A STUDY IN FINE ART_The women novelists

(JANE AUSTEN, 1775-1817)

With Jane Austen we reach the centre of our subject: the establishment

of the Woman’s School, the final expression of domesticity. If not,

perhaps, more essentially feminine than Fanny Burney, she is more

womanly. The charming girlishness of _Evelina_ has here matured

into a grown-up sisterly attitude towards humanity, which, without

being either quite worldly or at all pedantic, is yet artistically

composed. Whether consciously or not, she has spoken--within her chosen

province--the last word for all women for all time. There is no comment

on life, no picture of manners, no detail of characterisation--either

humorous or sympathetic--which a man could have expressed in these

precise words. Woman is openly the centre of her world; and, if men are

more to her than fireside pets, she is only concerned with them as an

element (or rather the chief element) in the life of women.

The comparison, already instituted, between the man-made “feminines” of

_Pamela_ and _Clarissa Harlowe_ with Miss Burney’s “young ladies,” may

be applied to Elizabeth Bennet and Emma Woodhouse with added emphasis

in every particular. The “woman” in them is more modern, nearer the

heart of humanity, but still spontaneously of that sex.

“To say the truth,” confesses a contemporary reviewer, “we suspect

one of Miss Austen’s great merits in our eyes to be the insight she

gives us into the peculiarities of female character. Authoresses

can scarcely ever forget the _esprit de corps_--can scarcely ever

forget that they _are authoresses_. They seem to feel a sympathetic

shudder at exposing naked a female mind. _Elles se peignent en

buste_, and leave the mysteries of womanhood to be described by some

interloping male, like Richardson or Marivaux, who is turned out

before he has seen half the rites, and is forced to spin from his

own conjectures the rest. Now from this fault Miss Austen is free.

Her heroines are what one knows women must be, though one never can

get them to acknowledge it. As liable ‘to fall in love first,’ as

anxious to attract the attention of an agreeable man, as much taken

with a striking manner, or a handsome face, as unequally gifted with

constancy and firmness, as liable to have their affections biased by

convenience or fashion, as we, on our part, will admit men to be.

As some illustration of what we mean, we refer our readers to the

conversation between Miss Crawford and Fanny (vol. iii. p. 102);

Fanny’s meeting with her father (p. 199); her reflection after reading

Edmund’s letter (p. 246); her happiness (good, and heroine though she

be), in the midst of the miseries of all her friends, when she finds

that Edmund has decidedly broken with her rival; feelings, all of

them, which, under the influence of strong passion, must alloy the

purest mind, but with which scarcely any _authoress_ but Miss Austen

would have ventured to temper the œtherial materials of a heroine.”

Again, Miss Burney, as we have seen, had first made it possible for a

woman to write novels and be respectable. Yet even with her, authorship

was something of an adventure. Her earliest manuscripts were solemnly

burnt, as in repentance for frivolity, before her sorrowing sisters;

needlework was ordained every morning by a not tyrannical stepmother;

social duties occupied most afternoons and evenings. And if she _must_

write, Dr. Burney was always ready enough at dictation, and any lady

might act as secretary to such a father without reproach.

In the outside world, when her success was won, we can detect a

similar attitude. The authoress of _Evelina_, indeed, was taken up

everywhere and universally petted; but even literary Society never

regarded her quite as one of themselves. We feel that she was always

on show among them--a kind of freak, like the girl who cried to order

at dinner-parties without spoiling her complexion; welcomed, but not

admitted--as were actors, musicians, and others born and bred for the

amusement of the great.

She herself never resumed work for its own sake after the first flush

of popularity, in which she composed _Cecilia_. As lady-in-waiting,

bored by tiresome punctilio; as Madame D’Arblay, happy in simple

domesticity; her pen lay idle save when exercised by filial piety or

specifically to earn money. The later novels were pure hack-work,

obviously lacking in spontaneity.

It was reserved for Jane Austen, the daughter of a later generation,

though actually dying before Miss Burney, to establish finally the

position of woman as a professional novelist. True, she was even more

domestic than her predecessor, and entirely without what we should

regard as the necessary training or experience. Her family were seldom

aware of the time given to work, simply because it never occurred to

her that she might claim privacy or resent interruption. But they took

a keen interest in the results, and evidence exists in abundance of

their reading every completed volume with enthusiasm.

