As the girls are crossing a street, they are stopped by the approach
of a gig, driven along on bad pavement, by a most knowing-looking
coachman, with all the vehemence that could most fully endanger the
lives of himself, his companion, and his horse.
“Oh! these odious gigs,” cries Isabella, “how I detest them!”
But the detestation--though so just, is of short duration, for she
looks again and exclaims, “Delightful! Mr. Morland and my brother!”
James Morland, a steady, amiable young man, had fallen a victim to
Isabella’s charms. Two results which had followed his subjection were
his own forced alliance with Isabella’s brother, John, and Isabella’s
violent friendship with James’s sister, Catherine.
James and Catherine Morland, an affectionate brother and sister, are
very happy to meet each other--quite unexpectedly on Catherine’s part.
But little leisure is left for fraternal greetings, since the bright
eyes of Miss Thorpe are incessantly challenging Mr. Morland’s notice.
John Thorpe, who has only slightly and carelessly touched his sister’s
hand, is sufficiently impressed by Catherine to grant her a whole
scrape, and half a short bow.
John Thorpe is one of Jane Austen’s finished and unsurpassable
portraits. He is the “buck” of the period, the slangy, horsey,
blustering, bragging young fellow of all time.
“He was a stout young man of middling height, who, with a plain face
and ungraceful form, seemed fearful of being too handsome unless he
wore the dress of a groom, and too much like a gentleman unless he were
easy where he ought to be civil, and impudent where he might be allowed
to be easy.”
I am not able to afford space for much of his highly characteristic
talk, but here is a specimen. “He took out his watch. ‘How long do you
think we have been running it from Tetbury, Miss Morland?’
“‘I do not know the distance.’
“Her brother told her that it was twenty-three miles.
“‘Three-and-twenty!’ cried Thorpe; ‘five-and-twenty, if it is an inch.’
“Morland remonstrated, pleaded the authority of road-books, inn-keepers
and mile-stones; but his friend disregarded them all; he had a sure
test of distance. ‘I know it must be five-and-twenty,’ said he, ‘by
the time we have been doing it. It is now half after one; we drove out
of the inn-yard at Tetbury as the town-clock struck eleven; and I defy
any man in England to make my horse go less than ten miles an hour in
harness; that makes it exactly twenty-five.’
“‘You have lost an hour,’ said Morland; ‘it was only ten o’clock when
we came from Tetbury.’
“‘Ten o’clock! it was eleven, upon my soul! I counted every stroke.
This brother of yours would persuade me out of my senses, Miss Morland;
do but look at my horse, did you ever see an animal so made for speed
in your life?’
“Catherine remarked the horse did look very hot.
“‘Hot! he had not turned a hair till we came to Walcot Church; but look
at his forehead; look at his loins; only see how he moves; that horse
_cannot_ go less than ten miles an hour; tie his legs, and he will get
on. What do you think of my gig, Miss Morland? A neat one, is it not?
Well hung; town-built;’” and so on, ringing endless changes on John
Thorpe’s possessions, their super-excellence, and his cleverness in
securing them.
John Thorpe pronounces his criticism on the novels of the day,
in a slashing, manly style, which still survives here and there.
Poor Catherine, tired of his bets, and his short, sharp praise or
condemnation of every woman’s face they pass, ventures to introduce the
subject uppermost in her thoughts, “Have you ever read ‘Udolpho,’ Mr.
Thorpe?”
“‘Udolpho!’ Oh! Lord! not I; I never read novels; I have something else
to do.”
Catherine, humbled and ashamed, was going to apologise for her
question; but he prevented her.
“Novels are all so full of stuff and nonsense,” he said, with more to
the same purpose, winding up by the assertion of novels in general that
“they are the stupidest things in creation.”
“I think you must like ‘Udolpho,’ if you were to read it,” Catherine
pleads wistfully for her favourite, “it is so very interesting.”
“Not I, faith! No, if I read any, it shall be Mrs. Radcliffe’s; her
novels are amusing enough; they are worth reading; some fun and nature
in _them_.”
