Jane & I
a story of Austen Addiction
Once upon a time …
a young girl was growing up in a house full of books. A house where stories drifted through the rooms with gentle enchantment. Lazy afternoons often found this girl blissfully stretched out along the end of her parents’ bed, a pillow cradling her head as she listened to her mother read aloud. Those moments were the happiest of her childhood.
The mother read with clarity and a marvellous range of voices, shifting tone and character with an effortless grace that held her daughter spellbound. Often, the mother was coaxed into reading until she was hoarse—but the child never minded. She always wanted more.
When the girl was still too young to tackle a piece of classic fiction on her own, her mother gently introduced literature’s great works, becoming both guide and interpreter. Difficult words were explained, puzzling phrases smoothed, and tedious passages tactfully trimmed.
It was on that bed, in that book-filled sanctuary, that this girl first encountered Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. As her mother read it to her, she listened entranced, and never dreamed how completely that moment would shape the course of her life.
Of course, this story is no fairy tale; it’s the story of my own book-filled childhood. My mother adored reading, and from an early age I learned that books were things that gave pleasure to people of all ages.
I get asked over and over again what it was that led me to become Australia’s ‘Jane Austen lady’. So in my memoir, I tell my own story of how my love of Jane Austen’s novels developed into a passionate addiction, and, quite simply, altered the course of my life! Please enjoy this extract of Jane & I.
In Mansfield Park Mary Crawford discusses the various “blessings of existence”. She defines these blessings in terms of spouses and wealth. While I fear I resemble Mary Crawford more than I should, I do differ from her in that one thing at least. I know that I was born with the very best “blessing of existence” – I was born into a family that loved books. I’ve always felt terribly sorry for anyone who has grown up in a bookless house.
At about the age of seven, I learned about love. Gilbert Blythe reached out and tugged a red braid, and it “darted through me with the speed of an arrow” that I must love him for eternity. Those roguish hazel eyes, his sincere contrition, his romantic rescue of Anne Shirley from a sinking boat, his first proposal, his second proposal – Gilbert could not put a foot wrong. He was the first great romantic passion of my life and although I am deeply passionate about Mr Darcy, Mr Knightley, Captain Wentworth and Henry Tilney, I do personally understand Marianne Dashwood’s views on first love as something that can never be quite forgotten.
Anne taught me a lot, but she also prepared me magnificently for Jane Austen. Like Emma, Anne of Green Gables says things she regrets; like Elizabeth Bennet she forms a violent prejudice against a male because of one stupid remark; like Anne Elliot she loves poetry and “falls into quotations” at the drop of a hat; and like Catherine Morland she finds her imagination has run away with her when she walks through the Haunted Wood she has peopled with ghosts. I read the books until I almost knew them by heart (I still read them often), but little knowing then that Anne’s problems are those of Jane Austen’s heroines too, and that Anne was getting me ready for richer, more complex and even more wonderful heroines still to come.
I was a child voracious for books. I bought, borrowed, and, on one occasion, which still makes me feel guilty, even stole one.
One day, I carried home a very slim volume from the primary school library. It was called Jane Eyre, and there was a dramatic picture of a raving madwoman on the cover, which is probably what attracted me to it. I showed it to my mother, who was horrified. “You are not reading that!”, she insisted. “It’s been cut to nothing. Take it back to the library tomorrow. I’ll read you the proper thing.” And that night we began … “There was no possibility of taking a walk that day …”. Within minutes, I was immersed in the trials and tribulations of another orphaned heroine, and was falling in love again, with the superbly named Edward Fairfax Rochester. I often wonder about that abridged edition I was never allowed to read. It was very slim.
I had the bliss of lying along the end of my parents’ bed, pillow under my head, feeling and suffering with Jane to the gentle accompaniment of clicking knitting needles (Mum always knitted when she read aloud, which resulted in awkward pauses when she turned rows or stopped to consult the pattern). The happiest moments of my childhood were spent on that bed, listening to my mother, who did a wonderful range of voices and read with expression and clarity. I know sometimes I kept her reading until she was hoarse, but I didn’t care. I needed more! It truly was the greatest “blessing of my existence”. When I was too young to read a classic for myself, I could have it explained as she read, difficult words could be interpreted, and sometimes dull descriptions could be left out. She read me Kidnapped, the prison chapters of The Count of Monte Cristo, Great Expectations, Wuthering Heights, The Hobbit, and so many other literary treasures. I lapped it up, but still I wanted more.
My mind was now ready for the next step, something my mother recognised, though even she could never have guessed how that next step would totally change my life. It happened in the summer of 1973/74. I was thirteen and we were on holiday in Christchurch (New Zealand). There were swims, picnics, tennis and all the usual fun of a summer holiday, but that particular holiday was memorable for one moment. “I think you might be ready for Pride and Prejudice”, said my Mum one afternoon. She took out a well-loved book with a green cover, we went into the bedroom, and I assumed my comfy position.
Mum began to read. “It is a truth universally acknowledged …”, smiling as she read those immortal words. Soon I was smiling too. I can still see myself so clearly, lying there listening to the story of Elizabeth and Darcy. I can remember my frustrations with my mother, because she kept stopping to laugh. “Mum!” I protested, “Just get on with the story!” “But it’s so funny!” she argued, “I have to laugh!” Now I know exactly why and where she chuckled. Then I smiled at Jane Austen’s words; now I laugh every time I read them. Pride and Prejudice is not an especially long novel, far shorter than Mansfield Park and Emma. Soon, far too soon, we had finished.
I don’t know which to admire most: the book-filled life of Susannah Fullerton, or her beguiling account of it. Crossing continents and embracing multiple authors – though Jane Austen reigns supreme – this is a vivid and original memoir for lovers of our literary heritage to savour.” ― Maggie Lane, Jane Austen expert & author.
Jane and I is my tribute to the power of the written word. I retell how my discovery of Jane Austen quite literally ‘changed my life’. You can learn more or purchase in print or ebook here.