_Declining health of Jane Austen--Elasticity of her spirits--Her
resignation and humility--Her death_.
Early in the year 1816 some family troubles disturbed the usually
tranquil course of Jane Austen's life; and it is probable that the inward
malady, which was to prove ultimately fatal, was already felt by her; for
some distant friends, {159} whom she visited in the spring of that year,
thought that her health was somewhat impaired, and observed that she went
about her old haunts, and recalled old recollections connected with them
in a particular manner, as if she did not expect ever to see them again.
It is not surprising that, under these circumstances, some of her letters
were of a graver tone than had been customary with her, and expressed
resignation rather than cheerfulness. In reference to these troubles in
a letter to her brother Charles, after mentioning that she had been laid
up with an attack of bilious fever, she says: 'I live up stairs for the
present and am coddled. I am the only one of the party who has been so
silly, but a weak body must excuse weak nerves.' And again, to another
correspondent: 'But I am getting too near complaint; it has been the
appointment of God, however secondary causes may have operated.' But the
elasticity of her spirits soon recovered their tone. It was in the
latter half of that year that she addressed the two following lively
letters to a nephew, one while he was at Winchester School, the other
soon after he had left it:--
'Chawton, July 9, 1816.
'MY DEAR E.--Many thanks. A thank for every line, and as many to Mr.
W. Digweed for coming. We have been wanting very much to hear of your
mother, and are happy to find she continues to mend, but her illness
must have been a very serious one indeed. When she is really
recovered, she ought to try change of air, and come over to us. Tell
your father that I am very much obliged to him for his share of your
letter, and most sincerely join in the hope of her being eventually
much the better for her present discipline. She has the comfort
moreover of being confined in such weather as gives one little
temptation to be out. It is really too bad, and has been too bad for
a long time, much worse than any one can bear, and I begin to think it
will never be fine again. This is a _finesse_ of mine, for I have
often observed that if one writes about the weather, it is generally
completely changed before the letter is read. I wish it may prove so
now, and that when Mr. W. Digweed reaches Steventon to-morrow, he may
find you have had a long series of hot dry weather. We are a small
party at present, only grandmamma, Mary Jane, and myself. Yalden's
coach cleared off the rest yesterday. I am glad you recollected to
mention your being come home. {161a} My heart began to sink within me
when I had got so far through your letter without its being mentioned.
I was dreadfully afraid that you might be detained at Winchester by
severe illness, confined to your bed perhaps, and quite unable to hold
a pen, and only dating from Steventon in order, with a mistaken sort
of tenderness, to deceive me. But now I have no doubt of your being
at home. I am sure you would not say it so seriously unless it
actually were so. We saw a countless number of post-chaises full of
boys pass by yesterday morning {161b}--full of future heroes,
legislators, fools, and villains. You have never thanked me for my
last letter, which went by the cheese. I cannot bear not to be
thanked. You will not pay us a visit yet of course; we must not think
of it. Your mother must get well first, and you must go to Oxford and
_not_ be elected; after that a little change of scene may be good for
you, and your physicians I hope will order you to the sea, or to a
house by the side of a very considerable pond. {161c} Oh! it rains
again. It beats against the window. Mary Jane and I have been wet
through once already to-day; we set off in the donkey-carriage for
Farringdon, as I wanted to see the improvement Mr. Woolls is making,
but we were obliged to turn back before we got there, but not soon
enough to avoid a pelter all the way home. We met Mr. Woolls. I
talked of its being bad weather for the hay, and he returned me the
comfort of its being much worse for the wheat. We hear that Mrs. S.
does not quit Tangier: why and wherefore? Do you know that our
Browning is gone? You must prepare for a William when you come, a
good-looking lad, civil and quiet, and seeming likely to do. Good
bye. I am sure Mr. W. D. {162} will be astonished at my writing so
much, for the paper is so thin that he will be able to count the lines
if not to read them.
Yours affecly,
'JANE AUSTEN.'
In the next letter will be found her description of her own style of
composition, which has already appeared in the notice prefixed to
'Northanger Abbey' and 'Persuasion':--
'Chawton, Monday, Dec. 16th (1816).
