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Elizabeth tried every known position for falling asleep in the unfamiliar and somewhat too-soft bed, but she could find no rest. The cause of her worry was not Jane's ill health; indeed, she presumed Jane's cold would run its course in a few days. Rather, the root of her disquiet was visiting a house whose occupants she actively disliked, the master of the house being the lone exception. Elizabeth tried one last time to find sleep using some of her reliable mental tricks. She imagined herself floating over the countryside, mere feet above the ground, leisurely navigating through ancient forests, wildflower meadows, gentle babbling streams, and pasturelands. She encountered a flock of sheep and tried counting one hundred of them in French, backwards! But it was all for naught; sleep refused to take her.
Elizabeth walked over to the table, drank a glass of water and walked to the window. The nearly-full moon illuminated the countryside for no discernible purpose; the whole of creation reposed in perfect calm. A walk in the moonlight was a great temptation, but the heavy rains earlier in the evening would certainly make the stroll a muddy mess, so she decided to explore the upper floor of the house instead. Taking the candle from the nightstand and lighting it with the wall candle in the hall, she stepped quietly past the many bedchambers, amusing herself by assigning gentlemen to the various anonymous snores. One snore possessed a singular quality, rather higher pitched and a bit softer than the others, and Elizabeth almost laughed aloud at the thought that Caroline Bingley was most likely the author of it.
Her walk terminated at the large window on the north side of the house. The full crown of an elderly elm blocked the view of the countryside, but there was sufficient scattered moonlight in the canopy to outline of a pair of owls feeding their young. A few moments later Elizabeth turned to retrace her path and was startled to find a small stairway hiding in recess to the right of the window. Unable to deny her curiosity, she gently climbed the creaking stairs. The door was stuck so she bumped it with her body and stumbled into the attic.
The candle was insufficient to illuminate the large space, but as Elizabeth took a turn about the room she was surprised by her discovery. The room had more the appearance of a drawing room. Two large overstuffed chairs resting on an intricately patterned Persian rug flanked an imposing fireplace on the north wall. An elegant chandelier in the center of the room hovered over a writing desk, well apart from the rest of the furniture, and Elizabeth was struck by how oddly it was situated. A stack of paper on the desk caught her eye. She set down the candle and read the first page. Her initial amusement quickly gave way to shock and incredulity as she read on. Finding it nearly impossible to breathe, and even harder to think, Elizabeth slumped into the chair as confused and unsettled as she had ever been.
Author's note: You see before you one Miss Elizabeth Bennet, the celebrated heroine of the English novel, whose route to marital happiness and wealth so many women throughout the centuries have longed to retrace. But today she will not travel the familiar path through pride and prejudice toward Pemberley, for unbeknownst to Miss Bennet, she has just taken leave for a detour through The Netherfield Zone.
"Who could have written this?" Elizabeth asked herself aloud after she recovered from the great shock. She got up and began pacing the floor in an agitated manner. "Impossible! How could anyone have known all this?" She fingered her hair in frustration. "While I can believe someone capable of transcribing my conversations here at Netherfield, there can be no reasonable explanation for recording my words at Longbourn. Jane would be the most likely of any person to be in a position to do so, but these pages surely are not written in her hand. And not only my words are here, but also my thoughts and feelings as well. Who in the entire world is capable of that but me? And I certainly have never disclosed the whole of my private life to anyone, not even Jane. How am I ever to account for it? How can there be any rational solution?"
Elizabeth stopped abruptly and lapsed into profound silence. Perhaps, she thought, a closer reading might reveal clues she had overlooked. She sat at the writing desk and returned to the first page. Evidently the writer was much conflicted about how to begin; several attempts had been crossed out but were still legible. 'Everyone agrees...' was the first try. 'It is well known...' was the second, and it gave way to 'It is common knowledge that...', which yielded to the final version: 'There is almost universal agreement that a rich young man must take a wife.' Elizabeth could only shake her head. So much effort wasted for so bland a result. She could scarcely stop from taking pen in hand, crossing out the introductory line and replacing it with: 'It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.'
'Much, much better', thought Elizabeth, finally allowing herself a satisfied smile. 'It is a wonder the author did not write it thus the first time. And who is the author? Even though it is a transcription of my life, it has all the feel of a novel. There must be a title page somewhere.' She turned over some loose pages on the left of the desk. 'Aha, here it is. I see the title First Impressions has been crossed out and replaced by Pride and Prejudice, and this work is written by the author of Sense and Sensibility. My, what a great help that is!' thought Elizabeth in disgust. 'And that title! What can that have to do with me? I simply must read on to determine what this story is about'.
