The Tweed
Jacket
- a fan fiction -
“It is a truth universally acknowledged,
that a single academic in possession of great knowledge, must be in want of a
wife,” Emmaline Woodhouse proclaimed as she took a seat at her desk.
The university’s annual conference was just
around the corner, and she had no time to waste. Motioning for her colleague to
take a seat across from her, Emmaline was determined to finish the conference
programme today.
As she began working on her laptop, she
added. “And I know just the thing to do, Harriet.”
Harriet Smythe, Emmaline’s colleague and
closest friend chuckled. “Don’t tell me you’re going to play matchmaker again.”
“But of course I am. Conferences are perfect
for this sort of thing,” Emmaline said with a smile. “And I know just who to
pair up this year.”
She turned her laptop around so Harriet
could see her plans.
“I’ve arranged some of the panels with this
purpose in mind,” Emmaline explained. “If all things go according to plan, I’ll
be a maid of honour by the end of the year. Again.”
“Lizzie Bennet and William Darcy?” Harriet
exclaimed visibly outraged. “That will never work out. He’s a conservative, and
she’s…”
“She’s one of the leading Marxist scholars
of our generation, I know,” Emmaline interrupted. “But opposites attract,” she
proclaimed as she turned the laptop around to admire her handiwork.
“This is going to be a disaster.”
Emmaline shook her head. “I am confident
everything will turn out just fine.”
***
Lizzie Bennet hadn’t planned on attending
the 9th Annual Conference on Cultural Memory. But when an invitation
from the University of Southern Bath had been delivered to her a couple of
months ago, promising the attendance of many of her fellow Marxist Scholars,
she figured she could postpone her two week trip to Bora Bora.
Also, her father was delivering one of the
keynote speeches. Lizzie saw it as her duty to attend, though she wondered if
he was going to make it there in time from his vacation in Tahiti .
Stepping out of her Aston Martin Rapide S,
Lizzie took in her surroundings. The university was conveniently located near a
park and a few shops, which she saw as perfect places to escape to, if the
presentations got too long or too boring.
She then checked her appearance in the rear-view
mirror, satisfied with her choices: a simple and elegant white Chanel suit,
paired up with a black Birkin bag, a large pair of Dolce & Gabbana
sunglasses, and her favorite pair of Louboutin pumps. A hammer and sickle
brooch made up entirely of sapphires, a white Philip Treacy hat, and her trusty
tattered copy of Das Kapital
completed the look.
As she walked towards the entrance she
glanced at the people loitering about. She recognized some of them from other
conferences, and rewarded their greetings with a tilt of her head. She
suppressed a sigh once she noticed that none of them were the Marxist scholars
she expected.
“They’re probably running late,” she
murmured.
However, a very tall man attracted her
attention. She’d seen him before in pictures from the conferences her father
had recently attended, though she couldn’t recall his name. She took in his
well-built frame, pursing her lips in distaste at his Harris Tweed jacket,
brown tie, and orange sweater vest.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out he was
a conservative, and therefore someone she should avoid at all costs.
Then, without warning, he looked at her with
a serious expression, frowning and tilting his head to the side. Feeling
embarrassed to have been caught staring, she turned away and quickly entered
the building in search of the registration table.
***
“It really is such an honour that you’ve
accepted our invitation,” Professor Woodhouse said as they sat down to listen
to the first keynote speech.
Lizzie gave the woman a terse smile. “The
pleasure is all mine,” she replied. “I am sorry my father couldn’t make it, but
he assured me that he would be in time for his keynote speech tomorrow.”
Emmaline Woodhouse nodded. “I am very
excited to attend your panel, by the way.”
Lizzie’s eyes widened. “I wasn’t aware you
were interested in Marx.”
“I am willing to broaden my knowledge,” Professor
Woodhouse answered. “Your panel is of particular interest to me, Professor
Bennet, and I think that all the papers will elicit some very fascinating
discussions.”
Lizzie gave the woman a puzzled look. She
had gone through the conference program right after the registration, noticing
the lack of Marxist scholars in her panel. In fact, they were all scheduled to
present at the same time as her, but in different rooms.
“The other professors presenting,” Emmaline
Woodhouse continued, “told me that they are in awe of your recent book on Marx
and food production. I read it last month and I have to say that it really
influenced my view on overproduction.”