'MY DEAR E.,--One reason for my writing to you now is, that I may have
the pleasure of directing to you Esqre. I give you joy of having left
Winchester. Now you may own how miserable you were there; now it will
gradually all come out, your crimes and your miseries--how often you
went up by the Mail to London and threw away fifty guineas at a
tavern, and how often you were on the point of hanging yourself,
restrained only, as some ill-natured aspersion upon poor old Winton
has it, by the want of a tree within some miles of the city. Charles
Knight and his companions passed through Chawton about 9 this morning;
later than it used to be. Uncle Henry and I had a glimpse of his
handsome face, looking all health and good humour. I wonder when you
will come and see us. I know what I rather speculate upon, but shall
say nothing. We think uncle Henry in excellent looks. Look at him
this moment, and think so too, if you have not done it before; and we
have the great comfort of seeing decided improvement in uncle Charles,
both as to health, spirits, and appearance. And they are each of them
so agreeable in their different way, and harmonise so well, that their
visit is thorough enjoyment. Uncle Henry writes very superior
sermons. You and I must try to get hold of one or two, and put them
into our novels: it would be a fine help to a volume; and we could
make our heroine read it aloud on a Sunday evening, just as well as
Isabella Wardour, in the "Antiquary," is made to read the "History of
the Hartz Demon" in the ruins of St. Ruth, though I believe, on
recollection, Lovell is the reader. By the bye, my dear E., I am
quite concerned for the loss your mother mentions in her letter. Two
chapters and a half to be missing is monstrous! It is well that _I_
have not been at Steventon lately, and therefore cannot be suspected
of purloining them: two strong twigs and a half towards a nest of my
own would have been something. I do not think, however, that any
theft of that sort would be really very useful to me. What should I
do with your strong, manly, vigorous sketches, full of variety and
glow? How could I possibly join them on to the little bit (two inches
wide) of ivory on which I work with so fine a brush, as produces
little effect after much labour?
'You will hear from uncle Henry how well Anna is. She seems perfectly
recovered. Ben was here on Saturday, to ask uncle Charles and me to
dine with them, as to-morrow, but I was forced to decline it, the walk
is beyond my strength (though I am otherwise very well), and this is
not a season for donkey-carriages; and as we do not like to spare
uncle Charles, he has declined it too.
_Tuesday_. Ah, ah! Mr. E. I doubt your seeing uncle Henry at
Steventon to-day. The weather will prevent your expecting him, I
think. Tell your father, with aunt Cass's love and mine, that the
pickled cucumbers are extremely good, and tell him also--"tell him
what you will." No, don't tell him what you will, but tell him that
grandmamma begs him to make Joseph Hall pay his rent, if he can.
'You must not be tired of reading the word _uncle_, for I have not
done with it. Uncle Charles thanks your mother for her letter; it was
a great pleasure to him to know that the parcel was received and gave
so much satisfaction, and he begs her to be so good as to give three
shillings for him to Dame Staples, which shall be allowed for in the
payment of her debt here.
'Adieu, Amiable! I hope Caroline behaves well to you.
Yours affecly,
'J. AUSTEN.'
I cannot tell how soon she was aware of the serious nature of her malady.
By God's mercy it was not attended with much suffering; so that she was
able to tell her friends as in the foregoing letter, and perhaps
sometimes to persuade herself that, excepting want of strength, she was
'otherwise very well;' but the progress of the disease became more and
more manifest as the year advanced. The usual walk was at first
shortened, and then discontinued; and air was sought in a
donkey-carriage. Gradually, too, her habits of activity within the house
ceased, and she was obliged to lie down much. The sitting-room contained
only one sofa, which was frequently occupied by her mother, who was more
than seventy years old. Jane would never use it, even in her mother's
absence; but she contrived a sort of couch for herself with two or three
chairs, and was pleased to say that this arrangement was more comfortable
to her than a real sofa. Her reasons for this might have been left to be
guessed, but for the importunities of a little niece, which obliged her
to explain that if she herself had shown any inclination to use the sofa,
her mother might have scrupled being on it so much as was good for her.
