Jane Austen (Sarah Fanny Malden 1889)/Chapter 1
More than twenty years ago a gentleman visiting Winchester Cathedral asked a verger to show him Jane Austen's tomb. The man took him readily to a large slab of black marble set in the pavement near the centre of the north aisle, and the visitor stood for some time studying the inscription with keen interest; then, as he was turning away, the verger said in an apologetic tone, "Pray, Sir, can you tell me whether there was anything particular about that lady; so many people want to know where she was buried?" Such ignorance of Mansfield Park and Emma may be pardoned in a verger; perhaps it would have been rather more extraordinary if he had seemed to know anything about them, but it is strange to think how many hundreds of educated people there were then who delighted in every line of Jane Austen's writings, yet even so many years after their publication knew nothing about the life of their author, and could hardly have told whether she had lived in this century or in the last.
Rarely has a great writer's life been so completely hidden from the public throughout its entire course, and, indeed, for many years afterwards, as Jane Austen's, for no memoir of her was attempted until quite sixty years after she had passed away. Yet few authors could better have borne the fierce light of publicity upon their lives than the simple-minded, sweet-tempered woman, who never dreamt that anyone outside her own family would care to know anything about her, and who courted personal notoriety so little. She would never have realised the charm that her sweet, peaceful, womanly life would one day have for those who, having long worshipped her genius in her writings, would be delighted to learn how completely free she was from all the whims and caprices that sometimes disfigure genius, and how entirely she carried out the saying of her great sister writer, "D'abord je suis femme, puis je suis artiste."
During her whole lifetime "few of her readers," says her nephew, "knew even her name, and none knew more of her than her name"; and though this is perhaps too broad an assertion, it is undoubtedly true that she never made the least attempt to become known to any of her readers; indeed, she rather encouraged concealment than otherwise. There was no affectation of modesty in this, for throughout her life she expressed genuine and eager pleasure when her works were favourably received, but she had the shrinking of a refined nature from personal publicity, and her family, understanding the feeling, helped to screen her from it as much as they could. When Sense and Sensibility came out in 1811 her sister Cassandra wrote to various members of the family to beg they would not mention who was the author, and Jane herself expressed decided satisfaction when she heard it ascribed to a Miss Hamilton, who must have been better known to novel readers of that day than of this. Even in 1813, when Jane's fame was still further established by Pride and Prejudice, she wrote of herself as "frightened" when she heard that a strange lady wished to be introduced to her, declaring, "If I am a wild beast I cannot help it. It is not my fault"; and her family bear witness how genuine was her dislike to being lionized.
To her it seemed simply absurd that any great fuss should be made about writings which she herself said "cost her so little"; which were carried on as a pleasant pastime in the midst of other occupations, and without even a separate room to work in. To write a novel was to her almost as simple a matter as to write a letter, and why should she be more famous for the one than for the other? She valued the approval and admiration of her own family and friends, but she never wished to pose as an authoress before the world at large; and the sort of homage offered to Miss Edgeworth, Miss Burney, Miss Mitford, and others, would have revolted her. Her love of fun, too, made her enjoy the amusing mystifications that sometimes sprang from the preservation of her incognita, and although, unlike her great contemporary, she never denied her own writings, she took no pains to claim them, for her name did not appear on the title-page of any of her novels until after her death.
Perhaps it was the natural result of Miss Austen's complete absence of self-assertion that her fame was not widespread during her lifetime. At first sight it seems strange that her writings should not have become more immediately popular when so many worse ones were read with avidity; but, after all, the reason is not far to seek. Jane Austen's novels were a new departure in fiction; many clever novelists had written before her, but they had relied for their success either, like Fielding, on strong, highly-coloured pictures of life; or, like Richardson and Miss Burney, on endless complications of events; or, like Mrs. Radcliffe, on blood-curdling terrors. None of these great writers had successfully attempted a story in which there should not be one sensational incident, nor one extraordinary individual; which should deal neither with great people, nor with villains, nor with paragons of beauty and virtue, but simply with every-day types of character, leading every-day lives, and speaking and acting like ordinary mortals, but painted to the utmost perfection of finish by a most un-every-day genius. Jane Austen completely realised more than any other writer has ever done, the saying that no human being can be commonplace if you know him well enough. She knew human nature so well that no phase of it was uninteresting to her, and she painted it as thoroughly as she knew it; but her art was carried to the perfection which seems absolute simplicity, and the public could not immediately recognise the genius under the simplicity. A few able men and women instantly saw and proclaimed the merit of her works: Archbishop Whateley, Sir Walter Scott, Sydney Smith, the Countess of Morley, and—curiously enough—the Prince Regent, were among them; but they were in a small minority, and when she died in 1817 I can find no mention of her or of her writings in any newspaper or periodical of the day.