Skimming over the chapters she had already read, Elizabeth nonetheless had to slow down and fume afresh when she relived her first encounter with Darcy at the assembly. "She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me; and I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men." 'Why, oh why', she ruminated, 'why did I not respond to his haughty insolence when the opportunity presented itself?' Elizabeth dipped pen in inkwell and laughed aloud as she wrote in the margin:
Elizabeth walked over directly to the gentleman and loudly declared, "Mr. Darcy, I could not help overhearing your last remark. It is gratifying to know I have not tempted you to dance. I must confess that a turn about the room with a coat rack would make for a livelier partner and more amiable conversation!" She turned and departed briskly, leaving the gentleman thoroughly confounded.
"There, Mr. Darcy, stuff that in your stiff shirt!" declared Elizabeth, jubilant to achieve some measure of satisfaction. She continued her hurried reading through the events of the previous day, muttering "unbelievable," "presumptuous," "impossible" and "how insulting" repeatedly. Her amazement gave way to anger as she discovered how frequently and in what unflattering manner her name and that of her family arose in conversations between Caroline and Mr. Darcy. Resentment returned to wonder as Elizabeth slowed to read about future events. What? Her cousin Mr. Collins would invade Longbourn - and the oily prig would propose to her? 'No!'
Her concentration was broken by footsteps. She looked up in alarm to see a mysterious woman emerge from the shadows. "Good evening, Miss Bennet. I was expecting you to be here. It is a pleasure to converse with you at last."
"Who are you? How do you know my name?" asked Elizabeth in astonishment.
"I suspect you know who I am, Elizabeth."
Elizabeth paused to regain her composure and finally looked up to ask, "Are you the author of this work?"
"Yes, I must own it," was the soft reply. "My name is Jane Austen."
"I did not hear you enter," said Elizabeth sternly. "Were you hiding in this room the whole time? That seems rather a gross breach of decency."
"Yes, I must confess that I did conceal my presence," answered the Miss Austen, "but not for any nefarious purpose. I merely wanted to observe your reaction to reading my story."
"I did not have sufficient time to read your entire story, but I am most exceedingly puzzled and vexed by what I have read so far. How can you, a complete stranger to me, know everything about me, including the workings of my heart? And by what magical art do you presume to stipulate what the future will hold for me?"
"Come, Elizabeth," said the author gently as she took her arm. "Let us sit by the fire and I shall enlighten you as best I can."
Elizabeth yielded to the sensible suggestion, and waited patiently for the author to begin. Jane Austen stopped by the writing desk to read Elizabeth's correction to her opening sentence. "Yes, Elizabeth, that is a wonderful beginning. I wish I had thought of it sooner."
"You? Think of it sooner? You did not think of it at all. Clearly I wrote that!"
The author took her seat and faced the heroine squarely. "I know this will be hard for you to comprehend and accept, Elizabeth, but the reason I know so much about you is that we are so very much alike. When I began writing my story I wanted to write about someone who possessed my temperament, discernment, and ironic observation. So I created you and endowed you with many of my attributes, including some of my faults. In a very real sense, you are my alter ego, Elizabeth. Your words are mine; your thoughts are mine."
There was a disturbed silence. Elizabeth was quite incapable of assimilating this information. "What? Are you saying that you created me and supplied me with all that I think, say, and feel? Do you expect me to believe that I am only a literary character and that I have no existence apart from your work? Impossible! Simply incredible!"
"In essence, yes, that is precisely what am I saying. You are my creation."
"Such monstrous nonsense!" cried Elizabeth heatedly. "I am quite alive! My feelings, thoughts, and actions in every way confirm it. I feel happiness and sadness, love and pain. I can do whatever I choose exactly as I choose. Indeed, my taking part in this conversation most powerfully verifies my independent existence. How can you explain it in any other way?"
The author paused to give Elizabeth time to cool. "I did not arrange this meeting for the purpose of discussing philosophical implications of creation versus free will. That is such a hopeless quest. Indeed, after several thousand years of fruitless searching for life's meaning by some of the brightest and most learned of men, the only universal truth to emerge is that humility and tolerance vanish the moment someone stumbles upon a peculiar version of absolute truth. So let us set all philosophical considerations aside. You perceive you possess free will? Good! Then for all practical purposes you are free to think and act as you choose. Let us leave it at that."
