Jane Austen (Sarah Fanny Malden 1889)/Chapter 11

From Wikisource
Jump to navigation Jump to search
Chapter XI.
Illness and death.

Emma was the last of her works which Jane Austen lived to see published; and, in spite of the compliments she received upon it, and the pleasure they gave her, its publication had sad associations for her. Henry Austen's illness, already mentioned, had begun while his sister was busy bringing out the novel, and it had been a very sudden and serious one. At first Jane was alone with him, but, as the danger increased with alarming rapidity, she sent for the other members of the family. They all arrived as quickly as was possible in those days when locomotion was so difficult; but Henry Austen was at death's door before they could get to him, and for many days he lay between life and death, although he recovered eventually. The strain and anxiety told much upon Jane, and she was still in a very low nervous state when fresh trouble came upon her family. Henry who had tried several professions, and had been unable to establish himself in any, had for some time past been partner in a bank, which now broke: many of the Austen family besides himself were involved in the loss. Any family trouble was always deeply felt by Jane, and this came upon her when she was quite unfit for any fresh trial. Her health and spirits, which were already much weakened, sank perceptibly, and though she was anything but nervous about herself, and seldom mentioned her own health in her letters, she was evidently very far from well. In 1816 one of her nieces had written to her with earnest inquiries after her health, in answer to which Jane replies, "Many thanks for your kind care of my health. I certainly have not been well for many weeks, and about a week ago I was very poorly. I have had a good deal of fever at times and indifferent nights; but I am considerably better now, and am recovering my looks a little, which have been bad enough—black and white and every wrong colour. I must not depend upon being ever very blooming again. Sickness is a dangerous indulgence at my time of life." In the same making-the-best-of-it spirit, she wrote about this time to her brother Charles: "I live upstairs 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."

Increasing discomfort soon convinced her that she was not as near recovery as she had hoped, and though she was so cheerful before her family that they could not tell whether she were alarmed or not, before others she sometimes allowed herself to relax in this watchful self-control. While staying with some old friends in scenes that were very familiar to her, they were struck by the way in which she spoke and acted as though she never expected to be there again, and the visible failure in her health greatly alarmed them. Her letters, too, became sadder in tone, and in one of them the depression was so evident that she pulls herself up with the remark, "But I am getting too near complaint; it has been the appointment of God, however secondary causes may have operated."

In the summer of 1816 she was able to pay a visit—which she must have known would be her last—to the old home at Steventon; and when she returned to Chawton, she continued to work at Persuasion, though under great difficulty from bodily weakness. It was, we feel, the consciousness of approaching death that touched that exquisite novel—the last she ever completed—with the wonderful pathetic sweetness and grace in which it stands alone among her works; even the happy termination having a sort of subdued radiance about it quite unlike the endings of her other stories. Considering her state of health, it is wonderful that she could write at all. She had been obliged to give up all walking and almost all driving, while inside the house she could seldom find comfort or rest, except by lying down. The little drawing-room of Chawton Cottage contained only one sofa, which was appropriated to Mrs. Austen, then more than seventy years old, but if she had seen that her daughter needed it, she would, probably, have refused to use it herself. Jane, who carried on all her work, literary or otherwise, in the midst of her family, made herself a sort of couch with some chairs, and declared that she preferred this to the real sofa—a "pious fraud" which the grown-up members of the family respected in silence. One of her little nieces, however, with the candeur brutale de l'enfance, expressed so much astonishment at her aunt's taste, that Jane was obliged to explain the truth privately to her, and so silence her indiscreet remarks. It was another proof of the loving unselfishness which, even in illness, could not enjoy a comfort if anyone else were deprived of it.