Two of Jane's best novels, Mansfield Park and Persuasion, appeared after her death, but even these did not awaken public taste; and for many years longer the circle of her admirers continued a small one. Mr. Austen Leigh tells us from his own recollections, that "Sometimes a friend or neighbour who chanced to know of our connection with the author would condescend to speak with moderate approbation of Sense and Sensibility or Pride and Prejudice; but if they had known that we in our secret thoughts classed her with Mme. D'Arblay or Miss Edgeworth, or even with some other novel writers of the day whose names are now scarcely remembered, they would have considered it an amusing instance of family conceit. To the multitude her works appeared tame and commonplace, poor in colouring, and sadly deficient in incident and interest. It is true that we were sometimes cheered by hearing that a different verdict had been pronounced by more competent judges; we were told how some great statesman or distinguished poet held these works in high estimation; we had the satisfaction of believing that they were most admired by the best judges, and comforted ourselves with Horace's satis est equitem mihi plaudere. So much was this the case, that one of the ablest men of my acquaintance said, in that kind of jest which has much earnest in it, that he had established it in his own mind, as a new test of ability, whether people could or could not appreciate Miss Austen's merits."
It is needless to tell the present generation how completely all this is changed, and how many hundreds of readers are well acquainted with Emma and Pride and Prejudice who have never struggled through the many-volumed adventures of Cecilia, or the somewhat wearisome doings of Ennui; but the tide turned, though slowly, and it is difficult to tell by what steps Jane Austen reached her present secure pinnacle. Southey, Coleridge, Guizot, Lord Macaulay, Lord Holland, Whewell, and Lord Lansdowne, were all among the earlier of her warm admirers, and Sir James Mackintosh fired up in her defence when Mme. de Staël called her novels "vulgar." Lord Macaulay planned a new edition of her works, with a memoir prefixed, the profits of which should go to erecting a monument to her memory in Winchester Cathedral; but his death checked this project, and the memoir remained unwritten. It may seem curious that no biography of her was earlier attempted, but fifty or sixty years ago the popular taste was in favour of stirring incidents in a memoir; the idea of studying the development and cultivation of a rare character throughout its career was little entertained, and the Austen family had no wish to force the biography of one so beloved on an indifferent or uninterested public.
Jane Austen had the happiness of being surrounded by relations who prized all her endowments, mental and moral; who were able to help her with criticism and cheer her with wise praise, while from her earliest childhood she imbibed cultivation from her parents and the elder members of her family. Her father, George Austen, was a man of superior intellect, and of excellent education, which latter he owed partly to the generosity of a relative, but more to his own industry and love of learning. He was of good family—the Austens had been settled in Kent for many generations—but at eight years old he lost both his parents, and was penniless as well as an orphan. Through the liberality of an uncle he was sent to a good school at Tunbridge, where he proved himself worthy of such kindness by gaining first a scholarship at St. John's, Oxford, and, finally, becoming a Fellow of his College. He took Orders soon after. To purchase a living was at that time the obvious way of helping a poor and deserving young clergyman, and in 1764 George Austen found himself the owner of two livings in Hampshire, both presented to him by relations; Deane, where he first took up his abode, and Steventon, where, in 1775, Jane Austen was born. Of course this was pluralism, but no one then would have thought of objecting to such a thing in moderation, and few could have objected strongly to Deane and Steventon being united, inasmuch as the two parishes were within a mile and a half of each other, and there were not three hundred souls in both of them combined.
