All art is the expression of an individuality, and environment has
some influence on genius. Without question _Evelina_ and _Cecilia_ owe
much to the accidents of Miss Burney’s own experience. Hers, indeed,
was an eventful, almost romantic, life. To-day we only remember Dr.
Burney as the father of Fanny; but he was a man of mark in his own
generation, and his industrious enthusiasm was obviously infectious.
Fanny was not early distinguished among his clever children, and we
must conclude that she had something of that delicate refinement
granted her heroines, making her rather shy and diffident among the
mixed gatherings in which he took such pride and delight. As one of
her sisters remarked, this lack of self-confidence gave her at times
the appearance of hauteur; and it is quite obvious that no suspicions
could have been aroused in any of them of her capacity for “taking
notes.” Hers was always the quiet corner where “the old lady,” as
they called her at home, could observe the quality, occasionally
join in a spirited conversation, and--after her own fashion--enjoy
“the diversions.” Her characteristics, says fourteen-year-old Susan,
“seem to be sense, sensibility, and bashfulness, even to prudery.” It
would be kinder, perhaps, to credit her with modesty such as we find
expressed in her own account of _Evelina; or, A Young Lady’s Entrance
into the World_:
“Perhaps this may seem rather a bold attempt and title for a female
whose knowledge of the world is very confined, and whose inclinations,
as well as situation, incline her to a private and domestic life. All
I can urge is, that I have only presumed to trace the accidents and
adventures to which a ‘young woman’ is liable; I have not pretended to
shew the world what it actually is, but what it _appears_ to a young
girl of seventeen: and so far as that, surely any girl who is past
seventeen may safely do? The motto of my excuse shall be taken from
Pope’s _Temple of Fame_:
‘In every work, regard the author’s end;
None e’er can compass more than they intend.’”
How far she had actually experienced adventures, or at least met
characters, similar to those of her novel, her entertaining Diaries
most abundantly illustrate. One is almost ashamed before the enthusiasm
which, between domesticities considered becoming a lady, secretarial
work for Dr. Burney, and voluminous letters to her faithful friend
Daddy Crisp, the authoress accomplished so much in so comparatively
short a period.
For she had not only to “scribble” _Evelina_, but to copy it all out in
a feigned upright hand. It was natural enough that Lowndes, bookseller,
should have refused to publish without the whole manuscript, but
equally natural that she should complain:
“This man, knowing nothing of my situation, supposed, in all
probability, that I could sit quietly at my bureau, and write on with
expedition and ease, till the work was finished. But so different
was the case, that I had hardly time to write half a page a day;
and neither my health nor inclination would allow me to continue my
_nocturnal_ scribbling for so long a time, as to write first, and then
copy, a whole volume. I was therefore obliged to give the attempt and
affair entirely over for the present.”
Genius, of course, would not be stifled; and, in the end, she completed
her work within the year, gaily accepting the payment of £20 down for
the copyright, to which the publisher added £10 when its success was
assured by a sale of 2300 copies during 1778.
Frances Burney became immediately the pet of Society. The diaries
of this period are crowded with records of flattery which may seem
extravagant, if not ludicrous, to modern reticence; and she has been
criticised for repeating them. Yet for us it is fortunate that there
were “two or three persons,” for whom her diaries were written, “to
whom her fame gave the purest and most exquisite delight.” They have
become history, and, as Macaulay remarks, “nothing can be more unjust
than to confound these outpourings of a kind heart, sure of perfect
sympathy, with the egotism of a blue-stocking who prates to all who
come near her about her own novel or her own volume of sonnets.”
The fact is that, by a comparison with the Early Diaries, we may feel
confident that Miss Burney was never spoilt by popularity. Inevitably
she came out of the shade, talked more as she was more often singled
out for compliments or conversation; but there is no appearance
of conceit, and little increase in self-confidence. The youthful
simplicity of her work remains her prevailing characteristic; and the
slight maturity of _Cecilia_, not always an advantage, is obviously no
more than a desire to please. It is not her own sense of dignity in
authorship, but the pride of Crisp and the affection of Dr. Johnson
which stimulates the effort. Always “instinct with the proprieties and
the delicacies implanted by careful guardians,”[16] it was her business
to “describe the world as it seems to a woman utterly preoccupied with
the thought of how she seems to the world,” to picture man “simply
and solely as a member of a family.” One recognises the limit and
single-mindedness of her aim, in her reason for abandoning drama.
She found she could not “preserve spirit and salt, and yet keep up
delicacy.”
