Jane Austen (Sarah Fanny Malden 1889)/Chapter 2
The society immediately round Steventon when Jane Austen was growing up was neither above nor below the average of country society seventy miles from London, at a time when Squire Western was by no means an extinct character, nor Mr. B. a very uncommon one.
Even now it is not unusual for a country clergyman to find himself the only educated gentleman within a radius of some miles round his parsonage; but the dense ignorance of country gentlemen a hundred years ago is a thing of the past, and it could scarcely happen to any clergyman now to be asked, as Mr. Austen was once by a wealthy squire, "You know all about these things. Do tell us. Is Paris in France, or France in Paris? for my wife has been disputing with me about it." The Austens were not, however, dependent entirely on neighbours of this class for their social intercourse, and whether, like Mrs. Bennet, they dined with four-and-twenty families or not, they certainly managed to have a good deal of pleasant society. By birth and position the Austens were entitled to mix with the best society of their county, and though not rich, their means were sufficient to enable them to associate with the best families in the neighbourhood.
Country visits were more of a business then than now; wet weather and bad roads and dark nights made more obstacles to social intercourse than we realise in these days; but a houseful of merry, cultivated young people, presided over by genial parents, is sure to be popular with its neighbours, and Jane Austen had no lack of society when she was growing up. She was one of a most attractive family party, for they were all warmly attached to each other, full of the small jokes and bright sayings that enliven family life, and blessed with plenty of brains and cultivation, besides the sweet sunny temper that makes everyday life so easy.
Steventon Rectory in Jane Austen's girlhood was as cheerful and happy a home as any girl need have desired, and she remembered it affectionately throughout her life, unconscious how much of its sunshine she herself had produced, for in her eyes its brightness was mainly owing to her sister, Cassandra. It was natural that two sisters coming together at the end of a line of brothers should draw much together, and from her earliest childhood Jane's devotion to her elder sister was almost passionate in its intensity. As a little child she pined so miserably when Cassandra began going to school without her, that she was sent also, though too young for school life; but, as Mrs. Austen observed at the time, "If Cassandra were going to have her head cut off, Jane would insist on sharing her fate;" and this childish devotion only increased with riper years.
From beginning to end Jane never wrote a story that was not related first to Cassandra, and discussed with her; she literally shared every thought and feeling with her sister, and the two pleasant volumes of letters which Lord Brabourne has published show us how the intense attachment between the two sisters never waned throughout their lives. The letters are almost in one way uninteresting to a third person; they are so full of the details of everyday life. Every particular is related, every plan discussed in them; they are the kind that could only pass between two people who knew that nothing which interested the one could fail to interest the other, and to open them is almost like intruding upon a confidential tête-à-tête: yet they are full of attraction for those who can read Jane's own character between the lines. All her warmth of heart and devotion to her family shine out in them, as well as her quick perception of character; and they sparkle throughout with quiet fun, and with humour which is never ill-natured, while from first to last there is not a line written for effect, nor an atom of egotism or self-consciousness. It is characteristic both of Jane's self-abnegation and of her complete faith in her sister that, even after she was a successful authoress, she always gave Cassandra's opinion first to anyone consulting her on literary matters, and if it differed from her own she mentioned the fact almost apologetically, and merely as if she felt bound to do so.
If she did not actually pine for her sister's presence after she was grown up, she certainly missed her, even in a short time, far more than most sisters, however affectionate, would do. At twenty she is eager to give up a ball to which she had been looking forward, merely that Cassandra may return from a visit two days earlier than she otherwise could, and writes, "I shall be extremely impatient to hear from you again, that I may know when you are to return." At another time she reproaches her for staying away longer than she need have done, and entreats her to write oftener while away, declaring, "I am sure nobody can desire your letters as much as I do;" while every letter she receives from Cassandra is commented on with the same lover-like ardour, and received with the same delight, long after both the sisters had passed the romantic stage of girlhood.