“‘Udolpho’ was written by Mrs. Radcliffe,” said Catherine, with some
hesitation, from the fear of mortifying him.
“No, sure; was it? Ay, I remember; so it was. I was thinking of that
other stupid book, written by that woman they made such a fuss about;
she who married the French emigrant.”
John Thorpe’s manners do not please Catherine, inexperienced though
she is; but he is James’s friend, and Isabella’s brother. Besides,
Catherine is told by Isabella that John finds her the most charming
girl in the world, and John himself engages her for one of the dances
at the evening’s assembly. Jane Austen points out--and here she has
a gentle explanation of a girlish weakness--that, had Catherine been
older and vainer, such attacks might have done little; but where youth
and diffidence are united, it requires uncommon steadiness of reason
to resist the attraction of being called the most charming girl in the
world, and of being so very early engaged as a partner.
The young Morlands and Thorpes, with the good-natured concurrence of
Mr. and Mrs. Allen, form many morning and evening engagements together.
In the course of these engagements, Catherine likes John Thorpe less
and less, in spite of his boisterous professions of admiration. She
even begins to have painful doubts of the perfect amiability and good
taste of her bosom friend and future sister--a prospective relationship
which Catherine hailed with delight in the beginning.
Indeed, Isabella behaves with all the rampant selfishness, reckless
disregard of appearances, and insatiable appetite for admiration with
which a vain, coarse-minded, heartless Isabella Thorpe can behave.
Her loud, insincere professions, which her practice contradicts so
glaringly, could not have deceived Catherine even so long as they
did, had it not been that the younger girl, brought up in the worthy
clergyman’s upright, kind-hearted household, is unsuspicious of evil,
and guileless as a dove.
In broad contrast to the two wilful, wild Thorpes, are Henry Tilney and
his sister, a sensible, good, pretty, and well-bred girl, who is young
and attractive, and can enjoy herself at a ball, without wanting to fix
the attention of every man near her, and without exaggerated feelings
of ecstatic delight or inconceivable vexation on every little trifling
occurrence.
In these _blasé, nil admirari_ days, when many young people find
nothing worth the trouble of being excited about, when enthusiasm
is dead, and even moderate interest seems fast expiring, it may be
thought that such warnings as are conveyed in the praise of Eleanor
Tilney are not required. But I suspect it is a case of scratch the
Russian, and you will find the Tartar. It is the fashion to appear
indifferent and cynical, and so our very children--held up to us
in the mirror of “Punch”--babble weariness with the world, and
misanthropy. But the languor and scorn--happily for humanity--form a
mere accidental crust, beneath which, more or less visible, are the
old ardour and impetuosity, which need to be tutored to temperance
and prudence, and charged never to forget their Christian baptism of
generous self-forgetfulness and chivalrous magnanimity, in a peaceful
drawing-room as well as on a stricken battle-field.
The Tilneys, to whom Catherine is so strongly attracted, though
perfectly civil in any encounter with the Thorpes, instinctively recoil
from them. The different qualities of the young people, no less than
the different sets in which they move, prevent amalgamation.
Many capital scenes in “Northanger Abbey” exhibit young Catherine
Morland’s puzzled distress at the clashing social elements among which
she finds herself, with her own decided preference for the Tilneys,
opposed to what she conceives is her allegiance, alike of friendship
and sisterly fidelity, to the Thorpes.
The best and most comical of the sketches are those in which Catherine
is twice entrapped into driving with John Thorpe in the watering-place
fashion of the time, making one of a party which is completed by James
Morland and Isabella Thorpe in another open carriage.
“‘You will not be frightened, Miss Morland,’ said Thorpe as he handed
her in, ‘if my horse should dance about a little at first setting off.
He will most likely give a plunge or two, and perhaps take the reins
for a minute; but he will soon know his master. He is full of spirits,
playful as can be, but there is no vice in him.’
