In spite of the almost universal inclination to pass over Jane Austen’s
“minor” works without serious comment, we are ourselves strongly
disposed to consider _Lady Susan_ of considerable importance.
The early compositions, if sprightly, are not precocious: the cancelled
chapter of _Persuasion_--replaced only eleven months before her death
by chaps. x. and xi.--remains an interesting record of what would
have fully satisfied a less careful artist; and the description--with
extracts--which Mr. Austen-Leigh has given us of the novel begun on
27th January 1817 and continued until the 17th of March,[6] does not
contain body enough for confident anticipation: _i.e._ of detail. There
is, however, no reason for dreading any decline in artistic power.
Water-marks of 1803 and 1804 on the original manuscript prove _The
Watsons_ to have been written between her two periods of productive
activity; and it is not likely that definite evidence will now
transpire in explanation of its having been left unfinished: unless we
accept Mr. Austen-Leigh’s somewhat fastidious conclusion--
“that the author became aware of the evil of having placed her heroine
too low, in such a position of poverty and obscurity as, though not
necessarily connected with vulgarity, has a sad tendency to degenerate
into it; and therefore, like a singer who has begun on too low a
note, she discontinued the strain. It was an error of which she was
likely to become more sensible, as she grew older, and saw more of
society: certainly she never repeated it by placing the heroine of any
subsequent work under circumstances likely to be unfavourable to the
refinement of a lady.”[7]
Her nephew further remarks that “it could not have been broken up for
the purpose of using the materials in another fabric”; although, in his
opinion, a resemblance between Mr. Robert Watson and Mr. Elton is “very
discernible.” We might also observe that Mr. Watson appears to have
taken his “basin of gruel” as regularly as Mr. Woodhouse; while, on
the other hand, Lord Osborne’s affected superiority to dancing recalls
Darcy. Miss Watson’s theories on life and marriage are particularly
characteristic:
“I would rather do anything than be a teacher at a school. _I_ have
been at school, Emma, and know what a life they lead; _you_ never
have. I should not like marrying a disagreeable man any more than
yourself; but I do not think there _are_ many very disagreeable men; I
think I could like any good-humoured man with a comfortable income. I
suppose my aunt brought you up to be rather refined.”
Emma Watson, in fact, like all Jane Austen’s heroines, shines by
_comparison_ with the rest of her family.
_Lady Susan_, unlike any of the stories mentioned above, is obviously
complete and finished. “Her family have always believed it to be an
early production”; but we cannot conjecture why it was laid aside
and never published by her. It is, however, an “experiment”--never
repeated; and very possibly Jane Austen did not feel moved to revise
what evidently had not satisfied her own standard of perfection.
For us, however, its striking dissimilarity to the six recognised
“works,” and its unique position in the development of fiction, are of
peculiar interest. To begin with, it belongs to the old “picaresque”
school of fiction, seldom popular in England, though practised with
considerable vigour by Defoe, and _once_ revived by Thackeray in a work
of genius--_Barry Lyndon_.
It may, perhaps, be considered an exaggeration to call the heroine a
villain; and certainly Jane Austen entirely avoids the sordid material
of criminal adventure (_not_ scorned by Thackeray); which is the
recognised foundation of ordinary picaresque work. But the essential
characteristic remains prominent. The good people are comparatively
colourless; our interest centres around _Lady Susan_, and it is on her
that the author has devoted her most careful work. Moreover, it should
not be overlooked that _Lady Susan_ does contemplate, and actually
instigate--in refined language--a course of action which may fairly be
called criminal. The confidante, Mrs. Johnson--a recognised appendage
to villainy--receives the following significant hint:
“Mainwaring is more devoted to me than ever; and were we at liberty, I
doubt if I could resist even matrimony offered by _him_. This event,
if his wife live with you, it may be in your power to hasten. The
violence of her feelings, which must wear her out, may easily be kept
in irritation. _I rely on your friendship for this._”
The quiet audacity of this paragraph is really astounding; and just
because no other word in all the forty-one letters contains so much as
a hint at anything beyond unblushing effrontery and reckless lying, we
regard it, without hesitation, as the keynote of Jane Austen’s method,
and the declaration of her aim. Only a villain could possibly have
written these words; only a genius could have refrained from giving her
away on some other occasion.
Superficially, Lady Susan is no worse than a merry widow, given to
man conquest, perfectly indifferent--if not contemptuous--towards the
wives or the fiancées of her victims. In this matter, indeed, her
enemies complain that “she does not confine herself to that sort of
honest flirtation which satisfies most people, but aspires to the more
delicious gratification of making a whole family miserable.” During
the first months of widowhood she had determined on “discretion” and
being “as quiet as possible”:--“I have admitted no one’s attentions but
Mainwaring’s. I have avoided _all general flirtation_ whatever; I have
distinguished no creature besides, of all the numbers resorting hither,
except Sir John Martin, on whom I bestowed a little notice, in order
to detach him from Miss Mainwaring; but, if the world could know my
motive _there_ they would honour me”;--the fact being that she wanted
the man for her daughter.
This “most accomplished coquette in England” is described with some
fullness by a sister-in-law who had every reason to think ill of her.
“She is really excessively pretty; however you may choose to question
the allurements of a lady no longer young, I must, for my own part,
declare that I have seldom seen so lovely a woman as Lady Susan.