It is certain, however, that the mind did not share in this decay of the
bodily strength. 'Persuasion' was not finished before the middle of
August in that year; and the manner in which it was then completed
affords proof that neither the critical nor the creative powers of the
author were at all impaired. The book had been brought to an end in
July; and the re-engagement of the hero and heroine effected in a totally
different manner in a scene laid at Admiral Croft's lodgings. But her
performance did not satisfy her. She thought it tame and flat, and was
desirous of producing something better. This weighed upon her mind, the
more so probably on account of the weak state of her health; so that one
night she retired to rest in very low spirits. But such depression was
little in accordance with her nature, and was soon shaken off. The next
morning she awoke to more cheerful views and brighter inspirations: the
sense of power revived; and imagination resumed its course. She
cancelled the condemned chapter, and wrote two others, entirely
different, in its stead. The result is that we possess the visit of the
Musgrove party to Bath; the crowded and animated scenes at the White Hart
Hotel; and the charming conversation between Capt. Harville and Anne
Elliot, overheard by Capt. Wentworth, by which the two faithful lovers
were at last led to understand each other's feelings. The tenth and
eleventh chapters of 'Persuasion' then, rather than the actual winding-up
of the story, contain the latest of her printed compositions, her last
contribution to the entertainment of the public. Perhaps it may be
thought that she has seldom written anything more brilliant; and that,
independent of the original manner in which the _denouement_ is brought
about, the pictures of Charles Musgrove's good-natured boyishness and of
his wife's jealous selfishness would have been incomplete without these
finishing strokes. The cancelled chapter exists in manuscript. It is
certainly inferior to the two which were substituted for it: but it was
such as some writers and some readers might have been contented with; and
it contained touches which scarcely any other hand could have given, the
suppression of which may be almost a matter of regret. {167}
The following letter was addressed to her friend Miss Bigg, then staying
at Streatham with her sister, the wife of the Reverend Herbert Hill,
uncle of Robert Southey. It appears to have been written three days
before she began her last work, which will be noticed in another chapter;
and shows that she was not at that time aware of the serious nature of
her malady:--
'Chawton, January 24, 1817.
'MY DEAR ALETHEA,--I think it time there should be a little writing
between us, though I believe the epistolary debt is on _your_ side,
and I hope this will find all the Streatham party well, neither
carried away by the flood, nor rheumatic through the damps. Such mild
weather is, you know, delightful to _us_, and though we have a great
many ponds, and a fine running stream through the meadows on the other
side of the road, it is nothing but what beautifies us and does to
talk of. _I_ have certainly gained strength through the winter and am
not far from being well; and I think I understand my own case now so
much better than I did, as to be able by care to keep off any serious
return of illness. I am convinced that _bile_ is at the bottom of all
I have suffered, which makes it easy to know how to treat myself. You
will be glad to hear thus much of me, I am sure. We have just had a
few days' visit from Edward, who brought us a good account of his
father, and the very circumstance of his coming at all, of his
father's being able to spare him, is itself a good account. He grows
still, and still improves in appearance, at least in the estimation of
his aunts, who love him better and better, as they see the sweet
temper and warm affections of the boy confirmed in the young man: I
tried hard to persuade him that he must have some message for William,
{169a} but in vain. . . . This is not a time of year for
donkey-carriages, and our donkeys are necessarily having so long a run
of luxurious idleness that I suppose we shall find they have forgotten
much of their education when we use them again. We do not use two at
once however; don't imagine such excesses. . . Our own new clergyman
{169b} is expected here very soon, perhaps in time to assist Mr.
Papillon on Sunday. I shall be very glad when the first hearing is
over. It will be a nervous hour for our pew, though we hear that he
acquits himself with as much ease and collectedness, as if he had been
used to it all his life. We have no chance we know of seeing you
between Streatham and Winchester: you go the other road and are
engaged to two or three houses; if there should be any change,
however, you know how welcome you would be. . . . We have been
reading the "Poet's Pilgrimage to Waterloo," and generally with much
approbation. Nothing will please all the world, you know; but parts
of it suit me better than much that he has written before. The
opening--_the proem_ I believe he calls it--is very beautiful. Poor
man! one cannot but grieve for the loss of the son so fondly
described. Has he at all recovered it? What do Mr. and Mrs. Hill
know about his present state?
