Chapter One

Posted on Sunday, 1 October 2000

If one has spent one's entire life an ocean and a continent away, one might perhaps be forgiven for arriving at the conclusion that Scotland is a reasonably close approximation for the nation of Jane Austen. The further extenuating circumstance that the distance between London and Glasgow is somewhat shorter than that between San Francisco and Los Angeles need hardly be mentioned in this context, but it is perhaps worth noting that the epic voyage undertaken across the aforementioned continent and the subsequent ocean was for the express purpose of instruction in the literary tradition in the English language at an ancient Scottish university, and furthermore that when our intrepid traveler attempted to ascertain beforehand if there were any classes in English literature that concentrated particularly on Scottish authors, she was mildly surprised that there were none to be had. What other conclusion might any right thinking Heroine draw from such a discovery but that the land which she visited was no more than an adjunct or corollary to her spiritual home? This, however, could only enhance the appeal of Scotland to one who sought the civilizing ghost of Jane Austen among its peaks and glens, and the journey was made. If this were a narrative of old I might now have recounted at great length the epic struggle of the treacherous journey across continent and ocean, and described our intrepid Heroine's perilous encounters with various peoples who would pose to her obstacles of differing natures for uncertain cause, allowing our Heroine to outwit some, befriend others, and flee from all the rest. In fact it might be noted that peoples is a somewhat restrictive term in this context, and that the excellent example of our classical forebears demonstrates that there is no cause for such encounters to be exclusively intra-human, and for that matter even to restrict matters to all known species on Earth is to show a most provincial bias. But the possibility of such encounters is much reduced in these retrograde days, which must constitute some excuse, and we are to be pitied, not censured, if in such a manner is the Odyssey transformed into the road novel. When our Heroine eschews even this modicum of adventure, choosing to fly and yet eschewing Icarean excesses (for what is a story without a smattering of classical allusion?) our entire epic is compressed into the one dilemma, encouraged by our young Heroine's neighbour and companion, as to whether a young lady not yet one and twenty might partake of alcoholic beverages in a British aircraft flying over the United States, and having noted that fear on the whole predominated over curiosity, and that she did not dare to ask, then we may look back in contentment and be assured of having said it all.

But the end of one story is very fertile grounds for the beginning of another, and those who would learn the sequel to this journey may be quite contented in the precipitous manner in which our Heroine was deposited through very little effort on her part, other than the outlay of some portion of her parents' not insubstantial income, at the very doorstep she sought. What a different heroine we must now have had had she undertaken that treacherous journey which must have been the alternative to her flight! Could any amount of hassling by immigration authorities (of which there was remarkably little, our chosen Heroine being a presentable and personable young lady) or any delays forcing missed connections (of which there were none, for otherwise I might contradict my own case about such a journey not requiring an epic chronicle) compare to the glorious exhilaration and infinite frustration of interaction with hitherto unknown races of beings, human, animal, or otherwise, and the knowledge of other and of self that such encounters might bring? Could our Heroine possibly have reached the shores of Albion with the brightness in her eyes so undimmed, and the expectations of her fancy so elaborate, had she endured such travails and such exhilaration?

But all prospects of such adventure were now at an end, and our Heroine and her faithful companion were deposited by a friendly cabby at the doorway to their designated accommodations, from where she was cordially escorted to her room by the somewhat incomprehensible hall wardens, where she proceeded to belie all her romantic expectations of immediate adventure by taking a very sound nap. Her companion, a very contrary youth, or contrary at least in that he never failed to contradict our heroine at every opportunity and baffle her expectations of him in every way, could not, knowing her preference, do likewise, and he proceeded therefore to leave his bags, and acquaint himself with the environs in which they found themselves. It is perhaps not out of place to mention here that this young man had been christened Henry Cheng, and answered to the name of Harry. He had lived next doors to our heroine all his life, and accompanied her to the same university, and notwithstanding his contrariness, was the very best friend she had ever known. But we shall speak of him no further, less unwitting readers suppose him to be the Hero of our tale.

Leaving our Heroine for one more moment while she sleeps off her remarkably moderate exhaustion, I would be lax in my duties as narrator if I did not now note that the doorway mentioned earlier (and then neglected for some duration, which I must plead is a necessary evil in this game of introductions, for one never does know whom to touch upon first, and may perhaps be excused for giving preference to the human over the inanimate), though in fact leading to student accommodation, was set in a Victorian terrace, suitably lavish for our Heroine's tastes, and if it was not quite what Mrs. Darcy might reasonably have expected of her husband's house in town, having been built at least some fifty years after that lady's wedding, it bore at any rate a far closer relationship to such hallowed ground than the spacious and comfortable home of unromantic siding in sunny California to which our Heroine had hitherto been accustomed. All in all, it was in aspect precisely what in her more contemplative moments our Heroine would have rejoiced to inhabit, for the young lady, impressionable as she undoubtedly was, was a connoisseur of Romance, and that in not just any form but of a very particular nature, for she anointed herself the spiritual heir of Jane Austen, and as such, a very eligible facilitator of and party to elegant affection. It is to be admitted, however, that her current understanding was all the stronger for its having been recently created. For truth be told, Jane Austen had come to command a rather substantial sway in her habitual environs, and she was hardly to be blamed for the fact that her initiation into the hallowed realm of mannered sensibility had through communion with the silver screen rather than the written word. Our Heroine would have severely contested the notion that she was any less equipped to bear the mantle of Austendom, and extend her theoretical understanding into the realm of practical romance for such a paltry reason.

I might add here that the manner in which I have thus far alluded to this young lady has not been through any motive of concealment, but simply to emphasize the role that she will be playing in subsequent installments. But it is perhaps proper to mention here that she answered to the name of Katie Monroe. The remarkable degree to which this name coincides with one of Miss Austen's young ladies might have been supposed be a cause of some contentment to our Heroine, but if truth be told it had no particular impact. For though her dearest wish was to live the dreamlife of a heroine of an Austen novel and all her fondest expectations of her present adventure were entwined around this dream, the notions of Heroinedom for this child of Hollywood were rather narrowly defined. Catherine Morland was a very peripheral presence in her Austen universe, for she was hardly a creature to be mentioned in the same breath as Mrs. Darcy or even Mrs. Knightley. The sisters Dashwood derived much of their stature from Ms. Winslet and Ms. Thompson. and even Hugh Grant failed to make Edward Ferrars appealing. Willoughby had not quite lost his charm to her, and as for Henry Crawford, why, Fanny Price was a tiresome creature to want anything more. Captain Wentworth's impetuosity lent him some favour, and Mr. Knightley's charms were admissible when she could be quite convinced that he did not share Colonel Brandon's tendency towards rheumatism, and more especially in the guise of Mr. Northam. As for Mr. Darcy, it was he who reigned supreme in this universe, although not even Katie could have distinguished between his particular appeal, and that of a certain Mr. Firth when less than formally attired.