We are all familiar enough to-day with the cruelty of the reward by
which foolish persons thought to acknowledge her prowess. The five
years’ imprisonment at Court, though it could not ultimately tame her
spirit, brought about temporary physical wreck, and seems to have
lulled for ever the desire for literary fame. We have endeavoured to
show, in an earlier chapter, that _Camilla_ is not entirely without
significance; but there can be no question that after her marriage she
wrote only for money, and, if not without individuality, yet, as it
were, to order and by rule.
We are concerned here only with her earlier years, when she was the
replica of her own heroines.
The real character of Miss Austen almost defies analysis. Contemporary
evidence, of any discrimination, is practically non-existent; her life
presents no outstanding adventure; and it is very dangerous to assume
identity between any expression in the novels and her experience or
opinion. As a matter of fact, she never even states a truth, exhibits
an emotion, or judges a case except by implication. Even the apparent
generalisations or author’s comments on life are really attuned to the
atmosphere of the particular novel in which they appear.
“It is a truth universally acknowledged,” we read, “that a single
man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.” Miss
Austen knows better. She is perfectly aware of the perverseness often
exhibited by wealthy bachelors. The sentence is no more than a most
ingenious stroke of art. It plunges us at once into the atmosphere
of Meryton and the subject of the tale. It betrays Mrs. Bennet and,
in a lesser degree, Lady Lucas. It prepares us for her vulgarity, at
once distressing, and elevating by contrast, the refinement of Jane
and Elizabeth. Never surely did a novel open with a paragraph so
suggestive. Again, the first page of _Mansfield Park_ contains a phrase
of similar significance. The author remarks: “There certainly are not
so many men of large fortune in the world as there are pretty women
to deserve them.” Again, she is not speaking in her own person. Lady
Bertram felt this--so far as she ever formed an opinion for herself.
Mrs. Norris and Mrs. Price had personal experience of its truth. The
subtle irony reveals _their_ point of view, not Miss Austen’s.
It requires, of course, no particular subtlety to trace from her novels
the type of character she approves and loves best, her general standard
of manners and conduct, and her scorn for hypocrisy. We have even
hazarded to affirm evidence for her opinions on one or two questions of
more importance. But they do _not_ reveal her personality in detail;
and to say, with her nephew, that she possessed all the charms of all
her heroines, would be to make her inhuman.
There is, in fact, an undiscriminating conventionality about such
descriptions as we possess which gives us no real information. We are
told, for example, that
“her carriage and deportment were quiet, yet graceful. Her features
were separately good. Their assemblage produced an unrivalled
expression of that cheerfulness, sensibility, and benevolence
which were her real characteristics. Her complexion was of the
finest texture. It might with truth be said that her eloquent blood
spoke through her modest cheek. Her voice was extremely sweet. She
delivered herself with fluency and precision. Indeed, she was formed
for elegant and rational society, excelling in conversation as much
as in composition. In the present age it is hazardous to mention
accomplishments. Our authoress would, probably, have been inferior
to few in such acquirements had she not been so superior to most in
higher things.”
It would seem as if the writer were really intent on describing
perfection.
And _yet_, we are convinced personally that Miss Austen had a peculiar
charm of her own. Undoubtedly she lived among persons as empty-headed
as those she has immortalised; probably she had met Mrs. Norris,
Mr. Elton, and Mr. Collins: apparently she was happy. No doubt her
devotion to Cassandra (suggesting her partiality for sister-heroines)
counted for much; and all her family were agreeable. They had a good
deal of “sense.” Her life provided even less variety of incident than
she discovered at Longbourn or Uppercross; and, if she was fond of
reading, she knew nothing about literature. Her letters do not suggest
the uneasiness attached to the possession of a soul--as we moderns
understand it.
Yet one point merits attention and may partially reveal. There can
be no question that the very breath of her art is satire, and she is
at times even cynical. Yet the one thing we know positively of her
private life is that she was a favourite aunt, a devoted sister, a
sympathetic daughter. Now the child-lover, beloved of children, must
possess certain qualities, which prove that her cynicism was not
ingrained, misanthropic, or pessimistic; that her pleasure in fun was
neither ill-natured nor unsympathetic. There must have been strength
of character in two directions not often united. Her life was, in a
measure, isolated--from superiority. She gave more than she received.
Nor can we believe her entirely unaware of what life might have yielded
her in more equal companionship; entirely without bitterness--for
example--in the invention of Mrs. Norris. There can be no question,
we think, that life never awakened the real Jane Austen. She lived
absolutely in, and for, her art, of which the delight to her was
supreme. Yet family tradition declares, with obvious truth, that her
genius never tempted her to arrogance, affectation, or selfishness.