“Catherine did not think the portrait a very inviting one, but it was
too late to retreat, and she was too young to own herself frightened;
so resigning herself to her fate, and trusting to the animal’s boasted
knowledge of its owner, she sat peaceably down and saw Thorpe sit down
by her. Everything being then arranged, the servant who stood at the
horse’s head was bid, in an important voice, ‘to let him go,’ and off
they went in the quietest manner imaginable, without a plunge or a
caper, or anything like one.
“Catherine, delighted at so happy an escape, spoke her pleasure aloud
with grateful surprise; and her companion immediately made the matter
perfectly simple by assuring her that it was entirely owing to the
peculiarly judicious manner in which he had then held the reins and the
singular discernment and dexterity with which he had directed his whip.
“‘Old Allen is as rich as a Jew, is not he?’ said Thorpe, breaking
a silence. Catherine did not understand him, and he repeated his
question, adding in explanation, ‘Old Allen, the man you are with?’
“‘Oh, Mr. Allen you mean. Yes. I believe he is very rich.’
“‘And no children at all?’
“‘No, not any.’
“‘A famous thing for his next heirs. He is your godfather, is not he?’
“‘My godfather! No.’
“‘But you are always very much with them?’
“‘Yes, very much.’
“‘Ay, that is what I meant. He seems a good kind of old fellow enough,
and has lived very well in his time, I dare say; he is not gouty for
nothing. Does he drink his bottle a day now?’
“‘His bottle a day! No. Why should you think such a thing? He is a very
temperate man, and you could not fancy him in liquor last night?’
“‘Lord help you! You women are always thinking of men’s being in
liquor. Why, you do not suppose a man is overset by a bottle?’”
Modest as Catherine is in her unsophisticatedness, she betrays
unconsciously her admiration of Henry Tilney, both to the gentleman and
his sister. Fortunately, Catherine has fallen into good hands. Eleanor
Tilney only likes her friend the better for liking her brother. With
regard to the effect on the hero, of the girl’s tribute to his merits,
Jane Austen has made a few pungent observations.
It may be that the world has grown a little wiser as well as older
during the last hundred years. Certainly sensible, good young
girls--however young and simple--have learnt, for the most part, to
put more outward restraint, we would fain hope, in the course of some
improvement on their education, on their inner sentiments. Girls have
acquired a degree of the subtlety of the serpent in addition to the
artlessness of the dove.
The Catherine Morland of the past is always frank, sweet, and dutiful.
We can never, we are thankful, doubt her reverence and uprightness. We
need never fear scandalous defiance of the laws of God and man from
her. But drawn as she is, by the masterly pen of Jane Austen, Catherine
is often exasperatingly foolish, and especially so in falling deeply
in love, on the very slightest provocation, so far as any symptom of
reciprocity of feeling on Henry Tilney’s side is made plain to the
readers of “Northanger Abbey.”
Indeed, Jane Austen expressly states, with her usual dauntless candour,
that the love begins on Catherine’s side, and that the agreeable--let
us hope grateful--sense of the regard he has unwittingly inspired, is
the spark which kindles a responsive flame in the young man’s breast.
But what would have become of Catherine had Henry Tilney been--not
pre-engaged, we do not suspect him of unworthy concealment in such
circumstances; of course he would have smiled the smile, bowed the bow,
and danced the dance of a man whose heart and hand were bespoken;--but
had he only been less complacent, less gracious, less honourable?--she
must have wasted her young love, and smarted under the sense of having
given it unasked and in vain. Surely Catherine, inexperienced as she
was, might have had the mother-wit to anticipate such a probability,
and guard against the catastrophe, by being a little more dignified
and reserved in allowing scope to her imagination and inclination? I
hope that at least so much forethought may be looked for from sensible
girls,--I say nothing of silly ones,--in the present generation. I am
free to own that if a modern girl permitted her affections to be so
easily entangled, with the entanglement so transparently displayed, as
was true of Catherine Morland, I for one should at once set her down as
a very impulsive, heedless young woman, from whom little self-respect
and discretion could be looked for, at any time.
