quite well. Georgiana is also instrumental in the plan to “save” Elizabeth, and she shares Darcy’s secret. I learned a new word (sonsy, p. 141, meaning robust or agreeable), I enjoyed Jeffers’ addition of scenes between Mrs. Reynolds and Darcy when Elizabeth surprises him by being at Pemberley, and I even embraced enhancements of the original in certain circumstances (e.g. Darcy ends up having an epiphany similar to Elizabeth’s “’Till this moment, I never knew myself” as Elizabeth teaches Darcy about “his own nature”). The introduction of little Cassandra Gardiner is also welcome and foreshadows what successful parents Darcy and Elizabeth will be. Generally speaking, the book becomes more fun once Elizabeth and Darcy get engaged, probably because there, Jeffers is on mostly new ground so she’s no longer competing as a story-teller with a writer next to whom none of us could shine. Jeffers can also finally appropriately give rein to her desire for verbal foreplay, which is always fun for us as readers. And she puts the theme statement of sorts into Georgiana’s mouth just before a heart-warming resolution: “the Greeks did not extol a man’s accomplishments upon his death . . . They simply asked one question of his family and friends: did he live his life with undying passion?” (383)

Darcy and Elizabeth do, and Jeffers hopes they inspire readers to do so as well.

According to Jane by Marilyn Brant

Usually I’d be annoyed by someone casually calling our revered writer “Jane,” as though they were intimate friends, but this time, the writer is actually in our protagonist’s head, instructing her in ways of life and specifically requesting that she be called Jane, so . . . okay!

Jane enters Ellie’s head shortly after the heroine reads Pride and Prejudice for the first time in a class where she is harassed by a “sinfully cute but annoying-as-hell” male nemesis. Jane stays for 19 years (maybe more) and, when this story begins, our heroine is now 34 and simultaneously mocking Odysseus for having taken “two decades to understand a simple lesson” AND realizing that she is in no position to judge Homer’s hero, given her own learning curve. She has needed Jane, and though she doesn’t quite understand how or why, Jane has needed her.

This is not to say Ellie always heeds Jane’s advice. She still sometimes picks losers for boyfriends and has destructive family relationships, but Jane helps teach Ellie to be herself and to learn to listen to herself (and to Jane, whose voice of reason often sounds like what Ellie’s should be). Listening to Ellie is quite entertaining for the reader as much as it is edifying for Ellie. When addressing a steady boyfriend (with whom she has no real chemistry but with whom she stays anyway, telling herself that that is not what matters), she tells us she uses “a vocal timbre [she’d] honed working with teens—pleasant but not sparkling, kind but with an edge of firmness.” When contemplating her hopes for the future, she describes herself as a “thirty-four-year-old geek” who, “against [her] will and against [her] reason (although, okay, not against [her] character)” still wants “that fucking Cinderella story” for herself.

As she searches for it, Ellie has some adventures: a trip to Austen’s England with Jane in her head (though Jane ditches Ellie in Bath, which makes her homesick and triggers Ellie’s own longing for home), a new bond with an older sister (one can’t help but think Jane nurtured that one, thinking of her own Cassandra), and several relationships that are, apparently universal (the mid-20s one in which the physicality is so intense the partners persuade themselves they are soulmates, even despite all other evidence to the contrary; the high school guy that reappears at an awkward time; the blah one that somehow sticks around for three years, etc). As she matures, Ellie genuinely wishes happy endings on her past partners, hoping they’ll be redeemed, and deserve to be. In the meantime, with Jane on her brain, Ellie seems poised for a little redemption of her own.

Mr. Darcy Broke My Heart by Beth Pattillo

This story starts steamily at Christ Church (Oxford), where heroine Claire Prescott participates in a Jane Austen seminar on behalf of her very pregnant sister, Missy Zimmerman, who stays back home in the States. Claire quickly meets the “handsomest man” she has “ever seen,” in the form of James Beaufort (a Dickensian name), who is attending the seminar because “Jane Austen books are selling so well—we [publishers] can’t afford to ignore them” (9). The discerning reader can tell, perhaps, that this is not the most romantic of blokes, but Claire is distracted by many other happenings that cloud her judgment.

She makes a new friend, Martin Blakely, for instance, and lies to both men about being a pediatrician. Pattillo quickly reveals the key unhappy facts of Claire’s life: her parents died when she was young, she has since devoted herself to her younger sister and said sister’s husband and children, she never herself attended university, she has a distant boyfriend, and she was recently fired from (not her dream) job.

Then she meets Harriet Dalrymple. Harriet takes a liking to this young woman who shows her compassion as she tries to hawk wares outside the school, and though Claire suspects the old lady isn’t quite right mentally, Harriet makes a few intriguing comments about her own familiarity with Jane Austen that lead us to believe it is Claire who is about to benefit from this relationship. The old lady has a first draft of First Impressions, and, in it, there are many key differences from the final Pride and Prejudice, including the detail that Mr. Bingley doesn’t visit the Bennets, who are observing their year of mourning for Mr. Bennet. Snippets of this version appear through the text.

I found it exciting to read a different version of the events we know so well, and several elements in it seem worthy of Austen. A conversation between Elizabeth and Mrs. Bennet, for instance, reminds me a lot of the one in which Elinor Dashwood discusses with Mrs. Dashwood which home would be appropriate for them given their new, reduced income. Mrs. Bennet, like Mrs. Dashwood, is displeased, but she gives Mr. Collins trouble about moving in, unlike Mrs. Dashwood, whose hand is forced by the cruelty of John Dashwood’s heartless wife.

Several mysteries arise in Claire’s world, and Pattillo plants enough seeds that we are suspicious of every character, except largely Mrs. Dalrymple. We’re also always trying to figure out if Claire is our stand-in for Elizabeth, and who is Darcy (all signs point to James, but some of the signs sway a bit in the wind.) Then the real mystery hits me: I have read this before.

Pattillo uses the same key plot detail—the Formidables, a group of women who protect Jane Austen’s secrets—as she used in Jane Austen Ruined My Life! In this text, too, there is a secret manuscript, a lost heroine, and a major decision to make, both with respect to Jane Austen and to the heroine’s own life.  I certainly enjoyed this story, and it’s not exactly the same, but that central focus struck me as Pattillo stealing her own good idea, without any acknowledgment that we have seen this before.

Pride/Prejudice: a novel of Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth Bennet, and Their Forbidden Lovers by Ann Herendeen

In the acknowledgments, Herendeen calls her work the “spawn of its author’s imagination,” and though I enjoyed reading it, I’m inclined to agree with her word choice. The book’s premise is that Darcy, Bingley, Elizabeth, and Charlotte are bi-sexual, and while that idea alone takes it out of Austen’s world, many of the circumstances and descriptions take it out of any world of refinement and civility.

“Fitz,” for instance, plans to marry Caroline, and Bingley to marry Georgiana, which is not so different from their initial stances in Austen’s original, except that Darcy and Bingley are already in a loving, sexual relationship with each other, which makes any marriage to sisters seem incestuous. The incest continues with Darcy’s idea that, when he marries Caroline, Mrs. Hurst will be available to him as well, as part of a package deal of sorts. The history of Darcy and Wickham’s relationship is altered by the bi element here, which means that Darcy, his little sister, his future wife, and her little sister were all drawn, at one time or another, to the same man. Without ruining too much, I’ll just say that multiple members of that list are “involved” with Wickham within hours of each other.

Phrasing, too, seems to put this text at odds with Austen’s. In the opening scene, Fitz quotes the first line of Pride and Prejudice as his own words and proceeds to perform fellatio on Bingley. Probably not how Austen envisioned the line, but who knows for sure? On the third night of Jane’s visit to Netherfield, Bingley is back to business, and the narrator describes him as “lying in Fitz’s arms, sweaty and dirty and so adorable Fitz could have licked him clean for the sheer joy of soiling him all over again.” I’m no prude, but does anyone else feel dirty even reading this line? Worse, however, are the lines that characters say in this book that we know they would never have said in Austen’s. Darcy, for instance, tells his little sister that she will “do very well, so long as [she] repress[es her] childish desire to show off” (since when is she a show-off?) because, after all, “young gentlemen don’t like a clever female.” By comparison, even vulgar puns (“Charles rejecting balls, of all absurd things—what had been, only a couple of weeks ago, his favorite pastime”) are of little import.

Yet vulgar expressions disturb nonetheless when they feel completely gratuitous. When Elizabeth visits Hunsford, for instance, and reaches out to her former lover, Charlotte is described as pushing Elizabeth’s “hand violently away . . . like a girl of twelve pawed by her drunken uncle.” Ew. That image was hardly necessary. You judge if the description of Darcy’s masturbation—“he let loose again, another long white string”—helps you understand the characters any better than you would without it. Henry Tilney gets dragged into the den of iniquity to which Darcy belongs (to leave it, he has to submit to the administrations of all the “Brothers”  “during the course of a long afternoon”), and Elizabeth just happens to walk by a bedchamber with a door that conveniently “had swung free from the jamb a few inches” just as Darcy prepares to enter Bingley.

Elizabeth’s witnessing of this event does not disturb her, and, as you know must happen, when Darcy and she fall in love, their passion is equally fervent.  I will leave you to discover how Darcy interacts with Wickham when Darcy goes to save Lydia, how Darcy interacts with Bingley after their marriages to the Bennet sisters, and how much—and when—innocent Jane really knows about the man she loves.

The Importance of Being Emma by Juliet Archer

This modern version of Emma uses the same (or, in some cases, similar) names Austen uses, and places similar characters in 21^st century situations. Emma, a Harvard MBA, is now marketing director of her family’s mail-order delicacy business, Highbury Foods. Her childhood crush, Mark Knightley, a man 11 (not Austen’s 16) years older than she is, works for his family’s food business, Donwell Organics. The age difference between the soul mates is exactly the same as the age difference between the Westons, which reduces any concern over that issue. Emma’s talkative secretary, Mary Bates, nicknamed Batty, is the updated Miss Bates; Flynn Churchill is controlled by his adoptive mother (a sister of sorts); and Mr. Woodhouse thinks he’s allergic to all stings and bites. He keeps an EpiPen on his person at all times—a Mr. Woodhouse for our times, indeed. Harriet is a newcomer to Highbury Foods, fresh from a stint as a temp for Robert Martin at Abbey Mill Haulage. Her unenviable task is to replace the recently married Kate Taylor, who was Mr. Woodhouse’s PA.  Harriet later encounters Robert and his sister at Ford’s garage. The game during which Frank and Jane sort out their private concerns is now Scrabble, and Box Hill is a fancy restaurant.

Finding the clever updates is part of the fun of reading this version, but the language entertains, as well. When Emma questions Flynn about his relationship with Jane, for instance, she asks, “How much did you see of her in Weymouth”? With irony lost on Emma, Flynn answers that he has seen “as much as [he] ever want[s] to”—that is to say, all of her, and he’d like to see it all again. The ante is upped, sexually, for our times, which serves Archer’s purpose as she juxtaposes the relations between Emma and Mark (a link to the Mark Darcy character, perhaps?) with those of Philip Elton and his crass girlfriend, Augusta, here called Gusty. Elton’s live-in girlfriend (as opposed to wife) paws his derriere in public (under his pants, mind you!).  She runs the Maple Grove Consultancy with equal parts arrogance and annoyingness. And I felt only mildly offended that Archer has them shop at Ikea.

Archer provides both Emma and Mark’s perspectives in this modern twist, and many structural decisions enhance the perfect duality in the relationship. After the initial scene in which we are presented with a 14-year old girl nicknamed Mouse and an obviously attractive, suave young man she adores, Archer immediately sets up parallelisms that reinforce their equality. Mr. Knightley has been working in India for eight years; Emma has been earning advanced degrees. Emma feels attracted to Mark much earlier in this story than she does in Austen’s Emma, which reduces the creepy factor even of Mark’s comment that he has loved her “since the day [she was] born.” Emma does misunderstand the situation with Mark’s love life and even misses the significance of Elton’s riddle (an ad for their product), but she understands several other situations much better than she does in Austen, including that something is up between Frank and Jane.

The Importance of Being Emma, which owes its satirical bent to Oscar Wilde and Jane Austen, is fast-paced and clever, with great attention to detail.  Though you should be warned that it is part of a series called “Choc Lit” (is that why each chapter is named for some food?), perhaps when we decide to read just to enjoy, the flavors of this story will call to us as Austen’s always do.

Suspense and Sensibility (Or, First Impressions Revisited): A Mr. and Mrs. Darcy Mystery

They say be careful what you wish for because you might get it.

In my review on an Elizabeth Aston sequel to P&P, I posed the idea that one of these continuations writers put some of our beloved characters from the different novels together; little did I imagine that the next book I would read—one that my mom found for me knowing my interests, would do just that, and do it so well that I am eager to see it done again.

Suspense and Sensibility is the second of Ms. Bebris’ Darcy mysteries. It takes place not long after the wedding and involves the Darcy couple taking Kitty, as promised at the end of P&P, under their care for a while, specifically to London for the marriage market. While there, they meet a most interesting young man—Harry Dashwood, whom we last saw as the young son of the usurpers of our Dashwood girls’ estate, Norwood. You recall, of course, his scheming mother, Fanny, persuading her malleable husband to deny his sisters sufficient means of living. Fanny is still alive (and still awful), and other S&S characters enter the picture as well:  Lucy Ferrars (even worse than you could imagine, even at the start of this story—so awful that Elizabeth at one point actually misses Lady Catherine!), Robert Ferrars (watch for a hilarious scene involving Robert and many gleaming silver objects in which he studies his own reflection), Edward and Elinor (who, as we’d expect, immediately takes to Elizabeth, and vice-versa), Marianne and Colonel Brandon (only briefly, but deeply in love), Mrs. Dashwood, and the Middeltons.

Everything you’d want to happen, in terms of relationships blossoming, seems to happen here: Georgiana Darcy befriends Kitty Bennet, Elinor befriends Elizabeth, Edward assists Darcy, and Darcy assists Harry Dashwood; somehow, in the midst of this heavenly concoction, Bebris manages to sustain a riveting mystery. The way she sets it up makes the reader both enjoy the story and figure things out before the characters, which makes for a fulfilling read. Once you figure it out (there are so many clues!), it is so much fun to watch the mystery unfold! And if you enjoy a clever narrator and clever central characters (and what Janeite doesn’t?), then you will certainly enjoy this work for that asset as well. Even the subtitle is clever, suggesting a melding of two Austen novels without directly telling us.

There is also the thought-provoking tension between logic and reason on the one hand, and instinct and intuition on the other. Part of Darcy’s struggle here, as in the earlier book, is that he relies almost exclusively on the former, whereas Elizabeth, though hesitant to use the latter given her mistakes in P&P, has access to instinct that is key to solving the problems presented here.

Other issues Bebris explores here include the necessary ingredients for reformation of a silly man (here, good principles, intelligence, a desire to change, and an influential teacher) and the problems faced by people with money in the marriage market (never really being courted for themselves and therefore being LESS likely to experience true love than poorer characters like Kitty).

Though there may be an instance or two of milking humor unnecessarily—Regina, Lucy’s daughter, for instance, has weight issues, and is often mocked for it (she appears “to be chewing her cud”)—and some of the text’s events are just plain creepy (keep an eye on the mirror and the portrait), this story offers us some of our favorite characters in situations that we could hardly have imagined but that bring out the qualities we love in them. Darcy, for instance—I love him more than ever; there is nothing he will not sacrifice for the woman he loves, and even for innocent people he does not love. Look forward to more information about this towards the end of the story.

And to a little catch you might not have “caught” when it was thrown at you amid other information (but which the epilogue will clarify).

Stephanie Barron says it best on the back cover when she calls this work, like Austen’s, “thoroughly ‘light and bright and sparkling.’” Really, it is.

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows

Jane Austen doesn’t appear until page 198 of this delightful work of historical fiction, but once she does, I realized how much her ideology permeates it. This epistolary novel traces the life of two central female protagonists who never officially meet:  Juliet Ashton, a single London writer struggling to find her place in a world literally torn asunder by World War II, and Elizabeth McKenna, a single Guernsey reader whose quick wit saves her neighbors and whose kind nature lands her in a Nazi prison. The other characters, too, are rich, layered, and interesting, and it is one of them (Isola Pribby) who rather randomly gets a recommendation (from Sidney Stark, Juliet’s friend and publisher) to read Austen, and who takes offense that neither of her two literary advisors (Amelia Maugery and Juliet) ever “made mention of Miss Jane Austen” to her (198).

There are several subsequent mentions of Austen. Juliet comments to Sidney that Isola has berated her for “never telling her about Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy” (200). Pride and Prejudice is a “love story” better than the others she has read because it is not “riddled with ill-adjusted men, anguish, death, and graveyards!” (200). Just as Sidney helps Isola discover Austen, Sidney helps Juliet discover the heart of her own work: Elizabeth McKenna. She, like Elizabeth Bennet, falls in love with someone from another world of sorts, and there are obstacles to their being together. The story comes full circle when another unexpected love match blossoms between Juliet and a man the world would not expect her to love. Isola, meanwhile, calls an early meeting of the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society so she doesn’t “have to wait to talk about Jane Austen” (223).

Books, then, as long as they foster discussion and passion, continue to live long past the decease of their writers. Given the untimely passing of Mary Ann Shaffer, that thought should be of particular significance with this text, and all the texts the characters discuss during the darkest days of war, and ever since.

At the meeting during which Isola plans to speak on Pride and Prejudice, plans have to change (because her goat, Ariel eats her notes). In lieu of Austen? Eight excitement-filled letters that reveal a hidden literary treasure from yet another brilliant satirist, often compared to Austen despite his very different life style. In the letters, a brilliant story saves a little girl from misery, much as, on the island, several brilliant stories ward off the misery of a people invaded by the enemy, robbed of their children, and cut off from the rest of civilization until the end of the war.

Isola becomes so entranced by Austen that, as she pretends to be Miss Marple (in a rather Emma-esque turn, she learns belatedly how “blind” she has been to what is right before her), she decides on a remedy for the insanity of her friend, Booker: “I think I will lend him Jane Austen,” she thinks matter-of-factly (266). When Juliet’s love story finally works, Isola contrives to grant the lovers “the freedom of the shrubbery—just like Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet” (273).

