Adventures with Jane and her Legacy 01 Jane Austen Ruined My Life by Beth Pattillo Page B
Authors: Beth Pattillo
Tags: Jane Austen Fan Lit
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see what I was about, but he kept his eyes glued to the page.
"It's no use," I said, as weary and discouraged now as I'd been upbeat that morning. "I can't find what I'm looking for."
"Maybe another day." Adam tried to sound encouraging, which I appreciated, but I also knew that I was looking for a needle in a haystack. A needle with the disappointingly common name of Jack Smith.
"I'm not sure that what I'm looking for exists," I said, despondent. Had I wasted a precious day for nothing?
Adam returned the books, and we left the reading room together. As we made our way toward the exhibit area for the rare manuscripts, I tried to suppress my frustration. The secret I was pursuing was so potentially volatile that I couldn't ask anyone for help in uncovering it, but, paradoxically, I wasn't likely to uncover it if I couldn't ask for help.
"I didn't realize it would be so dim in here," I said as we entered the gallery that housed the rarest treasures of the British Library.
It was as dim and quiet as an ancient cathedral inside. Glass-fronted cases lined the walls and also formed large islands throughout the L-shaped space. The exhibit wasn't large-- maybe the size of several college classrooms joined together-- but as I made my way into the area, I realized why it was so quiet, despite the number of visitors. For most people, it contained what amounted to the holiest of relics.
"These are the literary manuscripts," Adam said, guiding me to the left.
I stopped at the first display. The case showed the birth of modern English literature--Beowulf, Sidney, Milton, Dryden. I'd seen my share of rare manuscripts, but somehow, these particular pieces lined up side by side, a breathtaking record of the language and literature I loved, caused my throat to tighten. Small descriptions beside each manuscript gave the briefest of background information.
I moved from one to the next, barely aware of Adam beside me. It was one thing to study the great writers of the English language but another to stand there, looking at their actual work, their handwriting, their literary footprints preserved on the original page.
And then there, at the bottom of the case, sat an antique writing desk--more of a wooden box, really--whose lid couldbe lifted to use as a writing surface, while paper, ink, nibs, blotters, and other essentials were stored inside.
"That's hers," I said in a whisper. Beside me, I could feel Adam grin.
"Do you feel the need to genuflect?"
I made a face at him. "Until the late nineteen nineties, it was stored in some relative's closet, in a suitcase."
He looked at me in surprise. "You're kidding."
"No. There's no telling what kind of Austen-related items might turn up in the coming years. I'm guessing that the descendants of her nieces and nephews have all sorts of stuff tucked away." Not to mention the stash in the Formidables' possession.
I turned back to the case and studied the items intently. Her writing desk was open, a letter lying across it. A pen and a pair of spectacles rested on top of it, but I could still see the letter quite clearly, and it looked achingly familiar, even compared to the photocopies Mrs. Parrot had given me. If the older lady was deceiving me, then she had the services of a top-rate forger in her arsenal.
"There's a manuscript page there, too," Adam said, pointing to a copy of the
Juvenilia
.
I bit the inside of my cheek so I wouldn't cry. I didn't want to look like a total sap. After all, I was a serious scholar, not a fan, but at the moment, I sure felt like one.
"Who else is here?" I asked, aching to move away, like a worshipper who has stepped too close to the divine.
I couldn't stand there looking at the writing desk any longer. We moved on down the glass-fronted case, and I continued to bask in the glow of such amazing treasures.
"Here's Charlotte Bronte," Adam said, pointing to a handwritten book opened to reveal the last chapter of
Jane Eyre
.
Reader, I married him
.
Those
"It's no use," I said, as weary and discouraged now as I'd been upbeat that morning. "I can't find what I'm looking for."
"Maybe another day." Adam tried to sound encouraging, which I appreciated, but I also knew that I was looking for a needle in a haystack. A needle with the disappointingly common name of Jack Smith.
"I'm not sure that what I'm looking for exists," I said, despondent. Had I wasted a precious day for nothing?
Adam returned the books, and we left the reading room together. As we made our way toward the exhibit area for the rare manuscripts, I tried to suppress my frustration. The secret I was pursuing was so potentially volatile that I couldn't ask anyone for help in uncovering it, but, paradoxically, I wasn't likely to uncover it if I couldn't ask for help.
"I didn't realize it would be so dim in here," I said as we entered the gallery that housed the rarest treasures of the British Library.
It was as dim and quiet as an ancient cathedral inside. Glass-fronted cases lined the walls and also formed large islands throughout the L-shaped space. The exhibit wasn't large-- maybe the size of several college classrooms joined together-- but as I made my way into the area, I realized why it was so quiet, despite the number of visitors. For most people, it contained what amounted to the holiest of relics.
"These are the literary manuscripts," Adam said, guiding me to the left.
I stopped at the first display. The case showed the birth of modern English literature--Beowulf, Sidney, Milton, Dryden. I'd seen my share of rare manuscripts, but somehow, these particular pieces lined up side by side, a breathtaking record of the language and literature I loved, caused my throat to tighten. Small descriptions beside each manuscript gave the briefest of background information.
I moved from one to the next, barely aware of Adam beside me. It was one thing to study the great writers of the English language but another to stand there, looking at their actual work, their handwriting, their literary footprints preserved on the original page.
And then there, at the bottom of the case, sat an antique writing desk--more of a wooden box, really--whose lid couldbe lifted to use as a writing surface, while paper, ink, nibs, blotters, and other essentials were stored inside.
"That's hers," I said in a whisper. Beside me, I could feel Adam grin.
"Do you feel the need to genuflect?"
I made a face at him. "Until the late nineteen nineties, it was stored in some relative's closet, in a suitcase."
He looked at me in surprise. "You're kidding."
"No. There's no telling what kind of Austen-related items might turn up in the coming years. I'm guessing that the descendants of her nieces and nephews have all sorts of stuff tucked away." Not to mention the stash in the Formidables' possession.
I turned back to the case and studied the items intently. Her writing desk was open, a letter lying across it. A pen and a pair of spectacles rested on top of it, but I could still see the letter quite clearly, and it looked achingly familiar, even compared to the photocopies Mrs. Parrot had given me. If the older lady was deceiving me, then she had the services of a top-rate forger in her arsenal.
"There's a manuscript page there, too," Adam said, pointing to a copy of the
Juvenilia
.
I bit the inside of my cheek so I wouldn't cry. I didn't want to look like a total sap. After all, I was a serious scholar, not a fan, but at the moment, I sure felt like one.
"Who else is here?" I asked, aching to move away, like a worshipper who has stepped too close to the divine.
I couldn't stand there looking at the writing desk any longer. We moved on down the glass-fronted case, and I continued to bask in the glow of such amazing treasures.
"Here's Charlotte Bronte," Adam said, pointing to a handwritten book opened to reveal the last chapter of
Jane Eyre
.
Reader, I married him
.
Those