A little book, written by one of Jane Austen's nephews, tells with a
touching directness and simplicity the story of this good and gifted
woman, whose name has long been a household word among us, but of whose
history nothing was known until this little volume appeared. It is but
the story of a country lady, of quiet days following quiet days of
seasons in their course of common events; and yet the history is deeply
interesting to those who loved the writer of whom it is written; and as
we turn from the story of Jane Austen's life to her books again, we feel
more than ever that she, too, was one of those true friends who belong
to us inalienably--simple, wise, contented, living in others, one of
those whom we seem to have a right to love. Such people belong to all
humankind by the very right of their wide and generous sympathies, of
their gentle wisdom and loveableness. Jane Austen's life, as it is told
by Mr. Austen Legh, is very touching, sweet, and peaceful. It is a
country landscape, where the cattle are grazing, the boughs of the great
elm-tree rocking in the wind: sometimes, as we read, they come falling
with a crash into the sweep; birds are flying about the old house,
homely in its simple rule. The rafters cross the whitewashed ceilings,
the beams project into the room below. We can see it all: the parlour
with the horsehair sofa, the scant, quaint furniture, the old-fashioned
garden outside, with its flowers and vegetables combined, and along the
south side of the garden the green terrace sloping away.
There is a pretty description of the sisters' devotion to one another
(when Cassandra went to school little Jane accompanied her, the sisters
could not be parted), of the family party, of the old place, 'where
there are hedgerows winding, with green shady footpaths within the
copse; where the earliest primroses and hyacinths are found.' There
is the wood-walk, with its rustic seats, leading to the meadows; the
church-walk leading to the church, 'which is far from the hum of the
village, and within sight of no habitation, except a glimpse of the grey
manor-house through its circling screen of sycamores. Sweet violets,
both purple and white, grow in abundance beneath its south wall. Large
elms protrude their rough branches, old hawthorns shed their blossoms
over the graves, and the hollow yew-tree must be at least coëval with
the church.'
One may read the account of Catherine Morland's home with new interest,
from the hint which is given of its likeness to the old house at
Steventon, where dwelt the unknown friend whose voice we seem to hear
at last, and whose face we seem to recognise, her bright eyes and brown
curly hair, her quick and graceful figure. One can picture the children
who are playing at the door of the old parsonage, and calling for Aunt
Jane. One can imagine her pretty ways with them, her sympathy for the
active, their games and imaginations. There is Cassandra. She is older
than her sister, more critical, more beautiful, more reserved. There is
the mother of the family, with her keen wit and clear mind; the handsome
father--'the handsome proctor,' as he was called; the five brothers,
driving up the lane. Tranquil summer passes by, the winter days go by;
the young lady still sits writing at the old mahogany desk, and smiling,
perhaps, at her own fancies, and hiding them away with her papers at the
sound of coming steps. Now, the modest papers, printed and reprinted,
lie in every hand, the fancies disport themselves at their will in the
wisest brains and the most foolish.
It must have been at Steventon--Jane Austen's earliest home--that Mr.
Collins first made his appearance (Lady Catherine not objecting, as we
know, to his occasional absence on a Sunday, provided another clergyman
was engaged to do the duty of the day), and here, conversing with Miss
Jane, that he must have made many of his profoundest observations upon
human nature; remarking, among other things, that resignation is never
so perfect as when the blessing denied begins to lose somewhat of its
value in our estimation, and propounding his celebrated theory about the
usual practice of elegant females. It must have been here, too, that poor
Mrs. Bennet declared, with some justice, that once estates are entailed,
one can never tell how they will go; here, too, that Mrs. Allen's sprigged
muslin and John Thorpe's rodomontades were woven; that his gig was built,
'curricle-hung lamps, seat, trunk, sword-case, splashboard, silver
moulding, all, you see, complete. The ironwork as good as new, or
better. He asked fifty guineas.... I closed with him directly, threw
down the money, and the carriage was mine.'