"Very well," answered Elizabeth as she gazed into the fire. "Did you summon me here to discuss your book?" asked Elizabeth.
"We can begin with that, if you are so inclined. Is there anything you wish to ask of me?"
"Yes, I can think of several things straight-away. Why have you given my mother such a deficit of common sense? I can in no way account for father ever wanting to marry her. If it is not too much trouble, can you alter the book and interchange my Aunt Gardiner with my mother. Longbourn should be ever much more pleasant then. Next is my sister Mary; please alter her character. Must she always be spouting inane philosophy? Did you not say just now that you find philosophy to be disagreeable? And during the process of editing, can you imbue Lydia and Kitty with more sense as well? At their present rate of emotional maturation, they should hardly reach full adulthood. If you would be so kind to honor these small requests, I should be ever so grateful."
The author could not restrain her smiles. "With all these changes, I should scarcely have any basis for a story left. I should wonder that you do not ask about Mr. Darcy."
"Mr. Darcy?" Elizabeth looked horrified. "No! Surely you do not intend that haughty and disagreeable man for me! It would be better for me to kill me off quickly in the first few chapters than to force me to endure such torture."
Miss Austen laughed. "Perhaps events may intervene to induce a change of heart."
The expression on Elizabeth's face betrayed a deep skepticism about such a possibility.
"Let us talk no more about the book; that is not my purpose for bringing you here," continued Miss Austen. She paused and looked gently upon Elizabeth's countenance. "I have a most important decision to make tonight, and it appears that I must make it alone. I need so very much to talk matters over with someone. Normally I have my sister Cassandra to console me, but she is not available except by post, and time does not afford me that privilege. When I have been faced with decisions of similar import in the past, I have found it truly helpful to write a story about it. This facilitates my thinking about the most salient aspects of the problem and makes it easier to imagine the consequences of my decision."
"So this is why you have appointed me to meet you here - simply to assist you in time of crisis? You are writing about this meeting even as it takes place. I exist only in your mind to help clarify your thoughts?"
The author smiled self-consciously. "I knew you would understand eventually."
"You have no concern then, that by taking me into your confidence and permitting me to know the true nature of my existence, you are putting the integrity of your novel at risk? Are you not worried that in future I may start behaving irresponsibly? After all, why should I care about anything I do or say, if you are the author of it all and it is your responsibility?"
"Now, Elizabeth, stop that! No more philosophy, I beg you! You need not worry about any lingering effects of our meeting. After I have finished writing about our rendezvous, I shall throw the pages into the fire. As far as you are concerned, your visit to the Netherfield attic will never have taken place and you shall be none the wiser. So think no more about it!"
"Very well," sighed Elizabeth in resignation. "It appears I am literally at your disposal. Upon what matter do you seek advice?"
Jane Austen reached into her handbag, withdrew a container of red wine and two small glasses, filled them and handed one to Elizabeth. "I rarely partake of wine when I am engaged in writing, but tonight I feel a little may calm my nerves and clarify my mind."
Elizabeth sipped a bit and waited for Miss Austen to unfold her story.
"I have acted rather impulsively this evening," began Miss Austen, "and I am not at all certain that I have acted wisely. Indeed, I may have made the most foolish mistake of my entire life. I need you to confirm or contradict it." She paused to drink from her glass a second time. "A young man, Mr. Harris Bigg-Wither, has made me an offer of marriage and I have accepted it."
"Am I correct in assuming the gentleman is a young man in possession of a good fortune?" asked Elizabeth.
"He certainly is young; six years my junior at the very least. He is the brother of Alethea Bigg, who was one of my very close friends when we were neighbors in Hampshire. Being the firstborn son, he stands to inherit a substantial fortune, which would be a great security. I worry constantly that I may become too great a financial burden on my family in future. I can scrape together barely 100 pounds per annum, whereas I know my parents expend at least four times that amount. My father has a yearly stipend of 600 pounds, so worry is now far from our door. But Father is already one and seventy, and it is not at all certain how Mother and Cassandra and I should carry on when we are inevitably on our own resources. My brothers surely can provide some assistance, but the prospect of becoming a burden to my family is not pleasant to contemplate."
"From the resignation in your voice, Miss Austen, I sense you harbor no feelings of love for this man, and you view your marriage as required sacrifice."
"I am loathe to admit it, but you speak truthfully. I hold no love for this man. He is large and exceedingly awkward. He means well, I know, but I would struggle daily to nurture the smallest feeling of affection toward him."