Of her own attitude towards her work, and of its reception with the

public, there can be no doubt. She always regarded herself, and was

regarded, as a professional. Circumstances might induce temporary

silence, because she was domestic, modest, and affectionate; but

if Jane Austen never complained--and we hear of no protest at the

extraordinary delay in their appearance--we may be quite sure the

novels were written for the public, by whom she felt confident one

day of being read. The style is obviously spontaneous, of which the

writing itself meant keen enjoyment; but the work was not done merely

for the pleasure of doing it. It was her life--not because of any

disappointment in love, if she experienced such, but because genius

such as hers demands self-expression and commands a hearing. From the

beginning, moreover, no one stopped to marvel that a woman could do so

well: they judged her as an artist among her peers.

Jane Austen had none of the advantages of Miss Burney, who knew

everybody, including the wig-maker next door. Apparently she took

little interest in politics or social problems; and our ideals of

culture suffer shock before her allusions to _The Spectator_, to

read and admire which she holds the affectation of a blue-stocking.

Admittedly she was a voracious novel-reader, but for her own pleasure

merely; certainly not with any idea of historical development or

artistic criticism. In all probability even her study of human nature

was spontaneous and unconscious.

Yet she expected to be taken seriously. Miss Burney had ventured an

apology for her art--a plea as woman to men which was daring enough for

her generation, but still an apology. Miss Austen, speaking as much for

the authoress of _Evelina_ as for herself, shows far more confidence.

She enlarges upon the skill and the labour involved in writing a

novel, for which _honour is due_.[3] What she demands has been given

her in full measure to overflowing. How closely her stories have

wound themselves about the hearts of every successive generation, it

were idle to measure or estimate. They are a part of our inheritance:

appreciation is reckoned a test of culture.

In the perfection, or development, of the methods inaugurated by Samuel

Richardson--particularly as applied by women-writers--she also stands

supreme. She entirely avoids criminals, melodrama, or any form of

excitement. She does not even demand sensibility from her common-sense

heroines.

While a woman was thus placing the corner-stone to the rise of domestic

realism, man accomplished a glorious revival of Romanticism. Scott was

born only four years before Jane Austen: _Waverley_ and _Mansfield

Park_ were published in the same year. Fortunately we are able to form

an accurate estimate of the impression her work produced upon her

great contemporary, since the earliest serious appreciation of Jane

was actually written by Sir Walter, and opens with a most instructive

comparison between the “former rules of the novel” and “a class of

fictions which has arisen,” as he expresses it, “almost in our times.”

The article appeared in the _Quarterly Review_, October 1815; and it is

very significant for us to notice that Scott places _Peregrine Pickle_

and _Tom Jones_ in the “old school,” dating the new style only “fifteen

or twenty years” back.

“In its first appearance, the novel was the legitimate child of the

romance; and though the manners and general turn of the composition

were altered so as to suit modern times, the author remained fettered

by many peculiarities derived from the original style of romantic

fiction. These may be chiefly traced in the conduct of the narrative,

and the tone of sentiment attributed to the fictitious personages. On

the first point, although

‘The talisman and magic wand were broke,

Knights, dwarfs, and genii vanish’d into smoke,’

