Seven. A Day with Austen
Seven
A Day with Austen
Chawton, June 29, 1865
At the ladies’ insistence, the admiral returned to the carriage for the one-mile drive to the cottage. He asked Charlotte and Haslett to join him, having not yet forsaken his plans to make a match. “Miss Stevenson should rest her ankle, and I shall chaperone!” he declared. Everyone else smiled at the irony of the notion and followed behind on foot.
Heading north along Gosport Road, they passed the rectory, the village school, and the cricket pitch where several of Edward Austen Knight’s six sons had distinguished themselves in the sport. At the junction with Winchester Road, the carriage pulled to a stop next to a small duck pond, and Justice Nash came forward to help Sir Francis down.
“This is our one publican house,” the admiral announced, nodding at the building on his right, “the only commercial activity of any note, I am afraid, and here”—he took off his cocked hat, trimmed in gold to match his buttons, and swung it in a grand arc through the air—“ here is my sister’s.”
Henrietta and Charlotte gave each other a look of excitement that the Nelson brothers also shared, then linked arms as everyone crossed the road to take in the simple yet surprisingly large red-brick two-story home. There was a moulded canopy on carved brackets above the front door, hipped clay tiles, and timber window frames. On either side of the entranceway were two twelve-paned windows looking out onto the road from just a few feet away.
“The larger window beyond was the drawing room, which my brother bricked over for privacy,” the admiral explained, pointing his hat to their left, “and this— this was the dining parlor, where Jane chose to do her writing.” They stood in a row behind a low picket fence, its white paint faded and chipping, as the admiral spoke. “I am told there are now three tenements for estate workers inside and we must respect their privacy as such, but you can imagine—I hope—how my sister would sit by this window, so close to the road, and work at a little round table for her desk. From here she could watch the activity of the village, the people and coaches coming and going in all different directions. I understand there will soon be a rail line from the nearby town of Alton to Winchester, but our village remains off the map for that. It has always rather kept to itself.”
He led them a few yards along to the wooden gate and matching red-brick wall that marked the southern perimeter to the cottage’s lot. “I believe we may enter here with impunity,” Sir Francis informed the group, and they eagerly followed behind as he unlatched the gate. On their left was a hedge of hornbeam, a small orchard and an impressive oak (“Planted by Jane herself!”), and a well-tended vegetable-and-herb garden. On their right was the southwest-facing side of the house with another entrance marked by a canopy, and a nearly identical door next to that which fronted the kitchen.
“Here my Martha loved to toil—she kept the most thorough cookbook for the family, which we treasure still. They each had their roles, you see, in keeping house together. Jane’s chief duty was not of such seeming importance—presiding over breakfast.” He smiled at the memory. “She took it seriously, though, as she did all responsibility. Especially the tea—she made sure there was plenty of supply and placed its regular order with Twinings in London. You know how we British are on the subject.”
They were startled by a sudden creaking noise as the side door opened and an elderly man peeked out. “Sir Francis?” The admiral narrowed his eyes as if straining to remember him. “It’s Peter Wright, sir? I worked here for Mrs. Austen and Miss Cassandra— and Lady Austen,” he quickly added, as if only then recalling the late-in-life transformation of spinster Martha Lloyd to knighted admiral’s wife.
“Why, Peter, how are you?”
“Still in the cottage, Sir Francis, as you see.” The man gave an easy smile. “We don’t go far here in Chawton.”
“Peter helped Martha with the kitchen garden,” explained the admiral to his guests, then turned back to the old man with a nostalgic smile. “I fear she was quite the taskmaster when it came to that.”
“She knew what she was about, that one.”
The admiral shook his head amusedly. “My Martha entered a house of ten children and had everything shipshape in no time. Peter, these are friends of mine, from America. They are ardent admirers of my sister’s writing.”
The greatest look of pride lit up the old man’s face. “You must step in, then, for a moment, ’n see the downstairs. We none of us tenants mind.”
It took several more assurances but soon the group, to its astonishment, was standing in the very rooms where Jane Austen herself once stood. The drawing room had been transformed into a common gathering space, but the dining parlor remained much as Sir Francis remembered it. All four of the Stevenson and Nelson siblings headed straight for the window where Jane Austen had sat and looked out as she wrote.
“She played piano first upon waking each morning,” the admiral recounted, “then after breakfast stayed here to write.”
“Piano first?” asked Nicholas. “Perhaps that induced creativity.”
“A clearing of the deck,” Henrietta suggested, catching his eye.
“Quite so,” replied the admiral. “Each note played off the other, arising from the prior, leading to the next. She treated each and every word on the paper much the same.”
Charlotte turned from the window, tears in her eyes, and gazed about the rest of the room. “Is the little round table not here, Mr. Wright?”
“The walnut table?” Peter shook his head. “Mrs. Austen gave it to William Littlejohn, another of the servants, when he retired. It’s still here in Chawton, though. As I said, not much leaves.”
“Imagine if everything of hers could be brought back together somehow,” Henrietta wondered aloud. “What we would learn—what we would see !”
“Such a collection would be impossible to appraise,” Nicholas observed. “That alone would help protect it.”
“Yes,” agreed Henrietta, “and that alone should tell us something.”
There was such an air of contentment in the room, the kind that one can only experience as a group, all of one mind, encountering every new element together and disposed to think happily of whatever they might encounter next. Admiral Austen took pride in having conceived of and created this very moment, if not yet a successful love match. It was more than just a visit for him, however, or even a much-needed goodbye.
He felt the iron ring of keys in his pocket, and recalled the other secret task ahead.