Elizabeth thought long before answering. "You have stated that we are so very much alike, but our views on this matter could not be more different. I should never agree to such a union. Only true love could induce me to marry. By allowing financial considerations to triumph over feelings of the heart, you appear to favor Charlotte rather than me. For me to live with such a man would be an abomination."
"It is interesting that you mention Charlotte. Our situations are not that radically different. We are both of the same age, seven and twenty; we both face spinsterhood; and the source of our livelihood is much in doubt. Perhaps you can now understand why I have great empathy for her, and why she will accept Mr. Collins' proposal."
"What? I had not read that far ahead in the novel. Charlotte, my best friend, will wed my oafish cousin? No! That cannot be true!"
Miss Austen merely smiled to intimate that all would turn out well. "It is not only for monetary reasons that I have accepted the proposal this evening, Lizzy. The young man is the third man in my life who has shown feelings for me. The first young man was not wealthy enough to provide for me. I fell in love with the second man on a summer vacation near Lyme. We made promises to each other when we parted at summer's end, but that was the last time I saw him. A few months later I learned that he had died mysteriously. Now Mr. Bigg-Wither enters my life. At my age and in my situation, I have strong reasons to fear that no further offer may ever present itself."
"Now you sound precisely like Mr. Collins when he uttered a similar warning during his proposal to me," declared Elizabeth, "and yet you permitted my refusing him. How can you treat yourself any less well than you have treated me?"
"I can only offer one explanation in my defense," said the author somberly. "I can control future events in your life. I do not have that luxury in my own. Were I to break off the engagement now, a great scandal would arise and the friendship between my family and the Biggs's would surely be frayed. I would not wish my parents to suffer through it."
"Surely that cannot be reason enough to marry against your will? You must not work in cross-purposes to your heart. You and Cassandra can flee to Bath until the uproar dies down. This whole matter will soon be forgotten and no one will think ill of you for it."
Jane Austen was surprised she had not considered the reasonableness of this resolution before, and smiled in relief. Her protégé continued to argue her cause. "If you decide to submit to this man, what will become of all of us, the characters in your novel, once you are married? It is already the year 1802 and you are still revising your novel, and other novels too, for all I know. Have any of your works yet been published? Will your husband permit you to continue your literary pursuits? Will we die of neglect?"
"Perhaps you are right about that, Lizzy. I had not given any thought to that possibility. It is quite likely that Mr. Bigg-Wither is not aware of writings; his unrefined mind may deem my activity frivolous..."
"I know it must sound unbelievably self-centered of me," said Elizabeth, "but unless you abandon your hopes for marriage and finish your novel, there can be no guarantee that I shall have any life at all, and I shall never enjoy the pleasures of the marriage bed."
"That is too much to ask of any woman, Elizabeth. I have no wish to experience love only vicariously. Perhaps I can marry and continue to write secretly..." She stopped in mid-thought for several moments before finishing in subdued voice, "No, I cannot do it. I cannot find such a life agreeable. It would be impossible to live with a man who does not respect what I value."
Elizabeth was relieved that her view of the matter was prevailing. "You also see how ridiculous it would be to assume that man's name, do you not? Would you truly wish to see your book published as Pride and Prejudice, by Mrs. Bigg-Wither?"
Both women broke into laughter. "No, indeed I should not," said the author. "You have convinced me; I shall break off the engagement in the morning."
"Yes, that is best," said Elizabeth still laughing. "Hardly anyone would have seriously believed that the name Bigg-Wither was not invented by someone with a ribald sense of humor."
Jane Austen's smile vanished instantly. "Elizabeth! What made you say that? I never had such a thought?"
Elizabeth was exceedingly puzzled. "You are joking of course, are you not? Did you not tell me you are writing this entire scene? How could you not have thought of it?"
"Yes, I have been writing this scene, but I was not responsible for that thought. You appear to be developing a mind of your own. I know not how to account for it."
"I can detect no great difference. I am as I always have been. Why should that upset you?"
The author took the nearly exhausted candle and walked to the north side of the room. "Lizzy!" she exclaimed in alarm. "Come over here at once! It is just as I had suspected. I surely did not write this into the scene."
She quickly obeyed and was equally horrified. "The door! What happened to the doorway to the attic? It has disappeared. How are we ever to leave? There is no exit."
Jane Austen was exasperated and perplexed. "This cannot possibly be happening. I must be dreaming, and very badly. Doorways do not disappear on their own accord."
"I could have sworn the doorway was exactly there as well," said Elizabeth, "but the layout of this room is rather symmetrical. Perhaps we are both mistaken."