Juliet finally connects Jane Austen to her own situation on the final page of this novel.  She says that, all her life, she “thought that the story was over when the hero and heroine were safely engaged—after all, what’s good enough for Jane Austen ought to be good enough for anyone” (274). But, she continues, “it’s a lie. The story is about to begin, and every day will be a new piece of the plot” (274). That’s all very nice for our heroine to say, but fortunately for us, Shaffer and Barrows have decided otherwise with this story. As in Austen, in Society, the heroine must fully understand her own experience and reactions to it before she can truly love the man she is supposed to love. Navigating the journey of discovery—both of the self and of the man—is the process Austen’s novels help us face. This book does so, too.

Mistress of Pemberley by Isobel Scott Moffat

The tiny font of this text gave me pause, but I was soon taken by the homage to Jane Austen with which it begins and the near opening image of Mr. Collins appraising the glassware at Longbourne when he visits for Mrs. Bennet’s funeral.

Though several of the plot devices (Caroline Bingley being up to no good, Elizabeth being nervous that Jane seems more immediately fertile than she does) are not new to a pursuer of the “sequels,” many of them are. Among the new delights are the frustrating failure of Mr. Collins to produce a male heir (Mr. Bennet chuckles from afar), the original courtship by Mr. Bennet of the woman who would become Mrs. Bennet, and the inducing in the reader (and in Elizabeth) of pity for Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who goes from being a seemingly draconian mother to a concerned and loving one.

I noticed a few apparent discrepancies with the original text. Anne de Bourgh now plays piano quite well, often in harmony with Georgiana (did not her health prevent her from learning?), Elizabeth seems to feel more instinctively loyal to her mother’s memory than any of the other sisters, Darcy says he is Georgiana’s sole guardian (what happened to Colonel Fitzwilliam?), Elizabeth mentions her governess (they didn’t have one, which shocks Lady Catherine), and Mr. Bennet writes “regularly” (I suppose that change could have happened, but it seems unlikely). I was also struck by the sister-like bond between Anne and Georgiana; just how much younger than Darcy is Anne? Hadn’t their mothers planned their union while the babies were in their cradles? But if she is really mid-twenties, then the two young men who pursue the giggling cousins would be directed away from the elder, I think.

In the long term, meaning for most of the time I read this story, these small alterations didn’t bother me. The story felt fresh and interesting, and I cared what happened to everyone. I enjoyed the trip to Paris, the realization in Lizzy that her mom’s desire to marry everyone off was not as irrational as it seemed at the time, Mr. Bennet’s exciting new pursuit, the sizzle between Elizabeth and Darcy, Jane’s increasing toughness, and the names of Charlotte’s girls: Lilly and Rose, just like Charlotte’s kids in Sex and the City! (I know: not really relevant, but this is my review, and I make connections where I see fit).

Darcy’s credo, that the young must have a little freedom, ensures the happiness not only of his charge, Georgiana, but also of his cousin, Anne, and, presumably, the Darcys’ own kids someday, and the book ends on a hopeful note, with everyone we like having a male heir .

This Side of Married by Rachel Pastan

I’m an easy sell. I read the words “Jane Austen’s honey-and-vinegar spirit is alive and well in Rachel Pastan’s delightful novel” on the cover of This Side of Married, a thin paperback with three single, differently-styled shoes gracing the front, and I had to have it.

It turns out that I agree with the reviewer, Rosellen Brown. The novel has spirit and kept mine flying for the entire day and a half it took me to zip through it. Cleverness pops out at the reader at every bend—details like the shoes, which represent each of the three modern Bennet (aka Rubin) sisters, Jane, Elizabeth, and Lydia. The novel takes modern liberties, but as a result, the parts of the story that can transplant into our era, do so beautifully here in a believable tale that is as much a paean to love as it is a cold splash of reality.

Specifically, I loved that Isabelle (you know who) specializes in reptiles but doesn’t see the Satan disciples all around her, that Mrs. Bennet delivers babies for a living, that Mr. Bennet is a judge (of character and of actual cases), that Mr. Collins is—well, that’s too good to spoil for you here.

I will admit I wasn’t sure who Lizzy was in this tale (though I had suspicions) until the Darcy character entered the scene (just as he does—accompanying Bingley to a party—in the original), but given that she’s married, I was confused as to how all this was going to work. Pastan does not keep the plot strictly loyal to Austen’s—among other changes, Lydia and Charlotte and also Wickham and Collins seem to be fused—but each time a little P & P plot detail comes in, the reader savors it. Almost a “wow—she managed to get that in there!” Darcy’s letter in an e-mail, the first rejection, the learning about previous errors in judgment—it’s all there! I spent my reading time enjoying the modern characters and the story and being impressed by the writer’s cleverness.

I think you will, too.

The Lost Memoirs of Jane Austen by Syrie James

This book offers two premises similar to what fans of Jane have seen recently: first, it parallels Pride and Promiscuity, the supposed missing sex scenes from Austen’s novels, in that it claims to be writing of Jane’s that has only recently come to scholarly attention. Second, it parallels Becoming Jane, the movie starring James McAvoy and Anne Hathaway, in that it offers the missing “love story of Jane’s own life, explaining how she could come to know passion like that which she describes in her works.

James does a good job recapturing Austen’s voice. At one moment, in particular, following a formal description of a view Jane obviously would have scorned, James’ Jane responds, “But to these naysayers, I say pshaw.” The timing and the unexpected scorn of the line are flawless; James has beautifully captured the spunk we assume Jane had and simultaneously reflected Jane’s happiness in the moment and made us laugh. Jane blushes a lot in this memoir, and she is irritated with her tendency to crimson. (I have the same tendency and the same irritation, so I liked this on a personal level, but it also seemed to fit the character James creates.)

James also successfully tugs on our heartstrings for Jane. As we did when a similar tale unfolded on the silver screen, we cry again for Jane and for the injustice that her lack of fortune forced her to let the man she loved go—to seek richer women. What, we imagine, might her happiness have been, had she had more money?

On the other hand, what would all of our lives have been if she had? Notably poorer if the demands of marriage had taken her from her writing (though the lover here, a fictional Mr. Ashford, actually facilitates the publication of Sense and Sensibility and encourages Austen’s writing, so maybe she could have had both?). Long periods of Mr. Ashford’s absence enable Jane to focus on her work and to revise regularly—so much so that James hints at other memoirs, which will emerge soon. A married woman would likely have had little time for such record keeping.

That being said, if Jane had been given this manuscript, she might have made some changes. The footnotes, for instance, are a bit too basic for a reader quite familiar with Jane’s work. Much of the fun in reading the “sequels” is figuring out the connections, here, for instance, that Edward and his wife are models for the evil Dashwood couple, or that there will someday be a similar scene in Northanger Abbey to what we’re reading now. I know! I don’t need a footnote to tell me what is already obvious because I have read Austen’s work. That said, perhaps for a reader new to Austen, these footnotes are helpful rather than patronizing, and for all levels of readers, the family tree at the beginning is extremely useful in following which brother is doing what and whose kids are who. Many of our heroines’ names were names of Jane’s nieces and nephews. (Maybe that’s just a result of the seeming scarcity of British names, but I’ll imagine otherwise.)

Another problem results from a comment Jane supposedly makes to her friend Alethea that, with the exception of the model for Mr. Collins, she doesn’t use people in her own world as models for people in her fiction. But throughout the text the reader naturally connects the characters we are meeting to the characters in the novels (particularly Sense and Sensibility and Pride and Prejudice, which have the most parallels here), and James seems to support that linking. This inconsistency troubled me because it suggests Jane was unaware that she used people she knew to create people we would all come to know, though she demonstrates complete awareness of such in a few choice moments. Was the comment just to reassure her friend? In the scene in Lyme, a great rescue occurs just where, as James reminds us in a footnote, Louisa Musgrove fell. But if Jane came up with this idea from her own life experience, that would mean she had taken a moment that had deep romantic significance to her and twisted it into a fake romance in Persuasion—Louisa is irresponsible, and the feelings Anne observes are not real love. Why would Jane do that to her own precious encounter? Worse, why would she tell Alethea she wouldn’t do that?

There are many very fun connections in this “missing text.” There is much Mrs. Bennet in Mrs. Austen, and parallels between Jane and Elizabeth and Cassandra and Jane. At the same time, it is tempting to read the three women as versions of the Dashwood ladies, particularly after the death of the Reverend George Austen, when the Austen women are left to the mercy of their brothers. Jane’s lover, whose estate’s description and name are too close to Pemberley to be accidental, and who, like Darcy, has a little sister who plays the pianoforte very well, also functions as an Edward Ferrars, and even a Willoughby model. One of Jane’s tales employs a melding of the Jane Eyre attic with the general Northanger Abbey creepiness and A Winter’s Tale statue (was that combination deliberate?)—and she tells it on a picnic Mr. Ashford arranges, which suggests a parallel to Mr. Knightley in Emma. Jane meets a round clergyman who welcomes them to his “humble abode” before boasting of a large piece of furniture and an attentive neighbor with the initials (Lady) CD. Some of these clues are just too easy, but others pose a challenge, and either way, as long as there was no footnote to ruin it, this reader enjoyed James’ linking of a thorough knowledge of Austen’s canon with Austen’s life.

One of the best moments of this work comes shortly after Jane meets the wealthy man whose presence makes her heart race. Mr. Ashford asks Jane to assess her worth based on how many people would miss her if she were gone. The reader appreciates the meaningful set-up: though Mr. Ashford probably means Jane’s family and friends, we, the people who miss Jane, are innumerable, and the real hero is the man who recognizes value of character, rather than value of inheritance. If only that were enough to live on, Jane Austen might have lived a very different life—and so would might her faithful readers.

Writing Jane Austen by Elizabeth Aston

Our heroine in this 298-page novel does not actually read Austen until p. 135 after an almost unbelievable amount of stubborn resistance on her part.  

Before that moment occurs, this reader wants to shake Georgina silly. She has written one book, by all appearances a dark and depressing tale of “realism,” and her agent offers her the chance to complete Austen’s fragment “Love and Freindship” (Austen’s spelling, and therefore perfectly acceptable to me). This woman, quite possibly an agent of Satan, argues that “worried, jobless, indebted people want a richer palette of happiness and good fortune,” and Gina seems to concur that there are two types of novels and novelists:  Austen, she says, is “imagination” whereas Gina go[es] for realism” (7, 17). Gina also calls Austen “romantic,” and I wondered if anyone told Austen she’s now in the same genre as the Bronte sisters (17). Henry, Gina’s landlord of sorts and, early on, a Darcy for Gina’s Elizabeth (though she wouldn’t understand the reference), is better educated and says that “Jane Austen is definitely a realist” (18). Later, Gina feels “incredulity” when she hears Austen readers speaking of “characters in the novels . . . as though they were real people” (79). In her friend Bel’s store, Gina is told that she writes “nightmares,” Bel sells “happy dreams” but Austen “was the ultimate realist” (106).

Still Gina refuses. Even when the teenaged sister of Henry (who, like Georgiana in P&P, is under her brother’s care and tries to avoid the watchful gaze of a pushy aunt) asks Gina how she can possibly know the novels are “just not [her] kind” without having read them, she is just defensive. Rationalizing that “there wasn’t a law, you can’t be a decent person, or count yourself as having a brain, unless you’ve read all the works of Jane Austen” Gina takes an advance on the book she can’t possibly write (45-46). (By the way, there obviously doesn’t need to be a law since the basic truths are self-evident.) (Also by the way, you can see from the previous quotation that this text has some comma errors, but most of them are comma splices rather than unnecessary ones as the one I provided; equally irritating by the way, even if they appear in an attempt at stream-of-consciousness, which Austen avoids, and for good reason.) Gina’s friend from college, who views Victorian novels as “historical gloom,” lives in Bath, named her child after Austen, and runs an everything-Austen boutique, but still Gina refuses to reconsider her ridiculous stance that Austen is just escapism (89).

Yet somehow Gina wins us over. She is clever. (Drafted to speak publicly on Austen without having ever read an Austen work, she asks members of the audience why they read her, for example.) She is creative. (She invents a new dating system: BJA, for Before Jane Austen, and AJS, for After.) Though she is seriously flawed (her procrastination made me nervous), Aston shows us that part of Gina’s journey is learning to behave and think like an Austen heroine—without jealousy, self-pity, or arrogant presumption.  While she has written a seriously depressing book, she instinctively withdraws from a man whose speech she finds “glum”; the reader sees that poor Gina wants happiness (read: Austen) but does not seem to think she wants it (or maybe that it’s even possible for her to achieve) (123). She also resists the arcane garbage (“incomprehensible verbiage” is what she calls it) of “the contemporary world,” much in the way any normal person would (32). Who wants to read about “astigmatic bio-cultural structuralism” or “proto-synaptic supratexts versus intercolonial ratios”? (31). Most endearingly, Gina cries with “an irredeemable sadness” when she completes the sixth of the novels (149). She may have begun by thinking Austen books are “about nothing except class and money,” but she is well on her way to redemption with those tears (96).

Aston also provides a plethora of very different people who appreciate Austen, for some of the same reasons we do, and perhaps, for some different ones.  One “beautiful young man in a ski hat” loves “the structured society,” especially when compared to today’s England, “where morality is a dirty word” (42-43). Another fan appreciates Austen’s heroines who, unlike “modern heroines [who] are predictably passive,” never sit by and whine when life gets tough for them (43). In fact, once Gina understands the appeal of Austen, she realizes that her own heroine must be like Austen’s, who have “too much sense and spirit” to become “loser[s]” or “victim[s]” (166). Meanwhile, the text is sprinkled with names from Austen novels and life (Henry’s last name is Lefroy, for instance) and amusing comments on the sequel phenomenon (“Readers want to imagine having sex with Mr. Darcy, or one of his screen incarnations. Very coarse.”) (104). As Gina slowly enters the Austen world, she naively speculates, “Had anyone written a book where Mr. Darcy turned out to be a vampire?” (87).

I wish I could find that funny, but I’m just not there—yet.

Pride and Prejudice: A Latter-Day Comedy, 2003

Pride and Prejudice, 2003 film, dir. Andrew Black

I owe these 104 minutes of fascination to one of my students, who thought I might enjoy this film adaptation of our beloved Austen novel. The twist: it’s set in Mormon Utah, and though the characters never explicitly refer to Mormonism, there are several references to church and prayer, and it is clear that none of them expect to have sex outside of marriage. The characters sometimes do immoral things, but they’re never truly beyond the pale. In short, a rather perfect set-up for bringing Austen to the modern world.

Our heroine, Elizabeth Bennet, is an aspiring writer who lives with her roommate, Jane, a Spanish-accented beauty, and near a ditzy landlord, Lydia and Lydia’s even more idle and ignorant little sister, Kitty. (Writing functions here as pianoforte/singing functions in the novel.) Mary makes several embarrassing appearances, and she lands Collins, a rather ridiculous preacher, in lieu of Charlotte, whom we see (I think) just once, buying a “how to land a man” book that has taken bookshelves by storm (The Pink Bible). Wickham is a crime-committer, but not nearly on the scale that he is in the book, and Bingley knows Hebrew roots of names. Darcy and his sister are properly British and compelling. Caroline Bingley seems more evil than Wickham here, but even she doesn’t directly commit a crime; she misleads, rather than lies to, Elizabeth, but the effects could be as disastrous.

My biggest complaint: no adults! I really missed Mr. Bennet’s dry wit, and I even occasionally longed for an annoying Mrs. Bennet comment. She is referred to, but never makes an appearance. Same for Lady Catherine, the Gardiners, and the Phillipses. Some of the novel’s greatest humor comes from these characters (bad enough that we already have to lose the narrator’s voice in film form, but to eliminate these, too? It’s too much!).

Otherwise, a fun, LDS-style Pride and Prejudice with some clever parallels to the book.

Sex and Sensibility by Rosemarie Santini

In the spirit of the SATC 2 movie that opened last night, I’m sharing a review that initially appeared in the JASNA-SW newsletter several years ago.

When I first heard that there was a new Austen-themed work that took a Sex and the City girl and made her an Austen maniac, I was intrigued. Finally someone had combined two of my passions into one glorious masterpiece.

Glorious this book is not, but because I am, at heart, an optimistic, I’ll start with how it fails, and conclude with how it succeeds.

When first I began to read, with hopes undimmed by reality, I was struck by a passage in one of the (far too short to delve beneath the surface) chapters. Our main character, Lizzie (aka Carrie) says she has just “divulged” to her latest beau her “most secret wish, to have a lover who could take me in and out of Austenland, someone who had read the novels, who knew each and every phrasing that could—and would—turn me on.”

So what goes wrong, you ask?

JANO, this book’s version of our beloved JASNA regional chapter, consists of a bunch of mentally disturbed, sex-crazed quasi-lunatics with equal parts smut and skewed Austen in mind. Besides being unrealistic (Lizzie finds hot, hetero 30-something guys who idolize Mr. Knightley in this group—are you kidding me?), this group serves more as her LA (Lunatics Anonymous) buddies than true Jane enthusiasts. Lizzie uses the group to protect herself from wanting liposuction, to indulge her alcohol appreciation and occasionally tea, and to misinterpret grossly the teachings of our great lady.  Emma supposedly teaches the discerning reader that it’s okay to use one man to make another jealous, and Austen supposedly “taught” this girl “how to ignore men.”

Now truth be told, I did happen to suggest serving alcohol at our events during a recent board meeting, and I have, perhaps, once or twice, encouraged a man I like by reminding him subtly that other men like me, too, but this book takes these charms too far. These people don’t do these things in a classy way like I do.

In that vein, if what the publishers mean by Sex and the City is a lot of sexual references, few of which are necessary or comfortable, okay, but this text certainly lacks the friendship, class, and basic story of HBO’s brilliant series. Furthermore, some of Lizzie’s most insightful moments are stolen right from the show. Carrie Bradshaw told viewers in Season One (years ago!) that romance in Manhattan was dying a painful death, and even Lizzie’s friend who gets married is a theft: the girl’s name is Bitsy, the Lizzie types miss the bouquet, and our gals are the only single women there (all SATC details).

The book is, in fact, largely a clever premise gone awry. Yes, Carrie Bradshaw and her smart friends could well be Austen fans, but this isn’t how their lives would read. Group meetings simply would not involve discussions of thick- versus thin-skinned vaginas, as these do. The girls would not declare that life is “filled with cheating men” because, after all, “is there any other kind?”