In spite of weakness and suffering, she finished Persuasion in July, 1816; but when she attempted the most difficult part of the story—the re-engagement of Anne and Captain Wentworth—her brain had, for the moment, lost its full power, and she produced a chapter which was certainly not up to her usual standard. Her clear judgment was not dimmed: she saw the deficiencies in what she had written, but, for the first time in her life, she felt incapable of correcting them, and a great wave of despondency swept over her as she realised her own weakness of mind and body, and felt that the pen which she had enjoyed the use of for so many years was at length slipping from her grasp. Her despondency was, however, premature; she went to bed in very low spirits, but next morning her brain was in full vigour again, and she resumed her pen with all the old energy. She now wrote two chapters in place of the one she had already composed; and as these give us the visit of the Musgroves to Bath; all the scenes immediately following that visit; and the reconciliation of Anne and Captain Wentworth, her readers must feel that she has left us nothing worthier of her genius. She herself was quite contented with her second attempt, and, indeed, it is difficult to see how she could have been otherwise.

For some time after this she attempted no further writing, but in January 1817 she either was, or fancied herself, better, for she wrote to a friend, "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 to keep off any serious return of illness." And about the same time she wrote to a niece, "I feel myself so much 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." Her hopes were never to be realised; but she took advantage of her comparative vigour to begin a fresh novel on January 27th, 1817, and was able to go on with it, with tolerable rapidity, till March 17th. This last unfinished attempt, which had not even received a title, has never been published in entenso, but extracts from it have been given, and a sketch of the plot as far as it was worked out. It is difficult to judge of any work in this way, but as far as it had gone there was no very attractive character in it. It is possible that, if health had been granted her, Jane Austen would have polished and improved upon the materials until the characters had become as real to us as the Bertrams and the Bennets; but by this time her alarming state had become evident to every member of the family, and when two of James Austen's daughters went to see her in April, the younger one records, "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.' 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."

Still she continued cheerful, though she can have had by this time little hope of recovery; and in April her brother James writes to his daughter that, "I was happy to have a good account of herself written by her own hand in a letter from your Aunt Jane, but all who love, and that is all who know her, must be anxious on her account." By this time she had given up her novel-writing, so that she must have felt herself weak indeed.

In May she and her sister moved into lodgings in Winchester that she might be within reach of an eminent medical man living there; but he had little hope of saving her, though, after going there, she seemed for a time rather stronger, and wrote to one of her nephews, "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 hand-writing; 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 nine in the morning to ten 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." She then gives a cheerful account of their lodgings, and winds up with a touching expression of grateful humility: "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 daresay you will, the greatest blessing of all in the consciousness of not being unworthy of their love. I could not feel this." Soon afterwards she writes even more touchingly: "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."

She was now fully aware of her state and in no way alarmed by it, though—might she have chosen—she would gladly have lived longer. Every year was bringing her fresh fame and giving her new assurances of success; she was surrounded by loving relations and friends; and she had scarcely reached middle age. Her brothers were scattered in their own various homes, but their children were a constant interest and pleasure to her, and she had the unceasing companionship of the sister who was more than anyone else to her, and from whom she had been so little separated. There was much to make life sweet to Jane Austen at the age of forty-two; nothing that should make her wish to leave it, and yet, with her usual contentedness, she quietly acquiesced in the summons for her, and endeavoured, as far as possible, to cheer those around her.

Her sister-in-law, Mrs. James Austen, came to Winchester to help Cassandra with the nursing; and soon after she arrived, a sudden prostration in the patient made everyone believe that the end had come. Jane was aware of it, and, calm and serene as ever, said words of farewell to all who were with her. Finally she turned to her sister-in-law with warm expressions of gratitude for all her care and help, adding, "You have always been a kind sister to me, Mary." The end was not as near as the watchers thought, for she lingered until past the middle of July, but when it came, it seemed alsudden, as is often the case after a lingering illness. On the 18th of July, 1817, Jane Austen breathed her last; and those who had watched her throughout her illness were thankful that the months of weariness and suffering were over, even though they felt how irreparable was their own loss. Their feelings are best described in the letter which Cassandra wrote to her niece, Fanny Knight, two days after Jane had passed away; and this letter gives, also, the most complete account of her last hours:



"My Dearest Fanny,
"Winchester,
Sunday.

"Doubly dear to me now for her dear sake whom we have lost. She did love you most sincerely; and never shall I forget the proofs of love you gave her during her illness, in writing those kind amusing letters at a time when I know your feelings would have dictated so different a style. Take the only reward I can give you in the assurance that your benevolent purpose was answered: you did contribute to her enjoyment.