She took the candle and walked the perimeter of the attic. There was no doorway to be found, but she stumbled upon a large armoire along the east wall that had escaped prior notice. It was made of solid oak, exquisitely carved and inlaid with walnut. Elizabeth tried the doors, but they were locked and there was no key.
"Can you help me move this?" asked Elizabeth. "Perhaps there is a door behind it."
Jane Austen was not blessed with great strength, and the two of them found it impossible to push the massive armoire aside. Elizabeth groaned as she slumped against one of the paneled doors. The other door suddenly popped open. She quickly brought over the candle to illuminate the interior, but the armoire was empty. Undeterred, Elizabeth tapped sharply on the back wall. A hollow thud was followed by a soft echo.
"I think you have discovered something important, Lizzy!" said the author. "Press along the edges of the backboard. There must be a door somewhere."
Elizabeth gave the back panel a hard rap on the right side and it swung outward. She held the candle into opening, but all she could make out was a narrow hallway so long and dark its opposite end was not observable. The pair looked at each other uncertainly, but they realized taking the exit was their only course. They walked no farther than five paces into the hallway when a strong draft blew out the candle and slammed shut the door behind them. The shock caused them to emit a small scream in unison and hold on to each other tightly. A moment later Elizabeth released her grip and walked carefully back to the door, only a very little surprised to feel nothing but wallboard.
"Someone seems determined to steal all our doorways!" remarked Elizabeth in a blended tone of disgust and anger. "For whatever good it signifies, we have little choice but to proceed toward the far end of the hall." She retraced her steps until she bumped into Miss Austen.
"Here, take my hand," said the author. "You must feel along the left wall for an opening and I shall feel along the right."
They took small steps into the pitch black and took many minutes to walk about a hundred feet. "I feel a corner!" exclaimed Elizabeth. She stepped ahead and looked left. Light filtered around the edges of a door left slightly ajar. Their pace quickened and they soon passed through the doorway into a sunlit room.
"This cannot be possible," declared Elizabeth. "How can this room be so sunny when moments ago we left the other room in the dead of night?"
Jane Austen had no explanation and said nothing as she surveyed the room. It was an attic from a completely different building. It was far smaller than Netherfield; the walls and the ceiling were bare; and building materials were grouped haphazardly everywhere. The unfinished plank floor was sorely in need of a sweeping. Straight ahead there was a circular room -- the top floor of a turret that graced the south side of the home. She walked in to admire the graceful concave window and was startled by the unusual view. The walkway leading to the street was properly made of wood, but the paths along the street and the street itself appeared to be made of stone. Elizabeth stood alongside her and looked on with equal incomprehension. Passersby were attired in strange and vulgar costumes that revealed an excess of arm and leg. Behind them vehicles enclosed entirely in glass and metal rushed by up and down the avenue at godless speed without benefit of any horses or coachmen! Elizabeth and Miss Austen knew not what to make of the bizarre spectacle.
A sudden burst of tapping noises drew them into the attic proper. As they left the tower, on their left they saw the back of a man hunched in front of a glowing glass panel. He was making strange clicking noises on this device with his fingers.
"Pardon me, sir," called out Jane Austen. "Sir..."
The startled man looked up. "Excuse me, ladies. The attic is off limits to the tour. If you go downstairs, I'm sure the docents will be happy to help you."
"You speak with a strange accent, sir. I am scarcely able to understand you!" declared Miss Austen. "We are not touring; we are merely trying to find our way back to Netherfield."
The man's interest perked instantly. "Netherfield, you say?" He took a closer look at their clothing. "Wow, you really look great! The Razzle Dazzle costume rental store did a bang-up job on your outfits. You really look like you just stepped out of a Jane Austen novel."
The women stared at him in disbelief. "Why, I am Jane Austen and this is Miss Elizabeth Bennet, who has indeed just now stepped out of one of my novels. How on earth did you know that?"
"Okay," said the man laughing. "I can go along with a gag. Just tell me which one of my buddies put you up to this? I'll have to get even with him some day, although hiring actors to impersonate famous authors and heroines is going to be hard to top. Who sent you here?"
"No one sent us here, sir. We walked here straight from the attic at Netherfield," said a greatly confused Elizabeth. "How did you get here, sir?"