But there might—just might—be some redemption for this work. Our heroine, though a bit o’er the top for my liking, does reveal some problems that perhaps more than one of us has actually experienced. She feels, for instance, that the men with whom she sleeps suffer “[by] comparison” to the Austen heroes she really fancies. She deals a hard blow at our group when she declares that “there were too many librarians in Austenland” (she wants more exotic dancers to join the group, which, I have to say, might spice up some of our reading groups). She asserts plainly that “everyone’s parents suck” about her own world, but that is equally true in Austen’s creations (with the possible exception of Catherine Morland). She is, most interestingly, the daughter of a modern Mr. and Mrs. Bennet (he: abandons the family years earlier but taught Lizzie love; she: poses nude in an indie film, with bouncing parts and a mid-life crisis). And then there is “darling lad,” our heroine’s love fantasy, an Austen-playing hero whose dashing looks and gentlemanly manner lead her to post his picture in her room and on her soul.

He reminds me, suspiciously, of Colin Firth, so I of course read wearily as I came to recognize that the feelings she has are, in fact, an obsession. I do not have an obsession. My feelings are completely normal and sane. I worked very hard while reading this book to remind (convince) myself of that key difference.

And let me tell you what a challenge that was, especially with our narrator regularly reminding me that reading Jane Austen is “an aphrodisiac.” Everyone knows that an aphrodisiac leads to a happy ending.

The Family Fortune by Laurie Horowitz

Before a book actually starts to unravel its tale, discerning readers judge it based on little things like the dedication and the acknowledgements. In the case of The Family Fortune, I was especially touched by the dedication to her father, and simultaneously impressed by the subtle but immediate attention it calls to the problem with Sir Walter, or, here, Teddy Fortune. Horowitz thanks Elinor Lipman, a kindred spirit, in the acknowledgements, and so it happened that I was predisposed in favor of The Family Fortune.

That predisposition was justified quite quickly by a humorous pun (on the family name, and on what happens in polite society to an unmarried young lady with such a surname: Miss Fortune), a troubling Anne Eliot-type stagnation (38, still at home, surrounded by “old money aristocracy” on Beacon Hill), and a whole host of parallels to Austen’s Persuasion, on which this tale is based. Our heroine, Jane, knows that the people among whom she lives maintain a “tenacious grip on [their] way of life” even as it becomes obvious that they are “becoming obsolete” (2). She has a younger sister, Winnie (Mary) who married Charlie (Charles Musgrove), had two boys (same), and moved to a nearby town (same). Jane’s older sister Miranda (Miss Eliot) also lives at home, is nearly forty, and befriends the class-less Dolores Mudd (Mrs. Clay), daughter of Littleton (Mr. Clay), the family lawyer. Father Teddy is obsessed with appearances, and while the home may not be covered in mirrors as Kellynch is, there are other bizarre signs that will make you laugh (ex: When he tells Jane to borrow his Crème de la Mer, she notes that she “just couldn’t bring [herself] to borrow emollients from [her] father” and “didn’t even like to go into his bathroom, because it retained the fruity scent of a person too well preserved”) (10). Their Bath is Palm Beach, where Jane has trouble picturing herself “walking the streets among the tanned and the leathered” (54).

Captain Wentworth appears in the form of one Max Wellman, a brilliant writer whose prize-winning story tells the tale of his relationship with Jane; although the shifts back and forth left me occasionally confused about when certain events occurred, they did help illuminate the differences in everyone’s situations during the 15-year break, and they make clear (to us, anyway) that Max hasn’t forgotten her.  The Crofts appear here as the classiest people around, Hollywood people instead of naval officers, people with humble beginnings who have made something of themselves. It’s a fascinating parallel to Austen’s world, made more intense by the fact that the Goldmans are Jews moving in a stubbornly clannish old Boston social circle, and Jane’s family would be hesitant to let Jane marry Max for this reason as well as for others. The story of the romance gone awry doesn’t appear until chapter 10, and, because we know through Anne that there was one, we eagerly await its unveiling. The two don’t actually see each other until page 99, at which time they are joined by the Wheaton girls, Lindsay and Heather, who mill about Max eagerly as their brother and sister-in-law watch.

Priscilla, the Lady Russell character, was Jane’s mother’s best friend, and believes that the purpose of marriage is to “shield [one’s] partner from the world’s bad opinion” (3). Jane, of course, hopes there’s more to marriage, despite being the most sensible of her sisters. Priscilla “managed to convince” Jane, and the reader wonders why Horowitz here shies away from the more obvious “persuades” since persuasion is at the heart of both novels. There is little mention of Jane Austen—first, as an ice sculpture head someone torches at the Ritz, and later as a writer our main character reads every summer (we don’t learn the latter detail until quite late in the story, which mystified me a bit.) There’s certainly no Austen precedent (at least in Persuasion, but maybe Horowitz used Lady Susan as a model) for Priscilla’s cougar behavior.

Horowitz entertains the reader with many good names, lines, and links. Mrs. Croft, a rebel in her own way, is rightfully named Emma Goldman. She is described as wearing “her happiness lightly but carefully, like a lace shawl” (127). The depressed Benwick character who harps on Romantic poetry, becomes Basil Funk (almost Dickensian!), who is obsessed with over the top art. When Max’s hair is freshly cut, “he looked like a lawn [Jane] couldn’t wait to roll around on” (279). The scheming Mr. Eliot character, Miranda’s ex, Guy, is cleverly set up to pursue Jane but to appear to everyone else like he’s pursuing Miranda again. And Miranda finally gets what she deserves when she embarrasses herself with inadvertent racism towards a writer at a party—followed closely by a public announcement of the engagement of her little sister to the hottie Miranda herself wanted.

Only Winnie seems to fare better here than she does in the original. This little sister is more clever and less completely self-absorbed than is Mary Musgrove, and, as a result, she is closer to Jane, and has the potential to be closer to her husband. Though she spends time when we first meet her at Glaze and Amaze (their version of Color Me Mine?) and shopping for items she later hides from Charlie, Winnie has character, and there are some fun scenes with her that aren’t caused by us laughing at her.

There’s plenty else to laugh at, and this is a story that both entertains and enlightens.

Really Angelic by Enid wilson

In the prequel, 10-year-old Lizzy knocks over Darcy’s carriage (why is he alone with his servants when he’s just a kid himself?) and lifts it off his leg to save him. Even then, his first concern is his men’s safety, but he, and she, and we, are surprised at her strength. I assumed she was propelled by adrenaline, but years later, Elizabeth desires that Darcy spill a glass of wine on himself at the Meryton assembly, and he does. It turns out, of course, that Elizabeth Bennet has supernatural powers.

If you’re still with me, hold on to your seats because, within the span of just a few pages, Elizabeth encounters a mysterious “quill filled with golden ink that vanishes,” learns she is actually an angel and not the Bennets’ natural daughter, and assumes the responsibility she had not known was hers of being Darcy’s guardian angel (9). (We learn later that he merits one because he’s such a good guy.) As such, she is duty-bound to “praise, reveal, guide, provide, protect, deliver, and encourage,”  “fulfill [her] duties and win elevation,” and “risk reparation” if she neglects her obligations (16).

My first concern was that, if Elizabeth fulfills all of these tasks, Darcy will not be drawn to her the way he is in Pride and Prejudice.  As it turns out, Wilson has other plans for these two, many of which would merit an X rating if they were filmed. Lizzy and Darcy can hear each other’s thoughts for each other, and once Darcy understands that it is this lady’s job to fulfill his desires, she does so—repeatedly, in all variety of places.

My next concern was that someone needed to edit this volume, for basic typos, for flaws in logic, and for hyperbole. Early on, we’re told that “thus far, Elizabeth had deliberately reframed from writing” (bold, my emphasis 10). Later, the narrator asks, “Had he develop[] pneumonia . . . ?” (58) and “How could that [] happened?” (66) Elizabeth at one point attempts to persuade “Mr. Darcy to wait and see, but he was most insistence” (130). In addition to faults in language, logic takes a few hits here as well. The quill is called “magic,” but a few lines later, Elizabeth asks herself if it is magic (10). When the pen only writes her name and Darcy’s, she deems the quill “defective.” Why? That’s not what an intelligent person would assume. When the Collins wedding happens (with a different bride, which was kind of fun), Lydia goes to visit the new bride, which makes little sense if we look to the original, which makes Kitty Maria Lucas’ long-time friend. Later, Mary becomes friends with Georgiana, whereas the original suggests Kitty is the sister spending quality time at Pemberley. Miss Bingley is truly evil, but it feels overdramatic that she states her nefarious plans aloud when she thinks no one is around (Lizzy and Darcy are under the bed). And the description of Elizabeth’s “twin peaks” happened a few too many times to be titillating. The descriptions of sexual congress are not wholly gratuitous, but Wilson takes a few too far, with descriptions like: “When she slid her fingers along the clenched cheeks of his buttocks, she seemed to have touched a sensitive spot in his soul” (159).  His soul? Really?

If you read this version of P & P for what it is—an overly sexed love story with paranormal twists and turns—you may well find pleasure in it. We all want Lizzy and Darcy to have love like this, but part of our joy in Austen is the restraint; the tension is always building, and the relationships develop. Here, the only restraint is to wait until Elizabeth can land them safely, Jane is almost entirely ignored, and evil appears in multiple forms with potentially serious consequences. It’s not Austen, but it’s a fun, light read.

The Independence of Miss Mary Bennet by Colleen McCullough

First impressions? Author of The Thorn Birds! Beautiful language! (beginning with the very first sentence: “The long, late light threw a gilt mantle over the skeletons of shrubs and trees scattered through the Shelby Manor gardens; a few wisps of smoke, smudged at their edges, drifted from the embers of a fire kindled to burn the last of the fallen leaves, and somewhere a stay-behind bird was chattering the tuneless nocturne of late autumn” ) (1).

Alas, though I can’t help but respect Ms. McCullough for her gifts with the language and past achievements, I am not alone among fans of Pride and Prejudice who are horrified by what she has done to our beloved characters (and our not so beloved ones).  Lizzie is miserable in her marriage, largely because Darcy (here, Fitz), who is a member of Parliament and who has grand aspirations, is a horrible jerk.  They have five kids, and he dislikes them all. He no longer shares a bed with Elizabeth—ever.  When later we learn details of their initial sexual congress, it is revealed as having been worse than unfulfilling but rather, “degrading” to both (76). He has isolated Lydia and Wickham, who conveniently gets killed, and Mary and Mrs. Bennet, who dies in the first few pages. When Darcy learns of his mother-in-law’s death, he thinks to himself, “It is a vile thing . . . to marry beneath one’s station” (11). I kept asking myself, why is McCullough doing this to the greatest love story of all time?

Darcy doesn’t even love his books. This is just not our P & P.

Not only is Darcy’s character completely changed from the original, but also Mary Bennet is not here what she once was. Yes, it’s possible she has matured and grown to accept that she lacks musical talent and shouldn’t be such a spoilsport, but it’s highly unlikely that she suddenly has Elizabeth’s wit, intellect, and beauty or that two men fall in love with her almost as soon as they meet her. She develops what struck me as an odd relationship with her nephew, Charlie, who has been maligned by Caroline Bingley as “a devote of Socratic love” (28). She is ridiculously stubborn, as she always was, but has no concerns about societal norms and keeps falling victim to evil people. McCullough provides background information through various characters’ thoughts and through conversations (e.g. between Kitty and Mary, but though we need to know all this background, there are not sufficient reasons for the two of them to be reviewing the history, so it felt uncomfortable as a reader.) Even Darcy’s father is changed in this portrayal; Darcy finally calls him “a truly evil man” (385). The description of his proclivities and activities is hardly shocking after the murders and other disturbing behaviors earlier in the story, but this is Mr. Darcy, who is supposed to be a paradigm of virtue and righteousness.

Nonetheless, if we shelve the names Darcy and Elizabeth and pretend Mary, Angus, Owen, and Charlie are characters unrelated to Jane Austen, we have an interesting story here. Mary gets kidnapped by a warped cave cult, which seemed to me a fresh idea, and all the surviving sisters join in a noble cause as the novel builds to a close. There’s some humor, there’s redemption, and there are several mysteries solved. If your hands (this is a weighty volume) and your enthusiasm for poetic language are strong, this is a book you should consider.

The Man Who Loved Pride and Prejudice by Abigail Reynolds

Our heroine Cassie is a researcher with the Maine Biological Laboratory in New England. She is passionate about salt marshes, and little else that we know about when the story opens, but, largely through the development of a relationship with Calder, a wealthy politician’s son, we learn a lot more about her. The two meet at a folk dance, where Erin (Jane) and Scott (Bingley) dance the night away. Calder is, of course, the tall man standing alone in shadow, refusing to dance, and Cassie quickly makes assumptions about him. Pride and Prejudice, obviously.

The link is also obvious to Calder. The first reference to Austen comes in the form of Calder’s book, which retells the story of P & P (much as this one does) with him in Darcy’s role, and Cassie in Elizabeth’s. Her stinging rejection—“I am not a rich man’s toy”—in their real lives parallels Lizzy’s “Had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner,” but Calder’s novel ends sadly, because, at the point of writing, so has the relationship.

Then, of course, Cassie reads the book, which functions as Darcy’s letter in P & P. Until this moment, Elizabeth/Cassie never knew herself, and, in fact, our understanding of her character only becomes possible after this shocking revelation. This happens, in part because Scott/Bingley told Cassie that her favorite writer and most memorable lover are, in fact, one man (a sort of reversal of the helping role Darcy plays in reuniting Bingley and Jane in the original), and in part because Calder tries to be close to Cassie by seeking a position at the university where she teaches. Meanwhile, Cassie learns that Annette (Anne) is the woman Calder’s father (Lady Catherine) wanted for him.

Not all parallels are immediately clear (Rob Elliot may seem to be Wickham, at first, but you’ll have to decide if that still fits by the end), and there are two possible stand-ins for the Gardiners. Darcy’s rescue appears in different form here, but also as a surprise he didn’t expect her to discover. Caro (Caroline?) is not connected in any way to Bingley and does seem initially to be cold and heartless like her original, but doesn’t turn out that way . . . Cassie’s siblings don’t neatly match up with Elizabeth’s, but Calder is able, in his own way, to assist one of them.

Republicans get unfairly stereotyped here (as allowing children to go hungry and people to die from treatable illnesses), but the excitement of the political dynasty, the family drama, and the speeches almost make that prejudice bearable.

In short, if you seek a psychological and political drama with a love story that draws from Pride and Prejudice, this is a book to put on your list.

Prawn and Prejudice by Belinda Roberts

When I first spotted this self-called “novelette” in the Jane Austen Centre in Bath, I was surprised; I had never seen it before, in any American bookstore or on Amazon, when I do my “checks” to make sure I know what’s happening in our little universe. At five pounds, it was less expensive than many of the other temptations in the store, so I bought it.

What a delightful, British treat. This “seaside version of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice” uses similar phrases as the original text but places the whole situation in modern times. [Occasionally, that seeming paradox of speech feels awkward—“My dear Mr. Bennet! How can you be so tiresome? You must know that I am thinking of him going out with one of them and if we are lucky marrying one of them” (5)—but most of the time, it’s just funny—“I text rather slowly,” Darcy says in response to Caroline’s praise (33).] There are also a few strange insertions of what I thought was “Valley speak”—Kitty says “What! Have you, like, dared to try it on?” (13) and gansta versions of Valley Speak—Lydia says, “Whateva” (13). When Bingley tries to introduce Darcy to Elizabeth, Darcy says “Boo that” (16). In no world, however modern or sea-side, would Fitzwilliam Darcy say “boo that.”

For the most part, however, the strange lingo exists because the text is English! The British use words, and combinations of words, that Americans just don’t (I learned that on my recent excursion). I have to assume that words such as “gormless,” “cracking” as an adjective, “pifflingly,” “gobstoppers,” “yonks,” “potted” as an intransitive verb a ball does,  “barmy,” “splodge,” and “shaley” are commonly used in England (6, title page, 31, 41, 64, 67, 74, 83, 111). It was rather pleasant to watch the characters in their own native environment, rather than as I usually do, through an American, or American-conscious perspective. Cultural references, too, become a small challenge—Y-fronts, Quba bags, Fonshaw Mini Fits, and the class implications of polo vs netball and public vs state schools (38, 69, 70, 31, 31)—but really help the reader understand how English society works. The disgust Caroline (Cazza) feels because the Bennet girls are “state educated” reflects the class divide in England that (we just learned on our trip!) still permeates English society (30). I wondered if this text isn’t more popular here because of its firm grounding in British language and culture, but I think Americans are fascinated by other cultures (we are, after all, from those other cultures) and would enjoy learning more. (Amazon does sell it, but not directly, and not inexpensively.)

Besides, all of us enjoy a quintessentially British “jolly good!” (57).

Setting the story by the sea gives Roberts a lot of room to have fun. Netherfield becomes Netherpollock, Sir William becomes a health marshal of sorts (a dream job for, say, a valetudinarian like Mr. Woodhouse), Mrs. Bennet (Frances) sends Jane to visit Bingley on a boat, rather than on a horse (Jane “had on a flimsy dress on top of which she wore a bright orange bulky life-jacket which slightly spoiled the delicate effect of the dress but even Mrs. Bennet did not want her daughter to actually drown,” 27), the militia become life guards, walking becomes swimming (or sailing), piano-playing becomes sandcastle-building, and difficult sea creatures (including prawn) are used by various characters to symbolize Darcy. The word prawn is used several times, in fact (sometimes awkwardly:  “I would forgive him for being such a bad prawn if he had not made me feel like one too”—what does that even mean? 21).

This text, like so many others, is plagued by typos and grammatical errors (at least it isn’t just an American problem). Windcot is a “delightful home which often opened it’s gardens to the public” (my emphasis) (41). The “it’s” error occurs multiple times, in fact (74, 79, 82, 91, 99, 105). Leaving off the final “e” of the verb “breathe” occurs many times as well (97, 114). Everyone observes how Bingley took his time “helping [Jane] on board, and how his eye’s followed her every move” (my emphasis) (15). Mr. Collins’ nervousness is described this way: “Anxious for action but unsure how to proceed, the Bennet girls’ plan for the day would prove to give him the opportunity he urgently desired” (the plan becomes anxious?) (58). In light of these errors, Charlotte’s idea that the “purpose for university would only be to secure a career or a husband” and since she has Mr. Collins, there is no need for further education—or career, is even more disturbing (65).

