reasons why her perception of human nature was so keen and accurate
in the matters which fell under her observation. Her novels contain
no extraordinary types nor incidents, but she makes the most of the
average and the commonplace, which become more than usually interesting
under her treatment. He who reads “Pride and Prejudice” will get a
faithful picture, not only of English country life, but of a great
deal that belongs to life everywhere. None of the characters are
exaggerated; they are entirely human and natural. The conversation is
not too brilliant to be lifelike. When bright things are said they are
introduced in a spontaneous and almost inevitable manner. All through
the book we recognize in the author a quiet yet acute observer of
actual occurrences, who has culled largely from her own recollection
many of the most attractive incidents and has grouped them together
with simple yet effective art. The satire is so unobtrusive that
sometimes it appears unconscious.
The Bennet household is well described. “Mr. Bennet was so odd a
mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humor, reserve, and caprice, that
the experience of three and twenty years had been insufficient to make
his wife understand his character. Her mind was less difficult to
develop. She was a woman of mean understanding, little information,
and uncertain temper. When she was discontented she fancied herself
nervous. The business of her life was to get her daughters married; its
solace was visiting and news.”
And again: “Her husband was very little otherwise indebted to her than
as her ignorance and folly contributed to his amusement. This is not
the sort of happiness which a man would in general wish to owe to his
wife, but where other powers of entertainment are wanting, the true
philosopher will derive benefit from such as are given.”
There are five daughters in the family, whose characters are
excellently set off by comparison with one another,--Jane, the eldest,
beautiful, gracious, kindly, sweet-tempered, always believing the
best of everybody; Elizabeth, high-spirited, brilliant, and decidedly
the most attractive, although by no means so charitable as her sister
in her judgment of others. The three other sisters, Mary, Kitty, and
Lydia, are as empty-headed as their mother. Lydia, the youngest, in
particular, is a wild, giddy girl, continually running after the
officers with their fine coats.
The book deals with a society where woman’s sole resource is
matrimony, and through the entire story there runs a great deal of talk
of catching a husband, and of schemes for this purpose. The silly Mrs.
Bennet flings her daughters, in the most transparent way, first at one
man and then another, much to the mortification of Jane and Elizabeth.
It appears that Mr. Bingley, a young, unmarried, and wealthy gentleman,
has recently taken the estate of Netherfield, and moves into the
neighborhood, bringing with him his two sisters, women of selfish and
supercilious character. His friend Darcy, the proprietor of the large
estate of Pemberly, in Derbyshire, also accompanies him. The book opens
with the following sentence:
“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in
possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. However
little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his
first entering a neighborhood, this truth is so well fixed in the
minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered as the
rightful property of some one or other of their daughters.”
The partiality of Bingley for Jane is soon apparent, but the young man
is hurried away from Netherfield by his sisters and his friend Darcy,
who desires to preserve him from an undesirable connection. By mutual
misunderstandings Jane and he are kept apart until near the close of
the book, and the main interest in the story centers around Darcy
and Elizabeth. Darcy’s manner is proud, cold, and disagreeable, and
Elizabeth resents his conduct in a lively and spirited fashion, which
renders her all the more attractive in his eyes. She hears, however,
from Wickham, a young officer in the militia, of his evil conduct in
disregarding his father’s wishes and depriving this companion of his
boyhood of a living, which he had been recommended by his father’s will
to bestow upon Wickham.
Mr. Collins, a young clergyman who has inherited by entail the
reversion of Longbourn, the Bennet property, visits the Bennet
household, resolving to marry one of the daughters--any one of them
will do; and on learning that Jane is likely to be disposed of, he
at once transfers his suit to Elizabeth. He is a formal, pompous,
ridiculous toady, filled with great awe of his patroness, Lady
Catherine De Bourgh. The manner in which he pays his addresses to
Elizabeth is related with delightful particularity:
“‘Almost as soon as I entered the house,’ [he says], ‘I singled
you out as the companion of my future life. But, before I am run
away with by my feelings on this subject, perhaps it will be
advisable for me to state my reasons for marrying--and, moreover,
for coming into Hertfordshire with the design of selecting a
wife, as I certainly did.’