Jane's mother, Cassandra Leigh, was the daughter of a clergyman who lived near Henley-upon-Thames, and she was married to George Austen before he went to Deane. The mothers of clever men are proverbially highly gifted; whether the mothers of clever women are equally so may be more doubtful, but Jane Austen's mother was unquestionably a woman of superior intellect, and to that much of her daughter's ability might be traced. All readers of Mrs. Thrale must remember stories of Dr. Theophilus Leigh, who held the Mastership of Balliol College for more than fifty years, and was a noted wit and humorist of his day. Mrs. George Austen was his niece, and would seem to have had all his brilliant powers and epigrammatic play of wit, both in conversation and in letters; in addition to which she had a still greater blessing for a woman, in a temper of imperturbable sweetness, and this several of her family inherited from her, Jane most completely. Like her husband, she was of good family; a descendant of the Lord Chandos who was English Ambassador at Constantinople in 1686. The handsome young clergyman (George Austen was noted for his good looks even into extreme old age) settled with his bride at Deane in 1765, and they had a child, though not one of their own, before they went there. Warren Hastings, then of course in India, confided to their charge the son of his first marriage, and the child remained with them until his early death of what was then called "putrid sore throat," probably a form of diphtheria. On this child Mrs. Austen had lavished all a mother's care, and throughout her life she declared that she could not have mourned more for her own child than she did for this adopted little one, though when he died her own nursery was filling fast, for five sons were born at Deane in rapid succession, James, Edward, Henry, Francis, and Charles.
In 1771 the Austen family migrated to Steventon Parsonage, only a drive of a mile and a half from Deane Parsonage, but such a mile and a half! Where now-a-days a smooth lane runs from one village to the other there was then only a cart-track, cut up with fearful ruts, and absolutely impassable for an ordinary gentleman's carriage. Mrs. Austen was unable either to walk or ride the distance, and so, when one of the waggons conveying the family goods had been nearly filled, the remaining space was occupied by a feather bed, upon which she was placed; the beds were then wedged between small pieces of furniture to avoid as much as possible all jolting, and in this manner did the clergyman's wife reach her future home. On January the 9th, 1772, her first daughter was born, and christened Cassandra, and after an interval of nearly four years, on December 16th, 1775, came Jane, and with her the Austen family closed.
The early life of all the young Austens was much the same. Like all her brothers and her sister, Jane was sent to a neighbouring farmer's wife as soon as possible after her birth, and remained there until of a convenient age to return home. This curious custom was then almost universal both in England and in France; most English writers of the day mention it as a matter of course, and both Richardson and Miss Edgeworth strongly uphold it. In France it was so systematized that the parents frequently sent with their infant a blank death certificate for the foster parents to fill up in case the child died while under their care! I do not know if this odd piece of foresight ever existed in England, at all events it was never needed for any of the young Austens, nor were they really banished from their parents, for both the father and mother visited the children almost daily until their return home. As far as health went the plan answered well, for all the children were healthy, and several lived to extreme old age, though Jane, alas! was not among these.
Except for occasional short absences from home, Jane's birthplace was also her dwelling-place for twenty-five years, considerably more than the half of her short life, and some of her best writing was accomplished while there, so that a description of the quiet country parsonage cannot be without some interest for her readers.