There are some other unusual moments in this otherwise light text. When Darcy first reveals his love for Elizabeth, she slaps him across the face because it seems like “the only course available to her” (82). If I understood the text correctly, Wickham reveals something quite shocking with respect to his own sexual inclinations after the incident with Lydia (108). The great moment when Elizabeth rescues Georgiana from the mean Bingley sisters is gone, even though the rest of the scene is there. And there are several near-death experiences—one involving Mr. Collins, but, more seriously, a choking incident with Maria at Lady Catherine’s, a near-drowning of Mary with mouth-to-mouth and chest pumping (after which, everyone resumes enjoying the picnic), and a backwards stumble off a cliff for Darcy just before the second proposal (he takes out Pride and Prejudice, which he just happens to have on his person, after the fall, and is reading chapter 58 in this text’s chapter  58 while he decides whether to give up and plummet to his death or to rally his strength and try to climb) (72-73, 112-13, 120). Since many of us read Austen precisely because she avoids melodrama and sticks to situations that are believable, some (all) of these scenes felt a bit over-the-top to me. After all, if we wanted that, we’d pick up a Bronte novel, right?

Cassandra and Jane by Jill Pitkeathley

The Prologue establishes Cassandra Austen, Jane’s beloved older sister, as the narrator of our tale—just as she is about to begin the burning of the letters, an event that, even 200 years later, makes Janeites angry, sad, irritated, or some combination of these feelings. Cass says she’s burning the letters to protect Jane’s secrets (which makes her subsequent delineation of what those include a bit difficult to understand). The sensitive reader can simultaneously sympathize with this choice, and bemoan it. Thus begins a narrative not only of Jane Austen’s life, from the person (besides Jane) best able to describe it, but also of Cassandra, made a public name because of her famous sister.

At first, Cassandra & Jane is more an interesting, than a fun, read. We learn that newborn babies in families of the Austen ilk were sent away to be nursed, and often returned home only when a new baby necessitated the nurse. Cassandra becomes almost immediately protective of baby Jane as she becomes aware that their mother (also named Cassandra, but here called Mrs. Austen) doesn’t much like the newcomer. We learn why the girls were sent away to school (Mrs. Austen caught Cass riding a horse by straddling it, so, concerned lest her daughter continue to manifest boyish behavior, Mrs. Austen resolved to send her to a finishing school of sorts, only to have young Jane beg to accompany her elder sister). The instructor tells Cass, with no small degree of irony, that she should care for Jane if Jane longs for her mother (which we already know is highly unlikely). When the girls get sick, their cousin Jane has to sneak a letter home to inform their families, which ends up saving them (and killing cousin Jane’s mother). What Cassandra & Jane does, then, is not present new information as much as it provides reasons, background information, as to how the facts that we know occurred, happened to occur.

There are a few awkward moments in the text: At one point, Cassandra seems to slip into conversation directly with Jane (p. 14) and to ask rhetorically if Jane praised her because Jane knew how much “less a person” Cass was. In what way was Cassandra less a person? This moment feels unnecessarily dramatic. Cass later discusses their rustic ways as being a problem for the girls once they were made aware of their relative lack of sophistication; I don’t think most readers would suspect Jane Austen as having any lack of sophistication, so this reading posed some problems for me. At another time, the narrator calls Eliza, Aunt Philly’s daughter, “my Eliza,” which seems odd given Jane’s much closer relationship to Eliza and Cass’s distance from her. After losing Tom, Cassie declares she will never love again; how can she know such a thing? And if it’s just her dramatic feelings in the immediate aftermath of the loss, why does she never again attempt love? With respect to Jane, immediately after accepting Harris Bigg-Wither, she chats with Cassandra about it and seems to be struck—for the first time—by the loathsome task of sharing a bedroom with Harris; how could this occur to her only for the first time? Did young ladies know so little about marital relations? Later, when Jane is a successful writer, Cassandra worries about Jane having her own house, but why is unclear since, no doubt, Cassandra would live with her sister. (Jane says as much almost immediately, so what is the foundation for this concern?) The text also makes Jane out to be sometimes annoying centered on her own problems and emotions, so while her intellect and sensitivity at some times appear to flatter her, those former characteristics certainly don’t; if that’s the case, and if Cassandra wanted to burn letters that make Jane look less than stellar, why share these thoughts with us now? Is this supposed to be a diary, or a tell-all? Whom does our narrator think she is addressing?

Despite some awkwardness, the text soon shifts from merely interesting to almost fun. We are, after all, hobnobbing with Jane Austen, through a medium I don’t think we’ve seen before: the perspective of her older, quieter sister. We see how much happiness theatricals bring to the family circle. We can laugh that Jane actually instructs Cass to cut out the racier parts of her letters. And certainly we enjoy the multiple lines from Austen’s works appearing in her life, both before and after they appear in her journals. The texts then, seem to come from her life, but also to inspire new parts of her life. Or maybe the revisions of the early works include material that, by the time of the revisions, had happened in her actual life, and those changes make the books the best-sellers they become?

Jane Austen voices Mr. Bennet’s line about enjoying “sport” from our neighbors. Eliza seems to be a Charlotte figure with marriage #1, marrying more for convenience than for anything else; so, too, does Jane Cooper summon visions of Charlotte in being pretty but not too clever (rather the reverse of Charlotte, but with the same approval by people close to her as a result of this lack of competition). Eliza later seems to be the model for Elizabeth Bennet, in terms of her feisty spirit, and for Mary Crawford (the latter speculation comes from my analysis, not Cassandra’s, which only proves that the spirit of the book’s narrator has pulled me in J). Mr. Fowle, Cassandra’s fiancé, inspires Edmund Bertram. The Reverend Austen’s reaction to Mr. Fowle’s proposal strongly resembles Mr. Bennet’s to Darcy’s. Mr. Atkins seems to be responsible for Edmund, too, and Charles Austen’s amber crosses to his sisters get echoed in William Price’s to Fanny. Jane longs for control over her own life, and so gives it to Lady Susan. Jane also fears, and regularly contemplates, becoming a governess, much as Jane Fairfax does in Emma. She, unlike her more conventional sister, imagines other career options for women besides wife and mother, and Cass doesn’t realize until later that Jane might have done quite well as a mother, despite early irritation at the hypochondria of their mother (nicely echoed in Mary Musgrove and Lady Bertram, and many characters in Sanditon). The grand estates of the novels, including Pemberley and Hartfield, owe a lot of Godmersham, where Jane and Cassandra spent time while tending to Edward’s wife and children. Anna marries a Lefroy, and even her grandma, Mrs. Austen, is not invited to the wedding; certainly her stepmother and weak father are the models for Fanny Dashwood and whatever her husband’s name is.

The bonds between sisters in the novels are even more fascinating if we examine them with the additional lens of the Jane/Cassandra relationship. Cassandra has a strong negative reaction to the nasty sisters in “The Watsons,” a fragment Jane never finished because, according to this text, she received such negative feedback. Jane bases Marianne Dashwood on herself and Elinor on Cassie, which seemed initially anathema to all I had assumed about Jane, but which works with the development Pitkeathley gives it (Jane looks rather selfish but also romantic and passionate). Jane becomes a prototype for Jane Bennet after Bingley leaves her, and her disappointed hopes lead to public discussion; Cassandra asks Jane to name this character after Jane herself, though it soon seems clear that the personality that most resembles Jane Austen’s is Elizabeth Bennet (of the daughters, and Mr. Bennet, of them all). Cassandra, of course, is the Austen sister who likes everyone and who quietly reflects on what her younger sister more boldly states, much more like Jane Bennet than Jane Austen herself. So this novel, then, offers some new and some familiar takes on who was the model for each of our various characters.

The various lovers of Jane and Cassandra have been explored in other books and films, but I enjoyed Pitkeathley’s handling of both Tom Lefroy and George Atkins. Cass brings up the possibility that Jane might more readily never marry once she knew Cassandra would never leave her, but this reader suspects that fear of childbirth and desire to stay by Cass’s side would not have completely squashed Jane’s romantic spirit had other circumstances been conducive to a companionate, comfortable marriage.

At times, especially towards the beginning, I found myself assuming the narrator was Jane and then had to remind myself that she is a very different creature—certainly a new twist in our world. Cass’s narrations provide a different sort of information than Jane herself might have provided. Cass, for instance, explains why none of Jane’s compositions was dedicated to their mother, and is a witness to history when Jane predicts her success with the mahogany writing desk her father gives her.

As Jane and Cassandra age together, we see the changes that befall our Jane through Cassandra’s eyes. Looking back on her sister’s life after her sister’s death, Cassandra regrets leaving Jane at home alone to cope with the news that the family was moving to Bath. This disaster for Jane affected her writing, which we already know, but also her spirits, which Cassandra’s tale helps us imagine more clearly. The absence of letters from this time is explained by Cassandra’s describing Jane as more depressed and bitter than usual because of this disruption in her life with no voice in any of it. Cass didn’t want other people to see this “private” side of Jane. Jane’s character sees things differently during this dark time, so much so that, according to Cassandra, Jane called Elizabeth Bennet “stupidly” confident (I’m more motivated to reread the letters to investigate this claim).

The move to Chawton, by contrast, brings with it hope and some degree of control over their own lives. We are reminded that Cassandra and Jane both escape the fate of so many women (Edward was the only healthy brother not to marry twice? That’s how common death in childbirth was?) of their era. Henry pays to have Sense and Sensibility published, which leads to mixed feelings in Cassandra once again; she is happy for Jane and relived at the restoration of Jane’s spirits, but she is also concerned about the apparent widening gulf between them. Jane, in fact, quite enjoys the accidental revelation of her identity to the adoring public, for many reasons, not least of which is the likelihood that Tom Lefroy will hear of her success. When the Prince Regent requests Jane’s dedication and writes it for her, she is not thrilled except that the request will impress her mom (with the aristocratic nose) and probably sell more books. At this high point in Jane’s career, Cassandra tells us they have about two years of happiness left.

The dying scenes are heart-wrenching. When Mrs. Austen speaks kindly to Jane, Jane jokes with Cassandra that she won’t speculate as to why now; Jane knows she’s dying, and she stays funny, despite her pain. Jane Austen dies with her head on a pillow in Cassandra’s lap, and if you aren’t crying when you read this scene, you don’t love Jane the way you should.

In the aftermath, Cassandra explains why Winchester Cathedral instead of Chawton, next to the places for her sister and mother; how the burning of the letters becomes a gift of “control in death that she lacked in life”; and the ironic heartache that Cassandra was not even permitted to attend the funeral. When Cassandra speaks of seeing Jane’s face for the last time, the reader cannot help but be struck that no one will ever see Jane Austen’s face again on earth. Cassandra does leave open the possibility, however, that, somewhere, in the collections of the descendants of the Austen boys and of the women Jane Austen befriended, there may exist a lock of her hair.

The True Darcy Spirit

When Mr. Collins (as voiced by Elizabeth Johnson) and I reviewed Elizabeth Aston’s Mr. Darcy’s Daughters, we were both pleased and displeased with some of this adventurous writer’s choices. Though her earlier work is not required reading to enjoy the latest one, familiarity with some of its important characters, particularly Camilla (the Lizzy parallel) and Belle (the ditzy twin who doesn’t get married at the end and who gives Lydia, the “silliest girl in all England,” some competition for the distinction), who play important roles here, in the life of an entirely new character, Cassandra Darcy.

 Cassandra, or Cass, is Anne de Bourgh’s kid, but Aston is careful to state upfront that Cass looks nothing like her mom and is confident like a Darcy; it seems that Anne somehow managed to snag a Darcy, even if it wasn’t our beloved one, and that he embodied some seemingly familial traits of intelligence, moral rectitude, and confidence. Anne’s Darcy husband has, much to Cassandra’s misfortune, died early, and Anne has remarried a more Mr. Collins type figure by the name of Partington. The first scene of the novel occurs between Cass and a young Darcy, Horatio, who has been hired to provide legal services on behalf of Mr. Partington—which consists of arranging a marriage between Cass and a man she refuses, to the cost of expulsion from her family.

 And thus begins a tale of intrigue, illicit affairs, premarital sex, marriage for money, art, opera, kisses in the garden, and prostitutes.

 Lady Catherine’s granddaughter has suffered a lapse of judgment for which nearly all other characters condemn her, but we get to watch as slowly things come right, through the aid of a loyal (smart) servant, an independent cousin, a flawed but improving barrister, and her own tremendous talents.

 We know from the start that this Cass is our heroine because: Horatio remembers her from their youth as playful and “unfeminine,” Rosings is going to her half-brother instead of to her, she reminds Horatio of Fitzwilliam Darcy, she has an evil stepfather who scorns novels, and she resists going to live with the evil Mrs. Norris. Now the primary issues become, “how did this poor girl become all alone in the world?” and “where/who is her real soul mate?” The discerning reader quickly adds the clues about the soul mate (no revelations here), which brings a little cheer to the answer of the solitude question.

 As we now expect, Aston makes some very funny comments on people and how they act in groups, much as Austen did, so even though we are introduced to several new characters, it is fairly simple to “categorize” them by their views, ridiculous as they are in many cases. Miss Quail, for instance, an ugly girl who finally gets engaged, starts every sentence with, “as an engaged woman . . .” as if to remind the world that SOMEONE wanted her. Mrs. Cathcart wants Cass to get a library subscription but only because “it would be thought odd” if Cass wasn’t seen there. Mrs. Nettelton comments that “good looks . . . count in any employment.” Ew.

 In addition to bitter comments on people, Aston also throws in quite a bit of scandal— men who are inappropriately forward, gay, sleeping with married women, or courting escorts, and women who are madams, adulteresses, scandal-mongers, passive idiots or gigglers—and also enough real love to satisfy even this Janeite. Elizabeth Bennet’s “fine eyes” become Cassandra’s “golden voice,” the key that unlocks the heart of the man who is her true match. The hero makes mistakes in judging the heroine, as she does him, but in the end, the bad guys get punished, the condescending aunt concedes, the hero professes his love, and the “true Darcy spirit” emerges, triumphant.

 Plus the heroine keeps her job—and her name. A modern romance for the modern Janeite.

Note: This review originally appeared in the JASNA-SW newsletter, April 2006.

The Second Mrs. Darcy by Elizabeth Aston

Our Mr. Darcy is a distant relation of Octavia Darcy’s late husband, and George Warren, Caroline Bingley’s stepson, stands to inherit Octavia Darcy’s estate because of an entail. Sounds like a fairly familiar scenario thus far, but this novel, with many entirely new characters, also presents some situations we rarely see in the “sequels” (of which, technically, this isn’t one except in the sense that, chronically, it comes after the events of Pride and Prejudice).

The story begins, for instance, in India, where we learn about our heroine, Octavia, and also get glimpses of information about the “first” Mrs. Darcy (who has much the same mystique as Rebecca receives, to the worry of the unnamed wife of Max deWinter, in DuMaurier’s thriller). Like Max, Octavia’s husband rarely spoke of his first wife when securing her replacement, so the second assumes she is inferior in his view, only to suffer through such feelings before finally learning the truth (don’t worry: no boat murders here; it is a Jane Austen-themed work, after all).

Octavia, like our Lizzy Bennet years before, is tanned after a long voyage (here, home to England from India after the death of her husband), and has her would-be estate entailed on a man who hardly deserves it, but George Warren is evil and manipulative, rather than simply unctuous and pompous like Mr. Collins. Octavia has a sister with nerves like Mrs. Bennet’s and a sharp tongue like Miss Bingley’s. This sister has a daughter, Penelope, whose cough annoys her mother, as Kitty’s does in P&P, but we like Penelope right away (as does her aunt Octavia) because of her friendly nature, her managing to be kind despite her mother’s mean spirit, and her love of a man of whom her mother will never approve.

Height, of all traits, has long been a problem to Octavia. Everyone seems to comment on how much taller she is than a woman should be (wasn’t Lydia proud of her being taller than all her sisters in P&P? Since when is height, even in a woman, a negative trait?). This odd fixation is one Octavia cannot help but internalize as one of many reasons she did not enjoy her first season as a maiden looking for a husband several years before our story opens. Men, it seems, do not court women who stand taller than they do.

Enter Lord Rutherford. We know from our first glimpse to watch him closely: he is tall, and he reads. He is also single, but older than the usual man seeking to marry for the first time. He has a twin sister to whom he is very close, and a close friend who reminds this reader a lot of Charles Bingley. He also stays away from meaningful relationships with women because he has been hurt in the past and because women—and their grasping families—are mostly interested in his title.

Before you know it, you’re hooked. Whereas when you first started reading, you may have been waiting to see a familiar face (Mr. Bennet still lives at Longbourne, but we don’t really see him, even when we enter Hertfordshire for Octavia to stay with the Ackworths, whose home is built into the earth like Pemberley, and who are a delightful, lively, information-stocked couple vaguely resembling the Gardiners; it is Mr. Bennet, however, in a fun twist, who brings the news that Lord Rutherford is moving into Netherfield. The Gouldings are still in Haye Park, too, but most everyone else is Aston’s creation), but soon, you just want to know what will happen to these people, even if they’re new to you.

In fact, many of these are familiar names if you’ve read Aston’s other Darcy novels. The Wyttons, for instance, are one of Darcy and Elizabeth’s daughters and her husband, whose courtship we have followed in a previous tale. Pagoda Portal makes several appearances, too, and Lady Warren reappears in her usual state.

The names are intriguing. I often tell my students that the English name pool is much smaller than ours, consisting basically of George, Henry, Charles, John, William, Edward, and variations of those names, for men, and of a slightly larger pool for women. Imagine my surprise then, to find characters in Aston’s novel with names based on their birth order (Quintus, Septimus, and Octavia), names that reflect their character (Sophronia, Woodhead, Snipe, and Forsyte), and names that are just entirely new to me (Sholto, Poyntz, and Urquhart).

So while the character interactions we love in Austen reappear in new forms here (Octavia and Rutherford meet, for instance, as she’s rescuing books from his library, and they both have immediately negative first impressions of the other), The Second Mrs. Darcy is an intriguing tale in its own right, and one that, if the reader is patient long enough to keep track of the connections and care about the characters, will be a fulfilling read. It is also a tale in which the central figures for whom we are rooting are not the usual teenage/early 20s maidens and their slightly older heroes of the Austen novels, but, in fact, well-seasoned individuals who have seen what the world has to offer in terms of love, rejected any possibility of it in their own lives, and only later in life come to experience it first-hand. A refreshing alteration, then, for the 21^st century reader .