“The idea of Mr. Collins, with all his solemn composure, being
run away with by his feelings, made Elizabeth so near laughing,
that she could not use the short pause he allowed in any attempt
to stop him further, and he continued:
“‘My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right
thing for every clergyman in easy circumstances (like myself)
to set the example of matrimony in his parish; secondly, that
I am convinced it will add very greatly to my happiness; and
thirdly--which, perhaps, I ought to have mentioned earlier,
that it is the particular advice and recommendation of the very
noble lady whom I have the honor of calling patroness. Twice has
she condescended to give me her opinion (unasked, too!) on this
subject; and it was but the very Saturday night before I left
Hunsford--between our pools at quadrille, while Mrs. Jenkinson
was arranging Miss De Bourgh’s footstool--that she said, ‘Mr.
Collins, you must marry. A clergyman like you must marry. Choose
properly, choose a gentlewoman, for _my_ sake; and for your
_own_, let her be an active, useful sort of person, not brought
up high, but able to make a small income go a good way. This
is my advice. Find such a woman as soon as you can, bring her
to Hunsford, and I will visit her.’ Allow me, by the way, to
observe, my fair cousin, that I do not reckon the notice and
kindness of Lady Catherine de Bourgh as among the least of the
advantages in my power to offer. You will find her manners beyond
anything I can describe; and your wit and vivacity I think must
be acceptable to her, especially when tempered with the silence
and respect which her rank will inevitably excite. Thus much
for my general intention in favor of matrimony; it remains to
be told why my views were directed to Longbourn instead of my
own neighborhood, where, I assure you, there are many amiable
young women. But, the fact is, that being as I am to inherit this
estate after the death of your honored father, (who, however,
may live many years longer), I could not satisfy myself without
resolving to choose a wife from among his daughters, that the
loss to them might be as little as possible, when the melancholy
event takes place--which, however, as I have already said, may
not be for several years. This has been my motive, my fair
cousin, and I flatter myself it will not sink me in your esteem.
And now, nothing remains for me but to assure you, in the most
animated language, of the violence of my affection. To fortune
I am perfectly indifferent, and shall make no demand of that
nature on your father, since I am well aware that it could not
be complied with; and that one thousand pounds in the four per
cents., which will not be yours till after your mother’s decease,
is all that you may ever be entitled to. On that head, therefore,
I shall be uniformly silent; and you may assure yourself that no
ungenerous reproach shall ever pass my lips when we are married.’
“It was absolutely necessary to interrupt him now.
“‘You are too hasty, sir,’ she cried. ‘You forget that I have
made no answer. Let me do it without further loss of time.
Accept my thanks for the compliment you are paying me. I am very
sensible of the honor of your proposals, but it is impossible for
me to do otherwise than decline them.’
“‘I am not now to learn,’ replied Mr. Collins, with a formal wave
of the hand, ‘that it is usual with young ladies to reject the
addresses of the man whom they secretly mean to accept, when he
first applies for their favor; and that sometimes the refusal is
repeated a second or even a third time. I am, therefore, by no
means discouraged by what you have just said, and shall hope to
lead you to the altar ere long.’
“‘Upon my word, sir,’ cried Elizabeth, ‘your hope is rather an
extraordinary one, after my declaration. I do assure you that I
am not one of those young ladies (if such young ladies there are)
who are so daring as to risk their happiness on the chance of
being asked a second time. I am perfectly serious in my refusal.
You could not make _me_ happy, and I am convinced that I am the
last woman in the world who would make _you_ so. Nay, were your
friend Lady Catherine to know me, I am persuaded she would find
me in every respect ill qualified for the situation.’
* * * * *
“‘You must give me leave to flatter myself, my dear cousin,
that your refusal of my addresses is merely a thing of course.
My reasons for believing it are briefly these:--It does not
appear to me that my hand is unworthy your acceptance, or that
the establishment I can offer would be any other than highly
desirable. My situation in life, my connections with the family
of De Bourgh, and my relationship to your own, are circumstances
highly in my favor; and you should take it into further
consideration that, in spite of your manifold attractions it is
by no means certain that another offer of marriage may ever be
made you. Your portion is unhappily so small, that it will in
all likelihood undo the effects of your loveliness and amiable
qualifications. As I must therefore conclude that you are not
serious in your rejection of me, I shall choose to attribute it
to your wish of increasing my love by suspense, according to the
usual practice of elegant females.’