'Yours affly,
'J. AUSTEN.
'The real object of this letter is to ask you for a receipt, but I
thought it genteel not to let it appear early. We remember some
excellent orange wine at Manydown, made from Seville oranges, entirely
or chiefly. I should be very much obliged to you for the receipt, if
you can command it within a few weeks.'
On the day before, January 23rd, she had written to her niece in the same
hopeful tone: 'I feel myself getting stronger than I was, and can so
perfectly walk _to_ Alton, _or_ back again without fatigue, that I hope
to be able to do _both_ when summer comes.'
Alas! summer came to her only on her deathbed. March 17th is the last
date to be found in the manuscript on which she was engaged; and as the
watch of the drowned man indicates the time of his death, so does this
final date seem to fix the period when her mind could no longer pursue
its accustomed course.
And here I cannot do better than quote the words of the niece to whose
private records of her aunt's life and character I have been so often
indebted:--
'I do not know how early the alarming symptoms of her malady came on.
It was in the following March that I had the first idea of her being
seriously ill. It had been settled that about the end of that month,
or the beginning of April, I should spend a few days at Chawton, in
the absence of my father and mother, who were just then engaged with
Mrs. Leigh Perrot in arranging her late husband's affairs; but Aunt
Jane became too ill to have me in the house, and so I went instead to
my sister Mrs. Lefroy at Wyards'. The next day we walked over to
Chawton to make enquiries after our aunt. She was then keeping her
room, but said she would see us, and we went up to her. She was in
her dressing gown, and was sitting quite like an invalid in an arm-
chair, but she got up and kindly greeted us, and then, pointing to
seats which had been arranged for us by the fire, she said, "There is
a chair for the married lady, and a little stool for you, Caroline."
{171} It is strange, but those trifling words were the last of hers
that I can remember, for I retain no recollection of what was said by
anyone in the conversation that ensued. I was struck by the
alteration in herself. She was very pale, her voice was weak and low,
and there was about her a general appearance of debility and
suffering; but I have been told that she never had much acute pain.
She was not equal to the exertion of talking to us, and our visit to
the sick room was a very short one, Aunt Cassandra soon taking us
away. I do not suppose we stayed a quarter of an hour; and I never
saw Aunt Jane again.'
In May 1817 she was persuaded to remove to Winchester, for the sake of
medical advice from Mr. Lyford. The Lyfords have, for some generations,
maintained a high character in Winchester for medical skill, and the Mr.
Lyford of that day was a man of more than provincial reputation, in whom
great London practitioners expressed confidence. Mr. Lyford spoke
encouragingly. It was not, of course, his business to extinguish hope in
his patient, but I believe that he had, from the first, very little
expectation of a permanent cure. All that was gained by the removal from
home was the satisfaction of having done the best that could be done,
together with such alleviations of suffering as superior medical skill
could afford.
Jane and her sister Cassandra took lodgings in College Street. They had
two kind friends living in the Close, Mrs. Heathcote and Miss Bigg, the
mother and aunt of the present Sir Wm. Heathcote of Hursley, between
whose family and ours a close friendship has existed for several
generations. These friends did all that they could to promote the
comfort of the sisters, during that sad sojourn in Winchester, both by
their society, and by supplying those little conveniences in which a
lodging-house was likely to be deficient. It was shortly after settling
in these lodgings that she wrote to a nephew the following characteristic
letter, no longer, alas in her former strong, clear hand.
'Mrs. David's, College St., Winton,
'Tuesday, May 27th.