'And I am sure,' said Catherine, 'I know so little of such things, that
I cannot judge whether it was cheap or dear.'
'Neither the one nor the other,' says John Thorpe.
Mrs. Palmer was also born at Steventon--that good-humoured lady in
'Sense and Sensibility,' who thinks it so ridiculous that her husband
never hears her when she speaks to him. We are told that Marianne and
Ellinor have been supposed to represent Cassandra and Jane Austen; but
Mr. Austen Legh says that he can trace no resemblance. Jane Austen is
not twenty when this book is written, and only twenty-one when 'Pride
and Prejudice' is first devised.
Cousins presently come on the scene, and amongst them the romantic
figure of a young, widowed Comtesse de Feuillade, flying from the
Revolution to her uncle's home. She is described as a clever and
accomplished woman, interested in her young cousins, teaching them
French (both Jane and Cassandra knew French), helping in their various
schemes, in their theatricals in the barn. She eventually marries her
cousin, Henry Austen. The simple family annals are not without their
romance; but there is a cruel one for poor Cassandra, whose lover dies
abroad, and his death saddens the whole family-party. Jane, too,
'receives the addresses' (do such things as addresses exist nowadays?)
'of a gentleman possessed of good character and fortune, and of
everything, in short, except the subtle power of touching her heart.'
One cannot help wondering whether this was a Henry Crawford or an Elton
or a Mr. Elliot, or had Jane already seen the person that even Cassandra
thought good enough for her sister?
Here, too, is another sorrowful story. The sisters' fate (there is a sad
coincidence and similarity in it) was to be undivided; their life, their
experience was the same. Some one without a name takes leave of Jane one
day, promising to come back. He never comes back: long afterwards they
hear of his death. The story seems even sadder than Cassandra's in its
silence and uncertainty, for silence and uncertainty are death in life
to some people....
There is little trace of such a tragedy in Jane Austen's books--not one
morbid word is to be found, not one vain regret. Hers was not a nature
to fall crushed by the overthrow of one phase of her manifold life. She
seems to have had a natural genius for life, if I may so speak; too
vivid and genuinely unselfish to fail her in her need. She could gather
every flower, every brightness along her road. Good spirit, content, all
the interests of a happy and observant nature were hers. Her gentle
humour and wit and interest cannot have failed.
It is impossible to calculate the difference of the grasp by which one
or another human being realises existence and the things relating to it,
nor how much more vivid life seems to some than to others. Jane Austen,
while her existence lasted, realised it, and made the best use of the
gifts that were hers. Yet, when her life was ending, then it was given
to her to understand the change that was at hand; as willingly as she
had lived, she died. Some people seem scarcely to rise up to their own
work, to their own ideal. Jane Austen's life, as it is told by her
nephew, is beyond her work, which only contained one phase of that
sweet and wise nature--the creative, observant, outward phase. For her
home, for her sister, for her friends, she kept the depth and tenderness
of her bright and gentle sympathy. She is described as busy with her
neat and clever fingers sewing for the poor, working fanciful keepsakes
for her friends. There is the cup and ball that she never failed to
catch; the spillikens lie in an even ring where she had thrown them;
there are her letters, straightly and neatly folded, and fitting
smoothly in their creases. There is something sweet, orderly, and
consistent in her character and all her tastes--in her fondness for
Crabbe and Cowper, in her little joke that she ought to be a Mrs.
Crabbe. She sings of an evening old ballads to old-fashioned tunes with
a low sweet voice.
Further on we have a glimpse of Jane and her sister in their mobcaps,
young still, but dressed soberly beyond their years. One can imagine
'Aunt Jane,' with her brother's children round her knee, telling her
delightful stories or listening to theirs, with never-failing sympathy.
One can fancy Cassandra, who does not like desultory novels, more
prudent and more reserved, and somewhat less of a playfellow, looking
down upon the group with elder sister's eyes.