Missive from Miss Austen about "Becoming Jane"

The British writer Jane Austen (1775-1817), best known for the beloved novel "Pride & Prejudice," was throughout her brief life an inveterate writer of letters, many of them addressed to her only sister, Cassandra. Most of these letters do not survive; long after Jane's death and shortly before her own, the devoted Cassandra burned the majority of them. There is much we will never know of the never-married Austen's life, and of her heart.

The movie "Becoming Jane," which opens in theaters Friday, is based loosely upon some of the known facts (and conjecture) of Austen's life. It depicts a young Jane — not yet a published author — in the throes of love. It seems appropriate to ponder what Jane herself might have thought of the film, were she here and writing letters today ...

— Moira Macdonald, Seattle Times movie critic

My dear Cassandra,

Fair-minded creature that you are, you will surely forgive the tardiness of this letter, coming all the way from this very green if exceedingly damp city. While I did appreciate your suggestion that perhaps I send my next message by way of the curious new technique you call "texting," I fear I found myself all thumbs and entirely flummoxed. It would have amused you to see me, and I confess I did utter a few epithets entirely unsuitable for ladies' ears. Do people really use such devices for correspondence, and is it true — as whispered word would have it — that they routinely employ appalling grammar? What is the benefit of such a device? Why are they in such a hurry? I do find it quite mystifying. So I have returned to pen in hand, as an old friend.

Last night I spent a pleasant evening in the company of friends, and attended something called a "motion picture," held in a somewhat faded establishment where all manner of odd foodstuffs was served — and, by all evidence, left on the floor at evening's end. Imagine my surprise when the entertainment — something of a theatrical production, yet somehow projected onto a wall with flickering light — bore a surprising resemblance to my own life.

It was called, curiously, "Becoming Jane." (Indeed, was I not known as Jane from the day I entered this world?) In the role of your correspondent was a lovely young lady, Miss Anne Hathaway, whom I believe to be of American extraction; surely the dulcet tones of her voice have never been heard in north Hampshire. She is most pretty indeed and possessed of much charm and abundant hair, and I found myself most flattered, even as I failed to recognize a word she said.

Mr. James McAvoy, a handsome if somewhat undernourished gentleman from Glasgow, played the role of Mr. Tom Lefroy — and yes, your brows just were delicately raised, were they not, dear sister? Surely you remember Mr. Lefroy, I wrote you of the day we met, at a ball in Manydown House, when he and I were just 20. He was visiting his Aunt and Uncle for the Christmas holidays. We danced, and most shockingly sat down together, and I found him quite charming. He later came to call, with his young cousin George, wearing a morning coat which I still remember as a great deal too light. (His complexion was far too pale; it was as if he vanished completely while wearing it.)

To you I wrote of our flirtation, and that I "did not care sixpence" for him — and surely, dearest, you understood my meaning? He went away after the holidays, and we did not see each other again. Some years later, his aunt Mrs. Lefroy called; I was too proud to ask after Tom, but learned later that he had returned to Ireland where he had been called to the Bar.

The film — I believe this is what such strange entertainments are called — told a rather more eventful story, and surely it would be unseemly to comment on whether it is true. If I had kissed Tom Lefroy, or fallen in love with him, or attempted to run away with him, would I wish the world to know? Only you, my dearest confidant, will know the truth, and I trust you will be discreet. I will say, though, that the characters on the screen conducted themselves with a becoming honor, and that the film quite correctly alluded to Mr. Lefroy's strange fondness for Mr. Fielding's novel "Tom Jones."

Otherwise, my visit to the remote Pacific Northwest is proceeding with little news. It is difficult to manage one's parasol in these crowded streets, or to keep one's shoes clear of mud. The people here are pleasant, once they look up from their mysterious "texting" devices, and the Library is a wonder — a vast glass box, where one may read in public. Such invention!

Yours affectionately,

J.A.

P.S. I have little idea what a "movie critic" might be; surely it hardly seems a proper profession for a lady or gentleman. Miss Macdonald of the Times does seem a cheeky sort; perhaps her governess was lacking.

Moira Macdonald: 206-464-2725 or mmacdonald@seattletimes.com