Old Friends and New Fancies by Sybil G. Brinton

I arrived about 10 minutes early to yet another first (coffee) date and decided to use my time wisely by browsing in the nearby bookstore until the time arrived to meet the man. Imagine my delight when I discovered a new printing of a book originally written in 1913 and containing characters from all six of the major novels! It was like a dream come true!

This story looks at what might happen if all our beloved (and not so beloved) characters lived at the same time and could know and meet each other. It uses language that somehow feels more authentic (given that it was written closer to Austen’s time than any sequel written today could be?) than usual and offers intrigue you would well expect in a world where Lady Catherine has tea with Lady Dalrymple and where Georgiana checks out William Price for Kitty Bennet’s benefit.

William Price says to Georgiana, and it hit home especially given the circumstances of my finding this treasure, that “if you found you positively had to do [some things you had to do], and there was no way out, then you would decide to like them [because] it would make them so much easier,” right? Georgiana and I were both struck by this way of looking at the world.

I suspect quite soon that Kitty is not the right match for William, largely because Mrs. Knightley (Emma’s still doing this?) is promoting the match, and because William seems to pay far more attention to Georgiana. Meanwhile, Catherine Morland’s brother, James, has fallen hard for Kitty, and we know he has already experienced such heartache over unrequited love. She rejects him, but her older sister rejected the right suitor at the wrong time, so I still feel hope for that match—especially because Mr. Bennet likes him and is sensitive and funny when approached for Kitty’s hand.

Sir Walter Eliot, meanwhile, is busy courting Mary Crawford, who has captured Colonel Fitzwilliam’s heart; Mary Crawford successfully draws Georgiana out, just as she did Fanny, but Lady Catherine wants nothing to do with her. John Thorpe, of course, has plenty of useless—and maybe worse than useless—things to say at the opera, and Captain Wentworth and Colonel Fitzwilliam have mutual friends, which makes sense.

The sheer number and variety of characters we love to watch in action acting together here makes for quite a spectacle. One dinner scene alone would be worth almost anything to attend as the proverbial fly on the wall: in attendance are Wentworth and Anne, Mr. Knightley, William Price, Caroline Bingley, the Hursts, and Georgiana. The pairings in the text are so much fun: friendships between Elinor and Elizabeth, Anne and Georgiana, and Mary Crawford and Mrs. Palmer, and matches between—well, I won’t ruin those for you! Mrs. Jennings is as ridiculous and simultaneously charming as ever, with Kitty replacing the Dashwood and Steele girls as her plaything. Even the riddle idea from Emma gets some replay time here, as does the play idea from Mansfield Park, and the Elton proposal, refurbished, with Georgiana in the Emma role. Given the possibilities here, the only wonder to me is that Brinton controlled her desires to throw everyone together!

One possible fault, lest I praise the text without cease: Emma is far too annoying and still up to her old (bad) antics. I know, I know: that’s how she is in the book. I respectfully disagree, as I always have, in my defense of Emma’s solid character. Mr. Knightley, too, here is positively scary, not a moral exemplar who looks hot in his breeches, as he should be (and as Jeremy Northam perfectly portrayed him) (at least in the first few appearances; towards the end, he is the hero I always knew him to be). Fanny and Edmund are deemed “dreadfully good.” I’m not sure I should quibble with that one, but aren’t we supposed to like the good ones? Or only if they’re funny?

OK: back to what I love about this book. Some of the lines are positively Austen-esque. The friendship between Elinor Ferrars and Elizabeth Bennet, for instance, is described in this way: “Their friendship was of a particularly sincere and well-balanced kind, and was not marred by their constant intercourse, as each knew how to maintain that degree of reserve which prevents indiscriminate confidences and so greatly strengthens mutual respect.” In another instance, Bingley observes that “nowadays it is the fashion to admire loudest what one understands least.”

Isabella Thorpe seems to make a play for Tom Bertram; though many others characters are drawn in by her, the discerning reader is no fool. We immediately pity the poor guy.

Perhaps we would feel the same way about my date. He arrived, poor chump, and found me giddy with my book purchase, but alas, Mr. Bennet would never have approved the match. “Natasha,” he would say, “let me not have the grief of seeing you unable to respect your partner in life.”

These Three Remain by Pamela Aidan

The title of this retelling of Pride and Prejudice comes from Corinthians, the “three remain[ing]” being faith, hope, and love.  The Christian references remain light until, first, Darcy and Fitzwilliam travel to Kent and hear Lady Catherine annoyed about religious fanatics (with whom Darcy seems to feel some sympathy, since being a devout Christian has helped Georgiana cope with the aftermath of the Wickham fiasco) and later, when Darcy and Georgiana are reunited. The debate of passion versus restraint is very interesting, but Austen didn’t discuss such religious fervor in her work, and I’m not entirely sure if she had, she would have sided as Aidan seems to. The religious references sometimes become annoying, perhaps because again, Austen just didn’t do this. Georgiana, for instance, calms her brother with a story of a “foolish young girl who, save for the mercy of G-d, nearly ruined her family” (hypen, mine) (220). Darcy’s “pride” takes on the feel of a sin when Georgiana accuses him of taking pride in a confession (222); Austen didn’t handle morality in this manner, and, in P & P, not all pride is bad. Both Darcy and Elizabeth defend pride when it is possessed and used properly, and Austen’s text argues in favor of proper usage, not elimination. Several characters here seem concerned about people “going Methodist,” and altogether, I found the constant intrusion of religion into the story a distraction from the story, rather than an enhancement.

To be fair, I found the anti-religious views equally irritating (such as Dy’s comment that Georgiana only forgives Darcy because “she would have to now, would she not? . . . . religious as she is” (227). It isn’t fair to say that religious people only do nice things because their religion makes them.

Aidan uses language quite beautifully in many places, beginning with the “verbal ice shower” (2) and continuing with a description of one soul  rushing “to claim, to embrace that other half of itself with a joyful recognition” (28). Finally, someone enjoys Mr. Collins’ fatuous ramblings; Colonel Fitzwilliam loves hearing the rector talk. I enjoyed many of the narrator’s turns of phrase.

Darcy’s experience is richly enhanced in this version. We come to understand that he has multiple causes for stress (24), he has been involved with some reckless, possibly even dangerous acquaintances in his attempt to find a suitable wife (3), and he truly believes Elizabeth to know his intentions when he makes his (first) proposal. Darcy longs to know what Elizabeth reads (40), and Elizabeth makes Darcy know himself early on (63)—nice parallel. Aidan provides an interesting look at a much familiar conversation, adding why and what Darcy hears (58-59) and adds an additional motive for why Darcy goes to Hunsford the morning where they sit alone, awkwardly (she had urged him to practice, so he takes her advice!).  After the proposal, Darcy tells Fitzwilliam a partial truth, and Fitzwilliam pledges to tell Elizabeth that very day that Darcy was being honest about Wickham and Georgiana—but, as we know, Elizabeth stays out walking, and misses them both, and thus never receives Fitzwilliam’s confirmation. We really see Darcy’s misery after the first proposal, and our sympathy for him almost excuses his refusal to confide in Georgiana when she begs him to share his grief. We also learn that Darcy thinks at first his interference in the Lydia business would be considered officious; he is now conscious of how Elizabeth perceives him. His decision to do it anyway reflects not brash arrogance but willing self-abnegation. He loves Elizabeth so much he wants to save her even if she would despise him for his behavior if she knew of it.

Fletcher, Darcy’s valet, is a wonderful (in both senses) addition to the story. He knows that Darcy is in love before Darcy discusses it with anyone, and he does little valet-things to help make Darcy more comfortable and more ready to make Elizabeth his wife. (A strange sidenote not picked up again: Fletcher is selfishly motivated by the fact that his fiancée is Miss Bennet’s mistress, and she refuses to leave Elizabeth to marry until Elizabeth is married. How did that happen? 137). Fletcher is almost unbelievably literate, reciting Shakespearean sonnets, Hamlet, and various poems as though he has been schooled at Oxford or Cambridge. The story does eventually give a plausible reason for Fletcher’s knowledge, but the story doesn’t adequately address why it never occurred to Darcy to question his valet’s source of poetry. Darcy treats his valet with respect and esteem, and I loved how that works to Darcy’s favor when the two go to discover Wickham and Lydia. As in Austen, what happens ultimately  is good and just.

Darcy’s relationship with Bingley takes on new ridges in Aidan’s version. When Darcy realizes what he has done to Charles, he tries to fix it in more than one way, including by building up Bingley’s self-esteem so he won’t feel he has to trust others over himself. I particularly liked hearing Darcy telling Bingley what has been happening between Darcy and Elizabeth; this humbling needs to happen for them to be real equals. It also helps create a delightful scene in which the two men plan to get lost while walking with their intendeds. Finally, they conspire to get what they both want.

For the most part, in These Three Remain, Aidan gives us what we want, too.

The Three Weissmanns of Westport by Cathleen Schine

This story starts off with sadness: a 78-year old man demands a divorce from his 75-year-old wife (of 48 years), and she can’t understand why. Quickly, Schine develops the links between her story and Austen’s Sense and Sensibility. The divorce fills in for Mr. Dashwood’s death, the sad opening that changes the lives of Austen’s heroines, but this time the instigator of the trouble is a more likeable villain than is John Dashwood. Josie, the 78-year-old man divorcing Betty (Mrs. Dashwood), has raised her two daughters, Annie (Elinor) and Miranda (Marianne) from the time they were little, and he misses them, and Betty, as the life he knew falls away (at his own bidding, yes, but still). The real villain is, of course, Fanny Dashwood, here played by Felicity, a younger woman who works in Josie’s office and knew what kind of life he led before she destroyed it. It is she who persuades Josie to move Betty out of their Manhattan home, and Felicity into it. Betty calls herself a widow throughout the story, and though the girls and she suffer the “loss” of the man they knew in a different way from death, he is “lost” to them for most of the story.

As we might expect, Betty and Miranda are “both believers in love” and so fail to understand what is happening (until each leans about Felicity), whereas Annie wants to explain why this is happening and fix it (get him to a neurologist and then see a lawyer) (8). Annie is divorced with two grown sons and now works as a librarian in the Upper West Side. When she isn’t coping with all the bills her sister and mother neither pay nor look at, Annie tries to inhabit the “soft, dappled world” of 19^th and 20^th century English novels (36). Miranda never married, loves to be in love, and is a literary agent whose career, after a shameful appearance on Oprah, goes downhill quickly. She has “always playfully bestowed” an “ironic voice with [a] Yiddish lilt” to G-d, and she’s the reason why the text needs to clarify the difference between “self-absorbed” (yes) and “selfish” (no) (19). Since Felicity is Fanny, it makes sense that she has a much nicer brother (Frederick/Edward Ferrars) who is interested in Annie and also a not much nicer nephew (Evan/Robert Ferrars) who pops in from time to time. Meanwhile, since Betty is suddenly without financial resources, Schine gives her a Cousin Lou (Sir John Middleton) to provide a cottage in Westport and friendly company. Since all three women need a change, they go to live there together.

In Westport, we meet the rest of the characters. Lou’s wife, Rosalyn, isn’t the most sensitive person around (I don’t remember Lady Middleton being that way, but Lady M had four annoying kids to think about, and Rosalyn has none). Her father (Mrs. Jennings) comes to live with them because he is suffering from dementia of sorts (normally a tragic situation, but Schine lightens the mood by having him still enjoy life and cause amusement for others, such as when he asks who the old man bothering him is—and the old man is his annoying daughter). A guy with a yellow bow tie (who turns out to be quite muscular under all those clothes) is the Colonel Brandon (Roberts) figure, and when Miranda walks on the beach and tries to examine her soul, we know she must be about to fall and meet Willoughby. Instead, Schine sends her off on a kayak without training, and Kit Maybank, a “handsome boy with tiny whales on his pants,” gets to do the rescuing by sea (82). This debonair, much younger man, has a son, Henry (to whom Miranda really seems more connected) and is an aspiring actor. Oh no.

I kept waiting for the Palmers to arrive. (He is a personal favorite.)

In lieu of the evil Mrs. Ferrars who threatens to withhold money and power from Edward if he strays from the path she has chosen for him, we have the aforementioned villainess Felicity and two evil children (okay, not completely rotten, like Iago, but still pretty selfish). The daughter, Gwen, named her twin daughters Juliet and Ophelia (WHY?), and they’re a pair of little brats (my interpretation, yes, but even the nicest of you would find them over-indulged and annoying). I had been wondering what Gwen could possibly threaten to do to her father (to make him obey her and stay away from Annie), and then I saw it: withholding the brats (to whom Frederick must want access since he is their grandfather). Rosalyn has taken interest in two stupid sisters. Crystal (Anne Steele) is studying to be a life coach; I tried not to take offense when Schine made her speak like a Valley Girl [first, she mistakes a coyote for a wolf, and then she says, “Oh my G-d, I was freaking out” (emphasis not mine) (175)]. Amber (Lucy Steele) is a masseuse. She manages to snag Frederick with the usual trick to force men of honor into marriages they don’t want, and has the nerve to confide in Annie and then to call her fiancé “Daddy-o” (227).

Moments between sisters are some of the best scenes here. I loved the scene in which Miranda tries to help Frederick talk with Annie; it reminded me a lot of Sense and Sensibility and Marianne’s frustration with Edward. The fight scene was handled differently but effectively. I was surprised in this text that we don’t hear much about Miranda’s sexual energy upfront; instead, she responds to the sense of calm she feels being with Kit, but really taking care of his young son (who calls her “Randa”). We do, however, have marked attention to the passion of classy, respectable Annie, who has learned properly to “anesthetize” her physical responses to men (111).  Annie also has strong moral fiber—she had wanted a Bat Mitzvah for the “right” reasons, for example, and she read War and Peace while she was pregnant, which I’m partial to, given the origins of my name—and she will find the love she deserves, with someone who really shares that essential uprightness of character.

I was rather shocked by the surprise twist near the end (not the one at the end of chapter 20 or at the end of chapter 21, but the one at the beginning of chapter 21), and I’m still not sure that was necessary. Just as you come to predict what will happen, Schine will throw one surprise at you after another. This is not Sense and Sensibility, she seems to say, even if it makes you laugh (ex: “The goyim . . . do not feed their guests; it is not their custom, and we must respect the customs of other cultures, but that does not mean we have to starve,” p. 234), cry (ch 21!), and think, and even if there is a reference to the novel (Annie finds a first volume of “the two-volume first American edition of Sense and Sensibility” (222). The language is clear, and often pretty, and the story will take you on a journey worth taking.

Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron by Stephanie Barron

You’d think that someone who spends quality time reviewing Jane Austen-related fiction would have experienced a Jane Austen Mystery in Barron’s series before now, but apparently, the tenth one is the charm.  This was a charming exploration of Jane Austen’s England from Jane Austen’s point of view, and though there are a few discrepancies that discredit the credibility of the source, for the most part, Barron has captured Austen’s voice and mannerisms and given us an entertaining tale to boot.

As usual, the discrepancies first. When Jane is describing the behavior of the Prince Regent, she says: “Whether he dipped his head in the sea or not, remains a question for posterity; but certain it is he dipped his wick—as the Vulgar would say—in every unprotected maiden the surrounding country offered” (72-73). The isolated phrase notwithstanding, Jane would not have spoken this way. Our supposed Jane later ponders “the elation natural to a gentleman who has raped Fortune of so grand a sum as seven hundred guineas” (209). Even in a time with less sensitivity toward the subject of rape, it hardly seems likely Austen would have used that verb gratuitously. In another instance of inauthenticity of voice, Barron has Austen say she “cannot like [her] poor Fanny [Price]” and will therefore “spare the darling Henry such a cross, and bestow the lady upon her cousin Edmund—who has earned her as penance, for his utter lack of humour” (104). While it is certainly true that some modern readers find Fanny’s strict adherence to morality a little dull, there is no indication that Austen centered her story around a heroine she disliked. If any heroine posed a threat to likeability, it is, as Austen herself famously said, Emma Woodhouse, and even in that case, Austen never herself says she dislikes Emma. I like modern takes on the history, but I cannot approve modern coloring of historical views in this way. “Sober Fanny Price,” this Jane reflects, is “very nearly as quelling as [Jane’s] sister Cassandra, when she believes herself to be right, which is on almost every occasion” (52). This disparaging of a heroine and a much-beloved sister seems uncharacteristic. Barron’s Austen also seems to take a jab at novels when she mocks Miss Twining’s melodramatic refrain “I am ready to sink!” as being something she “had learnt . . . from a novel” (115). This Jane also suggests that the writing of novels is only to be done when she is “back at home, and the rain of June has descended with persistence, and there is nothing but mud and desolation to be had out-of-doors” (43).

The rest of the time, however, the character Jane seems like she certainly could be our Jane. She is close to her brother Henry, who is newly widowed, and with whom she travels to Brighton to recover from the loss. Many of her comments, and those of her family, echo books she has written. Instead of suggesting life events presage events in the novels, Barron has Austen use her own words in life after she has written them for a character; I found myself comfortable with this choice, rather than the former.  When Lord Byron (someone else will have to assess this work’s accuracy with respect to that historical figure) threatens Jane, for instance, she retorts, “You might have had name and direction, my lord . . . had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner” (30). It makes sense, of course, that Austen’s family discusses her characters as though they are real. Cassandra even deems Brighton “a very vulgar place” because “it was in Brighton that poor Lydia Bennet made her fatal choice to elope with Wickham” (21).

The story itself contains many interesting parallels to various threads from the original novels. Catherine’s brother died under Wellington’s command, and their father speaks passionately of his “martyred Richard,” much as poor Dick Musgrove’s mother does in Persuasion. This father sure sounds a lot like General Tilney—the singular circumstances of the wife’s death, the gruff demeanor—but we are not to apply the lesson Catherine Morland learns to this man. Jane’s family has a neighbor named John Middleton, and many of the gatherings and melodrama echo Northanger Abbey.

I enjoyed Barron’s imaginings of how Austen would have interacted with Byron. He, to his credit, tells the lady when they meet that “the ambitious must always know their rivals” and shortly thereafter, that Jane Austen is “a greater writer than” he is (175, 177). When, later, Jane is flushed by his presence and insulted that his attentions are not on her for the moment, she comments sardonically that “the greater writer than he, however, overcame it” (267). Barron grounds her Austen in the Chawton and Alton in which visitors today still feel her presence but also allows us to imagine that “wit and vivacity” lively in a new location and under different circumstances (credit: Mr. Collins). It is a joy to imagine.