He was surprised by the tenacity with which the ladies to stayed in character, and decided to play it straight and humor them. "I'm William Hazelgrove. Pleased to make your acquaintance. A few years ago I asked the foundation for permission to do all my writing here. I can still feel his presence here. You know, it's quite a magical place. In fact, the book I'm writing now is called Hemingway's Attic"
"Who is this Hemingway?" asked Elizabeth. "This is all so very mysterious."
Hazelgrove gave her a puzzled look. "Ernest Hemingway, of course. He was born in this house about a hundred years ago. You must have heard of him. He was one of the most influential American authors in the twentieth century."
"That may explain some aspects of the street scene," mused Miss Austen aloud, but she was uncertain whether she or the stranger was confused about the current century. "Ah, Hemingway -- that is quite a proper English name! But you say you are an author as well?" continued Miss Austen hopefully. "Splendid! Now we can perhaps get to the heart of the matter. Why did you write this little scene to fetch us from Netherfield?"
Now it was Hazelgrove's turn to be confounded. "I have no idea what you are talking about. Still trying to pull my leg, eh?" he said scowling a bit. He had work to do and he had to get away from these intruders. Then he recalled someone who just might be able to take the problem off his hands. "Excuse me, ladies, I met one of the docents about a month ago, Bill Free-something, who belongs to a Jane Austen group on the web. He might be able to help you; at the very least I'm sure he would get a kick out of meeting you. Virginia Cassin, the chairman of the Hemingway Foundation, is downstairs conducting tours right now. She should be able to tell you how to get in touch with him. I'll take you to her now."
The women were baffled about references to web groups, getting in touch, or how a woman could be a chairman. They had been so continuously disoriented since their arrival that struggling to make sense of it only made matters worse; so they simply resigned and hoped that later all confusion would condense into a semblance of understandability. Hazelgrove escorted them down the stairway to the first floor parlor where Virginia Cassin was telling a group of visitors from various lands about the Hemingways.
"Young Ernest was fortunate to live so close to both sides of his family. He lived in this house with Grandpa Hall, his mother's father. His father's parents lived just across the street and contributed greatly to his love of nature and science. Grandma Hemingway graduated from college with a degree in botany and astronomy, a most unusual course of study for one of the few women who went to college in those days. She passed along her love of nature to all her children, but especially to Clarence, Ernest's father. He loved nothing more than to hunt and fish, and later taught Ernest to love the outdoors and become resourceful, hard working and self-reliant.
"From his mother's side of the family, Ernest got his artistic qualities. Grace Hall Hemingway, his mother, was an excellent mezzo-soprano. She went to New York to study with the leading operatic singers, made her debut in Madison Square Garden, and was offered a contract with the Metropolitan Opera, but she had to decline. A youthful bout of scarlet fever had blinded her for some months and left her eyes overly sensitive to the bright footlights, so a career on the stage was not to be. We shouldn't be too surprised with her talent; it seems to run in the family. Her great grandfather, William Miller, was the only violinist whom the great Paganini agreed to tutor. And his father, Edward Miller, was the great English hymn composer."
As the docent turned she saw the waiting trio.
"Excuse me, Ginni," said Hazelgrove. "These ladies have come here to see Bill. Is he here today?"
"Bill Friesema? No, he isn't on the schedule today. But I do recall his mentioning an Austen party this afternoon at his home. From the looks of your quaint dresses, ladies, you will fit right in! He lives very close by - the first house south of the Cheney place."
Mr. Hazelgrove was about to give them directions, but their helpless look prompted him to offer his escort. After successfully crossing the busy Oak Park Avenue, they chatted amiably. He was impressed by their knowledge of arcane English custom. These actors had really done their homework! After a few minutes they had walked the three blocks, and he left the ladies in the company of the revelers on the porch of Bill's old prairie-style house.
Author's note: The particulars regarding Virginia Cassin and William Hazelgrove and the comments regarding Hemingway's ancestors are factual. Hazelgrove has written several books in the attic and his newest book 'Hemingway's Attic' will be published soon.
"Welcome, Miss Austen and Miss Bennet," said the host as he stepped forward to assist the new arrivals up the front steps. "We have been expecting you."
"What? You have anticipated us?" said Miss Austen. "That is surely impossible and is most confusing! We have made no plans to be here."
The assembled Dwiggies gave her no time for contemplation. They gathered quickly around the English ladies and greeted them enthusiastically. Being quite unaccustomed to such forward manners, the newly arrived pair stepped backward in mild alarm. The host tried to set them at ease by introducing each Dwiggie in turn. Glasses of wine and platters of cheese appeared, and soon all were seated by the porch table or on the porch rail.