"Excellent sweetness of you to send me such a nice long letter," writes Jane, in 1813, when she was eight and thirty years old; and though doubtless letters were greater treasures then than now, it must be remembered that these and similar expressions are from a woman who was usually anything but "gushing" or "sentimental" in her language. Wherever the sisters were they always shared their bed-room, and if Jane's feeling was the clinging devotion of a younger to an elder sister, Cassandra certainly returned it with an intense sympathy and affection that never diminished in life or in death.
The sisters were educated together chiefly at home. Mr. Austen taught his sons in great part himself, and was well fitted to do so, but the higher education for women had not then been discovered, and the Austen girls were not better instructed than other young ladies of their day. Jane's especial gift was skill and dexterity with her fingers; she was a first-rate needlewoman, and delighted in needlework; she excelled also in any game or occupation that required neat-fingeredness; but she was no artist, and not a great musician, though far from a bad one. Like Elizabeth Bennet, "her performance was pleasing, though by no means capital." She was an excellent French scholar, and a fair Italian one; German was in her day quite an exceptional acquirement for ladies; and as to what was then thought of the dead languages for them, all readers of Hannah More must remember her bashful heroine who put the cream into the tea-pot and the sugar into the milk-jug on it being discovered that she read Latin with her father!
Jane Austen risked no such overwhelming discovery, but she was well acquainted with the standard writers of her time, and had a fair knowledge of miscellaneous literature. Crabbe, Cowper, Johnson, and Scott were her favourite poets, though, rather oddly, she set Crabbe highest; and it was a standing joke in the family that she would have been delighted to become Mrs. Crabbe if she had ever been personally acquainted with the poet.
Old novels were her delight, and the influence of Richardson and Miss Burney may be traced in some of her early writings. I have always thought that her criticism on the Spectator in Northanger Abbey proves that she could have known very little of Steele and Addison's masterpieces; but tastes differ, and she may have been unlucky in her selections. She always took pleasure in calling herself "ignorant and uninformed," and in declaring that she hated solid reading; but her letters continually make mention of new books which she is reading, and there was a constant stream of literature setting through the rectory at Steventon, in which Jane shared quite as fully as any of the others.
The delight and pursuit of her life, however, from very early days, was writing, and she seems to have been permitted to indulge in this pleasure with very little restraint; all the more, perhaps, that no amount of scribbling ever succeeded in spoiling her excellent handwriting. After she grew up to womanhood she regretted not having read more and written less before she was sixteen, and urged one of her nieces not to follow her example in that respect; but there must have been many wet or solitary days in the quiet rectory life which would have been very dull for the child without such a resource, and posterity may rejoice that no one hindered Jane Austen's inclination for writing.
How soon she began to produce finished stories is not certain, but from a very early age her writings were a continual amusement and interest to the home circle, where they were criticised and admired with no idea as to what they might lead. Most young authors try their hands at dramatic writing some time or other, and Jane passed through this stage of composition when she was about twelve years old, though she never seems to have attempted it later in life. It was not a style which could have suited her, but at the time she tried it the young Austens had taken a craze for private theatricals, and Jane's plays are thus easily accounted for.
The corps dramatique consisted of the brothers and sisters and a cousin, who had become one of them under pathetically romantic circumstances. She was a niece of Mr. Austen's, had been educated in Paris, and married to a French nobleman, the Count de la Feuillade. He was guillotined in the Revolution, and she, with great difficulty, made her way to England, where she found a home in the already well-filled rectory at Steventon. She was clever and accomplished, rather un-English in her ways and tastes, and very ready to help in the theatricals, which, perhaps, would not have existed but for her. There was no theatre but the dining-room or a barn, and both actors and audience must have been limited in number; but plays were got up in which Mme. de Feuillade was the principal actress; James Austen wrote brilliant prologues and epilogues when they were wanted, and Jane Austen looked on and laid in materials for the immortal theatricals of the Bertram family. Space must have made it impossible for a Mr. Yates, a Mr. Rushworth, or the Crawfords to be among the Steventon actors; but there may have been a very sufficient spice of love-making throughout the business, for Mme. de Feuillade afterwards married Henry Austen, Jane's third brother, and it is probable that there were enough "passages" between them during the theatricals to interest a girl of Jane's age keenly. Meanwhile, something—perhaps the absurdly transparent mysteries in which some old comedies abound—suggested to her a little jeu d'esprit, which, slight as it is, shows her keen sense of fun and her close observation, for she has copied the style and manner of an old play very closely, even in the dedication.