She worked in the family sitting-room, writing on slips of paper that
could immediately, without bustle or parade, be slipped _inside_ her
desk at the call of friendship or courtesy. At any moment she suffered
interruption without protest. The absolute self-command so obvious in
the work governed her life.
But we have always believed that one passage in _Pride and Prejudice_
does give us a suggestive glimpse--again only by implication--of very
real autobiography:
“‘You are a great deal too apt,’ says Eliza to Jane Bennet, ‘to like
people in general. You never see a fault in anybody. All the world
are good and agreeable in your eyes. I never heard you speak ill of a
human being in my life.’
“‘I would not wish to be hasty in censuring anyone,’ answers Jane,
‘but I always speak what I think.’
“‘I know you do, and it is _that_ which makes the wonder. With _your_
good sense, to be so honestly blind to the follies and nonsense
of others. Affectation of candour is common enough--one meets it
everywhere. But to be candid without ostentation or design--to take
the good of everybody’s character and make it still better, and say
nothing of the bad--belongs to you alone.’”
This is, we like to fancy, a portrait of her own sister, Cassandra.
Jane Austen herself was _not_ “a great deal too apt to like people in
general,” though she too could be marvellously tender with Marianne
Dashwood, most “silly” of heroines, and her still more ridiculous
mother. It is certain, indeed, that she never neglected even the most
tiresome “neighbours,” but she did not love them. There is evidence
enough in _Persuasion_ that she could sympathise with deep feelings,
which were necessarily suppressed in such surroundings as she gives all
her heroines, and had experienced herself.
Her reverend father, “the handsome proctor,” like most clergymen of his
generation, was essentially a country gentleman, not very much better
educated, and scarcely more strenuous, than his neighbours. His wife
took a simple and honest pride in the management of her household;
and his sons followed their father’s footsteps, entered the navy,
or pursued whatever other profession they could most _conveniently_
enter. The whole atmosphere of the vicarage was complacently material
and old-fashioned, where the ideas of progress filtered slowly and
discontent was far from being considered divine. The personal aloofness
from characters delineated, so conspicuous in her art, was borrowed
from life. Everywhere, and always, the real Jane stood aside.
Nor were there granted her any of the consolations of culture. We have
no doubt that she received no more education than might be acquired at
Mrs. Goddard’s:
“A school, not a seminary, or an establishment, or anything which
professed, in long sentences of refined nonsense, to combine liberal
acquirements with elegant morality, upon new principles and new
systems--and where young ladies, for enormous pay, might be screwed
out of health and into vanity--but a real, honest, old-fashioned
boarding-school, where a reasonable quantity of accomplishments were
sold at a reasonable price, and where girls might be sent out of the
way and scramble themselves into a little education, without any
danger of coming back prodigies.”
It needed, perhaps, some such unromantic, unruffled, and unvaried
existence, with a mind perfectly composed, to produce those six
flawless works of art which remain for us the most complete
expression of good sense, the most complete triumph over the fanciful
exaggerations of romance. Genius alone could adjust the balance with
such nicety and leave us content. She forces us, by sheer wit and
sympathy, to love and admire the very persons of all time and place who
have in themselves least to interest or attract.
The character of Charlotte Brontë, like her work, brings us at once
into a new atmosphere. All here is emotionally strenuous, if not
melodramatic. The bleak parsonage, the stern widowed father, the
vicious son, the three wonderful sisters: around and about them the
mysteries of _Wuthering Heights_. The picture of those lonely girls,
all the world to each other and nothing to the world, dreaming and
scribbling in the cold, without sympathy and without guidance, is
stamped for ever on our imagination. We know something, moreover, from
_Jane Eyre_, about their cruel experience of schooldays, something,
from _Agnes Grey_, about their noble efforts at independence. Finally,
we have studied and talked over “the Secret”--supposed to reconcile
work and life. As to the main outlines of temperament, at any rate,
there can be no question.
Charlotte Brontë’s experience of life was strictly limited: she had
little interest about the trivialities of the tea-table. But she
observed keenly, had a tenacious memory, and felt with intensity.
Without hardness or conceit, she was entirely self-centred: there is no
aloofness about her work: it centres passionately around the heroine,
reflecting her own emotional outlook. She took life seriously, like
her heroines: acutely sensitive to words and looks; caring nothing for
what did not personally affect her. No doubt there is something Irish,
something too of the grim moorlands, in that mysterious instinct which
fired Charlotte, and her sisters, to their perpetual questionings of
Providence, their burning protests against the harshness and hypocrisy
of the world. Circumstances stifle them and they must speak. Speaking,
they must strike.