I do not take it upon me to say, whether a young girl’s chance of
winning kindred regard might or might not be imperilled, in proportion
to her capacity for practising womanly reticence. For the honour of
men, I must hope it would.[27]
It is with diffidence that I presume to differ so far from such a close
and accurate reader of human nature as Jane Austen was. But while I
look at the different standards of different generations, I say that it
would cast a serious reflection on the judgment and disinterestedness
of all heroes, real or imaginary, if Jane Austen were in earnest and
were right in her inference. This, at least, I entirely believe--that
whether or not a girl may more readily gain or lose love by her
reserve, without it she will never win respect, either from man or
woman, and love without respect is like food without salt, destitute of
permanent relish and endurance.
Catherine is eager to go to the cotillon ball, at which she is aware
beforehand the Tilneys will be present. “What gown and what head-dress
she should wear on the occasion become her chief concern. She cannot
be justified in it. Dress is at all times a frivolous distinction, and
excessive solicitude about it often destroys its own aim. Catherine
knew all this very well; her grand-aunt had read her a lecture on the
subject only the Christmas before, and yet she lay awake ten minutes
on Wednesday night debating between her spotted and tamboured muslin,
and nothing but the shortness of the time prevented her buying a new
one for the evening. This would have been an error in judgment, great,
though not uncommon, from which one of the other sex rather than her
own, a brother rather than a great-aunt, might have warned her; for
man only can be aware of the insensibility of man towards a new gown.
It would be mortifying to the feelings of many ladies could they be
made to understand how little the heart of man is affected by what is
costly or new in their attire, how little it is biassed by the texture
of their muslin, and how unsusceptible of peculiar tenderness towards
the spotted, the sprigged, the mull, or the jaconet. Woman is fine for
her own satisfaction alone. No man will admire her the more, no woman
will like her the better for it.”
I have quoted this paragraph because it ought to be studied by the
women of the present day. Alas! for the higher intelligence and
refinement in fashion, when even the over-elaboration and extravagance
of an earlier generation strike a later, as meagre shabbiness. Would
that the young girls who now “walk in silk attire,” and _crêpe de
Chine_, and only condescend to tulle over satin, in a variety of
evening dresses, could return to the spotted and sprigged muslins which
were new when they were clean![28] For old people who remember the
grandmothers of modern belles, persist in saying that the faces now set
in silver hair and puckered with wrinkles, the figures shrunk and bent,
were “fairer,” more graceful far--“lang syne.”
Catherine has engaged herself with the greatest alacrity to walk with
the two Tilneys among the beautiful environs of Bath the morning after
the ball. The weather proves rainy--but Catherine, after alternations
of hope and despondency, fruitless solicitations of Mrs. Allen’s
opinion, and equally fruitless wishes that they had such weather as
was to be found in “Udolpho” the night that poor St. Aubyn died, for
instance--has the great joy of seeing the sky clear. She is still
waiting for her friends, when the two Thorpes and James Morland arrive
in the greatest hurry to claim her for an excursion to Bristol.
Catherine excuses herself from accompanying the others, on the plea of
her pre-engagement to walk with the Tilneys.
The Thorpes loudly exclaim at such an objection as not worth
mentioning, and will take no denial--the truth being that Isabella,
free and easy as she is, cannot well accompany the two gentlemen, for
the rest of the day, unless she is countenanced by another lady. The
casual mention of Blaize Castle, as certain to be visited in the course
of the excursion, shakes even Catherine’s fidelity to the Tilneys. Is
it really a castle, an old castle such as they read of?
John Thorpe, with his forward unscrupulous assurance, is ready to
pledge himself that it is the oldest castle in the kingdom, with towers
and long galleries by dozens.
The wavering Catherine admits she should like to see it, but she cannot
give up her walk with the Tilneys. She is sure they will be in Pulteney
Street soon.
“‘Not they, indeed,’ cries John Thorpe with decision; ‘for as we turned
into Broad Street I saw them. Does he not drive a phaeton with bright
chestnuts?’