“‘I do assure you, sir, that I have no pretensions whatever to
that kind of elegance which consists in tormenting a respectable
man. I would rather be paid the compliment of being believed
sincere. I thank you again and again for the honor you have
done me in your proposals, but to accept them is absolutely
impossible. My feelings in every respect forbid it. Can I speak
plainer? Do not consider me now as an elegant female intending to
plague you, but as a rational creature speaking the truth from
her heart.’
“‘You are uniformly charming!’ cried he, with an air of awkward
gallantry; ‘and I am persuaded that when sanctioned by the
express authority of both your excellent parents, my proposals
will not fail of being acceptable.’
“To such perseverance in wilful self-deception, Elizabeth
would make no reply, and immediately and in silence withdrew;
determined, that if he persisted in considering her repeated
refusals as flattering encouragement, to apply to her father,
whose negative might be uttered in such a manner as must be
decisive, and whose behavior at least could not be mistaken for
the affectation and coquetry of an elegant female.”
But after Collins is persuaded that he is rejected by Elizabeth, he at
once makes suit to her friend, Charlotte Lucas, and Charlotte, who has
an eye to the main chance, snaps up the foolish clergyman with little
ceremony, and, like many another woman under similar circumstances,
manages him adroitly and bears patiently and cheerfully her dull life
with him at the parsonage.
Elizabeth, while on a visit to her friend at this place, again sees
Darcy on several occasions. His manners are constrained; she dislikes
him heartily; and it is with the utmost surprise that she listens
at last to a confession of love, in which he declares that he has
struggled vainly, that his feelings will not be repressed, and in which
he speaks most inappropriately of his sense of her inferiority, of
the marriage being a degradation, and of the family obstacles which
judgment has always opposed to his inclination. She rejects him with
indignation, and reproaches him for separating his friend Bingley from
her sister, and for his unjust treatment of Wickham. He on his part
is astounded at her refusal, and the next morning places in her hand
a letter, explaining, with great candor and rather brutal frankness,
his motives for his action, and justifying very fully his treatment of
Wickham, whose bad character is clearly shown.
It is not long before Wickham elopes with the foolish Lydia, and lives
with her in hiding in London, but refuses to marry her. Darcy, without
the knowledge of any of the Bennet household, sets about to discover
the fugitives, and finally persuades Wickham to marry the girl, to whom
he gives a portion sufficient to make her an object of attraction to
her unprincipled lover.
These two characters, Darcy and Wickham, are not clearly described when
they are first introduced to us, and Elizabeth, the heroine, though she
is generally a shrewd observer, makes a serious mistake in estimating
their respective merits, a mistake that we would be very likely to make
ourselves under the same circumstances.
In the later chapters of the book Darcy overcomes his pride, and
Elizabeth her prejudice, Bingley and Jane are again brought together,
and the marriages of the two couples form a fitting conclusion for the
novel.
Perhaps the character of the Lady Catherine de Bourgh is the most
graphically drawn of any in the book. Her rank, her wealth, and
her arrogance make her the general adviser of the inferior race of
mortals whom she deigns to notice. She criticises every household
but her own, resents the expression of an opinion by any one except
herself, points out the mistakes of everyone else at the card tables,
constantly relates anecdotes of her personal experience, determines
what the weather is to be next day, finds fault with the employments
of her neighbors and the arrangement of their furniture, detects
their housemaids in negligence, impresses upon the young women of
her acquaintance that they will never play well unless they practice
more, etc., etc., etc. All her hospitality is attended by intolerable
dullness and ill-breeding. Her interview with Elizabeth, in which she
insolently directs that young woman not to marry Darcy, because she has
selected him for her own daughter, is drawn with a masterly hand, and,
as might be expected, her conduct turns out to be the very means of
reconciliation between those she would keep apart.