still the reader expected to peruse a course of adventures of a

nature more interesting and extraordinary than those which occur in

his own life, or that of his next-door neighbour. The hero no longer

defeated armies by his single sword, clove giants to the chine, or

gained kingdoms. But he was expected to go through perils by sea and

land, to be steeped in poverty, to be tried by temptation, to be

exposed to the alternate vicissitudes of adversity and prosperity,

and his life was a troubled scene of suffering and achievement. Few

novelists, indeed, adventured to deny to the hero his final hour of

tranquillity and happiness, though it was the prevailing fashion never

to relieve him out of his last and most dreadful distress until the

finishing chapters of his history; so that although his prosperity in

the record of his life was short, we were bound to believe it was long

and uninterrupted when the author had done with him. The heroine was

usually condemned to equal hardships and hazards. She was regularly

exposed to being forcibly carried off like a Sabine virgin by some

frantic admirer. And even if she escaped the terrors of masked

ruffians, an insidious ravisher, a cloak wrapped forcibly around

her head, and a coach with the blinds [down] driving she could not

conjecture whither, she had still her share of wandering, of poverty,

of obloquy, of seclusion, and of imprisonment, and was frequently

extended upon a bed of sickness, and reduced to her last shilling

before the author condescended to shield her from persecution. In

all these dread contingencies the mind of the reader was expected

to sympathise, since by incidents so much beyond the bounds of his

ordinary experience, his wonder and interest ought at once to be

excited. But gradually he became familiar with the land of fiction,

the adventures of which he assimilated not with those of real life,

but with each other. Let the distress of the hero or heroine be ever

so great, the reader reposed an imperturbable confidence in the

talents of the author, who, as he had plunged them into distress,

would in his own good time, and when things, as Tony Lumkin says,

were in a concatenation accordingly, bring his favourites out of all

their troubles. Mr. Crabbe has expressed his own and our feelings

excellently on this subject.

‘For should we grant these beauties all endure

Severest pangs, they’ve still the speediest cure;

Before one charm be wither’d from the face,

Except the bloom which shall again have place,

In wedlock ends each wish, in triumph all disgrace.

And life to come, we fairly may suppose,

One light bright contrast to these wild dark woes.’

“In short, the author of novels was, in former times, expected to

tread pretty much in the limits between the concentric circles of

probability and possibility; and as he was not permitted to transgress

the latter, his narrative, to make amends, almost always went beyond

the bounds of the former. Now, although it may be urged that the

vicissitudes of human life have occasionally led an individual through

as many scenes of singular fortune as are represented in the most

extravagant of these fictions, still the causes and personages acting

on these changes have varied with the progress of the adventurer’s

fortune, and do not present that combined plot, (the object of every

skilful novelist), in which all the more interesting individuals of

the dramatis personæ have their appropriate share in the action and in

bringing about the catastrophe. Here, even more than in its various

and violent changes of fortune, rests the improbability of the novel.

The life of man rolls forth like a stream from the fountain, or it

spreads out into tranquillity like a placid or stagnant lake. In

the latter case, the individual grows old among the characters with

whom he was born, and is contemporary,--shares precisely the sort

of weal and woe to which his birth destined him,--moves in the same

circle,--and, allowing for the change of seasons, is influenced by,

and influences the same class of persons by which he was originally

surrounded. The man of mark and of adventure, on the contrary,

resembles, in the course of his life, the river whose mid-current

and discharge into the ocean are widely removed from each other, as

well as from the rocks and wild flowers which its fountains first

reflected; violent changes of time, of place, and of circumstances,

hurry him forward from one scene to another, and his adventures

will usually be found only connected with each other because they

have happened to the same individual. Such a history resembles an

ingenious, fictitious narrative, exactly in the degree in which an

old dramatic chronicle of the life and death of some distinguished

character, where all the various agents appear and disappear as in the

page of history, approaches a regular drama, in which every person

introduced plays an appropriate part, and every point of the action

tends to one common catastrophe.

“We return to the second broad line of distinction between the novel,

as formerly composed, and real life,--the difference, namely, of the

sentiments. The novelist professed to give an imitation of nature, but

it was, as the French say, _la belle nature_. Human beings, indeed,

were presented, but in the most sentimental mood, and with minds

purified by a sensibility which often verged on extravagance. In the

serious class of novels, the hero was usually

‘A knight or lover, who never broke a vow.’

And although, in those of a more humorous cast, he was permitted

a licence, borrowed either from real life or from the libertinism

of the drama, still a distinction was demanded even from Peregrine

Pickle, or Tom Jones; and the hero, in every folly of which he might

be guilty, was studiously vindicated from the charge of infidelity of

the heart. The heroine was, of course, still more immaculate; and to

have conferred her affections upon any other than the lover to whom

the reader had destined her from their first meeting, would have been

a crime against sentiment which no author, of moderate prudence, would

have hazarded, under the old _régime_.

“Here, therefore, we have two essential and important circumstances,

in which the earlier novels differed from those now in fashion, and

were more nearly assimilated to the old romances. And there can be no

doubt that, by the studied involution and extrication of the story,

by the combination of incidents new, striking and wonderful beyond

the course of ordinary life, the former authors opened that obvious

and strong sense of interest which arises from curiosity; as by the

pure, elevated, and romantic cast of the sentiment, they conciliated

those better propensities of our nature which loves to contemplate

the picture of virtue, even when confessedly unable to imitate its

excellences.