Charlotte Brontë, indeed, lived almost as much aside from the world
as Jane Austen. But Haworth was not Stevenage: the Rev. Patrick was
certainly not a “handsome proctor,” and Bramwell could never have risen
in “the Service.” It was in nature, however, that the contrast is most
marked. The author of _Jane Eyre_, however shy and unsociable, was
not content to stand aloof and look on. With little enough experience
of actualities, she was for ever _making life_ for herself, sending
that plain, visionary, eager, and sensitive ego of hers out into the
world; and uttering with fiery eloquence her comments on what she
imagined herself to have done and seen. Until recently, indeed, we have
supposed that even the heart of her work, that passionate devotion
which she was the first of women to reveal, was entirely imaginative,
an _invention_ created without guidance from personal experience.
Now evidence has been published which scarcely permits doubt; that
whereas, obviously, her pupil-teacherdom at Brussels widened her
social outlook, it also awoke her heart. Charlotte Brontë, evidently,
fell in love with the “Professor” at the Pensionnat Heger; and thus
gained the memory of passion. But it may be reasonably questioned,
after all, whether the experience did much for her art. Since Monsieur
Heger, no less certainly, did not return her love, and seldom even
answered her letters, he could not have taught her the mysteries; and
as, like her heroines, she was fatally addicted to exaggeration--in
love or hate--it is not probable that her heroes--or ideal men--bear
any very real likeness to him in character. After all, she practically
“invented” him, as independent witnesses have established; and the
accident of her idealisations centring about a living man is not
particularly significant. Her attitude, and that of her heroines,
towards mankind in general, and towards “the man” in particular, is
really woven out of a strong imagination: and the essence of her being
remains a dreamer’s. _Jane Eyre_ and _Villette_ are, transparently,
the work of one who created her own world for herself only; and we
need not modify this impression from any letters of hers ever printed
or written. Emotionally she was nourished on her own thoughts; and,
in her case, we may read them fearlessly in her work. It was not her
nature to suppress, or conceal, anything. _She has put herself on
record._ Here lies the essential difference between her work and Miss
Burney’s or Jane Austen’s. While they reflected, with almost unruffled
enjoyment, the surface of life, she tore off the wrappings and revealed
a Soul. That, too, was of her very self. She had missed everything that
mattered. It was at once her consolation and her revenge to project
herself into the heart of life, and tell the tale.
The character and experience of George Eliot is far more complex, like
her achievement, than that of those who preceded her. Like them, bred
in retirement, though among more strenuous surroundings, her youth
gave her also much insight into what life means to “small” people. But
there was a strong religious atmosphere around her, accident gave her
the early control of affairs, and her education--of a later date--was
more thorough. Then came the stirring of doubt, from associations with
sceptics; the professional training from practical journalism; and the
“problem” evoked by her friendship with George Henry Lewes. Life was
training her for modern work.
The intense seriousness, the active conscience of primitive faith,
remained always with her, influencing characterisation. But it was
the wider teachings of philosophy, the later experiences, and the
conscious desire after advance that made her didactic. Her letters
reveal an unexpected sentimentalism and an intense craving for personal
affection; her teachings are all interpreted by what she has read, or
inspired by men she has met; but they are in touch with real life and
directed by real thought. It was her personal experience and character
which enabled George Eliot to combine the “manners” comedy of Fanny
Burney and Jane Austen with Miss Brontë’s moral campaign; to weld the
message of woman into modernity.
She was, however, before all things, a professional student of
humanity. Though she actually commenced novelist at a comparatively
advanced age, the previous years, and every item of character, had
been a training for this work. She observed with accuracy, remembered
without effort, and studiously cultivated her natural literary
powers. Emotionally and intellectually she got the most out of life;
never, perhaps, quite letting herself go, but keenly alive to every
impression, on the alert for experience and information. It was not in
her ever to let things alone.
Such a temperament, of course, does not produce either spontaneous fun,
sleepless humour, or unbridled self-torment; but it acquires the power
of responding to all human difficulties, understanding the “problem” of
life, and sympathising in its beauty and joy. George Eliot was always
pondering about truth, considering the remedies for evil, looking
forward towards progress. Her own experience was utilised freely, with
an instinct for dramatic effect, but it is not the whole body of her
work. That was a deliberately composed art, put out as an instrument
for a given purpose, studied and ornamented. But while thus nurtured
and apart, it is also the expression of herself, the sum of her being.
Therein, like an actress, she plays many parts, putting on the mood of
each new story and living in it.
She is, in fact, a typical woman of letters, as we now understand the
term, with all the excellences and all the limitations of even the
greatest among us.