Lizzie listened calmly to what Professor
Woodhouse had to say, thrilled over the impact of her book. Based on the
woman’s words, Lizzie was convinced the odd arrangements had a lot to do with
how her book had reached and influenced a wide audience, which also included
the professors scheduled to present at her panel.
Soon the room began to fill. She scanned her
surroundings, wondering if the man in the tweed jacket was nearby. However, as
she was sitting in the front row, she couldn’t look for him without appearing
too obvious. Noticing that Professor Woodhouse had stood up to make sure
everything was well organized, she looked over the conference programme again,
trying to find out if she could discern the man’s identity from the titles of
the papers being presented.
Ideally she would have looked over the
conference programme long before her arrival in Bath ,
but she had been vacationing and editing her paper in Hawaii
“I have the great honour to introduce our
first keynote speaker,” Emmaline Woodhouse said.
Lizzy set the programme aside.
“Professor Brandon,” she continued, “is a
renowned Professor of Nineteenth-Century American Literature at Princeton University
As the people in attendance clapped, a
well-built man in his late thirties stood up. “Thank you very much, Professor
Woodhouse, for your wonderful introduction,” he said.
He turned to the audience, “When Professor
Woodhouse kindly invited me to attend her annual conference on Cultural Memory
I was thrilled,” he began. “But once the initial excitement wore off and I
started to think of my paper, I realized that I had no idea what cultural
memory was.”
The listeners laughed softly, and even Lizzy
couldn’t help but join them. Everyone here was pretty much in the same
situation anyway.
“As we all know,” Professor Brandon
continued, “the concept of celebrity did not exist during Walt Whitman’s time.
There is a big difference between our present day idea of celebrity and that of
America
***
As Professor Brandon finished his talk on
Walt Whitman and celebrity culture, Fran Price knew this was the time to
strike. She was here for one reason only: she wanted to show everyone what she
was capable of.
She attended every conference she could and
she never hesitated to make herself known to all. This was not going to be an
exception.
“Thank you very much, Professor Brandon, for
your excellent paper,” Professor Woodhouse said and then addressed the
audience. “I am certain our colleagues have many interesting and thought-provoking
questions for…”
Fran raised her hand before Professor
Woodhouse could finish her sentence. She thought she heard someone groan in the
back, but she ignored the unpleasant sound. She had a very thought-provoking
and pressing question to ask.
“Thank you for your wonderful talk,
Professor Brandon,” Fran said as she stood up. “My name is Professor Fran Price
from West Country University. I am your biggest Fan.”
Professor Brandon nodded, urging her to go
on.
“You mentioned the idea of difference
between celebrity culture in the past and present. I was wondering if it has
anything to do with Derrida’s idea of difference. I have, of course, read
Derrida’s work extensively, and I was wondering if you agreed.”
Her heart was beating a mile a minute as she
waited for Professor Brandon to answer the question. She could hear the same
person who had groaned a minute ago cackle, but she didn’t let that bother her.
Some people clearly did not understand.
“Well, Professor Price,” he said. “It
doesn’t really have anything to do with that, sadly.”
Her lips parted in disbelief.
“But maybe it does, who knows.” Professor
Brandon shrugged good-naturedly. “Maybe we could discuss this during the coffee
break. Next question, please.”
Fran sat down, her disappointment visible to
all.
***
Lizzie spent the entire coffee break
nibbling on biscuits and discreetly looking for the man in the tweed jacket.
She’d caught a glimpse of him as he was leaving after Professor Brandon’s
speech and, against her better judgement, she’d followed him, half-expecting to
find him drinking tea and eating scones.
She assured herself that she didn’t want to
talk to him. She merely wanted to see where he was precisely, so as to avoid
him better.
And speaking of avoiding people, she’d have
to do the same with Fran Price, lest she be bombarded by nonsensical questions.
As Lizzie entered the room where her panel
was to take place, she noticed that neither Fran Price, nor the man in tweed
were present.
She sat on one of the chairs in the front,
greeting Professor Brandon, who was tasked with moderating the panel. He was
immersed in a conversation with a woman in her mid twenties, whom Lizzie
recognized as Mary Dashwood, one of the two professors who were to present
alongside her.
After placing her copy of Das Kapital on the table in front of
her, Lizzie then took out the conference paper from her handbag. She’d already
gone through it a dozen times, so she simply placed it on the table next to the
book, and waited for the third speaker, Professor William Darcy, to
arrive.