“But strong and powerful as these sources of emotion and interest may

be, they are, like all others, capable of being exhausted by habit.

The imitators who rushed in crowds upon each path in which the great

masters of the art had successively led the way, produced upon the

public mind the usual effect of satiety. The first writer of a new

class is, as it were, placed on a pinnacle of excellence, to which, at

the earliest glance of a surprised admirer, his ascent seems little

less than miraculous. Time and imitation speedily diminish the wonder,

and each successive attempt establishes a kind of progressive scale

of ascent between the lately deified author, and the reader, who had

deemed his excellence inaccessible. The stupidity, the mediocrity,

the merit of his imitators, are alike fatal to the first inventor, by

showing how possible it is to exaggerate his faults and to come within

a certain point of his beauties.

“Materials also (and the man of genius as well as his wretched

imitator must work with the same) become stale and familiar. Social

life, in our civilized days, affords few instances capable of being

painted in the strong dark colours which excite surprise and horror;

and robbers, smugglers, bailiffs, caverns, dungeons, and mad-houses,

have been all introduced until they cease to interest. And thus in the

novel, as in every style of composition which appeals to the public

taste, the more rich and easily worked mines being exhausted, the

adventurous author must, if he is desirous of success, have recourse

to those which were disdained by his predecessors as unproductive, or

avoided as only capable of being turned to profit by great skill and

labour.

“Accordingly a style of novel has arisen, within the last fifteen

or twenty years, differing from the former in the points upon which

the interest hinges; neither alarming our credulity nor amusing our

imagination by wild variety of incident, or by those pictures of

romantic affection and sensibility, which were formerly as certain

attributes of fictitious characters as they are of rare occurrence

among those who actually live and die. The substitute for these

excitements, which had lost much of their poignancy by the repeated

and injudicious use of them, was the art of copying from nature as

she really exists in the common walks of life, and presenting to

the reader, instead of the splendid scenes of an imaginary world,

a correct and striking representation of that which is daily taking

place around him.

“In adventuring upon this task, the author makes obvious sacrifices,

and encounters peculiar difficulty. He who paints from _le beau

idéal_, if his scenes and sentiments are striking and interesting, is

in a great measure exempted from the difficult task of reconciling

them with the ordinary probabilities of life: but he who paints

a scene of common occurrence, places his composition within that

extensive range of criticism which general experience offers to

every reader. The resemblance of a statue of Hercules we must take

on the artist’s judgment; but every one can criticize that which is

presented as the portrait of a friend, or neighbour. Something more

than a mere sign-post likeness is also demanded. The portrait must

have spirit and character, as well as resemblance; and being deprived

of all that, according to Bayes, goes ‘to elevate and surprize,’ it

must make amends by displaying depth of knowledge and dexterity of

execution. We, therefore, bestow no mean compliment upon the author of

_Emma_, when we say that, keeping close to common incidents, and to

such characters as occupy the ordinary walks of life, she has produced

sketches of such spirit and originality, that we never miss the

excitation which depends upon a narrative of uncommon events, arising

from the consideration of minds, manners and sentiments, greatly above

our own. In this class she stands almost alone; for the scenes of Miss

Edgeworth are laid in higher life, varied by more romantic incident,

and by her remarkable power of embodying and illustrating national

character. But the author of _Emma_ confines herself chiefly to the

middling classes of society; her most distinguished characters do not

rise greatly above well-bred country gentlemen and ladies; and those

which are sketched with most originality and precision, belong to a

class rather below that standard. The narrative of all her novels

is composed of such common occurrences as may have fallen under the

observation of most folks; and her dramatis personæ conduct themselves

upon the motives and principles which the readers may recognize as

ruling their own and that of most of their acquaintances.”

It is manifestly clear to us, then, from these passages, that Jane

Austen’s contemporaries were quite aware of her influence upon the

progress of fiction; and so generous a tribute, from one whose mighty

genius had set the current in other directions, must be accounted no

less honourable to the critic than to the criticised.

