Jane Austen (Sarah Fanny Malden 1889)/Chapter 9
Although not published until after her death, Northanger Abbey was one of Jane Austen's earliest works; and the scheme of it is so unlike her other novels that it may be said to occupy a place by itself. Except for the trifling drama of The Mystery, this work is the only remaining proof of her youthful taste for burlesque, albeit softened and improved by her maturer judgment when she prepared the work for the press in 1803. It is, indeed, so complete and so clever a parody of many of the novels of her day, that it can hardly be appreciated by those who do not recognise the originals of its situations and characters, or understand the kind of sensational writing in which Richardson and Fielding were leaders, followed at a considerable distance by a host of inferior writers. After a prolonged study of these writers, especially of Mrs. Radcliffe, one can only marvel at the ingenuity with which the heroes and heroines are forced into harrowing and extraordinary circumstances, such as even a hundred years ago can hardly have been possible. Mrs. Radcliffe seems to have had some perception of this absurdity, and her stories, therefore, consist of continual shocks to the imagination, which she feels bound to explain away in the most uninteresting manner at the end, so that even "Laurentina's skeleton" becomes at last a tame and common-place subject. Jane Austen burlesqued this style by introducing her heroine with obvious mock solemnity as one destined to go through many distressing and fearful adventures; then magnifying absurdly the ordinary events of a young lady's life in Bath, and finally representing her as being (from constant study of Mrs. Radcliffe, and her copyists) so much on the look-out for alarming adventures that she involves herself in a series of ridiculous errors and misfortunes, very much in the style of the Female Quixote, a work she may have had in her mind. If any writer but Jane Austen had attempted this, the story might not have been better worth reading than many which are now forgotten; but, in the first place, the heroine, Catherine Morland, is herself a very lovable, simple-minded girl, whom we like in spite of her folly; and the other characters, such as the Allens, Thorpes and Tilneys are quite good enough in themselves to make any book famous.
The Allens are the friends with whom Catherine, at seventeen years old, goes to Bath, having lived till then in a secluded country parsonage, ten miles from any town.
"Mrs. Allen was one of that numerous class of females whose society can raise no other emotion than surprise at there being any man in the world who could like them well enough to marry them. She had neither beauty, genius, accomplishment, nor manner. The air of a gentlewoman, a great deal of quiet inactive good temper, and a trifling turn of mind were all that could account for her being the choice of a sensible, intelligent man like Mr. Allen. In one respect she was admirably fitted to introduce a young lady into public, being as fond of going everywhere and seeing everything herself as any young lady could be. Dress was her passion. She had a most harmless delight in being fine; and our heroine's entrée into life could not take place till after three or four days had been spent in learning what was mostly worn, and her chaperon was provided with a dress of the newest fashion. Catherine, too, made some purchases herself; and when all these matters were arranged, the important evening came which was to usher her into the Upper Rooms. . . .
"It was a splendid sight; and she began for the first time that evening to feel herself at a ball. She longed to dance, but she had not an acquaintance in the room. Mrs. Allen did all that she could do in such a case by saying very placidly every now and then, 'I wish you could dance, my dear; I wish you could get a partner.' For some time her young friend felt obliged to her for these wishes, but they were repeated so often, and proved so wholly ineffectual, that Catherine grew tired at last, and would thank her no more. . . .
"'How uncomfortable it is,' whispered Catherine, 'not to have a single acquaintance here.'
"'Yes, my dear,' replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect serenity, 'it is very uncomfortable indeed. . . . I wish we had a large acquaintance here.'
"'I wish we had any; it would be somebody to go to.'
"'Very true, my dear; and if we knew anybody, we would join them directly. The Skinners were here last year. I wish they were here now. . . .'
"'But, dear Mrs. Allen, are you sure there is nobody you know in all this multitude of people? I think you must know somebody.'
"'I don't, upon my word. I wish I did. I wish I had a large acquaintance here, with all my heart, and then I should get you a partner. I should be so glad to have you dance.'"