She is delicately fair, with fine grey eyes and dark eyelashes; and
from her appearance one would not suppose her more than five and
twenty; though she must in fact be ten years older. I was certainly
not disposed to admire her, though always hearing she was beautiful;
but I cannot help feeling that she possesses an uncommon union of
symmetry, brilliancy, and grace. Her address to me was so gentle,
frank, and even affectionate, that, if I had not known how much she
has always disliked me for marrying Mr. Vernon, and that we had never
met before, I should have imagined her an attached friend. One is
apt, I believe, to connect assurance of manner with coquetry, and to
expect that an impudent address will naturally attend an impudent
mind; at least, I myself was prepared for an improper degree of
confidence in Lady Susan; but her countenance is absolutely sweet,
and her voice and manner winningly mild. I am sorry it is so, for
what is this but deceit? Unfortunately, one knows her too well. She
is clever and agreeable, has all that knowledge of the world which
makes conversation easy, and talks very well, with a happy command of
language, which is too often used, I believe, to make black appear
white.”
Such being the lady’s own manners and sentiments, we are fully prepared
for her satirical references to her daughter:
“I never saw a girl of her age”--she was sixteen--“bid fairer to be
the sport of mankind. Her feelings are tolerably acute, and she is so
charmingly artless in their display as to afford the most reasonable
hope of her being ridiculous, and despised by every man who sees her.
Artlessness will never do in love-matters; and that girl is born a
simpleton who has it either by nature or affectation.”
It is hardly necessary to add that Lady Susan has no desire, or
ambition, in life beyond universal admiration. She is “tempted” indeed,
but does not on one occasion lose her head: and we cannot feel that
she was even exactly pre-eminent in her practice. It does not appear
that she quite succeeded in ever enjoying the fruits of victory. Miss
Austen has not drawn for us a really “cunning” coquette. Lady Susan
subdued men, but she could seldom hold them; and on no occasion does
she conquer “circumstances,” _i.e._, other women.
There may be, obviously, three explanations of this fact. Either Jane
Austen was lacking in the more robust humour of Thackeray and his
predecessors, who seem to revel in the gaiety of the heartless; or she
recognised the limitations of country life, where the artificial can
never prosper for long; or she had, in her own quiet way, too much
principle to countenance, even in fiction, any permanent happiness for
the wicked.
However it be, the result is unique. Lady Susan stands alone as a
heroine. As we have seen, the full depths of her criminality lurk
beneath the surface: her power is rather hinted at than described. It
is only on looking back over the accumulation of slight touches and
chance words that we realise her astounding insincerity, her absolute
lack of feeling, or the brilliance of her superficial attractiveness.
It is a very short book, containing few characters and practically no
events; yet we are startled, on reflection, at its unsparing picture
of the incalculable amount of mischief that may be done by sheer
empty-headedness, entirely without strong feeling or passion; and of
the incredible isolation in which such a character must always live.
Lady Susan injures, in some degree, literally every person named
in the whole story. She has not a friend in the world. In reality,
perhaps, the last consideration indicates most clearly the virtue
in Miss Austen’s characterisation. It is not once even mentioned,
and, consequently, arouses no remark. We must deduct from it our own
observation. But, inasmuch as never for one instant does a single
thought for anyone but herself cross the mind of Lady Susan, so never
does anyone else show one spark of affection for her. Mrs. Johnson,
obviously, was governed by interested motives, and frankly abandons her
at the first serious danger of “the consequences” to herself. The kind
of devotion she inspired in men had no affinity to friendship, respect,
consideration, or unselfishness. The closing scene is described with
a cutting brevity, that recalls Miss Austen’s dismissal of Maria
Rushworth and Mrs. Norris.
She married the man designed for her daughter--for an establishment:
“Whether Lady Susan was or was not happy in her second choice, I
do not see how it can ever be ascertained; for who would take her
assurance of it on either side of the question? The world must judge
from probabilities; she had nothing against her but her husband, and
her conscience.”
As we have noticed before, Miss Austen seldom obtrudes her opinions,
but they are occasionally implied. And, on such occasions, they are
unhesitating. We find in her no doubt, no compromise--we might almost
say no charity--about a few questions of ultimate morality.
On the whole, however, we cannot claim for _Lady Susan_ all those
perfections of style associated with the genius of its author.
Save for a few turns of phrase, of which we have quoted the most
significant, it has little of her pointed epigram or subtle humour.
The language is equally finished and inevitable, but there is neither
sparkle nor gaiety. We miss the dialogue and the delicate variety in
characterisation. It would be hazardous, indeed, to suppose that anyone
could have “discovered” Jane Austen from Lady Susan; but, knowing her
other work, we can detect the mastery.
In conclusion, it is worth noticing that she has here given us some
insight into the constancy of man.
Reginald de Courcy had been a victim of Lady Susan’s. After her second
marriage, her daughter
“Frederika was fixed in the family of her uncle and aunt till such
time as Reginald de Courcy could be talked, flattered, and finessed
into an affection for her which, allowing leisure for the conquest
of his attachment to her mother, for his abjuring all future
attachments, and detesting the sex, _might be reasonably looked for
in a twelvemonth_. Three months might have done it in general, but
Reginald’s feelings were no less lasting than lively.”
It will be remembered that Miss Austen is less explicit about Edmund
Bertram:
“I purposely abstain from dates on this occasion, that every one may
be at liberty to fix their own, aware that the cure of unconquerable
passions, and the transfer of unchanging attachments, must vary much
as to time in different people. I only entreat everybody to believe
that exactly at the time when it was quite natural that it should
be so, and not a week earlier, Edmund did cease to care about Miss
Crawford, and became as anxious to marry Fanny as Fanny herself could
desire.”
On the other hand, Marianne Dashwood required two years to conquer
her devotion to Willoughby in favour of Colonel Brandon; but then Miss
Austen has claimed for her sex, through Anne Elliot, “the privilege of
loving longest, when existence, or when hope, is gone.”