CHAPTER X_Jane Austen and Her Times

A TRIO OF NOVELS

When Jane returned home in October, after her pleasant visit to

Godmersham, she began her first real novel. She was then nearly

twenty-one, and the girlish scribblings in which she had delighted

began to be shaped into something more coherent. This very visit, with

all its bright intercourse, all its pleasant variety,—for she had been

thrown among a set of county people of better social standing than

those she usually saw,—may have quickened the germ, and been the cause

of her development. The book was at first called _First Impressions_,

and under this title she herself frequently refers to it; but some time

later she re-christened it by the name under which it was published.

The idea that the name _Pride and Prejudice_ was suggested by some

sentences at the end of _Cecilia_ has been mooted, and though

arguments against this supposition have been found, it appears

extremely probable. For in _Cecilia_ it is declared, “The whole of

this unfortunate affair has been the result of PRIDE AND PREJUDICE,”

which last words are repeated twice on the same page, each time in

large type so that they catch the eye. _Cecilia_ itself might well

have borne this title in reference to the pride and prejudice of the

Delvile family. The book was published in 1786, and we know that Jane

had a great admiration for Miss Burney’s work. In re-reading it some

time subsequently it may very easily have struck her that “Pride and

Prejudice” was an improvement on her own more common-place title, and

there was nothing to prevent her adopting it. The repetition of two

striking qualities and the alliteration may further have given rise

to _Sense and Sensibility_, which also replaced an earlier title of

_Elinor and Marianne_.

_Pride and Prejudice_ was apparently written solely to gratify the

instincts of the writer, without any thought of publication. But after

it was completed, a year later, November 1797, Jane’s father wrote for

her to the well-known publisher Cadell as follows:—

“SIR,—I have in my possession a manuscript novel comprising 3

vols. about the length of Miss Burney’s _Evelina_. As I am well

aware of what consequence it is that a work of this sort should

make its first appearance under a respectable name, I apply

to you. I shall be much obliged therefore if you will inform

me whether you choose to be concerned in it, what will be the

expense of publishing it at the author’s risk, and what you will

venture to advance for the property of it, if on perusal it is

approved of. Should you give any encouragement I will send you

the work.”

This proposal, modest as it is, was rejected by return of post. One

would have thought that the success of Miss Burney’s books would have

made a leading publisher anxious to look at a work on similar lines,

but no—_Pride and Prejudice_ was destined not to be published until

1813, sixteen years later!

As we have said, it is unanimously accorded the premier place amongst

Jane Austen’s novels, partly because it is full of that brilliancy

and sparkle which are its author’s greatest characteristics, and

partly because of the inimitable character of Elizabeth Bennet, whose

combined archness and intelligence captivate everyone. Elizabeth is

the embodiment of the heroine so many authors have tried to draw.

Witty without being pert, having a reasonable conceit of herself

without vanity, and a natural gaiety of heart that makes her altogether

lovable. Whether she is repelling the patronage of Lady Catherine de

Bourgh, or chaffing the sombre Darcy, she is equally delightful. Her

first scene with Lady Catherine embodies much character—

“‘Are any of your younger sisters out, Miss Bennet?’

“‘Yes, Ma’am, all.’

“‘All! What, all five out at once? Very odd! And you only the second.

The younger ones out before the elder are married! Your younger sisters

must be very young?’

“‘Yes, the youngest is not sixteen. Perhaps she is full young to be

much in company. But really, Ma’am, I think it would be very hard upon

younger sisters that they should not have their share of society and

amusement, because the elder may not have the means or inclination

to marry early. The last born has as good a right to the pleasures of

youth as the first. And to be kept back on such a motive! I think it

would not be very likely to promote sisterly affection or delicacy of

mind.’

“‘Upon my word,’ said her Ladyship, ‘you give your opinion very

decidedly for so young a person. Pray what is your age?’

“‘With three younger sisters grown up,’ replied Elizabeth, smiling,

‘your Ladyship can hardly expect me to own it.’”

And again, when Lady Catherine comes to ask if the report of her

nephew’s engagement to Elizabeth is true.