In the following letter of condolence sent by Mr. Collins to Lydia’s
father, after her elopement became known, the nature of the reverend
clergyman appears, unconsciously painted by his own hand far better
than it could be characterized by others:
“‘_My dear Sir_:
“‘I feel myself called upon, by our relationship, and my
situation in life, to condole with you on the grievous affliction
you are now suffering under, of which we were yesterday informed
by a letter from Hertfordshire. Be assured, my dear sir, that
Mrs. Collins and myself sincerely sympathize with you, and
all your respectable family, in your present distress, which
must be of the bitterest kind, because proceeding from a cause
which no time can remove. No arguments shall be wanting, on my
part, that can alleviate so severe a misfortune; or that may
comfort you under a circumstance that must be of all others
most afflicting to a parent’s mind. The death of your daughter
would have been a blessing in comparison to this. And it is
the more to be lamented, because there is reason to suppose,
as my dear Charlotte informs me, that this licentiousness of
behavior in your daughter has proceeded from a faulty degree of
indulgence; though, at the same time, for the consolation of
yourself and Mrs. Bennet, I am inclined to think that her own
disposition must be naturally bad, or she could not be guilty
of such an enormity, at so early an age. Howsoever that may be,
you are grievously to be pitied, in which opinion I am not only
joined by Mrs. Collins, but, likewise, by Lady Catherine and her
daughter, to whom I have related the affair. They agree with me
in apprehending that this false step in one daughter will be
injurious to the fortunes of all the others, for who, as Lady
Catherine herself condescendingly says, will connect themselves
with such a family? And this consideration leads me, moreover, to
reflect with augmented satisfaction on a certain event of last
November; for had it been otherwise, I must have been involved in
all your sorrows and disgrace. Let me advise you, then, my dear
sir, to console yourself as much as possible, to throw off your
unworthy child from your affection forever, and leave her to reap
the fruits of her own heinous offence.’
“‘I am, dear sir, &c., &c.’”
While “Pride and Prejudice” is not a book of absorbing interest, it is
a very faithful portraiture of life, and a quiet and effective satire
on some of the commonest foibles of mankind.
UNDINE
DE LA MOTTE FOUQUE
The fairy world holds among its enchantments no more gracious figure
than Undine, whose simple story is filled with unutterable pathos and
tenderness.
The Knight Huldbrand meets her in the guise of a young girl at the
cottage of a fisherman by whom she had been brought up as a daughter.
Beautiful, wayward, mischievous, she falls in love with the handsome
knight and testifies her fondness by mad pranks as well as by artless
caresses. After they are married Huldbrand learns for the first time
that his bride is a water-sprite, belonging to a race more beautiful
than mankind, but devoid of an immortal soul, which can be acquired
only by marriage with some human being. A great change now comes
over Undine; for with her new soul there comes to her all that depth
of feeling and suffering which the possession of the priceless gift
implies. The scene in which she first reveals to her husband her real
nature and tremblingly awaits her destiny at his hands is beautiful in
the extreme. The married pair take their departure from the cottage
and proceed through the enchanted forest on their way to Huldbrand’s
castle at Ringstetten. The water-sprite Kühleborn, the kinsman of
Undine, who besets their pathway here and elsewhere and who dissolves
into a mountain torrent, is described with that vagueness which is the
charm of the supernatural. On the way to Ringstetten, Undine, moved
with pity for the proud and imperious Bertalda, who has been cast off
by the duke of the country for her unworthiness, takes her home and
receives her as a companion and friend. Gradually the love of Huldbrand
for his wife wanes, and he becomes enamored of Bertalda; and while
Undine’s kinsfolk, the water-sprites, seek to revenge the slights she
is compelled to suffer, yet the poor wife, with loving self-sacrifice,
protects not only her husband but even her rival from their power.
At last, while sailing on the Danube, Huldbrand loads his wife with
curses and imprecations, and she is compelled to leave him and join her
kindred in the river below. And when, after his marriage with Bertalda,
she is required to come back to the castle and be his executioner, she
lovingly performs her terrible office with a kiss.
There are some imperfections and inconsistencies in the story, as
perhaps there must be in all tales dealing with the supernatural, but
the traits which come to this fair creature with the soul bestowed upon
her at her wedding, the gentleness, the self-sacrifice and submissive
love, are drawn by the hand of a master and painted in colors which
genius alone can impart to the creations of fancy.