The Cookbook Collector by Allegra Goodman

Wow. There’s a reason Allegra Goodman’s name elicits immediate praise in the world of the fiction-reading public, and this modern version of the Sense and Sensibility story with a distinctly American flavor is no exception to her usual quality. Beautifully written, this story of two sisters and their journeys of self-discovery will both surprise and delight you.

The story begins with a quick and easy characterization of the relationship between Emily (Elinore) and Jess (Marianne): there’s a downpour. Goodman uses simple parallelism to highlight the differences in philosophy and behavior of the two young women through their approach to rain: “Emily had driven up from Mountain View to Berkeley in rush-hour traffic. Jess just biked over from her apartment. Emily carried an umbrella. Jess hadn’t bothered” (3).  Jess’s roommates, Theresa and Roland, “loll[] on the couch watching Wuthering Heights on Masterpiece Theatre,” and, as any self-respecting Janeite will tell you, that is the ultimate put-down (7). Their Bronte-esque melodrama suits Jess nicely at this point in her life, and Emily tries, in various ways, to teach Jess to be more practical, to invest in valuable stock, to find a career, and to wear nice suits. Jess has the potential to be less flighty, though, as we see both through her devotion to work and her insistence on “Jo, not Amy. Austen, not the Brontes” (49). Jess and Emily lost their mother when they were just children, and on each birthday through age 25, they open a letter their mother wrote for them, knowing she wouldn’t be there to celebrate with them.

Given Mrs. Dashwood’s somewhat limited capacity to guide her daughters, Goodman’s making her character here communicate only through letters from the grave struck me as an intriguing choice, even at the beginning, but she uses the mystery behind the mother to great effect later in the story in ways we could not have easily predicted.

We meet some leading men early on, including Jonathan, a determined tech exec who may or may not be the Edward figure, and George Friedman, owner of the book store where Jess works, who attended Berkeley in the 70s, lost a sister to a drug overdose, and has a scar from a passionate affair gone awry. The latter most certainly fits the bill for Colonel Brandon. (Eliza would then become the little sister he failed to protect from hippy-dom gone unchecked, which explains why he despises tree-huggers.) The Wiilloughby character assumes a few forms, but is only attractive (to us, anyway) for a very brief encounter at a party where everyone except Jess is smoking weed, and he gets her home safely. (It’s no rescue from a fall in the rain, but it will have to suffice, I suppose, in our world.) Shortly thereafter, his self-involvement and, as Elizabeth Bennet would say, “selfish disdain for the feelings of others,” eliminate any desire on our part for Jess to be with him. Nick, George’s more light-hearted friend, could easily pass for Sir John Middleton.

The story itself is compelling, but the language makes it worthy of your time. Emily’s friend Laura comes over with cinnamon buns and two adorable children, Meghan and Justin. Goodman spends an entire paragraph discussing the children in all their beauty, while Laura and Emily look on from the kitchen. Laura says, “They’re easy to make” (51). Beat. Instinct tells the reader these ladies are discussing the children, and Emily response doesn’t contradict that instinct: “They don’t look easy.” But then the narrator tags on that Emily says this while “admiring the giant glossy rolls.” Is it possible the two women were never joking about making babies? Just when you begin to doubt yourself, Laura whispers to Emily that she is pregnant again. Ah. Easy to make, indeed. Some of Goodman’s lines really made me think, as, for instance, when the narrator conveys Jonathan’s sense that women want “the same thing men [do]—only slower” (233).

The financial world gets much attention, largely because money is everywhere: Emily is making it, George is protecting and spending it, Jess is borrowing it, and, to her surprise, a Bialystok rabbi is loaning it. The latter asks for no interest and not even an immediate payback, but just that she attend a class here or there. He is interested in computers (I could hear his voice: “I know from technology stocks!” 42), and he becomes a guiding force in Jess’s life, the irony of which she won’t understand for several years. When Jess visits her father, the Berkeley rabbi’s brother-in-law is there, and soon, through them, and looped back to Jonathan’s office, we are introduced to yet another important couple, Barbara and Mel, who are struggling to deal with Barbara’s increasing level of religious observance (and happiness) and Mel’s stress and pain at work with men a generation younger than he is.

In Jess’s world, meanwhile, language is central, both to the books she and George cherish and to their own burgeoning relationship. The books they peruse together contain erotic drawings, recipes, and excerpts of famous poems somehow linked to particular recipes. Goodman makes a little game of it for us, providing lines such as “Come live with me and be my love,” without naming the poet (here, Marlowe, for those of you who wouldn’t be able to concentrate on the rest of the review without an immediate answer). Jess accuses George of having “an edifice complex” because he is obsessed with his home, not understanding that his real obsession is her (24). George understands that she is not ready for him because “no one has hurt [her] yet,” and we are thus informed that the Willoughby character must do that for her to be ready for someone better (72).

We meet the Cookbook Collector in Part 2, and she—and then her collection—becomes key to the development of the relationship between George and Jess, who connect over books (another irony, since Jess bonds with her Willoughby over the shared passion for trees). The chemistry there, unlike, critics say, between Colonel Brandon and Marianne, is there from the beginning. Goodman’s delivery of their connection is particularly perfect, as in the scene where Jess asks why he bought her strawberries: “Because I love you, he thought. ‘Because I owe you,’ he said” (246). Contrast this simplicity of emotion with the barb Leon lodges at both Jess and George with his spiteful comment that “nothing with trees happens on the ground” (246). In one sentence, he privately attacks Jess for being afraid of heights and publicly scorns George for having less “in your face” politics than he himself practices. This contrast heightens the anticipation we feel for George’s eventual welcoming of Jess to his version of Delaford, which will change them both.

Very soon, the story and the language with which it is told become so engrossing I—gasp!—temporarily forgot to look for the parallels to Sense and Sensibility! Once we get to know the characters, Goodman constantly shifts us among them—we’re with Jonathan and Emily, the Jonathan and Mel, then Emily and Jess, then Jess and Leon (the last four occur within two pages of text, 170-71). She thus subtly suggests to us how connected the various individuals are to each other—in ways she reveals piece by piece. Emily has revealed a company secret to her boyfriend at the beginning of the story. From nearly that time, Goodman gives us enough reason not to think he’s the one for Emily. After all, he misses meeting her at the airport, he covers her eyes when he puts his hat on her, he talks far too much about her money, he’s unkind to his colleagues, and he pressures her to leave her job to move to his city. He is also immediately contrasted with Orion, Emily’s first “sweetheart,” whom we can’t help but prefer to the seemingly cold-hearted replacement (105). Goodman toys with us: Jonathan does not betray her as soon as possible by sharing her secret with his own company. She begins to trust him, and even we are won over a bit when the narrator conveys his thought that “he loved Emily, and he would not violate her trust” (115). Alas, eighteen months and hundreds of pages later, desperation changes his determination, and the fear we let subside turns out to be justified.

And then, just when we think we finally understand how everything works, September 11, 2001 changes everything.

Reading this book was a highlight of my week, and it was a really good week.

Dearest Cousin Jane by Jill Pitkeathley

The story begins with a little disagreement between the Reverend and Mrs. George Austen (cross-reference the opening scene from P and P) about the influence of George’s niece Eliza over Cassandra and especially Jane (and of course, over Henry and James, both of whom she flirts with). Jane, age 12, is narrating. It is a truth we all acknowledge that any story purporting to be about someone close to Jane Austen is really another angle from which to approach getting to know our Jane better, and this story attempts to do that from several perspectives. Pitkeathley gives us the voices and backgrounds of, among others, Jane at various stages in her life, both Cassandras (mother and sister), Philla, Philly, Henry, the Rev Austen, and of course, Eliza, whose voice yields the title, at various stages in her life. With each voice, another piece of the puzzle gets placed, and we feel just a wee bit closer to understanding the various influences on our beloved writer.

Though the character Jane keeps insisting she does not base her characters on real people, it is impossible for any true fan of her work to read this text without making some conclusions about Eliza’s influence and, indeed, about the influence of all the people Jane encounters. When Eliza suggests the family circle perform theatricals and then flirts with two of the six brothers, we see the origins of Mary Crawford. Jane, unlike her mother, is drawn to Eliza, which might explain why Mary, who should be the evil twin of Wickham, is so attractive to readers. Later, Eliza’s feelings about Henry’s becoming a clergyman sound a lot like Mary’s about Edmund, but, of course, Henry becomes a banker, and they live happily ever after. If this really is a parallel for the Mansfield Park couple, it’s interesting that Jane makes Mary “lose” in her ideal version (92). Perhaps that’s because Eliza is very much a warm and loving member of Jane’s family—and not entirely self-serving, as Mary Crawford is. Eliza later calls Mary the “more interesting one,” but still wants “the good one [i.e. Fanny] [to] find her true love” (252). Eliza may also be a model for Lady Susan (at least, that’s what Henry suggests), which made me think that Lady Susan may soften into Mary Crawford as Jane matured (and/or saw prudently saw how far she could take wickedness in a woman). Jane does later admit that one character in Mansfield Park is “so crotchety as to put [them] all in mind of cousin Philly” (262). Ah, how we all love to despise Mrs. Norris.

Eliza would also appear to deserve some credit for Jane’s continuing to write, despite discouragement from circumstances (Bath, publishers, and sometimes even her mother). When young Jane worries that writing “sketches for [ ] family theatricals” . . . is “for men to do,” her cousin Eliza tells her that “women must and should presume” to do such writing (65). When Jane shares more writing with Eliza, the latter comments that, “it does not seem to me that [her] writing is a poor imitation of anyone else’s” the way Jane’s brothers’ writings are, and wonders what Jane “will produce at one and twenty” if she’s so clever at twelve (74). When Eliza is visiting, Jane decides, for the peace of the family, to conceal her “notebook under [her] sewing on the worktable,” a key historic moment to which we are now privy (58). Eliza also seems to make a lot of Austen family decisions—discouraging Edward from making Fanny mother her brothers and sisters after their mother’s death, for instance, and encouraging Jane to “approach Edward with regard to Chawton (though the latter is first Frank’s idea when he comes back from war and is quickly horrified by the conditions in Bath in which his sisters and mother have been permitted—by Frank and Henry—to live) (225, 212). It is also Eliza who happens to be reading “Miss Burney’s Cecilia” and finds the expression that then becomes the title of Austen’s best-known work (249). (I thought it strange that, after Jane claps her hands with delight upon hearing the title, she exclaims, “His pride and her prejudice—how exactly it fits my story” since I always read the story as teaching that each protagonist has both of the titular traits, despite it seeming initially that Darcy is all pride and Elizabeth, prejudice.) When Eliza praises Jane’s writing, she says that “the great joy . . . is that each reader will think they know a character such as the ones you draw,” which reminded me so much of what Lynn Batten says to his students in his Jane Austen seminar that I chuckled aloud (247). He told us to keep a list of Jane’s characters and check them off as we meet each one of them in our lives; perhaps Pitkeathley was once his student?

Another of Jane’s sisters-in-law, Mary, who marries James after James’ first wife (and the mother of Anna) dies, serves to inspire yet another character: Mary Musgrove. If it were not obvious from her generally querulous nature, the collarbone incident and her selfish reaction to it certainly make the link incontrovertible. Pitkeathley has really captured Austen’s characters’ voices to suggest their origins in Jane’s life, even as Jane insists her work is fictional. Mary’s pushing the Austens out of Steventon so she and James can replace Deane with the larger home reeks of Mrs. John Dashwood (203).

Several lines from the novels appear in Jane’s actual life, much as they do in films that purport to convey Austen’s life (Miss Austen Regrets, Becoming Jane, etc).  Jane’s mother tells her husband, “it is not to be borne,” with respect to Eliza’s marriage to the Comte, in a way that echoes Lady Catherine (39). Similarly, she believes both daughters will “do well enough in the sphere to which they [were] born” (46). She also sounds like Mrs. Bennet on several occasions (though a little brighter), including when she scolds her husband for taking “delight in vexing” her (41). Eliza, too, lends her voice to Mrs. Bennet, when she boasts that, in Paris, “we dine and sup with at least four and twenty families” (49). Once she marries Henry, she sounds a lot like Lydia after she marries Wickham; she writes to her annoying cousin Philly that she “has little time for writing” since her “time has been taken up with all the officers and their families who wish to pay their respects”—interesting choice, I thought, that we hear about this behavior in the voice of the annoying—and annoyed—cousin, rather than in Eliza’s own voice (136). Jane, herself sounds a lot like Marianne Dashwood when she says that “there could be only a single time” for her to be in love and to “have that love returned” (250). It even appears that the novels affect what then happens in Jane’s life. After First impressions, for instance, Jane’s father worries that he, like Mr. Bennet, might have been “shirking his responsibilities so far as the matrimonial prospects of his daughters were concerned” and for that reason, contemplates the family’s move to Bath as a way of redressing that laxity (134).

I learned several interesting facts from the time period. Boys went to the navy very young—little Charles at age 13! (89). During the French Revolution, the calendar changed; instead of 12 months, there were 10, and they had different names (95).

There are a few awkward moments in the narration. Mr. Austen, after his wife says some silly things Eliza’s match, mocks her dramatic imaginings by saying “’tis the plot of a novel [she is] setting out here” (41). Why, in 1781, long before the windswept moors of Wuthering Heights and the burning haunted house of Jane Eyre would a well-read man assume all novels are overly dramatic? When Eliza’s mother sees the face of her little girl, she is reminded of the girl’s biological father. She comments that “it touches [her] heart to see [the biological father] with her, to see how the curve of her cheek resembles—” and then interrupts her own thoughts with an admonition to herself: “No, I will not think of that” (13). Such heavy-handedness successfully conveys Eliza’s parentage but the resulting thoughts don’t sound like those a woman would censor in her own mind.

Any awkwardness, however, is more than ameliorated with what I thought the most amusing line in this tale. They come from Philly Walter, the annoying cousin, who, when thinking about Eliza’s report that Jane has written a full-length novel, says, “I do not know if there is any limit to cousin Jane’s impudence—does she think herself a Miss Burney?” (118)

HA. Miss Burney indeed.

The Watsons & Emma Watson by Jane Austen & Joan Aiken

I’ll admit it has been quite some time since I read Austen’s fragment “The Watsons.” While I always enjoy the juvenilia, I don’t find myself savoring the reading experience the way I do with Austen’s novels or even Sanditon. But Aiken’s “completion” of the tale motivated me to revisit the story, and I am so glad I did.

Austen’s part reminds me very much of other Austen. Everyone but Emma (and often her oldest sister Elizabeth) is annoying at best and awful at worst, much as everyone but Anne is in Persuasion. It is astounding really that Emma Watson has any judgment at all given her irredeemable family; it’s a blessing that she was sent away to live with her wealthier aunt (a la Mansfield Park). Like Fanny, she is sent home unexpectedly, to find a somewhat valetudinarian father (as in Emma), but she manages to bond with one sister at least (her father is in much greater possession of wit and intelligence than is Mr. Woodhouse, much as I adore the latter). There is an older brother with a horribly pushy wife who scorns her sisters in law (as Fanny Dashwood does in Sense and Sensibility). Austen’s fragment ends with a complete and thorough establishment of character, and our poor heroine seemingly stuck in a tough situation, but not, of course, any resolution to the conflicts. (How old was she when she wrote this?!)

Aiken’s section picks up almost seamlessly from there with foreshadowing of trouble with Aunt Maria in Ireland, a new marriage (of Emma’s horrible, scheming sister Penelope to an easy-going doctor whom she married for money, of course), and greater exploration of the character of Mr. Howard, the one man who caught our heroine’s attention in Austen’s fragment. Though it seemed to this discerning reader that Emma possessed innocent but rational judgment with respect to which men to trust (much as Catherine Morland does), Aiken chooses to make Mr. Howard a more complicated interest than I think Austen would have, but, without ruining the end for you, I’ll just say that Aiken’s ending works, too, even if I wish we knew our hero a bit better. Maybe he, like Wentworth, is a man whose few words we hear are enough to convince us of his meriting our heroine. By page 60—maybe even earlier—you know who deserves to be happy and who does not.

Before that can happen however, many things have to go wrong in Emma Watson’s world. Mr. Howard stays away (we suspect because he likes her and is bound to another, like Edward Ferrars), but his sisters and his friend visit the Watsons, and Mr. Howard himself shows every attention to Emma’s father whenever the two men are together (much as Mr. Knightley does for Mr. Woodhouse).

Aiken picks up on several trends Austen established, including having some characters sound like characters we’ll later meet in the novels. We have the prototype for Mr. Collins in a man who refers to the probable death of the heroine’s beloved father when the “inevitable melancholy event befalls” them. Elizabeth Watson delivers Elizabeth Bennet’s sentiment when she asks, “and is not a ballroom the very place where introductions can be made?” Sam sets the model for William Price, always writing letters to Emma once she leaves home at a girl, even when the letters of her sisters have stopped. Lady Osborne has an intimidating approach that rivals Lady Catherine’s, but with a very different resolution and purpose. Miss Elizabeth could play another version of Anne Elliot, with Penelope being a selfish version of Lady Russell and Purvis a less excusable Wentworth. Penelope also resembles Miss Elliot in several ways, including even the need to downsize when she has overspent her (husband’s) funds. When Mr. Watson passes away, the Emma and Elizabeth’s situation suddenly sounds awfully close to Jane and Cassandra’s after the Reverend Austen died, and also like that of the Dashwood daughters.

The married sisters and brother are awful, the single brother is decent but near powerless to help Emma and Elizabeth, and what with sudden deaths, mysterious romances, and mentions of bizarre circumstances awaiting discovery, the continuation of “The Watsons” has plenty of excitement to keep the reader’s interest, even after Austen’s treasured words and phrases have ended.

The Man Who Loved Jane Austen by Sally Smith O’Rourke

I am “the woman who loved this book.” Or rather, “a” woman, since no doubt, you (and that includes you, menfolk) will love it, too. This book combines what we love best about the sequels: mystery, an intriguing modern story with Austen story parallels, talk of the novels’ stories and characters, Austen’s own world, and love in each of the preceding.

