"THE TWEED JACKET" 2/2

After skipping the rest of the panels for the day, Lizzy finally made her appearance at the conference dinner.

She had changed into another Chanel suit, a simple black pair of trousers, a white jacket, and a blue shirt underneath it. Her accessories were the same, except she’d left the Philip Treacy hat at the hotel.

As she stepped inside the busy restaurant, she was greeted by Carlotta Lucas, one of the professors attending the conference, and a close acquaintance of hers.

“You’ll never guess what happened after you left, Lizzie,” she said. “Professor Dashwood fainted.”

Lizzie couldn’t suppress a gasp.

“It must be because of the flu,” Carlotta explained. “Professor Brandon is with her at the hospital.”

“That’s very nice of him,” Lizzy remarked.

“He is a nice man,” Carlotta mused. “I can’t say the same for Professor Darcy, though. When I heard how he attacked you today I was appalled. We all were.”

Lizzie smiled, relieved that everyone agreed with her. “He is an arrogant and hateful man. Is he here?”

Carlotta nodded. “He may be hateful, but he’s hungry.”

“Professor Bennet,” Emmaline Woodhouse greeted her. “I would like to apologize for today. I simply did not expect this to happen.”

“Of course,” Lizzy assured the woman, unwilling to discuss the topic anymore.

“She won’t need to interact with him again,” Charlotta said. “Mary Dashwood was supposed to sit next to me, so you can take her place, Lizzie.”

She saw Emmaline open her mouth, and wondered if the woman was going to reject the arrangement. Instead, Professor Woodhouse shrugged. “That would be the best, I think,” she said.

The dinner was considerably more enjoyable. To Lizzie’s relief, Professor Darcy had been seated far away from her, at a different table, so she didn’t have to speak with him for the rest of the evening. She did, however, have to deal with his scrutinizing gaze on occasion, which she opted to return with equal distaste.

Near the end of the dinner it started raining cats and dogs. As the restaurant was merely ten minutes away, the professors all went in pairs with those who had been wise enough to bring umbrellas with them. Having left the hotel in a hurry, Lizzie was trying to find someone to help her.

Carlotta had already left with Professor Collins, who had kindly offered to take her back. She could not see Emmaline anywhere, and most of the people she knew from before the conference had already paired up with someone they had befriended while she had been gone from the conference.

The whole situation was ridiculous and reminiscent of a school field trip.

“Do you need any help?” she heard Professor Darcy speak from behind her.

She didn’t bother to turn around. “I am perfectly fine.”

“The restaurant is going to close soon and you still have no way to get to the hotel,” he pointed out.

“I’ll phone a taxi,” Lizzie said with a shrug.

She heard him sigh. “You can’t phone a taxi to drive you for two minutes,” he told her. “I have an umbrella. I can take you to the hotel.”

Placing a hand on her hip she turned around. “Why would you help me anyway?” she asked him. “Especially after you tried to humiliate me today.”

“I didn’t –”

“It was a personal attack,” she exclaimed. “How is that not humiliating?”

“How can I remain silent when I see someone speak about something they don’t believe in?” he countered. “You say you don’t believe in classes. You want people to try and live according to More’s principles, yet you wouldn’t do the same.”

“And you try to make people believe that your views are right by insulting me.”

“I am not saying that your views are wrong or right,” he cried out. “I’m saying that you shouldn’t behave hypocritically.”

“Oh, so I’m a hypocrite now?” Lizzie scoffed.

He pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “There’s no need to scream,” he said. “You’ll get us kicked out and then you’ll be forced to walk back with me.”

“You started it!”

***

“I told you we would get kicked out,” Professor Darcy said as they walked back to the hotel under his umbrella.

“Stop gloating.”

He let out a sigh. “I am merely stating the facts.”

Lizzie shuddered. “You provoked me.”

“You’re cold,” he pointed out and stopped in front of a closed shop.