“‘If you believed it impossible to be true,’ said Elizabeth, colouring

with astonishment and disdain, ‘I wonder you took the trouble of coming

so far. What could your Ladyship propose by it?’

“‘At once to insist on having such a report universally contradicted.’

“‘Your coming to Langbourn to see me and my family,’ said Elizabeth

coolly, ‘will be rather a confirmation of it; if, indeed, such a report

is in existence.’

“‘If! Do you then pretend to be ignorant of it? Has it not been

industriously circulated by yourselves? Do you not know that such a

report is spread abroad?’

“‘I never heard that it was.’

“‘And can you likewise declare there is no foundation for it?’

“‘I do not pretend to possess equal frankness with your Ladyship. You

may ask questions which I shall not choose to answer.’

“‘This is not to be borne, Miss Bennet, I insist on being satisfied.

Has he, has my nephew, made you an offer of marriage?’

“‘Your Ladyship has declared it to be impossible.’”

Her verbal encounters with Darcy are equally characteristic.

“Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile.

“‘Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume?’ said Miss Bingley,

‘and pray what is the result?’

“‘I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns

it himself without disguise.’

“‘No,’ said Darcy, ‘I have made no such pretension. I have faults

enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare

not vouch for. It is, I believe, too little yielding; certainly too

little for the convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies

and vices of others so soon as I ought, nor their offences against

myself. My feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move

them. My temper would perhaps be called resentful. My good opinion once

lost is lost for ever.’

“‘_That_ is a failing indeed,’ cried Elizabeth. ‘Implacable resentment

_is_ a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well. I

really cannot _laugh_ at it. You are safe from me.’

“‘There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some

particular evil, a natural defect, which not even the best education

can overcome.’

“‘And _your_ defect is a propensity to hate everybody.’

“‘And yours,’ he replied with a smile, ‘is wilfully to misunderstand

them.’”

Darcy, by the way, is one of the least attractive of the principal

men characters. It is inconceivable that any man with the remotest

pretension to gentlemanly feeling should say, even to himself, much

less aloud in a ball-room, on having his attention called to a young

girl sitting out: “‘Which do you mean?’ and, turning round, he looked

for a moment at Elizabeth, till, catching her eye, he withdrew his

own, and coldly said,—’She is tolerable; but not handsome enough to

tempt me; and I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young

ladies who are slighted by other men.’”

Indeed, Darcy’s whole character is so averse from anything usually

associated with the word gentleman, that one wonders where Miss Austen

found her prototype. Possibly he was one of the few characters for

which she drew entirely on her imagination. In saying this there is

no innuendo that in other cases she drew straight from the life; it

is, I believe, very few novelists who ever wish to do such a thing,

but it is certainly true, and everyone who has attempted fiction knows

it, that nearly every character in a life-like book has some prototype

in real life, some man or woman who gave the first indication of a

certain character; the personality may be altered entirely, it may be

only one small quality which is derived from the prototype, but it is

nevertheless that person who brought that particular character into

existence. So far as we know there was no haughty, self-satisfied man

of the world in Jane Austen’s list of acquaintances.

It is true that Darcy is represented as behaving much better when his

pride has been bitterly stung by Elizabeth’s rejection of him, but it

is hard to believe that a man, such as he is at first represented,

could have had sufficient good in him to change his character

completely as the effect of love.

To show how entirely opinions differ it is amusing to quote some of

the remarks of Miss Mitford, who wrote in 1814, the year after the

publication of _Pride and Prejudice_: “The want of elegance is almost

the only want in Miss Austen. I have not read her _Mansfield Park_ but

it is impossible not to feel in every line of _Pride and Prejudice_, in

every word of Elizabeth, the entire want of taste which could produce

so pert, so worldly a heroine as the beloved of such a man as Darcy.

Wickham is equally bad. Oh, they were just fit for each other, and I

cannot forgive that delightful Darcy for parting them. Darcy should

have married Jane. He is of all the admirable characters the best

designed and the best sustained. I quite agree with you in preferring

Miss Austen to Miss Edgeworth. If the former had a little more taste, a

little more perception of the graceful, as well as of the humorous, I

know not indeed anyone to whom I should not prefer her. There is none

of the hardness, the cold selfishness, of Miss Edgeworth about her

writings; she is in a much better humour with the world; she preaches

no sermons; she wants nothing but the _beau ideal_ of the female

character to be a perfect novel writer!”

