I’ve been reading P.D. James’ Death Comes to Pemberley , which I earlier called an example of parasitic writing in this column. But till I went to the U.S. recently, I had no idea of the scale Austen-parasitism has attained. Shelves at small and large bookshops are packed with prequels and sequels to the lives of the Dashwood sisters, the Bennet sisters, Emma and other characters in empire gowns.
Not long ago, Austen lovers compulsively read every article about the writer and any critical works that came our way. We watched every adaptation, cringed at anything out of line, argued animatedly with each other about it if we were lucky to find fellow maniacs. We raged at idiotic misrepresentations in print. (“She did not write a book called Sand and Sandition , you cretins!”)
Jane Austen completed six novels in all. (Seven, if you count Lady Susan .) Hard-core fans run through them once, then read them a second time slowly, and then read them year after year. Naturally we want more. But a global factory to produce Austen-derived books is not the answer.
I have read only two sequels to Pride and Prejudice , the one by P.D. James and one by Susan Hill, both respectable writers. The novels probably offended me because the writers took themselves, and Austen, far too seriously. She wouldn’t have done that. She laughed at herself, at her own characters, and even at her own stories. She freely stepped out of the frame of her fiction. Rather than these long-faced pictures of Elizabeth and Darcy’s married life, I feel Austen would enjoy the vampire and sea monster versions. Maybe I would too.
Owners of prequel-sequel sweatshops, if you want to commercialise Austen, bring on the T-shirts and mugs. Sell scented notepaper. Organise walking tours in Bath. We’re not against your making money. In fact, a set of Northanger Abbey finger puppets would give us hours of joy. Just leave the characters alone.
Fans who want more, do look at Austen’s unfinished manuscripts and juvenile scraps, now widely available. Sanditon , Lady Susan and The Watsons all appear in an Everyman edition, along with the hilarious childhood seeds of Austen’s dry satire. A sampling from Frederic & Elfrida : “From this period, the intimacy between the Families of Fitzroy, Drummond, and Falknor, daily increased till at length it grew to such a pitch, that they did not scruple to kick one another out of the window on the slightest provocation.”
There’s plenty more in the same vein, including Henry and Eliza and Jack and Alice. As a child, Austen already had a perfect ear for absurd drawing room conversation. She played freely with her materials. She created stick figures and shadow puppets: disdainful aristocrats, impoverished young women, unreliable men, hysterical mothers, indifferent fathers. And then she suddenly made them real. If you prick them, they bleed. Here also she spun the sturdy thread that ran through all her work — that money is nice, and true love would be grand, but what women truly want is self-respect.