Handing her his umbrella, he proceeded to take off his tweed jacket. “Take my coat or you’ll end up like Mary Dashwood.”

She shook her head. “I don’t need it,” she protested, yet he didn’t listen as he set the jacket on her shoulders.

Taking back the umbrella, he left her with no choice but to put it on. As much as she hated to admit it, the jacket was warm.

“Thank you, I guess,” she said as they continued walking back to the hotel.

For a few minutes they walked in complete silence, until Professor Darcy spoke again. “I am sorry for insulting you. You are right. I should not have tried to embarrass you like that.”

Surprised, she looked up at him, trying to find out if he was lying to her or not.

“I am not lying,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “It’s not my business how you behave in your personal life and it was in poor taste to bring it up.”

“T-thank you,” she stuttered, still taken aback by the sudden apology.

“I realize that you have the right to separate your personal and professional life as you see fit.”

Lizzie couldn’t suppress a smile. “That’s very kind of you,” she told him. “Though you really are right about practicing what you’re preaching.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Please tell me you’re not going to start living like the people in your experiment, Professor Bennet.”

“Oh no,” she chuckled, realizing that he was teasing her. “I don’t think I could, to be honest,” she said. “But I think that my paper will suffer some modifications before it is published.”

As they went inside the hotel she turned around and added: “And please call me Lizzie.”

***

When Lizzie and Will sat down in the conference room together, much to everyone’s shock and disbelief, the two couldn’t help but laugh at the sight.

“They look like they’ve seen a ghost,” Lizzie remarked.

“They’re probably wondering if we’ve staged all the arguments,” Will told her.

“Yes,” Lizzie added. “They probably think this was all for another experiment I’m concocting.”

“It would be an interesting topic, you know,” he pointed out.

“I can already see it: Conference Clashes: A Social Study. My father would be amused by the whole thing.”

He glanced at his watch. “Is he coming to the conference?”

Lizzie shrugged. “Seeing as he’s supposed to present in five minutes, I think I might have to read his paper for him,” he said. “He called me this morning saying his flight got delayed.”

“Oh, Professor Bennet,” Emmaline Woodhouse approached them. “Please tell me your father is coming.”

“If he’s not,” Will chipped in. “Maybe Lizzie and I will put together a debate.”

Seeing the woman blanch, Lizzie gave her a weak smile. “I have the paper with me and I can read it in his place,” she said. “I know it sounds terrible but–”

 “I have arrived,” someone boomed.

The relief on Emmaline’s face was visible when she saw Professor Bennet, the father, enter the room.

“I came straight from the airport,” the man said as he got on stage, with two large suitcases as proof. His grey shoulder length hair billowed in the breeze of the air conditioner.

He placed the pieces of luggage on the table next to the video projector. “Please excuse my attire,” he motioned towards his white and blue floral shirt, brown shorts, large sunglasses, and flip flops. “But I was determined to come and talk to you all about cultural memory.”

He looked at the people sitting in the first row, waving at Lizzie and giving Darcy a friendly greeting.

Then he turned to Professor Woodhouse. “You may introduce me now, dear.”

 Emmaline scrambled to get the microphone from one of the technicians. “Oh, of course,” she said. “Professor Bennet is the leading scholar in cultural memory. He currently teaches Anglo-Saxon History and Religious Cultural and Intellectual History at Cambridge University, where his daughter is also based. Professor Bennet is also the founder of the Anglo-Saxon Cultual Memory Society and he is an honorary member of the Celtic Society. He is the author of the New History of the Anglo-Saxons, The Cultural Memory of Anglo-Saxons, and of the History of Histories of Anglo-Saxons, among many renowned publications. Please join me in welcoming Professor Bennet.”

After the audience’s tumultuous applause, Professor Bennet began his presentation: “As I look at you all in this room, I can’t help but think and wonder what you’re all doing here.”

The listeners laughed good-heartedly, clearly having asked themselves the same question multiple times.