PETER SCHLEMIHL
ADELBERT CHAMISSO
A German critic of considerable authority speaks of “Peter Schlemihl”
as “a faultless work of art, and one of deep import.” It is not
necessary to concur in this estimate nor to imagine, as some do, that
the shadowless man was a symbol of the author, “a wanderer without
a country,” in order to give the book a reasonably high place in
literature. No doubt there are autobiographical features in the story,
but Chamisso’s own account of its simple genesis is evidently the true
one. “I had lost,” he said, “upon a journey, my hat, portmanteau,
gloves, pocket-handkerchief, and my entire travelling outfit. Fouqué
asked me if I had not also lost my shadow, and we pictured this
misfortune to ourselves.” Something out of La Fontaine furnished
another incident, and the book was written largely to amuse the
children of the author’s friend Hilzig. It is a sort of fairy story
dealing largely with the supernatural.
At the garden of a rich gentleman to whom he has brought a letter
of introduction, Peter Schlemihl meets a quiet man dressed in gray,
who, when anything is desired by the guests, at once takes it out of
his pocket. A piece of court plaster, a telescope, a Turkish carpet,
a tent, and finally a horse saddled and bridled, are successively
produced without anyone showing surprise at these remarkable
proceedings or even seeming to know who the stranger is. When Schlemihl
retires from the company the gray man follows him and offers him
the inexhaustible purse of Fortunatus in exchange for his shadow.
Schlemihl, poor man, thinking it a small thing to part with at such a
price, sells this humble attendant to the devil, and the rest of the
book sets forth the calamities that follow--the pity of the old women,
the outcry of the children, the contempt of the men, especially the
stout ones who have broad shadows of their own. Schlemihl tries to keep
in the shade, shuts himself up in his room with his gold, proposes to
have a shadow painted, sends his faithful servant Bendel to get his
own back from the gray man, but all in vain. The stranger promises,
however, to return “in a year and a day.”
All the splendor procured by Schlemihl’s wealth is as nothing by
the side of the evil fate entailed by the loss of his shadow. He is
especially unfortunate in love. At first Fanny smiles upon his suit,
but falls senseless when the moon rises and casts only a single shadow
as the two sit side by side. Then, when he flees to another country,
where the people take him for a king and he wins sweet Mina’s heart,
his secret is betrayed by Rascal, one of his own hirelings, who robs
him at once both of his money and his intended bride.
At the end of the year and the day the gray man appears and offers
him back his shadow if he will only subscribe a little obligation to
surrender to the bearer his soul after its separation from his body.
The argument is cogent. “What sort of a thing is your soul? Have you
ever seen it, and what do you think you can do with it after you are
dead?” But this time the voice of the tempter is unavailing, for
although at first Peter is on the point of yielding when tortured by
the sight of his weeping Mina about to be consigned to the arms of the
hated Rascal, yet a friendly unconsciousness overcomes him and the
contract is not signed.
The poor unfortunate again rides forth into the world, followed by the
man in gray, until at last Schlemihl in despair flings away the purse,
whereupon his evil spirit departs, leaving him free and light-hearted,
although poor as well as shadowless and alone in the world.
He now avoids human society, and having become possessed of a pair
of seven-league boots he is astonished to find himself striding over
immense tracts of territory in an incredibly short space of time. Now
he first clearly sees his appointed destiny. Shut out from the society
of his fellows, nature is to be his compensation. The earth is given to
him as a rich garden, and science is to be the purpose of his life. He
naturally has facilities for investigation possessed by no one else. He
strides through all parts of both continents, passing across Behring
Straits from Asia to America, but he deplores the fact that New Holland
and other islands of the Pacific are still inaccessible to him, and
he gazes from the utmost point of land which his seven-league boots
will permit him to reach, to the unattainable regions beyond the sea,
and deems himself as badly off as if he were still behind the bars of
a prison, oppressed as he is with the terrible consciousness that his
great work on natural history, embracing only the flora and fauna of
the two continents, must still remain a fragment.
He chooses for his hermitage a cave in the Thebais, and when we leave
him he is still engaged in the preparation of his great work.