Read Online Confessions of a Jane Austen Addict by Laurie Viera Rigler - Free Book Online
Authors: Laurie Viera Rigler
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true-believer fashion, on how exciting the story is and how realistic the author’s portrayals of human nature are. Edgeworth hasn’t read it yet, but says he now looks forward to doing so.
Susan Randolph, who’s been eyeing us for some time, says, “Mr. Edgeworth, I counsel you against such pursuits, though your name may account for your tastes in reading.”
“Thank you for your hints, Miss Randolph, though I bear no relationship to the Mrs. Edgeworth to whom you allude.”
“Nevertheless,” says Susan, “the authoress of Pride and Prejudice would have you believe that women think of nothing else but marriage.”
“You do not approve of the book?”
“There is nothing to approve in a book wherein all the females spend their days dreaming of being married, scheming to be married, or lamenting because they are not married. That is a narrow and confining portrait of my sex of which I certainly do not approve.”
I take a long swallow of wine to calm down. I don’t buy this burst of sisterhood, not from a woman who could look at another woman with that reptilian chill.
Edgeworth glances at me and clears his throat. “Well, then. Did either of you ladies find The Mysteries of Udolpho amusing?”
I am unable to contain myself. “It is obvious to me, Susan, that the author means to take a humorous stab at the cold and calculating marriage market for which women are bred, and at the same time acknowledges that marriage is actually one of the few career choices for women of her time. Nevertheless, I believe she prizes love, and marriage for love, above all else.”
Susan laughs. “And I believe she condones a woman’s right to aspire to a situation far above what she was bred to do. First there is marriage above one’s level of fortune. Then there is marriage above one’s rank.”
I roll my eyes. “Dear me. What’s this world coming to?”
“Exactly. The more silly novels young women read, the more silly notions fill their heads. If you ask me, cousin, I believe you read too many novels for your own good.”
“And if you ask me, cousin, I’ll tell you what a clever character in a clever novel I read once said: ‘The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid.’ As for that post-feminist Camille Paglia crap, you twentysomethings seem to forget that if it weren’t for women aspiring to situations far above what they were bred to do, we’d still be pumping out a kid a year and squeezing ourselves into corsets. If I were you—”
Suddenly I realize the table has gone completely silent. I look around me, and everyone is staring. I catch the eye of Mr. Mansfield, whose wineglass has frozen halfway to his mouth. He clears his throat and raises his glass to Mrs. Randolph. “What spirited young women our daughters are, eh, sister?”
Mrs. Randolph laughs feebly, reaching for her wineglass but knocking it over instead. In the ensuing bustle of footmen mopping up the mess, and Mrs. Mansfield offering to tell a story of how she once got a wine stain out of a white gown, the tension is broken.
Ah well, in vino veritas.
I see Susan shake her red curls smugly at Edgeworth, as if to say, I told you so. As soon as her attention is elsewhere, however, Edgeworth whispers to me, “I cannot say I comprehend all your allusions, Miss Mansfield, but I do admire the spirit of your expression.”
Looking into those warm hazel eyes is much more pleasant than sparring with Susan.
He is the last guest to leave, and when his carriage is finally announced, he bows his good night to me. As he raises his head, that lock of hair falls onto his forehead again, and I am gripped by a sensation I can hardly define. Suddenly I see him with different eyes. He is no longer an attractive man who shares my interests. He is a disingenuous flirt.
I fumble my way through the good-byes, the ceremoniousness of it all, through Edgeworth’s promises to call on us the next morning
Susan Randolph, who’s been eyeing us for some time, says, “Mr. Edgeworth, I counsel you against such pursuits, though your name may account for your tastes in reading.”
“Thank you for your hints, Miss Randolph, though I bear no relationship to the Mrs. Edgeworth to whom you allude.”
“Nevertheless,” says Susan, “the authoress of Pride and Prejudice would have you believe that women think of nothing else but marriage.”
“You do not approve of the book?”
“There is nothing to approve in a book wherein all the females spend their days dreaming of being married, scheming to be married, or lamenting because they are not married. That is a narrow and confining portrait of my sex of which I certainly do not approve.”
I take a long swallow of wine to calm down. I don’t buy this burst of sisterhood, not from a woman who could look at another woman with that reptilian chill.
Edgeworth glances at me and clears his throat. “Well, then. Did either of you ladies find The Mysteries of Udolpho amusing?”
I am unable to contain myself. “It is obvious to me, Susan, that the author means to take a humorous stab at the cold and calculating marriage market for which women are bred, and at the same time acknowledges that marriage is actually one of the few career choices for women of her time. Nevertheless, I believe she prizes love, and marriage for love, above all else.”
Susan laughs. “And I believe she condones a woman’s right to aspire to a situation far above what she was bred to do. First there is marriage above one’s level of fortune. Then there is marriage above one’s rank.”
I roll my eyes. “Dear me. What’s this world coming to?”
“Exactly. The more silly novels young women read, the more silly notions fill their heads. If you ask me, cousin, I believe you read too many novels for your own good.”
“And if you ask me, cousin, I’ll tell you what a clever character in a clever novel I read once said: ‘The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid.’ As for that post-feminist Camille Paglia crap, you twentysomethings seem to forget that if it weren’t for women aspiring to situations far above what they were bred to do, we’d still be pumping out a kid a year and squeezing ourselves into corsets. If I were you—”
Suddenly I realize the table has gone completely silent. I look around me, and everyone is staring. I catch the eye of Mr. Mansfield, whose wineglass has frozen halfway to his mouth. He clears his throat and raises his glass to Mrs. Randolph. “What spirited young women our daughters are, eh, sister?”
Mrs. Randolph laughs feebly, reaching for her wineglass but knocking it over instead. In the ensuing bustle of footmen mopping up the mess, and Mrs. Mansfield offering to tell a story of how she once got a wine stain out of a white gown, the tension is broken.
Ah well, in vino veritas.
I see Susan shake her red curls smugly at Edgeworth, as if to say, I told you so. As soon as her attention is elsewhere, however, Edgeworth whispers to me, “I cannot say I comprehend all your allusions, Miss Mansfield, but I do admire the spirit of your expression.”
Looking into those warm hazel eyes is much more pleasant than sparring with Susan.
He is the last guest to leave, and when his carriage is finally announced, he bows his good night to me. As he raises his head, that lock of hair falls onto his forehead again, and I am gripped by a sensation I can hardly define. Suddenly I see him with different eyes. He is no longer an attractive man who shares my interests. He is a disingenuous flirt.
I fumble my way through the good-byes, the ceremoniousness of it all, through Edgeworth’s promises to call on us the next morning
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