Catherine's début is intentionally made unsuccessful to contrast with the outbursts of admiration that greeted Evelina and Cecilia and Harriet Byron when they first appeared in public; but she soon meets her fate in the person of Henry Tilney, to whom she is introduced at a ball, and who is just the sort of brilliant, clever, cultivated young man to attract a girl of her age. As is natural under the circumstances, she is much struck with him, and very ready to improve the acquaintance, but she sees nothing more of Henry for some time. Meanwhile the Thorpes appear upon the scene. Mrs. Thorpe and Mrs. Allen were former school-friends, and Mrs. Thorpe's eldest daughter, Isabella, professes a violent affection at first sight for Catherine, chiefly in hopes of renewing an old flirtation with Catherine's brother James, who may come to Bath. Catherine, quite unsuspicious of any double motive, is much flattered by Isabella's warmth, and, being dazzled by her showy beauty, does not perceive her shallowness, vulgarity, and insincerity. A hot school-girl friendship is set up between them, in which Catherine's simplicity and straightforwardness contrast much to her advantage with Isabella's insufferably bad taste.
"'My dearest Catherine, have you settled what to wear on your head to-night? I am determined, at all events to be dressed exactly like you. The men take notice of that, sometimes, you know.'
"'But it does not signify if they do,' said Catherine very innocently.
"'Signify? Oh, heavens! I make it a rule never to mind what they say. They are very often amazingly impertinent if you do not treat them with spirit and make them keep their distance,'
"'Are they? Well, I never observed that. They always behave very well to me.'
"'Oh! they give themselves such airs. They are the most conceited creatures in the world, and think themselves of so much importance. By-the-bye, though I have thought of it a hundred times, I have always forgot to ask you what is your favourite complexion in a man. Do you like them best dark or fair?'
"'I hardly know; I never much thought about it. Something between both, I think: brown, not fair, and not very dark.'
"'Very well, Catherine. That is exactly he. I have not forgot your description of Mr. Tilney—"a brown skin, with dark eyes and rather dark hair." Well, my taste is different. I prefer light eyes; and, as to complexion, do you know I like a sallow better than any other. You must not betray me if you should ever meet with one of your acquaintances answering that description.'
"'Betray you! What do you mean?'
"'Nay, do not distress me. I believe I have said too much. Let us drop the subject.'
"Catherine, in some amazement, complied."
The acquaintance with Isabella Thorpe proves important for Catherine in more ways than one. James Morland comes to Bath, and—having, of course, light eyes and a sallow complexion—is very soon Isabella's declared and accepted lover. John Thorpe comes too, and having fallen in love—or supposing he has—with Catherine, she receives her first offer from him, though being quite unconscious of his admiration for her, which is not very intelligibly expressed, she does not know, until later in the story, that he has offered himself. Last, but not leasts Isabella introduces Catherine to the class of novels which are to influence her mind so powerfully.
"'My dearest Catherine, what have you been doing with yourself all this morning? Have you gone on with Udolpho?'
"'Yes; I have been reading it ever since I woke; and I am got to the black veil.'
"'Are you, indeed? How delightful! Oh, I would not tell you what is behind the black veil for the world. Are you not wild to know?'
"'Oh, yes, quite; what can it be? But do not tell me; I would not be told upon any account. I know it must be a skeleton; I am sure it is Laurentina's skeleton. Oh! I am delighted with the book; I should like to spend my whole life in reading it, I assure you; if it had not been to meet you, I would not have come away from it for all the world.'
"'Dear creature! how much I am obliged to you; and when you have finished Udolpho we will read The Italian together; and I have made out a list of ten or twelve more of the same kind for you.'
"'Have you, indeed? How glad I am! What are they all?'
"'I will read you their names directly. Here they are in my pocket-book: Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the Black Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries. Those will last us some time.'
"'Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid? Are you sure they are all horrid?'
"'Yes, quite sure, for a particular friend of mine, a Miss Andrews, a sweet girl, one of the sweetest creatures in the world, has read every one of them.'"
Between "horrid" novels and the society of Isabella Thorpe, Catherine is in danger of deterioration, but she is fortunately saved from any permanent ill effects.
Henry Tilney is in Bath with his father and sister; and General Tilney, under a mistaken impression of the amount of Catherine's fortune, is quite willing to encourage his son's dawning attachment for her. Elinor Tilney is charming, and Catherine has good taste enough to take greatly to her, and to be pleased and flattered by her notice. Finally, to her unutterable delight, the Tilneys invite her to accompany them when they leave Bath. Their home is called Northanger Abbey; and Catherine, who has never seen an old house in her life, believes herself to be on the verge of similar adventures to those that befell her favourite heroines. Henry Tilney discovers her expectations, and amuses himself with heightening them, having no idea that she will take his nonsense so seriously.