“‘I do not know, indeed.’
“‘Yes, I know he does; I saw him. You are talking of the man you danced
with last night, are not you?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘Well, I saw him at that moment turn up the Lansdowne Road, driving a
smart-looking girl.’
“‘Did you, indeed?’
“‘Did, upon my soul, knew him again directly; and he seemed to have got
some very pretty cattle too.’
“‘It is very odd. But I suppose they thought it would be too dirty for
a walk.’
“‘And well they might, for I never saw so much dirt in my life.’”
Catherine gives way. She starts in an unsettled frame of mind, divided
between sorrow for the loss of her walk and still greater vexation at
the thought that the Tilneys have not acted well by her, and delight
at exploring an edifice like “Udolpho”--as her fancy represents Blaize
Castle to be--which John Thorpe freely promises she shall explore in
every hole and corner.
Are there left in England half-a-dozen romantic girls to whom the
opportunity of visiting an old castle would be so great a treat?
But unfortunately for what peace of mind is left to Catherine, as she
and John Thorpe rattle along, his question “Who was that girl who
looked at you so hard as she went by?” calls her attention to the
right-hand pavement, where, to her mingled delight and dismay, she
recognises Miss Tilney on her brother’s arm, walking slowly down the
street. Catherine sees them both looking back at her.
“‘Stop, stop, Mr. Thorpe!’ she impatiently cried, ‘it is Miss Tilney,
it is indeed. How could you tell me they were gone? Stop, stop! I will
get out this moment and go to them.’
“But to what purpose did she speak? Thorpe only lashed his horse into
a brisker trot; the Tilneys, who had soon ceased to look after her,
were in a moment out of sight round the corner of Laura Place, and in
another moment she was herself whisked into the Market Place. Still,
however, and during the length of another street, she entreated him to
stop. ‘Pray, pray stop, Mr. Thorpe. I cannot go on, I will not go on; I
must go back to Miss Tilney.’
“But Mr. Thorpe only laughed, smacked his whip, encouraged his horse,
made odd noises, and drove on; and Catherine, angry and vexed as she
was, having no power of getting away, was obliged to give up the point,
and submit. Her reproaches, however, were not spared.
“‘How could you deceive me so, Mr. Thorpe? How could you say that you
saw them driving up the Lansdowne Road? I would not have had it happen
so for the world. They must think it so strange, so rude of me, to go
by them, too, without saying a word! You do not know how vexed I am. I
shall have no pleasure at Clifton, nor in anything else. I had rather,
ten thousand times rather, get out now and walk back to them. How could
you say you saw them driving out in a phaeton?’
“Thorpe defended himself very stoutly, declared he had never seen two
men so much alike in his life, and would hardly give up the point of
its having been Tilney himself.”
It is unnecessary to dwell on Catherine’s distress when even her
unassuming, good-natured civility fails her. Her single comfort is
Blaize Castle, but Blaize Castle she is not destined to see. It is too
late in the day, the horses are not equal to the expedition, and the
party have to turn back to Bath.
Catherine ventures to call on Miss Tilney, to explain why she has
not kept her appointment. She is not admitted at the house in Milsom
Street, though she has a wretched conviction that Miss Tilney is at
home--a conviction confirmed by seeing her in a few moments afterwards
go out with her father, General Tilney.
Catherine is punished--even, she thinks, too severely--but she is too
miserable to be angry.
Catherine next sees the Tilneys at the theatre. Henry Tilney bows,
but with a changed countenance; still, he comes round to the Allens’
box to pay his respects to Mrs. Allen, and there Catherine, like the
impetuous, humble-minded young girl she is, overwhelms him with the
breathlessness and earnestness of her apologies. “Oh! Mr. Tilney, I
have been quite wild to speak to you, and make my apologies. You must
have thought me so rude; but, indeed, it was not my own fault. Was it,
Mrs. Allen? Did not they tell me that Mr. Tilney and his sister were
gone out in a phaeton together? And then, what could I do? But I had
ten thousand times rather have been with you. Now, had not I, Mrs.
