The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen Read Online Free
Author: Syrie James
Anyway, I knew I’d never be able to sleep. All I could think about was that letter. I took out the photocopy and read it again. Every single thing pointed to its authenticity. It was truly an incredible find—but I was particularly excited about this reference within:
It brings to mind that early Manuscript of my own, which went missing at Greenbriar in Devonshire. Even at a distance of fourteen years, I cannot help but think of it with a pang of fondness, sorrow, and regret, as one would a lost child.
Was it really possible that Jane Austen had written another manuscript—perhaps even a full-length novel—that the world did not know about? If so, was there a chance that it still existed?
I spent the next couple of hours dissecting every word in the second half of the letter, looking for clues, trying to determine the meaning behind them.
If the manuscript Jane Austen referred to had been lost fourteen years earlier, that meant it went missing in 1802, when she was twenty-six years old. I knew Austen was living in Bath withher parents and her sister at the time, having moved there in 1801 when her father retired from his position as rector of Steventon, a small parish in Hampshire. It had always been supposed that Jane Austen did very little writing during the years she moved to Bath, either because she was depressed or because she didn’t have settled-enough conditions in which to work. But what if that wasn’t true?
I remembered reading somewhere that Jane used to take some or all of her manuscripts with her in a box when she traveled, for safekeeping. She must have had
this
manuscript with her in Devonshire, because in her letter she said she was reading it to Cassandra, and it made them laugh.
But where was Greenbriar? Was it a town? No. A little recon on the Net confirmed that there were no towns called Greenbriar in the county of Devon. Could it be the name of a country house? Further probing established that there was indeed a manor home called Greenbriar in southeast Devon. According to an online article, it was a secluded country house built in 1785.
“And it’s still there!” I exulted aloud. According to the Web entry, the house had been in the same family for generations. It was currently owned by Reginald Whitaker, a solicitor, now retired. There was a picture of him, taken at a garden party held at Greenbriar a few years ago. You couldn’t see much of the house itself, but Reginald Whitaker was a tall, handsome, silver-haired man who appeared to be in his late sixties.
Could it be that Jane and her family visited that very house in 1802, and while there, one of her manuscripts somehow went astray? I had dozens of Austen biographies at home that could have verified her probable whereabouts at the time but nothing at hand. I couldn’t find any thing on the Web to help me. I sat back, frustrated, when it suddenly occurred to me that I had theperfect resource at my fingertips, just a phone call away: my friend Laurel Ann.
Laurel Ann had been my first roommate in college, the one arbitrarily assigned to me by the dorm. We’d instantly bonded over our love of books, romantic movies, boys with blue eyes, mint chip ice cream, and Jane Austen. We’d been best friends ever since. She now managed one of the few remaining independent bookstores in Los Angeles, where her self-professed goal was to “sell Austen to the masses.”
It was 11:00 P.M. , which meant it was three o’clock in the afternoon in Los Angeles. Laurel Ann would be at work at the bookstore. I dialed her number. To my delight, she picked up.
“Hey!” she said, in her typically cheerful tone. “Where are you, and how jealous should I be?”
“Oxford, and green with envy. I’m in flannel P.J.’s at a B&B all by myself, and it’s pouring down rain.”
“Oh, poor you. Back
again
in the country I adore but can only dream about. A man who looks like Frodo just spent $150 on erotica books and asked for my phone number. I
It brings to mind that early Manuscript of my own, which went missing at Greenbriar in Devonshire. Even at a distance of fourteen years, I cannot help but think of it with a pang of fondness, sorrow, and regret, as one would a lost child.
Was it really possible that Jane Austen had written another manuscript—perhaps even a full-length novel—that the world did not know about? If so, was there a chance that it still existed?
I spent the next couple of hours dissecting every word in the second half of the letter, looking for clues, trying to determine the meaning behind them.
If the manuscript Jane Austen referred to had been lost fourteen years earlier, that meant it went missing in 1802, when she was twenty-six years old. I knew Austen was living in Bath withher parents and her sister at the time, having moved there in 1801 when her father retired from his position as rector of Steventon, a small parish in Hampshire. It had always been supposed that Jane Austen did very little writing during the years she moved to Bath, either because she was depressed or because she didn’t have settled-enough conditions in which to work. But what if that wasn’t true?
I remembered reading somewhere that Jane used to take some or all of her manuscripts with her in a box when she traveled, for safekeeping. She must have had
this
manuscript with her in Devonshire, because in her letter she said she was reading it to Cassandra, and it made them laugh.
But where was Greenbriar? Was it a town? No. A little recon on the Net confirmed that there were no towns called Greenbriar in the county of Devon. Could it be the name of a country house? Further probing established that there was indeed a manor home called Greenbriar in southeast Devon. According to an online article, it was a secluded country house built in 1785.
“And it’s still there!” I exulted aloud. According to the Web entry, the house had been in the same family for generations. It was currently owned by Reginald Whitaker, a solicitor, now retired. There was a picture of him, taken at a garden party held at Greenbriar a few years ago. You couldn’t see much of the house itself, but Reginald Whitaker was a tall, handsome, silver-haired man who appeared to be in his late sixties.
Could it be that Jane and her family visited that very house in 1802, and while there, one of her manuscripts somehow went astray? I had dozens of Austen biographies at home that could have verified her probable whereabouts at the time but nothing at hand. I couldn’t find any thing on the Web to help me. I sat back, frustrated, when it suddenly occurred to me that I had theperfect resource at my fingertips, just a phone call away: my friend Laurel Ann.
Laurel Ann had been my first roommate in college, the one arbitrarily assigned to me by the dorm. We’d instantly bonded over our love of books, romantic movies, boys with blue eyes, mint chip ice cream, and Jane Austen. We’d been best friends ever since. She now managed one of the few remaining independent bookstores in Los Angeles, where her self-professed goal was to “sell Austen to the masses.”
It was 11:00 P.M. , which meant it was three o’clock in the afternoon in Los Angeles. Laurel Ann would be at work at the bookstore. I dialed her number. To my delight, she picked up.
“Hey!” she said, in her typically cheerful tone. “Where are you, and how jealous should I be?”
“Oxford, and green with envy. I’m in flannel P.J.’s at a B&B all by myself, and it’s pouring down rain.”
“Oh, poor you. Back
again
in the country I adore but can only dream about. A man who looks like Frodo just spent $150 on erotica books and asked for my phone number. I
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