Ann took the initiative and tried to explain the purpose of the gathering. "Miss Austen, we are all great admirers of your published novels. We like them so much that we are sorry to see them come to an end, so we write continuations for your stories and share them with like-minded admirers around the world. You have devotees in Canada, the United States, Australia, England, the Netherlands, Belgium, Denmark, Sweden, and many more countries."
"You exchange stores by post then?" asked Lizzy. "That must take a very long time to contact everyone."
"No, communications are very fast now," said Ann. "There have been lots of drastic changes in two hundred years since you wrote your books. We now have a magical network that connects us all and lets us exchange stories and messages almost instantaneously with anyone around the world. The network has made it possible for us to become close friends; and from time to time we get together and meet in person."
"Two hundred years....," repeated the disbelieving Miss Austen, who turned to meet Lizzy's equally incredulous look.
"I can't understand how you got here either," said Spring cheerfully. "But as long as you're here, maybe you can answer a question that's been bothering me. Tell me, was Wentworth based on the man you once loved, and later died mysteriously?"
Miss Austen collected herself and replied in subdued voice. "Yes, yes. You have guessed correctly. He was the one who truly pierced my soul."
"And Darcy? Who was he patterned after?" asked Jennifer.
"Whom was Darcy like? Why, my dear girl, he is the embodiment of my ideal man. He has the proper amount of reserve and decorum, a good heart, a resolute mind, and sufficient resources to smooth over most of life's difficulties." Miss Austen sipped some more chardonnay and added with a mischievous grin, "That he is also handsome only serves to magnify his other qualities."
The group laughed in concurrence. "But what about Mrs. Bennet?" asked Karen. "Did you base her on your mother?"
Lizzy naturally looked toward the author with the greatest interest. Perhaps there was an explanation for her mother's behavior after all.
"Heaven's no!" declared Miss Austen. "I should have been driven to hysterics myself had I been so ill-favored in that choice of mother. No, Mrs. Bennet's character owes much to a neighbor from my childhood. Her fluttering and trembling voice wafted through the open windows during the warm season and amused our family to no end."
"I don't want to put you on the spot, with Elizabeth being here and all," said Danielle, "but which of the characters in your novels is your favorite?"
Miss Austen was taken slightly aback, but answered forthrightly. "I would have to say that Elizabeth, Anne Elliot and Emma Woodhouse are all such dears. It is difficult to spend a long time in their company, during the writing of the novel, and not develop deep attachments to your creations. Choosing my favorite is quite dependent upon my mood, but I must admit that, overall, Lizzy is my favorite."
"And Darcy is our favorite!" said Teg, laughing. "Especially when he is in the billiard room in shirt sleeves, and later when he emerges from the Pemberley pond, and all his dripping wet clothes hug his body."
"Darcy did what?" Lizzy was astonished.
"I never wrote such nonsense," declared Miss Austen. "Whatever gave you such a notion, young lady?"
"Of course you didn't write that," said Leah Michelle. "Those scenes exist only in the movie version." She took Lizzy and Miss Austen by the hand. "Come on, I'll show it to you. Bill has it playing in his office."
The group walked through the open tall porch window and gathered around the TV and two computer monitors in the office. Bill cued the DVD and played a few scenes - the dance at the Netherfield Ball, Mr. Collins' proposal, Mr. Darcy's proposal, and the pond scene. Lizzy and Miss Austen stared in amazement.
"What fantastic animated images, even though that Elizabeth does not resemble me at all!" said Lizzy. "I find it scarcely less amazing that I should receive two offers of marriage from two of the most detestable men in all of England."
"How dare they alter my story so?" demanded Miss Austen. "Darcy never made such a swim in a pond - and in all of his clothes yet! Had I written the scene I would have done it correctly. Darcy would have shed his habiliments before engaging in the private swim, but the inclusion of such a scene would surely have caused a scandal."
"We wouldn't have minded at all," said Karen and Janet in quick unison.
"Jinx!" cried Jimmy.
After the laughter subsided, Lizzy pointed at the other screens. "What are those devices for?"
"They are the links to the Austen network," explained Ann. "Here, let me show you how it works; maybe we can rustle up someone online." She sat down, opened a chat session and registered a new user (JaneA), and entered into the private Austen chat room.
"I'll type in your responses for you on the keyboard, Miss Austen," said Ann. "You can read what others are saying in the window on the screen."
Jane Austen took a closer look at the monitor. "Do you mean to tell me you are conversing with a person named LaLa at this very moment?"