 It begins with an intriguing glimpse of Jane herself and then launches 200 years into the future to New York City, a mystery-containing antique, our protagonist Eliza (yes, it’s deliberate), and two very handsome strangers—one at Pemberley Farms and the other in the New York City Library—who turn out to be the same man.

 Thus the good times begin.

 If you are as much a “sucker” to a romantic man of true goodness, you will easily be o’erwhelmed here: Eliza experiences Austen shock as she ventures into the world of Pemberley and meets—you ready for this?—Fitzwilliam Darcy, who nearly runs her over on his magnificent horse on his grand estate; she proceeds to be rescued, thrown atop a horse for the first time, and nestled all the way back to the “great house.” There she meets the modern version of Caroline Bingley (crossed with Anne de Bourgh, since Darcy and her mother intended the two to marry) who frightens everyone but Darcy with her tantrums and death threats. She disdains walking, just as we’d expect, but this detail is one of many that O’Rourke manages to embed in the text subtly enough that you might not notice if you weren’t an Austen devotee, but of course you are, and you will.

 A sampler: Darcy strikes Eliza as arrogant (she needs to learn her error). Eliza’s cat—you’ll love this method of revenge on the bastard—is Wickham. Jenny, the descendant of the Darcy family slaves, and a true friend to Eliza at Pemberley, tells her that Darcy is the best of men, just as Mrs. Reynolds does in P&P. Darcy gives Jane a charm for the cross her sea-faring brother gave her (this is too good—Jane=Fanny, Darcy=Crawford, Frank Austen=William Price). Darcy even has a hunter green coat as Colin Firth does in the BBC. I’m in Austen heaven here, picking up details from our whole history together!

 Without wanting to spoil your own upcoming delight, let me just say that Eliza is in the somewhat unenviable position of competing romantically with Jane Austen herself—how that happens I leave you to learn by reading—and when you understand how, the cover that seems cheesy will suddenly make sense as yet another clever detail that went into creating this book.

I cried when I finished it—not because I was sad it was over (which I was), but because the story’s end gives Jane’s voice the kindness, class, and romantic spirit for which readers love her, and because, had she lived in our time, perhaps her own life could have afforded her more of the joys she has given to readers for all posterity.

Dancing With Mr. Darcy: Stories Inspired by JANE AUSTEN and CHAWTON HOUSE

When I was growing up, my dad talked about the short stories of Sholem Aleichem. He was impressed that, with such restrictions on time and space, Aleichem created little worlds for his readers in which we felt immediately drawn to his characters and their stories.

Not all short stories are created equal, of course, and some can’t get us to understand or to care what’s happening before the time is up. Fortunately for readers of this little collection, many of the stories here are worthy of our time because they immediately bring us where we need to be.

My favorite was “Eight Years Later,” in which a young man brings his mother to Chawton—both because she is very ill and loves Austen, and because he hopes to reunite with a long-long lost who also loves Austen. I risk ruining a short story by saying much more, but happy details for me included the details of Chawton that I remember (the same gardens I just walked through, the same “low door frames” and creaking floorboards!), the connections to Persuasion, and the story’s lessons about love. Kudos to Elaine Grotefeld.

I also especially enjoyed: “Jane Austen Over the Styx,” in which Victoria Owens sends Austen to “the court of the dead” to answer charges against her, except in this court, all the judges are British and have snuff boxes, and all the plaintiffs are characters from the novels who claim that Austen has, without exception, maligned and misrepresented aged women; “The Watershed,” which conveyed a warm father-daughter relationship (he calls her “my darling,” for instance) that moved me; and “Cleverclogs,” in which  a grandmother encourages her young granddaughter to read Sense and Sensibility, and, years later, when the grandmother falls ill and cannot speak but the granddaughter doesn’t know quite what to say, she reads to her from S & S.

I have learned from this reading experience that short stories can offer opportunities to try a style that isn’t usually one’s preference without fear of great suffering in the process. In “Broken Words,” for instance, I really didn’t understand the significance or meaning of anything that happened until I read the author’s explanation of her inspiration, and even then, the resolution felt incomplete. Not only were there no direct Jane Austen references, but also there was nothing Regency, nothing paralleling one of the novels, nothing giving me the framework by which I was supposed to read the story. No doubt, some readers prefer it this way, more open to interpretation and less limited by the writer’s choices, but that is not my personal preference. Nonetheless, the story moved quickly, and the language was clean, so it wasn’t a problem the way, say, getting through Ulysses was a problem. Mary Howell apparently wanted a story that did not work out at the end. Though I cannot understand why anyone would seek that from her fictional world, I suppose I understand that better than I did the story that resulted. “We Need to Talk about Mr. Collins” sounded more intriguing to me than I found it, perhaps because I was confused by the strange series of events that occurs. “Second Fruits” centers around the relationships of a father and daughter and a young couple; this story I found quite compelling though I need the “Inspiration” to realize the link to Austen.

Elsa A. Solender’s “Second Thoughts,” by contrast, grounds itself in Austen’s own life, and we know it almost immediately—we have Harris’s name, we have the first-person perspective (it’s Jane’s), and we know this story—but we’ve never heard it told in quite this way before. Elizabeth Hopkinson’s “The Delaford Ladies’ Detective Agency” places us Regency England shortly after Sense and Sensibility closes, so there, too, even though the plot is new to us, we know what to do with it. I found Elinor’s gravitation toward detective work logical, actually; the text explains that people had always naturally confided in her, so she’d be more likely than other people to learn private information, which is exactly what she needs to do in the course of this story. She is also naturally discreet. Hopkinson nicely echoed some of Austen’s stylistic trends—Major Black is a “pale, quiet man not unlike the Colonel,” for instance—and a description of Elizabeth Bennet in P & P is here applied to Miss Amelia Black (“there was something in her eye which suggested rather more of quickness than the other ladies”).

I was impressed by the creativity of these writers. In “One Character in Search of Her Love Story Role,” for instance, Felicity Cowie begins with a fascinating premise: characters in modern novels go back and visit characters in older novels to learn from them via informal interviews and cross-book journeys. At the very beginning of “Somewhere,” we realize our narrator is a character IN Mansfield Park, but before we can decide who it is, Kelly Brendel offers several facts that lead us to different possibilities. While I appreciated the explanation of Brendel’s inspiration (“if one scheme of happiness fails, human nature turns to another”: do YOU remember whose idea that is?), this perspective would just not have occurred to me. “The Jane Austen Hen Weekend,” in addition to having one of the most intriguing titles, is a lot of fun. This story tells of a weekend of bridesmaids’ delight simulating Regency life to honor the bride-to-be. The protagonist is a teacher, there’s a “proper fit” plumber whose shirt gets wet and thus must be removed, and there are an appropriate number of Colin Firth references; I don’t think most of us need much more to enjoy a story.

In her introduction to these stories, Sarah Waters says that each of them is a “celebration of [Austen’s] work” and that, “collectively they lead us back to her with fresh eyes.” That, they indeed do.

From Prada to Nada

It isn’t Sense and Sensibility, and it isn’t modern filmmaking at its very finest, but it’s a fun 107 minutes, even if it felt longer at times.

The opening sequence is choppy and awkward. If you don’t have a headache by the time you finally meet the Dominguez sisters, you might get one from being irritated at their being portrayed as such extremes (e.g. Trendy, superficial Mary makes a nasty comment early on about her sister Nora having never been kissed; studious Nora seems to think nothing of her car bumping into her sister’s on her way home from the library). The film often felt over-handed (even the music, which begins as English lyrics and segues into Spanish when the girls move to East LA, start to learn Spanish, and feel less physically threatened by their amazingly eloquent, soft-spoken, tattooed neighbors. I was conscious while it was happening that several of the details should have emotionally moved me (the girls lose their dad far too young and without warning, and they tease him about his mustache), but I didn’t feel the emotional punch because the characters and their lives did not seem believable during those key first 10 minutes.

That’s not all. Events happen too quickly (one moment, Mary is at death’s door, and the next some candle-wax restores her to life?) and too illogically (how is the Prada purse the aunt sells the car-buyer not filled with Mary’s stuff, and why is the aunt pocketing all that cash and cackling like some sort of witch?). By contrast, the legal triumph moves a little TOO quickly, as does the transformation of the girls into Beverly Hills Americans of Mexican heritage to East LA home girls with Spanish accents who think themselves Mexican-American.

How does it turn out that LA girls with Spanish-speaking servants, father, and aunt speak NO Spanish?

There are many deviations from the book, as you would expect from a modern Latina remake, some comfortable (Gabriel Jr’s leaving his horrible “Fanny Dashwood,” “Willoughby” being married) and some really not (why’d they get rid of the mom? Margaret? John Dashwood? Why does only the Edward character keep his Austen name?).

Some plot lines were left unfinished: the Willoughby character never tells the Elinor one how miserable he is; Colonel Brandon is already super hot, so it’s hard to understand why she doesn’t go for him in the first place—kudos to Wilmer Valderrama; we never see what happens to the Lucy Steele character, who has no funny stupid sister and isn’t funny herself and has no relationship with the Elinor one; likewise, Edward has no brother who inherits the family fortune, so Elinor never has to choose; and we never get to see the horrible Fanny character take a plunge into misery of her own making. Does Nora go back to law school? Did she somehow leap from classes to legal exec because she marries well? What happens to Mary’s eating habits? She’s still wearing the revealing dresses by movie’s end: did she learn to manage carbs despite her deep fears that being poor would lead to more pounds and less Prada?

Despite these flaws, the film became more enjoyable to watch as the characters became less extreme and thus we started to care what happened to them, and to the nice gentlemen whose hearts they snagged. I’m glad I saw it, and that it ended as it did (though maybe a few minutes earlier would have been nice).

The Rules of Gentility by Janet Mullany

The quotation on the cover of this book claims that its author is “clearly the witty, secret love child of Jane Austen and Lord Byron.” An intriguing premise, and an accurate one.

Our heroine, Miss Philomena Wellesley-Clegg, considers the “pursuit[s] of . . . bonnets and [of] husband[s] fairly alike,” and the task of the book is to document her pursuing both, and potential suitors pursuing her. These pursuits are made more interesting with quasi-diary entries of both our heroine and the reader’s first choice of hero, Inigo Linsley, who, though he has a shameful past, may offer her the best future. 

The other choices, which include a rather dull childhood friend, a man so interested in bonnets—and in Inigo—that the reader is immediately concerned about his desire to perform with Philomena, and a man (like Diana Birchall’s eldest Darcy son) more interested in horses and dogs than in real romance.

Our heroine is likeable, bright, and passionate, like Austen heroines before her, but her obsession with the bulge in Inigo’s breeches and the bonnets she can design—after all, “every woman knows [that] a new bonnet is the best diversion of all”—make her more than Lydia, than Jane, Bennett. It turns out that Mullany was inspired by Lydia to create Philomena, so this is a new twist. We’re rooting for the virginal girl who gets cornered in the water closet on multiple occasions—and likes it.

Even her family resembles the Bennetts in the sense that her mother rambles on without punctuation or pauses for breath, and her father can be counted to do what’s right by her—after making a few errors in judgment. A primary suitor is troubled that her family is linked to trade, while his is part of the ton. Twin sisters, though annoying, offer insight into Philomena’s life, especially on the honeymoon, when the married pair keep “disappearing.”

Prior to that happy time, one Byron may address in his works, but Austen certainly does not, our heroine also seems to be witness to several illicit liaisons—why aren’t these people more cautious with their stays?—some accidentally, and some, when she has more experience, deliberately. Nineteen-year-old Philomena goes where Lizzy Bennett never would have gone, but her doing so offers the reader some sexy fun.

In an intriguing scene with a statue, for instance, Philomena has been drafted by her family artistically to mask a revealed breast, whereupon Inigo encounters her and tries to help—by breaking it. On their errand to replace the destroyed statue, Philomena feels the muscular thigh of a male statue in the shop, and Inigo is so aroused he needs to stand behind something until the matter subsides. There are many such titillating scenes in this text, and while Austen suggests the sexual tension between our matched pairs in a subtle manner, Mullany turns to Byron for more overt discussion of sex, and everything that leads to, and results from, sexual desire. Juxtaposing Philomena’s innocence with the wildness of everyone from local prostitutes and their pimps to Inigo’s aging mother, creates irresistible humor; the young woman, aware that she’s thinking thoughts society says she shouldn’t yet—donates money to charity every time she ponders a penis.

I must admit, for a few chapters, I was so engrossed in the tale I forgot to take notes for the review, which is probably just as well for those of my readers who resist Byronesque tales, and I will state clearly here that though the text consists of a lot of bonnets and virgins fiddling around in men’s pockets, I think Austen would like it—even if she had to read it under the covers with Cassandra.

Pride and Prejudice: The Wild and Wanton Edition by Annabella Bloom (and Jane Austen)

An interesting idea: Bloom gives us the text of P & P in regular font and adds “the new stuff” in bold. Before I complain about the presentation, let me state unequivocally that I enjoy modern “additions” particularly when they provide more detail behind the passion we all know is there in the central relationship of the novel. Do not mistake my upcoming criticism with a general disapproval of “the new stuff.”

In this rendition, however, some of the additions are unnecessary, and including them seems to suggest that Austen’s original was insufficient in more than just the absence of lurid sex scenes.  In the scene during which Mr. Bennet teases Mrs. Bennet that any woman who should stop thinking of her own beauty “has not often much beauty to think of,” Bloom inserts a line I found intrusive: “Mrs. Bennet’s attempt to hide her pleasure at his compliment failed” (12). Similarly, pretending to preserve the original but actually inserting her own little changes without the bold font feels dishonest. Bloom does that for example with Austen’s line: “‘My dear Mr. Bennet,’ his excited lady said to him one day” (11 emphasis mine, but it should have been Bloom’s). I’m also willing to accept an inappropriate hands cupping a face scene at the Netherfield Ball, but what unbelievable gall Bloom had to alter the first proposal dialogue! (249). Perhaps she assumes we are unfamiliar with the original, but anyone who is familiar with Austen’s will, no doubt, be similarly appalled by the changes Bloom makes—or by the fact that she makes changes to it at all. The scene in which Mrs. Reynolds shows Elizabeth and the Gardiners around Pemberley is already perfect, but Bloom’s over-the-top additions nearly ruined it for me. She describes Elizabeth’s first meeting with Darcy as having “caused her world to spin and her body to float” (315). Even the Brontes wouldn’t do this to us.

Errors in interpretation detract from the book’s merits as well. In the scene during which Miss Bingley teases Mr. Darcy about admiring Elizabeth, Bloom inserts “She was hard pressed to hide her amusement” before the “I am all astonishment” line (48). Here, I think Bloom misinterprets what Miss Bingley is feeling—not amusement but concern that she might lose him. To her credit, Bloom does later say that Darcy is so composed, Miss Bingley assumes “all was safe.” Perhaps that explains it. When Mr. Darcy contemplates Elizabeth’s potential marriage to Mr. Collins or Mr. Wickham, “the lack of her family connections made it impossible for him to wish for much else beyond taking her as a lover” (156). In the original P & P, however, Darcy’s letter explicitly states that her family’s status is not the major obstacle for him.

Despite its flaws, however, in many ways Bloom’s strategy of inserting her ideas into Austen’s grew on me.  Elizabeth tries, but cannot quite reconcile the “heat within [Darcy’s] gaze” with his cold, arrogant behavior, so she isn’t completely oblivious to his potential merits in this version (97). Bloom’s description of how Charlotte seduces Mr. Collins so quickly also helped explain his eager interest in a woman neither especially young nor attractive (178). Later, Elizabeth realizes that she has faulted Darcy for not recognizing Jane’s true feelings for Bingley while she, herself, failed to recognize his feelings for her (273). It’s a nice, relevant connection, one that I hadn’t made before.  

Lydia Bennet, meanwhile, is almost immediately portrayed as far naughtier than we thought—manipulating a married guy to have sex with her outside a ball and then dumping him for not bringing her a present—and her scenes get increasingly raunchy and immoral as the story continues. In one moment, a man drops coins for her after an illicit liason, and she picks them up gleefully, excited by the possibility of new ribbons rather than insulted that she has just entered the oldest profession.

In short, if you don’t mind occasional gratuitous help (such as adding to Mr. Bennet’s already lucid line in which he defies “even Sir William Lucas himself to produce a more valuable son-in-law [than Wickham] when it comes to absurdities”—not bold-faced in this text, though that phrase isn’t Austen’s, 388), and you want a sexed-up version of your favorite story, this may be the book for you!

Me and Mr. Darcy by Alexandra Potter

This story opens on a bad date. As the awful get-together comes to a close, after, mind you, the male has calculated the exact cost of the toppings on the female’s half of the pizza they shared, she prepares to walk away casually. All of a sudden, his tongue is in her mouth, and she has no idea how he got the impression that it would be welcomed there.

I laughed out loud. My friend Michelle had a date like that not two weeks ago.

After a series of bad dates like this, our main character, Emily, 29, decides that she’s “done” with dating, if only as a mechanism of self-preservation. Two of my close single friends have contemplated the same choice after their most recent dating disasters.

Clearly this writer knows her dating scene. But how well does she know her Austen?

Pretty well, it turns out. Though one character mistakenly says the BBC Pride and Prejudice is six hours (it originally came out on six cassettes, of course, but they are 50 minutes each, which yields an adaptation of five glorious hours), this text reveals a lot of understanding of P & P and of the hero who has leapt from its pages into the hearts of untold numbers of female admirers throughout the world.

Emily is a lot like us: a smart, single, hopeful, reading, H & M-shopping woman with a good job, a good heart, and a good imagination. For New Year’s Eve, she would rather stay home with a glass of wine and a good book; for New Year’s Day, nothing compares to an all-day Austen screen adaptation treat with similarly-minded companions (great idea, by the way, if any of you would like to start a Southwest tradition at my place). When her friend Stella says she has never heard of Mr. Darcy, Emily takes it upon herself to educate her poor deprived friend, as any of us would do. Chapter 1 ends with Stella exuding enthusiasm over the brooding hero—and forcing Emily to acknowledge that “Mr. Darcy does not exist.”

It is a combination of these factors—and the threat of a Mexican get-away with Stella that promises little more than margaritas and sex with strangers—that leads Emily to take seriously a flier left in her bookstore by a mysterious client. She books a Jane Austen trip toEngland, and the real adventure begins.