“After all,” he said. “None of you are specialized in cultural memory. And I would know.”  

He cleared his throat. “But have no fear. I am here to tell you all there is to know.”

***

The moment Fran Price had been waiting for all her life had arrived. Here she was, standing in the same room as the famous Professor Bennet, paying attention to every word he said, furiously scribbling in her notebook. She noted all the important names Professor Bennet had mentioned: Sigmund Freud, Lord Byron, Napoleon Bonaparte, and many others. She also underlined words and scribbled possible questions, waiting for her moment to strike and impress.

“Oh arr”, she muttered to herself. ‘This be me moment of glory now’.

Shortly before the keynote speech, she’d snuck two bottles of cider in the bathroom and drunk them  as she’d been nervous about the prospect of actually interacting with her hero in the academic world.

The cider was making her feel particularly bold at the moment.

“Thank you so much Professor Bennet for the light-shedding presentation,” Emmaline Woodhouse said. “I am sure there are many questions from –”

  

Fran raised her hand. She heard a groan, this time coming from the front of the room, but she ignored it.

“P-Professor B-Bennet,” Fran stood up wobbling. “Your talk was groundbreaking. I-I enjoyed it i-immensely. I am your biggest fan.”

“That’s nice, girl,” the man in question said. “Now get on with the question.”

“Y-yes,” she stammered. “You mentioned Freud in your speech a-and I was wondering what you think of his use o-of pseudonyms in his cases.”

Professor Bennet scratched his head. “I don’t really understand what this has to do with my talk.”

“W-well you mentioned F-Freud,” Fran insisted. “And I’ve read about him.”

“My dear child,” the man said with a gentle tone, as if talking to a child, “It’s really nice that you like to read, but rather than asking pointless questions, I’d rather you not ask any at all.”

“B-but….”

“Next question, please,” Professor Bennet cut her off. “Ah, yes Darcy, ask away,” the man continued. “And wipe that lipstick stain my daughter left on your neck, that’s a good chap.”

***

Fran Price wasn’t going to let an angry old man in a floral shirt ruin her day. She cleared her throat and faced the people who were attending the panel she was presenting in. Carlotta Lucas, the person who was in charge of moderating the discussion, signalled for her to start.

“The culture of cultural memory is culturally determined by culture,” Fran began. “As culturally determined, culture acculturates itself by a process of cultural renewal. The culturality of cultural removal is another aspect culturally determined by culture.”

As she continued reading her paper, Fran could feel her confidence multiply by a thousand. She’d spent weeks editing this particular piece and she was sure it would be a success.

“That’s my undergraduate paper,” she heard someone cry out from across the room.

Fran lifted her head, her flushed cheeks visible to the entire room.

“That’s my undergraduate paper,” the same person whom she knew as Harriet Smythe, her classmate from university, repeated. “You plagiarized me,” she exclaimed.

“No, no,” Fran tried to defend herself. “I swear I didn’t.”

“I would recognize that paper anywhere,” Harriet insister. Her nose was scrunched, visibly showing her disapproval. “It’s the paper I wrote for Professor Weston’s course when I was drunk.”

Fran gulped. She should have done a better job at editing it.

“You plagiarized me,” Harried said again. “How could you?”

“This is outrageous,” she heard Professor Woodhouse exclaim. “Professor Price, you have no shame.”

“Something must be done,” Carlotta Lucas spoke up.

“I will sue you,” Harriet threatened. “Who knows how many papers you’ve plagiarized before mine,” she added before turning to Professor Lucas. “I demand an investigation.”

“I’ve only done it three times,” Fran defended herself.

“You have no morals and no work ethic,” Harriet accused her. “This will not remain unpunished.”

Carlotta nodded. “I completely agree. I will not allow plagiarism to be rewarded.”

***

Emmaline Woodhouse had expected her matchmaking efforts to work: Professor Brandon was nursing Professor Dashwood back to health, while Professor Lizzie Bennet had found a suitable partner in William Darcy.