"Even your last letter afforded pleasure. I merely cut the seal and gave it to her; she opened it and read it herself. Afterwards she gave it me to read, and then talked to me a little, and not uncheerfully, of its contents, but there was then a langour about her which prevented her taking the same interest in anything she had been used to do.

"Since Tuesday evening, when her complaint returned, there was a visible change, she slept more and much more comfortably; indeed, during the last eight and forty hours she was more asleep than awake. Her looks altered, and she fell away, but I perceived no material diminution of strength, and though I was then hopeless of a recovery, I had no suspicion how rapidly my loss was approaching.

"I have lost a treasure, such a sister, such a friend as never can have been surpassed. She was the sun of my life, the gilder of every pleasure, the soother of every sorrow; I had not a thought concealed from her, and feel as if I had lost a part of myself. I loved her only too well—not better than she deserved, but I am conscious that my affection for her made me sometimes unjust to and negligent of others; and I can acknowledge, more than as a general principle, the justice of the Hand which has struck this blow. . . . I thank God that I was enabled to attend her to the last; and amongst my many causes of self-reproach I have not to add any wilful neglect of her comfort.

"She felt herself to be dying about half an hour before she became tranquil and apparently unconscious. During that half hour was her struggle, poor soul! She said she could not tell us what she suffered, though she complained of little fixed pain. When I asked her if there was anything she wanted, her answer was she wanted nothing but death, and some of her words were, 'God grant me patience; pray for me, oh, pray for me.' Her voice was affected; but as long as she spoke she was intelligible.

"I hope I do not break your heart, my dearest Fanny, by these particulars; I mean to afford you gratification whilst I am relieving my own feelings. I could not write so to anybody else; indeed, you are the only person I have written to at all, excepting your grandmamma—it was to her, not your Uncle Charles, I wrote on Friday.

"Immediately after dinner on Thursday, I went into the town to do an errand which your dear aunt was anxious about. I returned about a quarter before six, and found her recovering from faintness and oppression; she got so well as to be able to give me a minute account of her seizure, and when the clock struck six she was talking quietly to me.

"I cannot say how soon afterwards she was seized again with the same faintness which was followed by the sufferings she could not describe; but Mr. Liford had been sent for, had applied something to give her ease, and she was in a state of quiet insensibility by seven o'clock at the latest. From that time till half past four, when she ceased to breathe, she scarcely moved a limb, so that we have reason to think, with gratitude to the Almighty, that her sufferings were over. A slight motion of the head with every breath remained till almost the last. I sat close to her with a pillow in my lap to assist in supporting her head, which was almost off the bed, for six hours; fatigue made me then resign my place to Mrs. J. A. for two hours and a half, when I took it again, and in about an hour more she breathed her last. I was able to close her eyes myself, and it was a great gratification to me to be able to render her those last services. There was nothing convulsed which gave the idea of pain in her look; on the contrary, but for the continual motion of her head, she gave one the idea of a beautiful statue, and even now, in her coffin, there is such a sweet serene air over her countenance as is quite pleasant to contemplate. . . .

"The last sad ceremony is to take place on Thursday morning; her dear remains are to be deposited in the Cathedral. It is a satisfaction to me to think they are to lie in a building she admired so much."

Nine days later, when she had returned home again, Cassandra wrote to the same niece—


"Chawton,
"Tuesday (July 29, 1817).


"My Dearest Fanny,

"I have just read your letter for the third time, and thank you most sincerely for every kind expression to myself, and still more warmly for your praises of her who, I believe, was better known to you than to any human being besides myself. Nothing of the sort could have been more gratifying to me than the manner in which you write of her, and if the dear angel is conscious of what passes here, and is not above all earthly feelings, she may, perhaps, receive pleasure in being so mourned. . . .