Miss Mitford would no doubt have preferred as a heroine the elegant

languishing female, without any of the savour of originality about her,

who was the stereotyped heroine of most works of fiction at that time.

Sir Walter Scott in the _Quarterly Review_ of 1815 makes the base

insinuation that Elizabeth having refused Darcy “does not perceive

that she has done a foolish thing, until she accidentally visits a very

handsome seat and grounds belonging to her admirer.”

We are sure from what we know of Lizzie, that this is quite unfounded.

Had she been liable to any undue influence of that sort, she would

have accepted Darcy at the first, for she knew very well all about his

position and estates from the beginning. That she had the courage and

good sense to snub him speaks much more forcibly for her character than

a like action on the part of any girl similarly circumstanced would do

now. For then a position gained by marriage was the only one a woman

could hope for, and such chances were few and far between when, as we

have seen, men were desperately prudent in their matrimonial affairs,

and looked on marriage more as a well considered and suitable monetary

alliance than as a love match, though perhaps the actual person of

the woman was not always such a matter of perfect indifference to them

as it seems to have been to the writer of the following contemporary

letter:—

“I thank you with ye utmost Gratitude for ye good offices you was

to have done me; and though I cannot now for Reasons above specifyd

accept of them, yet I hope they will still continue in Reversion:

not that I have any schemes for ever resuming my Designs upon Miss

A.: (on ye contrary I should be very loth she should wait so long)

but because whenever my Time is come You are ye first person I should

apply to, as having a good Number of Friends and Correspondents; and

none who are priviledged with ye Intimacy of Mrs. Jennings can fail of

Accomplishments to render them highly agreable to your most obedient

servant.” (_A Kentish Country House._)

The character of the solemn, pompous, thick-skinned Mr. Collins is

the best of the kind Jane ever drew; he is a creation whose name might

signify a quality of “collinesqueness.”

Perhaps within the limits possible for quotation there is nothing which

in so short a space sums up so well his inimitable character as the

letter of condolence he sends to Mr. Bennet on the occasion of Lydia’s

having eloped with the weak and untrustworthy Wickham.

“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 sympathise 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 can 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 of 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 behaviour 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. 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 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 sorrow 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

for ever, and leave her to reap the fruits of her own heinous offence.”

Jane’s own impressions of _Pride and Prejudice_ are given in a letter

to her sister, written many years later, on the publication of the

book—

“Miss B. dined with us on the very day of the book’s coming, and in the

evening we fairly set at it and read half the first vol. to her....

She was amused, poor soul! _That_ she could not help you know, with

two such people to lead the way, but she really does seem to admire

Elizabeth. I must confess that I think her as delightful a creature

as ever appeared in print, and how I shall be able to tolerate those

who do not like _her_ at least, I do not know. There are a few typical

errors; and a ‘said he’ or a ‘said she’ would sometimes make the

dialogue more immediately clear; but ‘I do not write for such dull

elves’ as have not a great deal of ingenuity themselves.... Our second

evening’s reading to Miss B. had not pleased me so well, but I believe

something must be attributed to my mother’s too rapid way of getting

on: though she perfectly understands the characters herself, she cannot

speak as they ought. Upon the whole, however, I am quite vain enough

and well satisfied enough. The work is rather too light and bright and

sparkling; it wants shade, it wants to be stretched out here and there

with a long chapter of sense if it could be had; if not, of solemn

specious nonsense, about something unconnected with the story; an essay

on writing, a critique on Walter Scott or the history of Buonaparte

or something that would form a contrast, and bring the reader with

increased delight to the playfulness and epigrammatism of the general

style.” And later, in reference to the same subject, she writes—

“I am exceedingly pleased that you can say what you do, after having

gone through the whole work, and Fanny’s praise is very gratifying. My

hopes were tolerably strong of _her_, but nothing like a certainty. Her

liking Darcy and Elizabeth is enough. She might hate all the others if

she would.” (Mr. Austen-Leigh’s _Memoir_.)