Allen?”
The words bring a more cordial, more natural smile to the gentleman’s
lips, though he suggests a little sarcastically that he and his sister
were at least much obliged to her for wishing them a pleasant walk. She
had looked back on purpose.
After all, the lingering air of being piqued, which Henry Tilney
cannot conceal, is the best evidence of Catherine’s dawning influence.
But the stupid girl takes his words literally. “Indeed, I did not wish
you a pleasant walk; I never thought of such a thing; but I begged Mr.
Thorpe so earnestly to stop; I called out to him as soon as ever I saw
you. Now, Mrs. Allen, did not----Oh! you were not there. But indeed I
did; and if Mr. Thorpe would only have stopped, I would have jumped out
and run after you.”
“Is there a Henry in the world,” exclaims Jane Austen, “who could be
insensible to such a declaration?” Perhaps not. Yet we are tempted to
wonder if Jane Austen had ever listened to the sarcastic old song--
“The fruit that will fall without shaking
Is rather too mellow for me;”
or to that valuable warning in wooing--
“When a woman is willing,
A man can but look like a fool.”
If all girls were as quickly captivated as Catherine Morland, what
would become of the wooing--the pursuit--the probation, during which
Elizabeth Barrett Browning asserts a man may be content to be treated
“worse than dog or mouse” when it is but the prelude to the girl’s
becoming his for ever?
Catherine, in her extreme candour, persists that Miss Tilney must
have been angry, since she was in the house, but would not see
her--Catherine--when she called.
In Henry Tilney’s hasty explanation that it was his father--there was
nothing in it, beyond the circumstance that General Tilney wished his
daughter to walk out with him, and could not be kept waiting--we have
the first hint that General Tilney has “ways.” He is, for that matter,
an extremely tyrannical old gentleman.
Catherine has her walk, and for once the reality fulfils the
expectation.
Whether intentionally or accidentally, Jane Austen illustrates the
contrast between John Thorpe and Henry Tilney by their different
estimates of novels. The walking-party had determined to walk round
Beechen Cliff--“that noble hill,” Jane Austen calls it, in more than
her ordinary chary words of description, “whose beautiful verdure and
hanging coppice[29] render it so striking an object from almost every
opening in Bath.”
“‘I never look at it,’ said Catherine, as they walked along the side of
the river, ‘without thinking of the south of France.’
“‘You have been abroad then?’ said Henry, a little surprised.
“‘Oh, no; I only mean what I have read about. It always puts me in
mind of the country that Emily and her father travelled through in the
‘Mysteries of Udolpho.’ But you never read novels, I dare say.’
“‘Why not?’
“‘Because they are not clever enough for you; gentlemen read better
books.’
“‘The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good
novel, must be intolerably stupid. I have read all Mrs. Radcliffe’s
works, and most of them with great pleasure. The ‘Mysteries of
Udolpho,’ when I had once begun it, I could not lay down again; I
remember finishing it in two days, my hair standing on end the whole
time.’
“‘Yes,’ added Miss Tilney; ‘and I remember that you undertook to read
it aloud to me; and that when I was called away for only five minutes
to answer a note, instead of waiting for me, you took the volume into
the Hermitage Walk; and I was obliged to stay till you had finished
it.’[30]
“‘But I really thought before,’ persisted Catherine, ‘young men
despised novels amazingly?’
“‘It is _amazingly_; it may well suggest _amazement_, if they do, for
they read nearly as many as women. I myself have read hundreds and
hundreds. Do not imagine that you can cope with me in a knowledge
of Julias and Louisas. If we proceed to particulars, and engage in
the never-ceasing inquiry of ‘Have you read this?’ or ‘Have you read
that?’ I shall soon leave you as far behind me as--what shall I say? I
want an appropriate simile--as far as your friend Emily herself left
poor Valancourt, when she went with her aunt into Italy. Consider how
many years I have had the start of you. I had entered on my studies
at Oxford while you were a good little girl, working your sampler at
home.’”