"Thursday was not so dreadful a day to me as you imagined. There was so much necessary to be done that there was no time for additional misery. Everything was conducted with the greatest tranquillity, and, but that I was determined I would see the last, and, therefore, was upon the listen, I should not have known when they left the house. I watched the little mournful procession the length o£ the street, and when it turned from my sight, and I had lost her for ever, even then I was not overpowered, nor so much agitated as I am now in writing of it. Never was human being more sincerely mourned by those who attended her remains than was this dear creature. May the sorrow with which she is parted with on earth be a prognostic of the joy with which she is hailed in heaven."

In these last sentences Cassandra Austen expresses what were her feelings through life, and hardly more hers than those of the rest of the family. Although she was Jane's special companion, the brothers had all loved and treasured the bright unselfish sister, who was always ready to mourn in their sorrows and rejoice with their happiness; whose talents were winning the admiration of the world, while her heart remained simple as that of a child. In the feeling words of her nephew, "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."

Jane Austen's remains were laid near the middle of the north aisle of Winchester Cathedral, almost opposite the well-known tomb of William of Wykeham. The taste of the day was for full and somewhat minute epitaphs, and on a large slab of black marble which marks the spot was placed the following inscription:—

"In memory of Jane Austen, youngest daughter of the late Revd. George Austen, formerly rector of Steventon in this County. She departed this life on July 18, 1817, aged 41, after a long illness, supported with the patience and hope of a Christian. The benevolence of her hearty the sweetness of her temper, and the extraordinary endowments of her mind obtained the regard of all who knew her, and the warmest love of her immediate connections. Their grief is in proportion to their affection; they know their loss to be irreparable, but in their deepest affliction they are consoled by a firm, though humble, hope that her charity, devotion, faith, and purity have rendered her soul acceptable in the sight of her Redeemer."

It is quite possible that when this inscription first appeared, few strangers who read it had any idea how extraordinary the endowments of Jane Austen's mind had been, and they probably considered the expression as an illustration of family partiality; but in years to come the public woke to the perception that there was, in good truth, something "particular about that lady," and it was then found desirable to mark her resting-place differently. Her nephew, Mr. Austen Leigh, inserted a brass in the wall near her grave to—

"Jane Austen, known to many by her writings, endeared to her family by the varied charms of her character, and ennobled by Christian faith and piety.

"She openeth her mouth with wisdom, and in her tongue is the law of kindness."

Her family were quite satisfied with these notices of her whom they had so dearly loved; and though we may feel as if some more national tribute to her, genius would have been fitting, still her fame is of the kind that needs no "storied urn or animated bust" to keep it alive. In a very different sense, but as truly as of the great architect, it may be said, "Si monumentum requiris, circumspice!" for it is in looking round us at the every-day men and women whom we meet in our every-day life that we learn to appreciate truly the genius which could read those characters so perfectly and paint them so unerringly.


As we look back on the scanty records of Jane Austen's career, or turn from these to criticise the writings which were, in fact, her life, we cannot but feel that it was a life prematurely ended as regarded her fame, and that in the future she might have even surpassed the works we already have from her. Yet, much as we must regret that she lived to write nothing more, we cannot attach the idea of incompleteness or immaturity to anything she did write. Everything is finished to the highest point of finish; no labour has been spared, and yet nothing is laboured. George Eliot has named her "The greatest artist that has ever written . . . the most perfect master over the means to her end." Could higher praise be bestowed upon any style of writing? It is in this completeness, this absoluteness of dainty finish, joined, as it is, to a keen, delicate satire and a humour which is never coarse, that lies Jane Austen's gift; and it is one in which she has never had a rival.

It is nearly eighty years since she died, and there has been no writer since whose style, to those who know Jane Austen's well, can really challenge comparison with it for a moment. It is impossible to urge her merits on any who do not see them from her writings, "next to Shakespeare," as Lord Tennyson called them. Those who do appreciate her novels will think no praise too high for them, while those who do not, will marvel at the infatuation of her admirers; for no one ever cares moderately for Jane Austen's works: her readers either award them unbounded praise or find them insufferably dull. In her own day, the latter class were the larger, and reasons for this have been suggested; now, and for many years past, the tide of popular opinion has set strongly the other way, and we may believe it will continue to do so as long as novel-readers can appreciate life-like pictures of human beings who are immortal in their truth to nature, though their setting belongs to a bygone day.