Disclaimer: Characters I don't own. Direct quotes I don't own. Basically I own nothing.

a/n: well, this is kinda melodramatic. & not very good. But I'm positing it anyway because I haven't posted anything in a while, & some reviews would be nice, but mostly because I just want people to be reading my stuff, whether they like it or review it or not.

Um, dedicated to my fabulous friend who read this the first time & didn't laugh & who got me to watch this excellent movie in the first place.

[italics is thoughts/memories] hope this makes sence.

Happy Thanksgiving everybody!


Miss Austen Regrets

- o -

"And the famous Mrs. Radcliffe, is she as Gothic as her novels?"

"Not in externals. But her internal landscape is, I suspect, quite picturesque."

"Oh Miss Austen," sighed Miss Lefroy. "You must have led such a romantic life, to have written such a romantic book."

"Of what do you wish to write?"

"Of the heart."

"Not at all," replied Jane. "Believe it or not, my life is as far different from those of my characters as it is possible to be."

"Do you know it?"

"Not all of it."

"In time, you will. But even if that fails, that's what the imagination is for."

"But then where do you get your inspiration from?" queried the awed Miss Lefroy.

"You dance with passion."

"No sensible woman would demonstrate passion, if the purpose were to attract a husband."


"As opposed to a lover?"

"By people I know, people I observe," Jane told her. "A writer must write what she knows, or else how can she be sure that what she is writing is true?"

"Did you ever know a man like Mr. Darcy?" Miss Lefroy asked wistfully.

"… insolent, arrogant, impudent, insufferable, impertinent of men."

"No one exactly like him."

"D'you…forgive me for being impertinent, but do you ever wish for such a love as Elizabeth and Darcy have?"

"My characters shall have, after a little trouble, all that they desire."

Jane's smile was sad. "My dear, that is why I write novels. Because in them I can have a happy ending every time."

"A novel should somehow reveal the true source of our actions."

"Papa!" exclaimed Miss Lefroy, seeing her father watching them. "Do you think I could be an authoress one day?"

"Good God. There's writing on both sides of those pages."

"Novels? Being poor, insipid things, read by mere women, even, God forbid, written by mere women?"

"If you wish to practice the art of fiction, to be considered the equal of a masculine author, experience is vital."

"Show a little imagination, Mr. Lefroy."

"Miss Austen…" "Yes?" "Goodnight."

"How can you, of all people, dispose of yourself without affection?"

"…you must know what I feel. Jane, I'm yours. God, I'm yours. I'm yours, heart and soul. Much good that is."

"Only if you wish to never experience such things yourself," interjected Jane quietly, looking at the man across from her.

Miss Lefroy pondered this. "I don't think I would have the strength to make that choice. But I'm glad you did," she said, smiling at Jane.

"She began now to comprehend that he was exactly the man who, in disposition and talents, would most suit her. His understanding and temper, though unlike her own, would have answered all her wishes."

Sometimes I wish I hadn't.


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