About this time Captain Tilney, General Tilney’s eldest son, a
handsome, fashionable young man, arrives on a visit to his family.
Catherine is most willing to acknowledge his advantages, but his tastes
and manners are decidedly inferior, in her opinion, after she hears
him, at one of the assemblies, not only protest against every thought
of dancing himself, but even laugh openly at his brother Henry for
finding it possible.
Isabella, who has begun by announcing her intention to sit all the
evening, in compliment to James Morland’s temporary absence, is soon
seen dancing with Captain Tilney, in spite of his and her protest.
James Morland’s application to his father for his consent to his
marriage with Isabella Thorpe brings a kind and considerate answer. A
family living of four hundred a year is to be resigned to James; an
estate of nearly equal value is secured to him. The greatest trial is
that the young couple must wait two or three years, till James Morland
can take orders.
James and Catherine, being good and reasonable children, are perfectly
satisfied with their father’s generosity.
Isabella says the prospect is very charming, but says it with a grave
face.
The period of the Allens’ visit to Bath is drawing to a close; and
the question whether they may stay longer or not seems to involve the
happiness of Catherine’s whole life; and so, when the lodgings are
taken for another fortnight, everything appears secured. “What this
additional fortnight was to produce to her beyond the pleasure of
sometimes seeing Henry Tilney, made but a small part of Catherine’s
speculation;” Jane Austen comments with regard to her heroine’s
unreasonable joy. “Once or twice, indeed, since James’s engagement had
taught her what _could_ be done, she had got so far as to indulge in a
secret ‘perhaps;’ but, in general, the felicity of being with him for
the present bounded her views. The present was now comprised in another
three weeks; and her happiness being certain for that period, the rest
of her life was at such a distance as to excite but little interest.”
This is pre-eminently the calculation of seventeen, when a month in
anticipation reckons as a year, a year as a lifetime.
However, when Catherine calls for Miss Tilney with the glad news, she
receives an unexpected blow. The Tilneys are to quit Bath soon. Poor
Catherine cannot hide her dejection, but an ample compensation, far
beyond her brightest hopes, awaits her.
Miss Tilney stammers some words of invitation, which are at once
seconded by her father. The General, so far from being haughty to
Catherine, has distinguished her by an oppressively marked degree of
attention, which has rather a tendency to extinguish the frank kindness
of his son and daughter.
Catherine is now pressed in the most flatteringly solicitous manner,
by this somewhat overpowering fine gentleman, to go with the family to
Northanger Abbey, and give his daughter the pleasure of her company
there, for a few weeks.
Catherine is to be the Tilneys’ chosen visitor: “She was to be for
weeks under the same roof with the person whose society she most
prized; and in addition to all the rest; this roof was to be the roof
of an Abbey! Her passion for ancient edifices was next in degree to
her passion for Henry Tilney, and castles and abbeys made usually
the charm of those reveries which his image did not fill. To see and
explore either the ramparts and keep of the one, or the cloisters
of the other, had been for many weeks a darling wish, though to be
more than the visitor of an hour had seemed too nearly impossible for
desire; and yet this was to happen. With all the chances against her of
house, hall, place, court and cottage, Northanger turned up an Abbey,
and she was to be its inhabitant. Its long damp passages, its narrow
cells and ruined chapel, were to be within her daily reach; and she
could not entirely subdue the hope of some traditional legends, some
awful memorials of an injured and ill-fated nun.”
Catherine’s happiness is not without alloy. Isabella improves the
occasion of being with Catherine at the Pump-room one morning, to tell
her that John Thorpe is over head and ears in love with her, and to
urge his suit, greatly to Catherine’s astonishment and discomfiture.
For has not Isabella long professed herself convinced of a mutual
attachment between Henry Tilney and her friend?
Catherine, with all the innocence of truth, protests her ignorance of
Mr. Thorpe’s wishes, and her incapacity to respond to them.