The fact that Jane felt the extreme brilliancy and lightness of her

own work shows that the critical faculty was active in her, but as

for wishing to do away with it in order to bring the book more into

conformity with the heavily padded novels of the time, that of course

is pure nonsense.

After only the lapse of a month or two from the completion of _First

Impressions_, Jane began on _Sense and Sensibility_, which she at

first called _Elinor and Marianne_, and which, in the form of letters,

had been written long before; probably, if the truth were known, this

might be called her first long story, and it was in any case the first

published. The story in letters has been wittily described as the

“most natural but the most improbable” form; and certainly, though

this style of novel had a brief renewal of popularity a year or two

ago, it is one that is aggravating to most readers, and requires many

clumsy expedients to fill in gaps in order to make the story hang

together connectedly. Miss Burney had employed it with good effect

in _Evelina_, but even here the story would have run much better told

straightforwardly. In any case Jane was well advised to abandon this

form. The novel was finished in 1798 but not published until 1811.

_Sense and Sensibility_, though it has never been placed first in

position among Jane Austen’s novels, has been accounted second by

many people. The two sisters, Elinor and Marianne, who represent Sense

and excessive Sensibility, are finely sketched. In this book the fact

that Jane Austen’s leading men are not equal to her leading women is

clearly exemplified. Mr. Austin Dobson speaks of the “colourless Edward

Ferrars and stiff-jointed Colonel Brandon,” and the epithets are well

deserved. We might add the selfish and unchivalrous Willoughby, for

here may be noted a defect not uncommon in women-writers, an inability

to grasp the code belonging to gentlemanly conduct. This is noticeable

in the behaviour ascribed to Darcy in _Pride and Prejudice_ already

mentioned, but it is worse in the case of Willoughby, who is supposed

to be brilliant, charming, and a gentleman, even though he acts badly

by Marianne. His long explanation with Elinor, when Marianne lies on a

sick-bed, and he himself is married, is supposed to atone for his bad

behaviour; at all events it is made to exonerate him in Elinor’s eyes,

whereas, far from exonerating him in the eyes of any ordinary person,

it shows him in a worse light than anything that has preceded.

It is only a scoundrel or cad of the weakest sort who speaks

slightingly of his wife, though unfortunately the code for women is

different, and many a woman “gives away” her husband on small enough

grounds. Yet in spite of one of the most stringent and least frequently

infringed rules of manly conduct, we find Willoughby saying, apparently

without any debasement in his creator’s eyes—

“‘With my hand and heart full of your sister, I was forced to play the

happy lover to another woman, ... Marianne, beautiful as an angel, on

one side ... and Sophia, jealous as the devil, on the other hand.’”

He then goes on to say that the letter sent in his name, which had

cut poor Marianne to the heart, was dictated by his wife. “‘What do

you think of my wife’s style of letter writing?—delicate—tender—truly

feminine—was it not?’” and in excuse for his marriage, “‘In honest

words her money was necessary to me.’”

After this even Elinor feels bound to rebuke him, saying: “‘You have

made your own choice. It was not forced on you. Your wife has a claim

to your politeness, to your respect, at least.’”

“‘Do not talk to me of my wife,’” he replies. “‘She does not deserve

your compassion. She knew I had no regard for her when we married.’”

In this book also there is a serious blot of another sort, a violation

of probabilities, which suffices to score a heavy mark against it. In

_Pride and Prejudice_ there is certainly improbability in the fact that

two portionless girls like Jane and Elizabeth Bennet should find such

husbands as Bingley and Darcy, but the improbability is lessened by the

fact that the pair of men were friends, and so one match contributes

to the other; but in _Sense and Sensibility_ the weak subterfuge for

getting rid of Lucy Price, to whom Edward holds himself in honour

bound, is hardly credible. There is no rational explanation of the

obliging conduct of Robert Ferrars, Edward’s brother; to make a man so

vain and selfish marry a woman who could bring him nothing, and whose

charms were not great, is a poor means of escaping from an undesirable

deadlock.