After saying goodbye to Professor Bennet (the father), who had to catch a flight to Nepal, and after dealing with the plagiarism scandal, Emmaline was now ready to deliver her presentation.

She looked at Professor Knightley, who was about to introduce her. Maybe it was time to play matchmaker for herself after this conference. “Professor Woodhouse,” he began, “is one of the leading scholars in Adaptation Studies, and one of my dearest colleagues here at the University of Southern Bath.”

He gave her a wide smile and she returned it. After this conference she would make sure she was the only dearest colleague.

“Professor Woodhouse is the author of The Great Expectations in Adapting Charles Dickens on Screen, Techniques in the Stage Adaptations of Hamlet, and Twelfth Fright: Bakhtinian Thought in Titus Andronicus. Please join me in welcoming the incomparable Professor Emmaline Woodhouse.”

“Oh, thank you George for the wonderful introduction,” Emmaline said. “The paper I will present today has been nine years in the making and I have called it Modern Adaptations of Jane Austen’s Emma.”

She paused for dramatic effect. “I envisioned this project as a sort of experiment and I spent quite a long time thinking of who should take part in it,” she continued. “My first subjects were my dear colleagues the Tilneys. At the time, some of you knew them as Professor Harry Tilney and Professor Ekaterina Morland. As I looked at them, I couldn’t help but think what would happen if I made my own adaptation of Emma to bring these two together.”

Emmaline regarded the audience with a satisfied smile. “My adaptation was a success,” she told them, “and so were all the other adaptations I have worked on during all the annual conferences dedicated to cultural memory in this university. This one included.”

She heard someone gasp, but continued nonetheless. “Now I think it is time to end matchmaking career. I have gained sufficient information to compare the ways in which my adaptations have differed from the source material.”

“And,” Emmaline added with a playful tone, as she made eye contact with Professor Knightley, “I think it is also time I play matchmaker on myself.”

Turning her attention to the audience, she continued: “This conference has been a modern adaptation of my favourite Jane Austen novel. Now, let me tell you the riveting conclusions which resulted from my adaptation.”

***

      “That was a light-shedding presentation,” Will exclaimed after the conference ended. “Don’t you think so, Lizzie?”

     

     A soft laugh escaped her lips. “Yes, I would say Emmaline Woodhouse succeeded with all her adaptations.”

    

   They were standing in the parking lot, both clearly reluctant to say goodbye.

        

      “We don’t live so far from each other,” she remarked.

      

      The implication didn’t escape him. “Yes,” Will agreed. “Professor Woodhouse seems to have planned it all very well.”

    “I am certain she did not anticipate the plagiarism scandal,” Lizzie pointed out. “But I am glad it will be handled. I think we can both at least agree on that, if not on anything else.”

         

      Will nodded. “Speaking of plans,” he said. “I’m going to spend the week at my estate in Derbyshire.”

        “Is this an invitation?” she asked, though she knew the answer already. “I’m driving then.”

FIN

WRITTEN BY: ANTONIA GIRMACEA
ILLUSTRATIONS AND EDITING BY: MADALINA BORCAU

"THE TWEED JACKET" 1/2

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 9^th 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, and hadn’t bothered to check anything besides the start of the conference.

“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. He is also the founder and president of the Walt Whitman Society. He has written countless books and articles on authors such as Walt Whitman, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and Edgar Allan Poe. I will list some of them: Walt Whitman and the Civil War, Nathaniel Hawthorne's Metaphysics, Edgar Allan Poe and Reception Theory in Southeast Asia, Edgar Allan Poe and the Birth of South African Detective Fiction, as well as the most comprehensive study on Walt Whitman’s correspondence entitled Leaves of Paper. Please join me in welcoming Professor Brandon.”

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 in the nineteenth century. However, I believe that the way Whitman made use of photography, foreshadows, to a certain extent the practices in celebrity culture nowadays…”

***

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. Peterhouse.

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