"That's Laura in Boston," said Jimmy. "She's a really big fan of yours."
"Please convey my greetings to her, Ann," said the author. "Perhaps she can come over to visit us now."
"She lives too far away, about a thousand miles," replied Leah.
Jane Austen could only shake her head in wonder.
"Look..., on the screen...," said Danielle. "Laura wants to know why you had to die so young?"
"What? I am not dead yet? This is all quite vexing. Oh dear, I am beginning to sound exactly like Lady Catherine." She laughed. "However, when I do breathe my last, I am certain that a fatal case of writer's block will be the cause."
"Okay, I'll type that in for you," said Ann. "Now Laura wants to know why you had to end 'Pride and Prejudice' the way you did. Why couldn't you at least let us see what sort of life Darcy and Lizzy led?"
Jane Austen had to laugh. "What? And spoil all your fun? What would you have left to write about?"
"I'm sure we'd come up with something, even at the risk of writing something a wee bit strange," remarked Bill.
"And that reminds me of my purpose in coming here. Which one of you writers is responsible for abducting Lizzy and me from Netherfield and bringing us here?"
All the Dwiggies in the small office looked at Bill. "Ha! It's all Bill's doing," declared Teg. "He's the one who is writing and posting the story in DWG!"
"The DWG?" asked Lizzy.
"The Derbyshire Writers' Guild," explained Bill. "But I swear I'm not to blame for any this! If I were writing this, all of my Dwiggie friends from around the world would be here, not just a select few, delightful as you are! And I wouldn't be getting so excited and using so many exclamation points!!!!!" He sighed wistfully before adding, "Besides, if I were writing this, Lizzy would have at least hugged me by now."
"Yes," said Ann. "He may be right. Anyone could have posted this story."
"Oh, no!" cried Miss Austen. "And how many authors are there on the network who might be responsible for this story?"
"Several hundred, I imagine," said Bill. "But you can start by visiting the folks who posted a comment to one of the earlier chapters. Odds are good that one of them actually wrote it!"
"Very well," said Lizzy. "Let us get started straight-away. I have to get back to my sister at Netherfield, even if we have to travel through that dreadful attic at Purvis Lodge to get there! I assume this house does contain an attic, is that not so, Mr. Friesema?"
The host nodded. Jane Austen seized Lizzy by the hand and ran up the stairway. Ann followed and yelled, "Miss Austen. Please remember to copy all your letters soon, and tell me where you intend to hide them!"
The remainder of the group ran closely behind and found Ann sitting alone on the attic floor. "The door was here, right here!" Ann wailed. "I saw it close up behind them and disappear."
The whole group stood around for a while in a silent funk.
"Well, that certainly was fun," exclaimed Jimmy at length. "Let's go down and have some more Baileys."
As the group descended to the first floor, they heard the sound of the Manhattan Transfer playing on the stereo...
When I hear this melody
This strange illusion takes over me
Through a tunnel of the mind
Perhaps a present or future time, oh
Out of nowhere comes this sound
This melody that keeps spinning 'round & 'round
Pyramidal locomotion
From a mystic unknown zoneHearin' the twilight
Hearin' the twilight
Hearin' the Twilight ToneUnpretentious girl from Memphis
Saw the future through her third eye
People came with skepticism
Picking, testing her precision, no, wo, oh
Suddenly they heard this sound
This melody that keeps spinning 'round & 'round
A signpost up ahead is calling
Through the mystic unknown zoneHearin' the twilight
Hearin' the twilight
Twilight ToneOn a cold and rainy night
One Mr. Miller had a rare flight
Glen was up there boppin' a rhythm
Then the engine stopped to listen with him
Play that beat, oh, oh
Suddenly he heard the sound
This melody that keeps spinning 'round & 'round
Now he resides & plays trombone
In the mystic unknown zoneHearin' the twilight
Hearin' the twilight
Twilight Tone
Author's note: Everyday you and hundreds like you flit from one story fragment to the next, eager to read about characters whose existence has become inexorably intertwined with your own. And like many others you have typed a quick comment of encouragement for the author. After clicking the 'post' button, you may have experienced a momentary dread that something about your comment may come back to haunt you. For those kind readers who have seen fit to comment on this story, said haunting can now be expected to commence in the form of two beloved visitors, who come tripping from your attic, demanding answers, and looking for an exit from the Netherfield Zone.
Further note: Lyrics to 'The Twilight Zone' were written by Alan Paul of the Manhattan Transfer.