There remain a few other points for comment. We have in Mrs. Dashwood

one of the silly though fond mothers that Jane Austen delights to

describe. In Mrs. Jennings we have the comic relief, not so clever as

that supplied by Mr. Collins in _Pride and Prejudice_ or by Miss Bates

in _Emma_. A little too coarse for many people, but still true enough

to the times, when the fact of a man’s paying any attention to a girl

at all was sufficient to make the gossips discuss their marriage and

settlement in life with all openness.

The second chapter, often quoted, is one of the finest scenes in the

whole book; here John Dashwood, mindful of his promise to his dying

father, suggests giving each of his sisters a portion of one thousand

pounds out of the magnificent estate which has come to him under the

entail, but by the insidious arguments of his wife he at last settles

it with his conscience to afford them such assistance “as looking out

for a comfortable small house for them, helping them to move their

things, and sending them presents of fish and game and so forth,

whenever they are in season.”

The cottage in which the Dashwoods were installed at Barton seems

greatly to have resembled the cottage at Chawton. “As a house, Barton

Cottage, though small, was comfortable and compact; but as a cottage

it was defective, for the building was regular, the roof was tiled, the

window-shutters were not painted green, nor were the walls covered with

honeysuckles. A narrow passage led directly through the house into the

garden behind. On each side of the entrance was a sitting-room about

sixteen feet square and beyond them were the offices and the stairs.

Four bedrooms and two garrets formed the rest of the house. It had

not been built many years and was in good repair.” But as _Sense and

Sensibility_ was written long before Jane went to live at Chawton, it

is possible this account of the cottage was interpolated later, perhaps

when she revised the book for publication in 1811.

On the whole, though interesting enough, _Sense and Sensibility_

does not take very high rank among the novels. _Northanger Abbey_ was

begun in 1798, soon after the completion of _Sense and Sensibility_,

and, unlike its predecessors, it does not seem to have been based

on existing MSS., but to have been written as we now have it, though

the writing was spread over a long period. It is the one of all Miss

Austen’s novels about which opinions differ most. It was written

avowedly as a skit on the romantic school, whose high priestess was

Mrs. Radcliffe; but, as Mr. Austin Dobson says: “The ironical treatment

is not always apparent, and there are indications that, as often

happens, the author’s growing interest in the characters diverts her

from her purpose.” This is true enough, and the book certainly improves

in consequence as it goes on, for at first it is sententious, and the

author talks aside to her readers and explains her characters in a

way that she does nowhere else. Archbishop Whateley remarks that it is

“decidedly inferior to her other works—yet the same kind of excellences

that characterise the other novels may be perceived in this to a degree

which would have been highly creditable to most other writers of the

same school, and which would have entitled the author to considerable

praise had she written nothing better.”

The scene of _Northanger Abbey_ is laid in Bath, and it is easy to see

how very well acquainted not only with the topography, but with the

manners of Bath, Jane was. The chattering and running to and fro from

Pump rooms to Upper or Lower Assembly rooms, the continual meetings,

and the saunterings in the streets, with all the affected or real

gaiety, and the magnifying of trifles, are cleverly sketched in the

earlier part of the book. The sincere but foolish little heroine,

with her contrast to and intense admiration for her silly and selfish

friend, Isabella Thorpe, is a life-like figure. Her mother is one of

the very few elderly ladies who are allowed to be sensible in Jane’s

books, and she comes in so little as to be a very minor figure.

The account of Bath society is one of the principal features of the

book, another is that it abounds, perhaps more than any of the rest,

in those three or four line summaries which express so admirably

reflections, situations, and characters. Mrs. Thorpe’s “eldest daughter

has great personal beauty; and the younger ones by pretending to be as

handsome as their sister, imitating her air, and dressing in the same

style, did very well.” “Mrs. Allen was now quite happy, quite satisfied

with Bath. She had found some acquaintance—and as the completion

of good fortune, had found these friends by no means so expensively

dressed as herself.” “Her [Catherine’s] whole family were plain matter

of fact people, who seldom aimed at wit of any kind; her father at the

utmost being contented with a pun, and her mother with a proverb.”

“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