Four years after her death (_i.e._ six years later) the new school is

again applauded, in an admirable appreciation, by Archbishop Whately of

the posthumous _Persuasion_ and _Northanger Abbey_,[4] who dwells at

great length upon an important distinction between the “unnatural” and

the “merely improbable” in fiction.

Scott, of course, was always generous in criticism; and his striking

enthusiasm for Mrs. Radcliffe and the earlier women-writers, in his

_Lives of the Novelists_, reveals no less chivalrous gallantry than his

famous tribute to Miss Edgeworth. Still it was obviously necessary for

the great critic to _explain_ the grounds of his enthusiasm; and the

“more assured attitude of applause which Whateley was able to adopt,

after so short an interval, may serve to witness the advance which her

genius had achieved in the general estimate.”

We cannot avoid noticing, however, that neither of her contemporary

masculine critics seems to have been quite happy about the ideal of

womanhood which Jane Austen was certainly the first to introduce.

It required courage, indeed, to conceive of a heroine without

“sensibility,” and the creator of Marianne Dashwood must certainly

have been perfectly conscious of the omission. It happens that Scott

and Whateley were both thirty-four when these articles were written,

yet each complains, after his own fashion, of the calculating prudence

here revealed towards love and matrimony by the young ladies of the

piece. One would have supposed that neither of them was either old

enough to remember “sensibility” in real life, or young enough for idle

dreaming. Clearly, however, they _had_ a tender partiality for the old

type, probably shared by their readers; although both writers assure us

that young people in their day were not in fact at all addicted to the

sacrifice of all for love.

Scott is certainly not justified in stating that Elizabeth was led to

accept Darcy by discovering the grandeur of his estates; both because

such an attitude was inconsistent with her mental independence,

and because she herself jokingly suggests this explanation of the

remarkable change in her sentiments towards him, to tease her sister.

But, on the other hand, Jane Austen’s heroines may fairly be called

cool and calculating in comparison with the poetical maidens of

romance; and we have intentionally laboured this point at some length

in order to emphasise the thoroughness with which reformers in fiction

discarded the many artistic ornaments formerly used by story-tellers to

enhance the “pleasures of imagination.” Every convention of romance

was ruthlessly abandoned.

Later developments, as we shall see, introduced other elements which

partially supplied these omissions, and once more removed the novel

from pure realism; but it would almost seem as if Jane Austen had

deliberately set herself to prove how much it was possible to do

without. She admits neither unusual mixture of society, cultured

allusion, nor morbid or criminal impulses. Like her immediate

predecessors, she wilfully limits the variety of character-types by

strictly confining herself to her own narrow experience--her groups

of character are curiously similar, her plots repeat each other:

she discards every source of excitement from adventure, mystery, or

melodramatic emotion; and, finally, she denies the hero or heroine any

charm which may be derived from “sensibility” or romantic idealism.

Hers is realism,[5] naked and unashamed; challenging comparison

with life itself at every point, wholly dependent upon truthfulness

to nature. Her triumph is purely artistic: the absolute fitness of

expression to reveal insight, observation, sympathy, and humour; in

a simple narrative of parochial affairs, composed with rare skill,

faithfully reflecting everyday life and ordinary people.

From such commonplace material she has woven a spell over the

imagination and secured our warm interest in characters and episodes:

much as the simplicity of English landscapes will hold our affection

against the claims of nature’s grandest magnificence.

Detailed analysis of her six “studies from life” will serve only to

increase our wonder, and may be indulged without fear of reversed, or

even qualified, judgment.

Inevitably Jane Austen scribbled in girlhood--too busily, according

to her own judgment; but the printed fragments are _not_ specially

precocious, and we have no right to judge so careful an artist by work

she left unfinished or rejected with deliberation, however interesting

in itself.

As we all know, without having any clue to the explanation, she found

herself rather suddenly, while still a young woman; and did all her

work in two surprisingly brief periods--sharply separated, and each

responsible for three novels, two full length and one much shorter.

_Pride and Prejudice_, her first finished production, has every

appearance of maturity, and reveals the principal qualities which

characterised her to the end.