Steventon, Stephington, or Stivetune—for the place has borne all these names—is not situated in a strikingly picturesque or beautiful country; in fact, there is a family tradition that Mrs. George Austen was wofully disappointed with her future home when taken to visit it as a bride-elect. Coming as she did from Henley-on-Thames she may have been hypercritical, but those who know the Hampshire scenery near Basingstoke will understand her feeling, for it is not of the kind to fascinate anyone at first sight. It is not exactly flat, but neither is it very hilly; it has plenty of trees, but no very fine timber, though there are many pretty walks and quiet nooks which make it a pleasant home-like neighbourhood to anyone living in it, and knowing it well. There is a good view of Steventon from the railway between Basingstoke and Popham Beacon, but the parsonage house which we see there now is not the one in which Jane Austen opened her eyes to the world nearly a hundred and fourteen years ago. That one was pulled down more than sixty years ago; it is said to have been a square, comfortable-looking house on the other side of the valley to the present one; it was approached from the road by a shady drive, and was large enough to contain not only all the Austens and their household, but at different times many other people as well. It had a good-sized, old-fashioned garden, which was filled with fruit and flowers in delightfully indiscriminate profusion, and sloped gently upwards to a most attractive turf terrace. Every reader of Northanger Abbey will identify this terrace with a smile! From the parsonage garden there was a curious walk to the church; it was what natives of Hampshire call "a hedge," which may be explained to those who are not natives of Hampshire as a footpath, or even sometimes a cart-track, bordered irregularly with copse wood and timber, far prettier than the ordinary type of English hedge, and forming a distinctive characteristic of the county. Jane Austen betrayed her Hampshire origin when she made Anne Elliot in Persuasion overhear Captain Wentworth and Louisa Musgrove "in the hedge-row behind her, as if making their way down the rough, wild sort of channel down the centre."
The "hedge" at Steventon was called "the Church Walk," and another of the same kind began at the corner of the turf terrace, and was formed farther on into a rustic shrubbery with seats here and there, called "the Wood Walk"; just the right place for Mr. Woodhouse to have taken his three turns in, or for Lady Bertram "to get out into in bad weather!" Steventon church, as Jane Austen knew it, was small and plain, with no greater merits than good proportions, early English windows, and seven centuries of age; but since then it has been almost rebuilt, and is now a far more imposing edifice. The Church Walk led also to a fine old Manor House of the time of Henry VIII., to the grounds of which the Austens had always free access: the rest of Steventon was simply a group of cottages with good gardens attached to them.
It is easy to see that scenery and surroundings of this kind would not lend themselves to interesting description in writing; nobody but George Sand could have thrown a poetic halo round Steventon, and, therefore, Jane Austen, with her usual excellent common sense, avoided all direct mention of it. Nevertheless, just as the Brontë writings breathe Yorkshire in every line, so that it is almost like walking over the moors to read Jane Eyre or Wuthering Heights, so it is unmistakable throughout her works that Steventon, under one form or another, was the background on which Jane Austen painted her "little bits of ivory two inches wide," as she called her novels, and that the home-life of the parsonage, its duties, its amusements, its visits and its visitors, its joys and its griefs, were the tapestry into which she wove the lives of her heroes and heroines. Her invariable principle in writing was to use the material which lay near to hand, and which, therefore, she knew thoroughly how to manipulate. Both the places and the people must be much altered now from what they were when Jane Austen grew up among them; but the life-like figures painted so long ago by her master-hand gain additional clearness and vraisemblance for us when we realise how both they and their surroundings were drawn from what their author actually saw, and how completely it was her genius that transformed such commonplace material into immortal substance.
Nothing could have seemed less likely to inspire a young author with good subjects than the prosaic surroundings and quiet routine of the uneventful Steventon life, with its neighbourhood neither better nor worse than other country neighbourhoods of that day, and its distance from any large town or centre of life; yet Jane Austen found this sufficient for her.
Many great writers have made a splendid use of splendid material; but she truly "created," for she made immortal pictures out of nothing. We have all encountered Miss Bates, Sir Walter Elliot, and General Tilney in real life, but few of us found them amusing until Jane Austen taught us to do so. It must not be supposed, however, that she ever drew absolute portraits in her works; she considered that an unpardonable liberty, and once, when accused of doing so, she indignantly repudiated "such an invasion of the social proprieties;" adding, with a laugh, "I am too proud of my gentlemen to admit that they were only Mr. A. or Colonel B."
Like all truly great artists, she drew types, not individuals; and her writings, therefore, remain true to life, because types endure when individuals have long passed away. If she had not had "the divine spark" in herself, she would never have written at all, for she was not forced into doing so by Dr. Johnson's great prescription—poverty; and she was too happy and contented in her home to write as a relief from a dull life. She wrote because she could not help it—full of hope that what was such a pleasure to her would some day cause as much pleasure to others; it is only a pity that she did not live to know all the enjoyment she would give to readers in number far beyond what she ever dreamt of.