Isabella accepts her brother’s disappointment with a wonderfully good
grace, though she will imply, in spite of Catherine’s indignant denial,
that there has been a relinquished flirtation, a change of mind on
Catherine’s part, which Isabella would be the last person to blame.
As the girls are speaking, they are joined by Captain Tilney, and
Catherine is first bewildered and then shocked to find him addressing
her friend and future sister in terms which cannot be mistaken. “‘What!
always to be watched in person or proxy?’ he said low, but not too low
for Catherine to hear.
“‘Pshaw! nonsense!’ was Isabella’s answer, in the same half-whisper;
‘why do you put such things into my head? If I could believe it! my
spirit, you know, is pretty independent.’
“‘I wish your heart were independent, that would be enough for me.’
“‘My heart, indeed! What can you have to do with hearts? You men have
none of you any hearts.’
“‘If we have not hearts we have eyes, and they give us torment enough.’
“‘Do they? I am sorry for it; I am sorry they find anything so
disagreeable in me. I will look another way. I hope this pleases you’
(turning her back on him). ‘I hope your eyes are not tormented now.’
“‘Never more so, for the edge of a blooming cheek is still in view, at
once too much and too little.’”
Catherine will not remain longer. She is confounded; but still the
girl who is so honourable herself can think no greater evil than that
Captain Tilney has fallen in love with Isabella, and that Isabella is
unconsciously encouraging him--unconsciously it must be, for Isabella’s
attachment to James is as certain as their engagement.
But when Catherine sees Isabella admitting Captain Tilney’s attentions
in public as readily as they are offered, and allowing him almost an
equal share with James of her notice and smiles, charity itself cannot
vindicate the lady’s conduct.
Catherine has too much good sense to continue to be deceived. She
tries to believe still that Isabella cannot be aware of the pain she
is inflicting; but her friend must resent the wilful thoughtlessness,
since James is the sufferer.
When Catherine Morland learns that Captain Tilney is to remain in Bath
after his family have left, she speaks to Henry Tilney on the subject.
She expresses her regret for his brother’s evident admiration of Miss
Thorpe, and entreats him to make known her engagement.
“‘My brother does know it.’
“‘Does he? Then why does he stay here?’
“He made no reply, and was beginning to talk of something else; but she
eagerly continued, ‘Why do not you persuade him to go away? The longer
he stays the worse it will be for him at last. It is only staying to be
miserable.’
“Henry smiled, and said, ‘I am sure my brother would not wish to do
that.’
“‘Then you will persuade him to go away?’
“‘Persuasion is not at command; but pardon me if I cannot even
endeavour to persuade him. I have myself told him that Miss Thorpe is
engaged. He knows what he is about, and must be his own master.’
“‘No, he does not know what he is about,’ cried Catherine; ‘he does not
know the pain he is giving my brother. Not that James has ever told me
so, but I am sure he is very uncomfortable.’
“‘And are you sure it is my brother’s doing?’
“‘Yes, very sure.’
“‘Is it my brother’s attentions to Miss Thorpe, or Miss Thorpe’s
admission of them, that gives the pain?’”
Catherine, in her ignorance of the ways of the world, wonders General
Tilney does not interfere; is sure if _he_ spoke to Captain Tilney he
would go away.
Henry Tilney has some trouble in convincing her that her “amiable
solicitude” is a little mistaken. Will her brother thank her, either
on his own account or on that of Miss Thorpe, for supposing that her
affection, or at least her good behaviour, can only be secured by her
seeing nothing of Captain Tilney? For anything further, Frederick must
soon rejoin his regiment, and what will then become of his acquaintance
with Miss Thorpe? The mess-room will drink “Isabella Thorpe” for a
fortnight, and she will laugh with Catherine’s brother over poor
Tilney’s passion for a month.
This is a novel view of the situation to Catherine, but she cannot
refuse comfort from such a quarter; and she parts not only placably but
affectionately from her friend.