THE MYSTERY:
AN UNFINISHED COMEDY.
Dedication to the Rev. George Austen.
Sir,—I humbly solicit your patronage to the following comedy, which, though an unfinished one, is, I flatter myself, as complete a Mystery as any of its kind.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
| Men. | Women. |
| Col. Elliott, | Fanny Elliott, |
| Old Humbug, | Mrs. Humbug, and |
| Young Humbug, | Daphne. |
| Sir Edward Spangle, and Corydon. |
Act I. Scene I.—A Garden.
Enter Corydon.
Corydon. But, hush; I am interrupted. [Exit Corydon.
Enter Old Humbug and his Son, talking.
Old Hum. Then let us return to the house. [Exeunt.
Scene II. — A parlour in Humbug's house. Mrs. Humbug
and Fanny discovered at work.
Mrs. Hum. You understand me, my love?
Fanny. Perfectly, ma'am; pray continue your narration.
Fanny. Ah! here is Daphne.
Enter Daphne.
Fanny. Is it, indeed?
Mrs. Hum. I'm very sorry to hear it.
Fanny. Then 'twas to no purpose that I
Daphne. None upon earth.
Mrs. Hum. And what is to become of ?
Daphne. Oh I 'tis all settled. [Whispers Mrs. Humbug.
Fanny. And how is it determined?
Daphne. I'll tell you. [Whispers Fanny.
Mrs. Hum. And is he to ?
Daphne. I'll tell you all I know of the matter. [Whispers Mrs. Humbug and Fanny.
Fanny. Well, now I know everything about it I'll go away.
Mrs. Hum. and Daphne. And so will I. [Exeunt.
Scene III.—The curtain rises and discovers Sir Edward Spangle reclined in an elegant attitude on a sofa fast asleep.
Enter Col. Elliott.
End of the First Act.Finis.
The Steventon theatricals came to an end when Jane was scarcely fifteen, but their influence on her writings existed for some time longer, and on the whole was scarcely a good one. "Instead of presenting faithful copies of nature, these tales were generally burlesques ridiculing the improbable events and exaggerated sentiments which she had met with in sundry silly romances." Caricature is not a high type of art, and we may be glad that Jane Austen got over this stage while young. A trace of it lingers in Northanger Abbey, but she soon dropped it, either because it grated upon her own taste, or perhaps from the advice of her brother James. He was a man of much ability, and, being ten years older than his sister Jane, had a considerable share in forming her literary taste and judgment.
About 1792 or thereabouts, she tried her hand at the form of novel in letters which Miss Burney and Richardson had then made very popular. It was natural that a girl deeply versed in Sir Charles Grandison and Evelina should be attracted by this style, but, in spite of some successes, it is doubtful if it could form a good vehicle for an every-day story, and it certainly was not suited to Jane Austen's manner of writing. She had not then, however, realised her own powers, or perfected her own inimitable style, and she persevered long enough with the letter-writing to compose at least two complete novels in it. One of these, Elinor and Marianne, she afterwards re-wrote completely, converting it from the letter form into ordinary narrative, and published it in 1811 as Sense and Sensibility. The other story. Lady Susan, which was much shorter, she never altered, but apparently did not like it enough to attempt publishing it, and for years after her death it was unknown to the public, as well as to most of her own family.
