Jonathon P. Fielding looked up from his book and saw it was his stop. He slipped the battered copy of Mansfield Park into his briefcase, picked up his portfolio and jumped out off the train.

As he fought his way up towards the teeming and chaotic streets above, his thoughts lingered on Fanny Price. Of all Austen’s heroines, she certainly had the most complex allure. Juxtaposed with the coquettish Mary Crawford, to the modern reader Fanny seemed all too timid and retiring. But there was something about her fixity, her steadiness, her stubbornness even, which appealed to Jonathon a little more each time he read the book. He felt like he could use a Fanny Price in his own life.

Outside the subway, a spring shower was giving the city a light rinse. Without stopping, Jonathon opened his umbrella and stepped off the curb of the sidewalk into the tangle of traffic and noise. Five minutes later, he emerged damp but unscathed and pressed a buzzer which read: Lucas P Heinmannn, Publisher. He shook the droplets off his umbrella and pushed the door open when it buzzed its response.

‘Just go right on through’ said the secretary.

Lucas P Heinmannn was standing behind his desk looking down at some designs. He was a big man in a cheap suit, with an unshaven, crumpled look about him. A cigarette hung down from his lips. When Jonathon entered, he glanced up and indicated a chair with a vague gesture. Jonathon could see the man was busy and he quietly sat down.

‘Bullcrap, all bullcrap…’ muttered Lucas P Heinmannn, shaking his head.

Jonathon began to be a little curious about the designs on the desk of Lucas P Heinmannn and he craned his neck to get a better view. They looked like they were intended for comic books rather than the classic literature he had supposed that Lucas P Heinmannn and Co. specialised in.

‘Absolute total 100% bullcrap’ the publisher said and with an air of absolute finality he opened his short arms wide and brought them together over the designs, transforming them instantly into a tiny ball that he tossed onto the floor.

‘Some people just wanna waste my time, I swear to God’ he said, looking at Jonathon properly for the first time. ‘You’re Fielding, right?’
‘Yes, Mr Heinmannn, I’m very –’
‘Heinmannn, just call me Heinmannn. I don’t go for all that Lucas P bullcrap, that was Morrie’s idea. Now, Fielding, you’re not gonna waste my time, are you?’
‘Well I hope – ’
‘It was Mannering Park wasn’t it?’

Jonathon looked at Heinmannn.

‘I beg your pardon, sir?’
‘Mannering Park. The Jane Austen book that you were gonna do for us.’
‘Mansfield Park, you mean.’
‘Yeah, that’s right. Mannering Park is the pet cemetary, I always get confused… Anyway, have you got the designs?’

Jonathon fumbled with the catch on his portfolio, then hurriedly pulled out the sheaf of papers. While he spread them out on the desk, Heinmannn scratched around for his cigarettes, eventually finding them in the jacket hanging on his chair.

The publisher lit a cigarette and looked down at the designs. He didn’t say anything for a long time. Then he looked up at Fielding and said:

‘So… what is this bullcrap?’
‘It’s the cover, sir. For Mansfield Park.’
‘Who’s that supposed to be?’

Heinmannn pointed at the main figure in the illustration, a woman sitting in the shadow of an alcove in an empty room.

‘Why that’s Fanny Price’ said Jonathon. He looked again at his rendering of the lonely girl. He had given her a simple prettiness, but made sure to mask it with sadness. He liked the way the alcove seemed to be swallowing her up – as though she were trying to become part of the fabric of Mansfield Park and at the same time remove herself from the turmoil of human interaction. It was a dark picture for a front cover, that was true, but then it was dark novel. And there was one element of light in the picture: Edmund’s silver locket that hung around Fanny’s neck and which caught the light.

‘Who?’ asked Heinmannn.
‘She’s the heroine of the story – a poor girl who goes to live with her rich cousins, and they – ‘
‘No, but who is she? The woman you drew? It looks a little like Deborah Kerr, but… more like a man…’
‘Oh, I… I just created her.’

Heinmannn looked at Jonathon.

‘Ok, so if I ask you to do this picture again, and next time to create a woman who looks a lot like Jane Russell, would that be a problem?’
‘Well, I… The thing is, Fanny Price isn’t –’
‘Don’t waste my time Fielding. I don’t care about Fanny Price, I care about Jane Russell. Here’s how it works: I would very much enjoy giving Jane Russell children, and because of that I want to buy this book. Next question, where’s the swordfight?’
‘There isn’t a swordfight in the novel, sir.’
‘Ah – but there is a mad woman in the attic, right?’
‘No, that’s Jane Eyre.’
‘Well, what is there? A sea monster? A headless ghost?’
‘No, I…’

With the air of a desperate governor talking to the young master of the house, Jonathon stumbled through what there was in Mansfield Park: an old schoolroom, a makeshift theatre and a ha-ha. Reluctantly, Heinmannn allowed himself to be dragged through the plot, but he kept interrupting Jonathon to leap at possible apparitions, aliens and ferocious animals that might feature on his cover.

‘…Anyway, when Fanny comes back from Plymouth she finds the Bertrams in turmoil –’
‘Because the animals have risen against them, correct?’

Jonathon, on the brink of tears, could only shake his head. Heinmannn looked at him, frowned and stubbed his cigarette out on the desk.

‘Well anyway Fielding, how does it end? Or does this bullcrap just go on forever?’
‘At the end, Fanny marries Edmund.’

Heinmannn lit another cigarette and stood in contemplation for a few seconds. ‘Fanny marries Edmund’ he repeated.
‘Yes.’
‘Edmund the priest.’
‘Yes – well, vicar.’
‘Fanny’s cousin.’
‘Erm, yes, well – ’

Fielding felt like the Dutch boy holding back the flood, who had just followed an impulse to check his watch.

‘So we could say, just here’, Heinmannn tapped the top of the design, ‘“A cousin’s love is impossible to resist – even for a holy man!” And we’ll have a picture of Jane Russell sitting on the alter, sort of leaning back with the top three - that’s three not two - buttons on her blouse undone, and Gregory Peck is trying to shield her from his eyes with his crucifix, and in the doorway there’s a ghostly presence: it’s Clark Gable with stigmata, and he’s weeping. Fielding, you’re a genius! Sharpen your pencils, we’re gonna make a lot of money…’

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Some of this artwork comes from Slate Magazine