This novel, by many considered her greatest work, is primarily--like

_Evelina_ and _Cecilia_--a study in manners. Its aim is frankly to

amuse: the dominant note is irresponsible gaiety: the appeal is more

intellectual than emotional. Certainly we are interested in the story,

we have considerable affection for the characters: but it does not

excite passion, stimulate philosophic reflection, or stir imagination.

We find here no solutions to any vexed social problem. Past mistress

she is in the great art of story-telling, and a supreme stylist; yet

the authoress seems always content to skim the surface of things,

taking no thought of storm or fire below.

Miss Austen is no cynic: she certainly detests coarseness: yet Lydia’s

fall and its consequences, round which any modern novelist would have

centred the whole picture, is handled with something very like levity.

We can scarcely avoid amazement at the astonishingly vulgar attitude of

Mrs. Bennet or at Mary’s appalling priggishness on the occasion: but

such serious thoughts do not retain us long. In reality we are chiefly

interested in the possible effects of the girl’s folly upon her elder

sisters--will it, or will it not, separate them for ever from the men

they love? It is only a few quiet words of unselfish sympathy from

Jane, easily forgotten by most of us, that reveal the sentiments of the

authoress on such questions--with which, apparently, she holds that

fiction has little concern.

Primarily, however, we are attracted by _Pride and Prejudice_ as a

work of art. The unfailing humour and pointed wit, the marvellous

aptness of every polished phrase, hold us spellbound. The very first

sentence plunges us right into the heart of affairs: every incident or

dialogue, to the closing page, follows without pause or digression,

clear and firm as crystal. No trace of obscurity or hesitation blurs

the gay scene: every character is vividly, and individually, alive.

Yet how simple, almost commonplace, the material: how parochial the

outlook. We have here no mystery or melodrama, no psychology or local

colour. Miss Austen’s young ladies have absolutely no interests in life

except “the men,” however superior their manners and instincts to the

egregious frivolity of Mrs. Bennet. They are the normal heroines of a

conventional love-story; with the usual surroundings--a handsome hero

or two, some tiresome relatives, a confidante, a mild villain, and

varied comic relief. It has been said further that Miss Austen’s ideal

of a gentleman was deficient, since Darcy’s insolence betrays lack of

breeding: and, certainly, no Elizabeth of to-day would even temporarily

be deceived or attracted by so common an adventurer as Wickham.

At a first glance, indeed, it might seem that Miss Austen depended

entirely for her effects upon the creation of oddities. Reflecting on

Lady Catherine and Mr. Collins, touching perfection, we may well fancy

that we have surprised her secret--the impulse of her achievement,

the cause of our own enthusiasm. This, however, is but a hasty and

superficial impression. To begin with, she does not concentrate,

either in wit or humour, upon these figures of fun: and, in the second

place, she has powers quite other than the mirth-provoking. Though

grammatically not above reproach, she seems always to use the right

word by instinct, hitting every nail full on the head, never wasting a

syllable. The art nowhere obtrudes itself: her most skilfully polished

phrases appear natural and fluent, just what her characters must have

said in real life, to express precisely their thoughts and feelings.

Faultlessly neat and compact, her style is yet daring, vigorous, and

thoroughly alive.

Similar qualities appear in her delineation of character. Always

knowing her own mind, and going straight to the point: there is no

vagueness in outline, no uncertainty anywhere. Jane Bennet could never

have said or done just what came most naturally from Elizabeth; Darcy

shared no thought or deed with his best friend: less prominent persons

are as firmly, if less fully, individualised. The incidents, moreover,

however trifling, are well varied; the plot has ample movement--once

those concerned in it have won our sympathies. Assuredly Miss Austen’s

aim is not strenuous; but it is direct, vigorous, and clear-headed.

And where she aims, she hits.

