'Another stupid party last night'
A Jane Austen Megamix
Had novelist Jane Austen not died in 18171, she’d be turning 246 today2. Please, then, enjoy the following gems from her correspondence—including, to finish, a full, gossipy letter she sent to her sister the morning after attending a ball, written in the firm grip of a hangover. It’s a cracker, filled with gossip and insults (as many good letters are).
These are arranged in no particular order because life’s too short, there’s a pandemic on, and I’m a maverick who laughs in the face of chronology and structure.
Another stupid party last night.
Jane Austen to Cassandra Austen, 12 May 1801
What dreadful hot weather we have! It keeps me in a continual state of inelegance.
Jane Austen to Cassandra Austen, 18 Sep 1796
Wisdom is better than wit, and in the long run will certainly have the laugh on her side.
Jane Austen to Fanny Knight, 18 Nov 1814
I will not say that your mulberry-trees are dead, but I am afraid they are not alive.
Jane Austen to Cassandra Austen, 31 May 1811
I do not want people to be very agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking them a great deal.
Jane Austen to Cassandra Austen, 24 Dec 1798
You deserve a longer letter than this; but it is my unhappy fate seldom to treat people so well as they deserve.
Jane Austen to Cassandra Austen, 24 Dec 1798
Pictures of perfection, as you know, make me sick and wicked.
Jane Austen to Fanny Knight, 23 Mar 1816
Mr. Digweed has used us basely. Handsome is as Handsome does; he is therefore a very ill-looking Man.
Jane Austen to Cassandra Austen, 24 Jan 1813
I must keep to my own style & go on in my own Way; And though I may never succeed again in that, I am convinced that I should totally fail in any other.
Jane Austen to James Clarke, 1 Apr 1816
Nothing can be compared to the misery of being bound without Love, bound to one, and preferring another. That is a punishment which you do not deserve.
Jane Austen to Fanny Knight, 30 Nov 1814
Steventon: Thursday, November 20, 1800.
My Dear Cassandra,
Your letter took me quite by surprise this morning; you are very welcome, however, and I am very much obliged to you. I believe I drank too much wine last night at Hurstbourne; I know not how else to account for the shaking of my hand to-day. You will kindly make allowance therefore for any indistinctness of writing, by attributing it to this venial error.
Your desiring to hear from me on Sunday will, perhaps, bring you a more particular account of the ball than you may care for, because one is prone to think much more of such things the morning after they happen, than when time has entirely driven them out of one’s recollection.
It was a pleasant evening; Charles found it remarkably so, but I cannot tell why, unless the absence of Miss Terry, towards whom his conscience reproaches him with being now perfectly indifferent, was a relief to him. There were only twelve dances, of which I danced nine, and was merely prevented from dancing the rest by the want of a partner. We began at ten, supped at one, and were at Deane before five. There were but fifty people in the room; very few families indeed from our side of the county, and not many more from the other. My partners were the two St. Johns, Hooper, Holder, and very prodigious Mr. Mathew, with whom I called the last, and whom I liked the best of my little stock.
There were very few beauties, and such as there were were not very handsome. Miss Iremonger did not look well, and Mrs. Blount was the only one much admired. She appeared exactly as she did in September, with the same broad face, diamond bandeau, white shoes, pink husband, and fat neck. The two Miss Coxes were there: I traced in one the remains of the vulgar, broad-featured girl who danced at Enham eight years ago; the other is refined into a nice, composed-looking girl, like Catherine Bigg. I looked at Sir Thomas Champneys and thought of poor Rosalie; I looked at his daughter, and thought her a queer animal with a white neck. Mrs. Warren, I was constrained to think, a very fine young woman, which I much regret. She has got rid of some part of her child, and danced away with great activity looking by no means very large. Her husband is ugly enough, uglier even than his cousin John; but he does not look so very old. The Miss Maitlands are both prettyish, very like Anne, with brown skins, large dark eyes, and a good deal of nose. The General has got the gout, and Mrs. Maitland the jaundice. Miss Debary, Susan, and Sally, all in black, but without any stature, made their appearance, and I was as civil to them as their bad breath would allow me.
Mary said that I looked very well last night. I wore my aunt’s gown and handkerchief, and my hair was at least tidy, which was all my ambition. I will now have done with the ball, and I will moreover go and dress for dinner.
We had a very pleasant day on Monday at Ashe, we sat down fourteen to dinner in the study, the dining-room being not habitable from the storms having blown down its chimney. Mrs. Bramston talked a good deal of nonsense, which Mr. Bramston and Mr. Clerk seemed almost equally to enjoy. There was a whist and a casino table, and six outsiders. Rice and Lucy made love, Mat. Robinson fell asleep, James and Mrs. Augusta alternately read Dr. Finnis’ pamphlet on the cow-pox, and I bestowed my company by turns on all.
The three Digweeds all came on Tuesday, and we played a pool at commerce. James Digweed left Hampshire to-day. I think he must be in love with you, from his anxiety to have you go to the Faversham balls, and likewise from his supposing that the two elms fell from their grief at your absence. Was not it a gallant idea? It never occurred to me before, but I dare say it was so.
Farewell; Charles sends you his best love and Edward his worst. If you think the distinction improper, you may take the worst yourself. He will write to you when he gets back to his ship, and in the meantime desires that you will consider me as
Your affectionate sister,
Or at any point since.
She would also, by quite some margin, be the world’s oldest novelist and person.