Hampshire, 1796

HAVING READ FOUR of his allegorical stories, Mr. Mansfield expressed a wish to be allowed to hear the ending of Elinor and Marianne. Jane would not allow it.

“Had you not kept your book a secret from me,” said Jane, “I would consider four stories an adequate compensation for the final four chapters of the adventures of the misses Dashwood, but because you hid your talents from the very friend who is best able to appreciate them, you shall not earn your reward until the book is finished.”

“I count myself lucky that it is but a slim volume,” said Mr. Mansfield. “Were you to strike a similar bargain with the author of, say, Robinson Crusoe, that would be inhumane. But surely you understand, Miss Austen, it is because you are best able of all my acquaintances to judge my work that I have been hesitant to share it with you.”

“Yet I allow you to judge my work every day, and I profit from the judgment. Might you not wish to do the same?”

“It is an infuriating thing, Miss Austen,” said Mr. Mansfield with a smile, “to be taught wisdom by one a quarter of one’s age.”

“You shall find a way to bear it, Mr. Mansfield. Now please continue.”

Mr. Mansfield settled back in his chair and read on.

GREGORY THE HERMIT

A MORAL TALE

Happiness is the wish of every individual. It is pursued by the wise and the foolish, the wealthy and the indigent; and, though the attempt is generally unsuccessful, it is continued with avidity till death closes the scene, and puts a period at once to our hopes and our labors. We should indeed be oftener successful did we search for Happiness where she may be found, in a mediocrity of the gifts of fortune, and in the smiling valley of Content. But, dazzled with the fascinating glare of riches, and the ostentatious parade of power, we seek her in places where she was ever a stranger, and at last, when it is too late to correct our error, we are convinced that we have been deluded by a phantom, and pursued a fleeting insubstantial shadow.

The story went on to tell of the simple-living Gregory and the wealthy and ostentatious Alphonso. Gregory counseled Alphonso away from his worldly ways, saying, “The calm blessings of uninterrupted health, and the placid comforts of a mind at ease are not to be bartered for the noisy joys of riot and excess.” But Alphonso did not listen, and only accepted that “the paths of virtue only are the paths of peace” after his palace was destroyed by a volcanic eruption.

“Do you truly believe,” said Jane, “that the primary motivation of humankind is, as I believe the Americans call it, the pursuit of happiness?”

“I do,” said Mr. Mansfield, “though that in itself is not an evil thing. It is only when we attach happiness to those things which are worldly and unimportant that our lives become corrupted.”

“And what of me?” said Jane. “Am I wrong to pursue the happiness I believe would come to me with the publication of my writing?”

“To answer that question, one must first know why you yearn for publication. Do you envision riches and the opportunity for the ‘noisy joys of riot and excess’?”

“You jest with me, Mr. Mansfield, for you know that I do not. You know that, although I enjoy the occasional ball, I am happiest when I am here with you, sharing our thoughts, reading to one another, living simply in the world of the mind. It is not riches that I seek but rather the possibility that my published words might allow me to have a similar communion of thought with those unseen.”

“Then I think we can safely say that you have not fallen into the trap that claimed Alphonso. By your labors at the writing table, Miss Austen, you do anything but, as Gregory says, ‘sacrifice your prospect of distant happiness to the delusive pleasure of an hour.’ I should say you do quite the opposite.”

“It comforts me to hear you say that, Mr. Mansfield.”

“I am pleased to give you comfort,” said Mr. Mansfield. “However, while I am happy that my stories stimulate self-reflection, as was their intent, if we are to discuss the place of each in our own lives, it may be weeks before I discover the fate of the dear Dashwoods.”

“You are right, Mr. Mansfield. In my self-concern I am too cruel. Pray continue.”

And for the next hour, he read, until four more of his stories were finished.

“I wonder,” said Mr. Mansfield, laying the book aside, “if by listening to my meager attempts as a writer you have perhaps come to understand how accomplished you are at that same endeavor?”

“I do not admit to a difference in quality between your work and my own,” said Jane, “only in style and perhaps intent.”

“Nonetheless, were my intent wedded to your abilities, it might produce something rather new,” said Mr. Mansfield.

“You’d best continue reading, Mr. Mansfield,” said Jane, “or we shall never return to Elinor and Marianne.”