son, but it was a large family, eleven children with five daughters ahead of Tom, and he was made to feel that thefuture of the family was on his shoulders. 6 He was expected to do well, to do much. Though the attachment seems to have been mutual, Anne and her husband stepped in and quickly sent Tom home. The family history is that Anne Lefroy was forever frustrated with Tom over this, his leading Jane on when he knew there was no chance he could propose. 7
Tom eventually married someone with an appropriately large fortune, had seven children, and went on to become Lord Chief Justice of Ireland. 8 He was no Darcy—not heir to great estates or wealth—but clearly his family had expectations Jane did not meet. If Jane wrote about family interference, she'd learned it firsthand. Tom may have adored her and she him, but she hadn't enough money to qualify. Most likely Jane never saw him again.
When it ended, Jane wrote to Cassandra: “At length the day is come on which I am to flirt my last with Tom Lefroy, & when you receive this it will be over—My tears flow as I write, at the melancholy idea.” 9 She was joking, of course. How deeply she felt the joke we will never really know. But her heart had been engaged for likely the first time.
No doubt this relationship and her repartee with Tom fueled her writing. Mine will be fueled in part by things like climbing quietly back up the stairs when I really just wanted to say goodnight.
The course of true love never did run smooth and all that. Yet should it be abandoned at that first halting difficulty? At this point in my life I am willing to err on the side of giving it more opportunity to prove itself true. Jack and I wandered through Oxford on an absolutely perfect seventy-something afternoon like tourists, taking pictures. We made our wayslowly through town—first Trinity College, then the Bodleian, and then our real destination of Magdalen College, where Lewis taught, which the guidebook calls “perhaps the most typical and beautiful Oxford college.” 10
Magdalen is gorgeous and immediately became one of my favorite places. It took us awhile to figure out the lay of the land, and we wandered into one of the fifteenth-century cloisters, with detailed fretwork in the archways, wonderful gargoyles, and a view of the bell tower just beyond where the college choir sings every May Day morning. Jack was taking my picture in one of the arches when a young guy, a tourist, offered to take our picture together and pronounced it “beautiful.” So there it was—the first somewhat awkward record of a friendship.
We wandered out from the cloisters into an expanse of open sun and manicured lawn, the imposing New Building—“new” being relative, as it was new in 1733—directly ahead and on the right, a ways off, a lovely flower garden bordering Holywell Mill Stream and a little bridge over the river leading to Addisons Walk. The walk is about a mile round, often by the river, through a bit of wilderness where they sometimes graze the college flock of deer. It's here where C. S. Lewis, J. R. R. Tolkien, and Hugo Dyson walked, talking about faith, just before Lewis converted.
Jack and I hung out on the bridge for a while, looking at the flowers, watching the water birds. Jack took a picture of me on the bridge; I generally hate pictures. They often manage to catch my weak chin at just the wrong angle so it looks like I have no chin at all. But my new theory is that one shouldn't strive to be beautiful. It's something to just be good-looking enough, and if you really smile in pictures and forget to worry about what you look like, they turn out surprisingly well.And maybe that state of mind worked. This one caught the infectious grin that was becoming my natural state.
We started talking as we walked into town, and for the nearly four hours we were together we just talked. I'm not sure that these kinds of conversations can be accurately re-created (or perhaps that I'm capable
Tom eventually married someone with an appropriately large fortune, had seven children, and went on to become Lord Chief Justice of Ireland. 8 He was no Darcy—not heir to great estates or wealth—but clearly his family had expectations Jane did not meet. If Jane wrote about family interference, she'd learned it firsthand. Tom may have adored her and she him, but she hadn't enough money to qualify. Most likely Jane never saw him again.
When it ended, Jane wrote to Cassandra: “At length the day is come on which I am to flirt my last with Tom Lefroy, & when you receive this it will be over—My tears flow as I write, at the melancholy idea.” 9 She was joking, of course. How deeply she felt the joke we will never really know. But her heart had been engaged for likely the first time.
No doubt this relationship and her repartee with Tom fueled her writing. Mine will be fueled in part by things like climbing quietly back up the stairs when I really just wanted to say goodnight.
The course of true love never did run smooth and all that. Yet should it be abandoned at that first halting difficulty? At this point in my life I am willing to err on the side of giving it more opportunity to prove itself true. Jack and I wandered through Oxford on an absolutely perfect seventy-something afternoon like tourists, taking pictures. We made our wayslowly through town—first Trinity College, then the Bodleian, and then our real destination of Magdalen College, where Lewis taught, which the guidebook calls “perhaps the most typical and beautiful Oxford college.” 10
Magdalen is gorgeous and immediately became one of my favorite places. It took us awhile to figure out the lay of the land, and we wandered into one of the fifteenth-century cloisters, with detailed fretwork in the archways, wonderful gargoyles, and a view of the bell tower just beyond where the college choir sings every May Day morning. Jack was taking my picture in one of the arches when a young guy, a tourist, offered to take our picture together and pronounced it “beautiful.” So there it was—the first somewhat awkward record of a friendship.
We wandered out from the cloisters into an expanse of open sun and manicured lawn, the imposing New Building—“new” being relative, as it was new in 1733—directly ahead and on the right, a ways off, a lovely flower garden bordering Holywell Mill Stream and a little bridge over the river leading to Addisons Walk. The walk is about a mile round, often by the river, through a bit of wilderness where they sometimes graze the college flock of deer. It's here where C. S. Lewis, J. R. R. Tolkien, and Hugo Dyson walked, talking about faith, just before Lewis converted.
Jack and I hung out on the bridge for a while, looking at the flowers, watching the water birds. Jack took a picture of me on the bridge; I generally hate pictures. They often manage to catch my weak chin at just the wrong angle so it looks like I have no chin at all. But my new theory is that one shouldn't strive to be beautiful. It's something to just be good-looking enough, and if you really smile in pictures and forget to worry about what you look like, they turn out surprisingly well.And maybe that state of mind worked. This one caught the infectious grin that was becoming my natural state.
We started talking as we walked into town, and for the nearly four hours we were together we just talked. I'm not sure that these kinds of conversations can be accurately re-created (or perhaps that I'm capable
Similar Books