At some former time she had given the autograph copy of the story to a favourite niece, Fanny Austen (afterwards Lady Knatchbull, mother of the present Lord Brabourne). Another niece, Mrs. Lefroy, had taken a copy of the story for herself, and through these two ladies the existence of Lady Susan became known, so that more than sixty years after the author's death it was published for the first time. No one knows its exact date, but it is evidently a juvenile production, and her family believe that it is the earliest specimen of her writings which has yet appeared in print.
It is a short story, dealing, as was the writer's wont, with only two or three families; but except for this, it is scarcely suggestive of her later style, and is curiously deficient in all humour or playfulness, for which, indeed, the dimensions of the story do not give much scope. Lady Susan Vernon, the heroine, is a beautiful and accomplished coquette of the worst type. She has been left a young widow with one daughter, almost grown-up, who is, of course, very much in her way, and whom she tries to get rid of by marrying her to a booby. Frederica Vernon the daughter, who under a timid exterior conceals a high-principled and resolute disposition, resists the marriage so firmly that her mother sends her back to school in order to weary her into submission, while she herself goes to pay a long visit to a married brother-in-law, Mr. Charles Vernon, who she thinks may be a useful friend to her. By an awkwardly managed complication Frederica is unexpectedly obliged to leave school and appears at Churchhill (Charles Vernon's), while her mother is deep in a flirtation with Mrs. Vernon's brother, Reginald de Courcy; and through a still more clumsy tour de force the "booby," Sir James Martin, follows her there, and by his manners and appearance upsets all Lady Susan's carefully-arranged version of her daughter's engagement. Frederica falls in love with Reginald, who is unconscious of her feeling for him, but is shaken in his allegiance to her mother, by observing what passes before him, until Lady Susan contrives to blind his judgment again, and, as he is heir to a large property and an old baronetcy, she allures him into offering his hand, which she accepts.
She departs for London, and her admirer follows, but there a complete éclaircissement takes place through Reginald encountering a Mrs. Mainwaring, with whose husband Lady Susan has long carried on a violent flirtation, and who reveals all her wrongs in language not to be misunderstood. He bids farewell to Lady Susan, who makes a contemptuous reply, and returns to his own home, while her ladyship prepares to enjoy herself in London, determined, however, first to get Frederica married to Sir James without delay, whatever may be the girl's own wishes.
Here the correspondence, which is almost entirely confined to four people—Lady Susan and a friend on the one side, Mrs. Charles Vernon and her mother on the other—ceases, perhaps because Jane Austen found it impossible to wind up the plot satisfactorily by it; so in a concluding chapter—which is rather long and heavy but may have been written at a later period, as it has more of her usual mannerism in it than any other part of the story—she tells us, what we already foresee, that Frederica held out firmly against Sir James, that her mother got heartily sick of her and sent her back to Churchhill, where, of course, in due time, she became Reginald de Courcy's wife, while Lady Susan herself was eventually married to Sir James Martin.
The story cannot be considered up to Jane Austen's standard, and she probably felt this herself, for she never tried to incorporate it in anything else that she wrote. It is curious that so young an author should have selected a heroine of thirty-five years old, and unsatisfactorily to have made the hero fall in love with both mother and daughter. There are greater faults than this, however, in the book; the characters are too slightly sketched to excite much interest, there is little or no dialogue to relieve the monotony of the letters, and the events do not fall out naturally. In short, few even of the author's most devoted admirers would call it a good novel; and it can only interest those who like to trace the steps by which a great writer advances to fame.
Lady Susan is not well written, and between it and Pride and Prejudice there is almost as great a gulf as between Scenes of Clerical Life and Romola.
If published in her lifetime, Lady Susan might have injured Jane Austen's literary reputation, but by the time her descendants decided to give it to the world her matured fame stood on a pinnacle that no immature work could possibly affect, and, as she evidently did not think highly of it herself, none of her admirers need shrink from avowing the same feeling.