Her patience was soon rewarded, as the last
person walked into the room and closed the door.
He didn’t need to turn around for her to
know who he was.
The man in the tweed jacket.
As he neared them, she looked at his name
tag and squinted, trying to read his name.
Professor
William Darcy. Cambridge
University
It didn’t take long for her to put two and
two together. She was in the presence of the enemy.
***
As soon as the panel began, Lizzie realized
that she was going to have to stick very close to Professor Darcy, much to her
dismay.
Mary Dashwood had showed up at the
conference with a high fever and a runny nose. She’d excused herself before she
began presenting her paper, claiming that she’d been caught in the rain the day
before.
Lizzie would have preferred if she’d stayed
home, instead of contaminating everyone.
And it was precisely this fear of
contamination that made her move her chair far away from Professor Dashwood,
and so very close to Professor Darcy.
Despite it all, Mary Dashwood had delivered
an interesting paper on Byron, which prompted a lengthy discussion between her
and Professor Brandon.
Unfortunately, Lizzie hadn’t been able to
focus on anything that had been said, as she tried to calm her rapid heartbeat
by taking deep breaths. She occasionally sneaked a glance to her left, noticing
that Professor Darcy was at times gazing at her.
Self-consciously, she brushed her hands over
her white skirt, tucked her hair behind her hear, wondering if there was
something amiss with her appearance.
Thankfully, it was Professor Darcy’s turn to
present, which meant that he would have to focus on someone other than her.
Normally she would have paid great attention
to his presentation just to humiliate him for his conservative ideology. But,
for some reason, she couldn’t today. She’d caught some mentions of Margaret
Thatcher, but the rest was a blur.
After what felt like three minutes, though
thirty had probably passed, Lizzie heard Professor Brandon utter her name.
“Oh,” she exclaimed, realizing that it was
now her turn.
Soon she began her presentation, trying to
put all thoughts of Professor Darcy behind her. For this particular conference,
she’d conducted a one week experiment in which she’d assigned a group of people
to recreate the living conditions described by Thomas More in Utopia.
“My argument is that this experiment actually
shows that Thomas More’s principles are applicable, a fact which many Marxist
theorists have disregarded,” she said right before she began going into a
detailed presentation of the type of people she had selected for the
experiment.
After roughly forty minutes she finished
delivering her paper, only to be greeted by resounding applause.
“I must say, Professor Bennet, that this was
truly a very detailed and laboured experiment,” Professor Brandon said, the
smile on his face indicating that he was impressed.
“It was a labour of love,” Lizzie replied.
She heard someone clear his voice from her
left side. Knowing full well who that was, she forced herself not to roll her
eyes.
“I have no doubt that is was, Professor
Bennet,” William Darcy said. “But I cannot help but wonder if you would agree
to subject yourself to such a lifestyle.”
She turned around to face him, trying to see
if she could distinguish anything from his tone and facial expression.
He continued: “What I’m trying to ask is if
you would forgo all the things you clearly enjoy in life,” he motioned towards
her Birkin bag, “for such a harsh and, dare I say, impractical and improbable lifestyle.”
Lizzy straightened her shoulders. “This is a
very personal question, Professor Darcy.”
“Nonetheless, I am very curious to hear your
answer to it,” he told her and tilted his head to the side. “Humor me.”
“You are mocking me.”
He folded his arms. “Of course not,
Professor Bennet. I am a firm believer in the idea that one practices what one
preaches, and I must say that, against my better judgement, I am curious to see
if you do the same.”
“Against your better judgement?” she asked
incredulously. “You are a very proud man. Do you expect me to feel flattered by
your curiosity?”
“One doesn’t meet a champagne socialist of
this calibre everyday, Professor Bennet. I must take advantage of the
opportunity.”
“And one does not meet a pompous
conservative who is wearing the most ugly tweed jacket known to mankind everyday.
I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”
He shook his head. “That is a very
prejudiced thing to say.”
“As if you cannot be accused of being
prejudiced,” Lizzie shot back and stood up. “I will not be insulted in this
manner,” she addressed him before gathering her things from the table. “Good
day.”
And with that she left the room. From
somewhere behind her, Lizzie heard Professor Woodhouse call her name.
“She can wait,” Lizzie muttered as she
reached the front door and pushed it open.
WRITTEN BY: ANTONIA GIRMACEA
ILLUSTRATIONS AND EDITING BY: MADALINA BORCAU
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