When she gets on the bus, she sees a sea of gray heads and has some negative thoughts, but soon she realizes that “old” doesn’t mean “boring” or “bad.” In fact, the only woman on the bus wearing Hush Puppies is Emily! (I winced inwardly, contemplating my most expensive pair of shoes: Munro American comfort loafers from Nordstrom). One older lady, Rose, who wears stilettos on the tour, reminds me hauntingly of a firecracker Rose with whom I took a recent Ashland, Oregon tour (I: Emily; everyone else: gray head tour, except I knew how it would be and was happy to be in such company). Emily also meets a handsome stranger, who arrives late and seems to snub her. For solace, Emily turns to reading P & P. The reader starts to notice parallels between Emily’s own life andElizabeth’s, and these parallels soon include, with a flick of Jane’s own feather pen at Chawton, some encounters with Mr. Darcy himself.

Any Austen reader will savor the ironies of Emily reading scenes she currently stars in—with no recognition that any such thing is happening. What is more unusual in the general Austen scheme of things, is that the author turns the Darcy notion on its head by the end of the novel—and then, arguably, back again. We, like Emily, assume we want to date and marry Mr. Darcy. In the novel, Emily meets two eligible handsome men—one, the real Mr. Darcy, and one, an annoying newspaperman named Spike. Though Spike seems to play the “Darcy” role in all the scenes Emily reads in the book, it seems obvious enough that Emily’s Darcy is Mr. Darcy himself, a lucky stroke for a single woman if ever there was one. Mr. Darcy is romantic, brooding, handsome, and strong, all the adjectives of our imaginations; but, as Emily learns, it is difficult to be the girlfriend of a man who always uses formal language, who doesn’t crack jokes, who doesn’t always understand jokes, who doesn’t think women should work unless they’re members of the lower class, and who is, aside from slight snobbery, near perfect. Emily is a fun-loving American gal who learns she wants a real man, a man she can text, a man who will grab her in a bear hug when she cries, a man who gets food on his shirt and doesn’t have the servants get it out. Sometimes, Emily learns, “getting what you want is simple.” You just have to know what it is, and ask.

Emily decides, after adventures I haven’t yet ruined for you,

1. that Mr. Darcy is better left in our imaginations than in our beds (even if the BBC version is basically five “hours of foreplay”);
2. that Miss Steane (watch her closely!) is right that “not doing anything can be worse than doing the wrong thing,”
3. that a woman should be in no hurry because “the right man will come at last,”
4. and that, as long as Mr. Darcy exists in our fantasies, and our fantasies are real, then Mr. Darcy is real, too.

What Would Mr. Darcy Do? By Abigail Reynolds

Reynolds immediately situates us between the two Darcy proposals and in Darcy’s point of view. Then, quickly, we have Elizabeth telling Darcy about Lydia that fateful day in Lambton. It feels like Austen (maybe Austen on super-speed), so now we’re in Elizabeth’s perspective. By the end of chapter 1, I was a little confused about Reynolds’ goal here.

But then, I got it. This is a part of a “Variation” series in which Reynolds retells the story with similar lines but changes details about how everything gets resolved. In this particular scene, those changes include Elizabeth thanking her gracious host for “the courtesy and hospitality” he has shown her family, Darcy waiting with her and holding her hand (not quite the embrace he, and we, want him to give, but still good!) until the Gardiners arrive, the discussion of the second proposal and the effect of Elizabeth’s earlier “reproof” (in Austen) happening much earlier, and then . . . well, you’ll want to read this (7,14).

Obviously the details I’m leaving out are some of my favorite (you should get to enjoy them, too), but I’ll add that Darcy’s forced humbling of himself to Mr. Gardiner afterwards (he admits he proposed and was rejected earlier, so if Mr. Gardiner wants them to marry, he’ll need to address Elizabeth with that concern) was also a delight (19). In an ironic twist, Mrs. Gardiner forces things too quickly, and Elizabeth, flushed with passion as she is, says she wants “this [to] take its own course” (22).

The short text is filled with little surprises. When we assume Mr. Collins has arrived to gloat (because the BBC handles it that way; Austen, of course, has him gloat epistolarily), we (and Jane) are delighted to find Mr. Bingley on the Bennets’ doorstep. In this version, Elizabeth shares with Jane what she did with Mr. Darcy (Jane’s reaction is so funny).  Georgiana and Elizabeth become correspondents; in a romantic gesture that has unforeseen consequences when a Bennet servant discovers the missive, Darcy slips a little note of his own in there, encouraging Elizabeth to continue teaching Georgiana how to tease him. The build-up of physical tension is more overt than in the original (though we all know it’s there) (49). We see much more of the Gardiners in this variation, and Mrs. Gardiner has a laugh out loud line: At one point, Elizabeth is feeling a little jealous that Darcy is confiding in her aunt just as she is. After a passionate fight, she is talking with her aunt but not revealing what happened. Mrs. G says: “I confess that it simplifies my life as an interfering aunt, my dear; if you refuse to tell me what is bothering you tonight, I can always ask him tomorrow” (156).

Georgiana is also developed delightfully. When she brings her brother Elizabeth’s letter, and he claims that suddenly, business is calling him away, it takes only a “moment” before her concern becomes amusement. “Please do say hello to your business for me when you see her,” she comments (59). Georgiana also has positive effects not only after the wedding on Kitty, as is implied in the original, but also before the wedding, on both Mary and Kitty. The latter tries to copy some of Georgiana’s “graceful ways,” and the latter adds novels and a few “small, but flattering changes” to her repertoire (104).

I’m always especially sensitive to how Mr. Bennet, one of my all-time favorite characters, is portrayed in such texts. At first, I was concerned; he, after all, doesn’t seem to trust Elizabeth when the “FD” letter and handkerchief are found in her possessions, but he does, at least, seem “amused by her evasions” (85). Once Kitty’s misleading information to him is cleared up, both the reader and the characters feel relief: Elizabeth and Mr. Bennet must be in sync for this story to have the effect it always does. The usual acerbic wit comes forth to delightful advantage when Darcy requests an audience with Mr. Bennet after having had a passionate encounter with Elizabeth just outside Longbourne House. Mr. Bennet observes drily, “I understand you have already taken a tour of the gardens” (120).

Darcy, like Elizabeth, learns to add proper grace and reflection to his mettle, and that is what ultimately persuades her father that this young man can “handle” his Lizzy (123). The process here differs from the original but is fun to watch unfold.

Prada and Prejudice by Mandy Hubbard

Our heroine is a 15-year-old girl on a class trip to England. Surrounded by Valley girls obsessed with labels, she buys a pair of red Prada heels in a desperate attempt to impress the A crowd and have everything she every wanted—only to trip, fall, and land in early 19^th century England. These shoes, apparently like Dorothy’s shiny ones, have some magical travel properties, except that Callie is not simply dreaming her adventures, though we don’t know that for certain until the end (whoops: spoiler alert). There’s even a later reference to the Emerald City, so we know she’ll get there, even if we don’t yet know how that will happen exactly.

Though Hubbard tries to model Callie after Elizabeth Bennet (in terms of her overconfidence in her first impressions, intelligence, and spunk), Callie falls short of the mark, perhaps because of her age, perhaps because she hasn’t read enough (any?) Austen.  She is far too quick to share her emotions, is rude to her hostess and elder (calling the Dowager “crazy” and rushing out of the breakfast room during their first meal together), makes assumptions about the Duke based on the first of many letters she finds rather than reading all of them (or not reading private correspondence in the first place), and is completely ignorant of the social norms of the time into which she travels (keeps getting confused why everyone is named “Grace” and takes offense when she is introduced as “Miss —“ rather than as “Lady—“). She’s not even completely certain she has travelled back in time, despite the numerous clues. At one point, Callie suddenly wonders, “what if the shoes have something to do with it?” The answer is too obvious to be stated upfront, even if the book is designed for 15-year-olds who, in my experience, are more discerning than that.

Yet Callie appeals to the reader, and to her hero, much as Elizabeth Bennet does. She rallies to defend an innocent stranger, the young child she thinks has been abandoned. (She herself feels abandoned by her father, which confusion I assumed would get worked out by the end of the story, but which definitely got dropped along the way.) And she finds her true purpose when she realizes just how unhappy her new friend, Emily, is. Callie decides she was sent back to help this friend (using ideas about female happiness in marriage from the future), and, with a purpose, suddenly Callie rises to meet my expectations of a heroine (with a few 15-year-old blunders along the way).

Meanwhile, the Dowager has been subject to Callie’s same unfair judgment that the Duke has been, except that, in her case, the reader mistook her, too (thinking her based on the gauche Lady Catherine). The Duke is Darcy, in his younger form, but you’ll get that right away, and the links increase as you get to know him better. After you read, think about who this story’s Georgiana and Wickham would be.

In sum, a quick and easy read (like this review, I hope!) and one that most people will enjoy.

Marvel Emma by Nancy Butler and Janet Lee

This is a comic book, so let me say first that the illustrations are beautiful. The colors completely suit my image of Highbury, and the cover selected (of the five original paperbacks) has the riddle Mr. Elton sends (courtship) wrapped around a garland with, it looks to be Emma, imagining a love story in it. I especially like Emma’s arch look when she first banters with Mr. Knightley and the image of Mrs. Weston and Emma sitting together reading Frank’s letter after he returns to Enscombe.

But when the adapter calls the panels “mouthwatering,” the problems begin. This odd synesthetic choice of words FOR A WRITER aside, Butler makes several at best odd, and at worst inaccurate, misleading, or distracting, choices in this adaptation, among her good ones.

The faults first: The introduction oddly likens Mr. Knightley to Ferris Bueller, who “has to borrow transportation (but has oodles of charisma to make up for it).” Mr. Knightley? Don’t misunderstand me; unless I’ve just revisted Darcy, Mr. Knightley is my favorite Austen hero, but I wouldn’t call him charismatic, any more than I would Edward Ferrars or Edmund Bertram. (Also no period at end of last sentence: hello, editors?)

Once the actual story begins, Butler has Mr. Woodhouse call Mr. Knightley just “Knightley,” which significantly lessens the yuck factor when Mrs. Elton does it later. Even the narrator is inconsistent with what she calls the hero. In one instance, the left side of the page has “Knightley left, still vexed,” while the right side has “Mr. Knightley was so much displeased by his quarrel.” But then, worst of all, Emma calls him that! Shocking and wrong! She says, when speaking to Harriet of Robert Martin, “No, he has not the air of Knightley” (sounds more like Caroline Bingley than like Emma).

This is not the only inaccuracy with respect to character revelation through language and behavior. Mrs. Goddard, for instance, tells Emma that “it would be a kindness to befriend” Harriet Smith, though we know it would be completely out of line for the mistress of the boarding school to advise the mistress of Hartfield! Later, Butler has Mr. Knightley put down Frank’s penmanship publicly, which seems unlike Austen’s Mr. Knightley (and mine). I understand the time restraints in adapting a lengthy work to this form, but Mrs. Weston would not say so bluntly “I have made a match between Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax.” When changes violate character, they cease to be acceptable.

There are also some sloppy mistakes that detract from the beauty of the text. Mr. Woodhouse, for instance, says (not thinks, which would be clearly indicated by squiggly bubbles) to Emma “I cannot wish to prevent Emma from going.” Mrs. Weston asks Emma if she is attending “the Coles dinner party,” no apostrophe. On the very next page, it’s done correctly. Another glitch: “When Mrs. Coles spoke of it”—typos are acceptable perhaps in my little reviews, but in this beautiful book? Isabella is said at one point to have connected herself unexceptionally. Why un? Doesn’t she mean the opposite? It’s not the only typo (thorough for through), but there’s only one moment in which the illustrations were disappointing: when the new pianoforte revelation occurs, there are two different images of Frank, but in different clothes at different ends of the table. In one, he is sandy-haired, and in the other, brunet. I studied the image (hoping one was Mr. Knightley or some other man, but no, they both appear to be Frank.)

Now, the good highlights: I liked that some of Butler’s choices made me revisit the book. Does Emma’s sister really say she’ll walk through the snow (from Randalls) to avoid leaving her children, I wondered? (I knew it happens in the Jonny Lee Miller/Romola Garai adaptation, but in the book the answer is: yes, but only if their carriage fails them on the way home.) I liked that the coachman had a blanket—I wondered how they managed the cold! I had forgotten that Jane’s mom was Miss Bates’ sister, which seems strange somehow. Does Emma go to the Coles’ because her father and Mrs. Weston decide she should? (answer: Mrs. Weston encourages it, and Mr. Woodhouse allows himself to be persuaded, though he still wants Emma to leave early.) Does Mr. Knightley issue the Donwell Abbey invitation to Mrs. Elton himself, as Butler has it? (answer: yes, he does, though the text suggests he is not wholly serious in his suggestion.) Emma and Mr. Elton BOTH say “at present” during the drawing scene; does that happen in the book? (answer: yes. Emma says it first; when Mr. Elton repeats it, he does so with emphasis suggesting he and Emma will soon be husband and wife.) It felt like an abrupt shift from Harriet’s mourning Elton to “Frank Churchill did not come to Randalls,” but then I wondered if that was the volume break, in which case it makes more sense (answer: it isn’t, though it’s oddly close to one).

Overall, it’s a lovely addition to my Jane Austen collection, but the Jane Austen world cries out for an editor (maybe I should start freelancing), and her characters, for accurate representations in all their depictions.

A Weekend with Mr. Darcy by Victoria Connelly

The cover promises “a charmingly written slice of warm-hearted escapism,” and it doesn’t lie. Though there are some awkward moments I just couldn’t accept as realistic, for the most part, the escapism works, and I was thoroughly entertained.

Cassandra’s famous line about Jane as a sister begins the story on a rather more sentimental note than we see for several chapters thereafter. After yet another twist of the opening line of P & P (must be so hard to resist trying one as a writer of a JA-based fiction, and it’s such fun as a reader to see some new ideas), we meet a college lecturer who sometimes reads for pleasure instead of grading essays and who occasionally has to fend off admiring male students. When she allows herself to think about her enthusiasm for all things Austen and realizes she is “in love with a fictional world,” I felt that the connections had hit just a little too close to home (9). Soon, however, the story shifts to more pleasant grounds—literally—as our heroine and the various other important characters converge for the weekend at the Jane Austen Conference in Hampshire. Once we realize what the secret of Katherine’s favorite living writer really is, we know what needs to happen, and the fun is watching how that develops.

We all enter these fictional worlds with a certain willingness to suspend disbelief, but this text went too far more times than was comfortable for this reader. When Katherine autographs a copy of her book for a student, his comment—“You don’t want to add a kiss?”—seemed unrealistic to me.  No one but the seriously socially impaired would say that. Similarly, I had trouble believing that a professor of English would comment to her new friend Robyn, who has just said she travelled from North Yorkshire, “A bit farther than me, then” when, of course, she meant to say “than I [have travelled]” (50). Later, she comments to Warwick that she’s “afraid us ladies can be a bit scary when we start talking about our heroes” (126). US ladies? Just what expectations are there for lecturers at St. Bridget’s College? For a good person, Katherine demonstrates some behaviors that seem inconsistent to me. Her treatment of Mrs. Soames, for instance, who, granted, is terribly unpleasant, borders on mean when she conspires to exclude the woman from her trivia group (136). She also seems to think all her students apathetic about great literature, which struck me as disturbing: not all of my students react to the texts I share with them as I would wish, but a good majority do . . . how could that be so different in a collegiate environment if the instructor is doing her job properly? (114) Katherine is also unbelievably rude when she first meets Warwick, who has accidentally rolled a suitcase over her toe—despite his “tall, dark, and handsome look” and the fact that he was helping an elderly lady (51). She judges too quickly—which I understood was supposed to parallel Elizabeth Bennet’s judgment—but it just felt snotty (51).

Warwick and Robyn’s behaviors gave me some pause as well, particularly when they take risks that seem unnecessary rather than exciting. Warwick may wish to use his knowledge of Katherine’s heart to win her over initially, but even once it’s clear she likes him, he does not tell her the truth, which doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me given that he is planning to reveal the truth soon to her. This foolishness becomes even more pronounced when someone who knows his secret announces her impending visit, but still, Warwick—an otherwise intelligent and amiable man—does not act wisely, and though I understand the mistake has to happen for the story to resolve as it does, it still didn’t seem like a believable choice to me. When Robyn is finally free of her primary burden, she is faced with an obstacle I had trouble accepting as realistic: is she ready for a new relationship? The answer seemed obvious to me (of course she is!), but not to her. And most glaring, Robyn, of all people, should know better than to date to marry Mr. Collins! (20)

My frustrations, however, could only exist in such form, because I came to care for these characters, and Connelly does that well. She has her finger on the pulse of a good subsection of Janeite enthusiasm, even turning up the phrase “the Jane Austen effect,” to describe the rosy feeling everyone seems to have when Jane Austen is around (99). She makes a strong argument in favor of literature and film that brings pleasure—without snobbery by purists who refuse to try other forms of their favorites; in fact, Katherine was first prompted to read Austen after watching the Olivier/Garson film, much as I was by the Paltrow/Northam Emma (101). Connelly really pushes the concept hard, with Robyn naming her collection of chickens after various characters (ex: “the pale gold was Miss Bingley because she had an air about her, and . . . looked down her beak at everyone else” 18) and Katherine naming her cats Darcy and Wentworth.

Trying to ‘figure out” who’s who is an interesting game here. Sometimes it feels like the two leading ladies could be Elizabeth and Jane, but other times, the male and female figures seem to reverse roles; when Dan’s “tousled head” emerges from the pool, for instance, “his bright eyes [are] sparkling from the exercise” (105). The parallel love stories could also be like Elinor and Marianne or Emma and Harriet, but I’m not sure Connelly ever completely resolves this for us.

She does give us the answer to the ‘tough” question at the trivia game, but I was bothered that only one person—including a college lecturer in Jane Austen—at a Jane Austen conference knew what Mr. Collins reads to the girls, when I think most people reading this review right now would have no problem identifying Fordyce’s sermons in some form or other (141).

We do find fulfillment in sufficient places, however—whether it’s the beautiful description of the human need for nature (“Pleasures like this didn’t change with the centuries. People still longed to feel the earth beneath their feet and the sun on their backs” 196) or the revelation that at least one Janeite (Carla) besides me collects Pride and Prejudice in foreign languages, even ones she cannot read (117). That alone was worth A Weekend with Mr. Darcy.