'There is no better way, my dearest E., of thanking you for your
affectionate concern for me during my illness than by telling you
myself, as soon as possible, that I continue to get better. I will
not boast of my handwriting; neither that nor my face have yet
recovered their proper beauty, but in other respects I gain strength
very fast. I am now out of bed from 9 in the morning to 10 at night:
upon the sofa, it is true, but I eat my meals with aunt Cassandra in a
rational way, and can employ myself, and walk from one room to
another. Mr. Lyford says he will cure me, and if he fails, I shall
draw up a memorial and lay it before the Dean and Chapter, and have no
doubt of redress from that pious, learned, and disinterested body. Our
lodgings are very comfortable. We have a neat little drawing-room
with a bow window overlooking Dr. Gabell's garden. {173} Thanks to
the kindness of your father and mother in sending me their carriage,
my journey hither on Saturday was performed with very little fatigue,
and had it been a fine day, I think I should have felt none; but it
distressed me to see uncle Henry and Wm. Knight, who kindly attended
us on horseback, riding in the rain almost the whole way. We expect a
visit from them to-morrow, and hope they will stay the night; and on
Thursday, which is a confirmation and a holiday, we are to get Charles
out to breakfast. We have had but one visit from _him_, poor fellow,
as he is in sick-room, but he hopes to be out to-night. We see Mrs.
Heathcote every day, and William is to call upon us soon. God bless
you, my dear E. If ever you are ill, may you be as tenderly nursed as
I have been. May the same blessed alleviations of anxious,
sympathising friends be yours: and may you possess, as I dare say you
will, the greatest blessing of all in the consciousness of not being
unworthy of their love. _I_ could not feel this.
'Your very affecte Aunt,
'J. A.'
The following extract from a letter which has been before printed,
written soon after the former, breathes the same spirit of humility and
thankfulness:--
'I will only say further that my dearest sister, my tender, watchful,
indefatigable nurse, has not been made ill by her exertions. As to
what I owe her, and the anxious affection of all my beloved family on
this occasion, I can only cry over it, and pray God to bless them more
and more.'
Throughout her illness she was nursed by her sister, often assisted by
her sister-in-law, my mother. Both were with her when she died. Two of
her brothers, who were clergymen, lived near enough to Winchester to be
in frequent attendance, and to administer the services suitable for a
Christian's death-bed. While she used the language of hope to her
correspondents, she was fully aware of her danger, though not appalled by
it. It is true that there was much to attach her to life. She was happy
in her family; she was just beginning to feel confidence in her own
success; and, no doubt, the exercise of her great talents was an
enjoyment in itself. We may well believe that she would gladly have
lived longer; but she was enabled without dismay or complaint to prepare
for death. She was a humble, believing Christian. Her life had been
passed in the performance of home duties, and the cultivation of domestic
affections, without any self-seeking or craving after applause. She had
always sought, as it were by instinct, to promote the happiness of all
who came within her influence, and doubtless she had her reward in the
peace of mind which was granted her in her last days. Her sweetness of
temper never failed. She was ever considerate and grateful to those who
attended on her. At times, when she felt rather better, her playfulness
of spirit revived, and she amused them even in their sadness. Once, when
she thought herself near her end, she said what she imagined might be her
last words to those around her, and particularly thanked her sister-in-
law for being with her, saying: 'You have always been a kind sister to
me, Mary.' When the end at last came, she sank rapidly, and on being
asked by her attendants whether there was anything that she wanted, her
reply was, '_Nothing but death_.' These were her last words. In
quietness and peace she breathed her last on the morning of July 18,
1817.
On the 24th of that month she was buried in Winchester Cathedral, near
the centre of the north aisle, almost opposite to the beautiful chantry
tomb of William of Wykeham. A large slab of black marble in the pavement
marks the place. Her own family only attended the funeral. Her sister
returned to her desolated home, there to devote herself, for ten years,
to the care of her aged mother; and to live much on the memory of her
lost sister, till called many years later to rejoin her. Her brothers
went back sorrowing to their several homes. They were very fond and very
proud of her. They were attached to her by her talents, her virtues, and
her engaging manners; and each loved afterwards to fancy a resemblance in
some niece or daughter of his own to the dear sister Jane, whose perfect
equal they yet never expected to see.