_Sense and Sensibility_ reveals the very same method and the

reappearance of many similar types, applied to an entirely new story in

which no interest or situation repeats those of the earlier book. With

her daring indifference to originality in the mechanical construction

of a plot, Miss Austen once more centres her story round two sisters,

more widely diverse in temperament, indeed, than Jane and Elizabeth,

but no less everything to each other. Their mother, after the way of

parents in these novels, is as foolish as Mrs. Bennet, though far

more lovable. Willoughby is Wickham over again, with a fancy for

accomplishments. The tragi-comedy introduced by Lucy Steele, more

_essentially_ vulgar than any of the Bennets, Mrs. Palmer’s candid

frivolity, and the languid elegance of Lady Middleton (later perfected

in Lady Bertram), provide abundant occasion for laughter; though no

one figure of absurdity stands out so strongly as those of the earlier

novel. On the other hand, Miss Austen has nowhere exposed a character

more trenchantly by one short dialogue than in the discussion

between Mr. and Mrs. John Dashwood about “what he could do for” his

widowed mother and orphaned sisters. It were surely impossible for

selfish hypocrisy to go further; and the subtle touches by which the

wife reveals herself leader of the pair, must afford us the keenest

enjoyment.

But this tale of Marianne and her Willoughby has one element entirely

absent from _Pride and Prejudice_, and never again attempted by Jane

Austen. It may be said to border on melodrama. The young people’s

ingenuous revels in emotion, whether of joy or grief, surprise one

in so balanced a writer, and reveal powers we should not otherwise

have suspected. Marianne, indeed, is the very personification of

that sensibility, so dear to “elegant females” of the old world, so

foreign to modern ideals. Having chosen her type, Miss Austen would

seem determined to show how far she could go in this direction without

distorting humanity. To the more conventional Miss Burney, sensibility

was a grace essential in heroines. She is its acknowledged exponent,

and compels us, despite prejudice, to recognise its real charm. But

neither Evelina nor Cecilia exhibits so much naïveté as Marianne, such

tempestuous abandon, such a fiery glow; yet we can read of her with

equal patience, we can love her no less. She is saved, for us, by her

genuine affection for “sensible” Eleanor, and her unselfish devotion

to a mother who seems even younger and more foolish than herself.

And Willoughby’s temperament fits her like a glove. His wooing, his

wickedness, and his repentance belong to a generation before Miss

Austen’s. Through this couple she triumphs in otherwise unexplored

regions.

_Northanger Abbey_ has very much the appearance of juvenile effort,

possibly recast in maturity. If not actually written in girlhood, it

must be regarded as the flower of a true holiday spirit, blossoming

in sheer fun. Fresh from the excited perusal of some novel by the

terrifying Anne Radcliffe, whom I believe Miss Austen enjoyed as

keenly as her own Catherine, she must have thrown herself into the

composition of this delightful parody, just to renew its thrills,

to linger over its absurdities. It is all pure farce, exaggeration

cheerfully unrestrained. The irrepressible Arabella belongs to Miss

Burney: her boasting brother should hang in the same gallery. Dear,

foolish Catherine’s idle imaginings about General Tilney were never

meant to resemble nature. Henry could scarcely have forgiven them, had

he taken her quite seriously. Moreover, having one parody in hand,

Miss Austen gaily embarks on yet another, no less irresponsible and

spontaneous. Catherine is Evelina in miniature; the real _ingénue_

whose country breeding exposes her to the most diverting distresses

in a Society amazingly mixed. Hovering between Thorpes and Tilneys,

like Evelina between Mirvans and Branghtons, she enters each circle

with the same innocence, enthusiasm, and naïveté. Miss Austen’s sly

boast of originality in allowing her heroine to fall in love without

stopping to ascertain “the gentleman’s feelings,” is but gentle

raillery at a similar presumption in Miss Burney. Certainly Orville, no

less than Tilney, was led on to serious thoughts of matrimony by the

simple-minded revelation of a pretty girl’s partiality.

Where a laugh lurks behind every sentence, we need not expect the

special “studies in humour” which stand out, everywhere, in the more

serious stories. Yet General Tilney (later perfected in Sir Walter

Elliot) is a finished sketch: while John Thorpe, who never opens his

lips without betraying himself; and Arabella, whether in pursuit of the

“two young men” or quizzing the naughty Captain, were hard to beat.

Nowhere, in all her work, has Miss Austen concentrated such pungent

sarcasm as in the condescending explanation of how much folly

reasonable men _prefer_ in lovely women.

“The advantages of natural folly in a beautiful girl have been already

set forth by the capital pen of a sister author; and to her treatment

of the subject I will only add, in justice to men, that though to the

larger and more trifling part of the sex, imbecility in females is a

great enhancement of their personal charms, there is a portion of them

too reasonable, and too well informed themselves, to desire anything