"'You have formed a very favourable idea of the Abbey?'
"'To be sure I have. Is not it a fine old place, just like what one reads about?'
"'And are you prepared to encounter all the horrors that a building such as "what one reads about" may produce? Have you a stout heart? Nerves fit for sliding panels and tapestry?'
"'Oh, yes, I do not think I should be easily frightened, because there would be so many people in the house; and, besides, it has never been uninhabited and left deserted for years, and then the family come back to it unawares, without giving any notice, as generally happens.'
"'No, certainly. We shall not have to explore our way into a hall dimly lighted by the expiring embers of a wood fire, nor be obliged to spread our beds ou the floor of a room without windows, doors, or furniture. But you must be aware that whenever a young lady is (by whatever means) introduced into a dwelling of this kind, she is always lodged apart from the rest of the family. While they snugly repair to their own end of the house, she is formally conducted by Dorothy, the ancient housekeeper, up a different stair-case, and along many gloomy passages, into an apartment, never used since some cousin or kin died in it about twenty years before. Can you stand such a ceremony as this? . . .
"'Oh, but this will not happen to me, I am sure.'
"'How fearfully will you examine the furniture of your apartment! And what will you discern? Not tables, toilettes, wardrobes, or drawers, but on one side perhaps the remains of a broken lute, on the other a ponderous chest which no efforts can open, and over the fire-place the portrait of some handsome warrior, whose features will so incomprehensibly strike you that you will not be able to withdraw your eyes from it. Dorothy meanwhile, no less struck by your appearance, gazes on you with great agitation, and drops a few unintelligible hints. To raise your spirits, moreover, she gives you reason to suppose that the part of the Abbey you inhabit is undoubtedly haunted, and informs you that you will not have a single domestic within call. With this parting cordial, she courtesies off: you listen to the sound of her receding footsteps as long as the last echo can reach you: and when, with fainting spirits, you attempt to fasten your door, you discover, with increased alarm, that it has no lock.'
"'Oh, Mr. Tilney, how frightful! This is just like a book. But it cannot really happen to me. I am sure your housekeeper is not really Dorothy. Well, what then?'
"'Nothing further to alarm, perhaps, may occur the first night. After surmounting your unconquerable horror of the bed, you will retire to rest, and get a few hours unquiet slumber. But on the second, or at farthest the third night after your arrival you will probably have a violent storm. Peals of thunder, so loud as to shake the edifice to its foundation, will roll round the neighbouring mountains; and during the frightful gusts of wind which accompany it you will probably think you discern (for your lamp is not extinguished) one part of the hanging more violently agitated than the rest. Unable, of course, to repress your curiosity in so favourable a moment for indulging it, you will instantly arise, and, throwing your dressing-gown around you, proceed to examine this mystery. After a very short search, you will discover a division in the tapestry, so artfully constructed as to defy the minutest inspection, and, on opening it, a door will immediately appear, which door, being only secured by massy bars and a padlock, you will, after a few efforts, succeed in opening, and, with your lamp in your hand, will pass through it into a small vaulted room.'
"'No, indeed; I should be too much frightened to do any such thing.'
"'What! not when Dorothy has given you to understand that there is a secret subterraneous communication between your apartment and the chapel of St. Anthony, scarcely two miles off? Could you shrink from so simple an adventure? No, no; you will proceed into this small vaulted room, and through this into several others, without perceiving anything very remarkable in either. In one, perhaps, there may be a dagger, in another a few drops of blood, and in a third the remains of some instrument of torture; but there being nothing in all this out of the common way, and your lamp being nearly exhausted, you will return towards your own apartment. In repassing through the small vaulted room, however, your eyes will be attracted towards a large old-fashioned cabinet of ebony and gold, which, though narrowly examining the furniture before, you had passed unnoticed. Impelled by an irresistible presentiment, you will eagerly advance to it, unlock its folding doors, and search into every drawer, but for some time without discovering anything of importance, perhaps nothing but a considerable hoard of diamonds. At last, however, by touching a secret spring, an inner apartment will open, a roll of paper appears, you seize it—it contains many sheets of manuscript; you hasten with the precious treasure into your own chamber, but scarcely have you been able to decipher, "Oh, thou, whomsoever thou mayest be, into whose hands these memoirs of the wretched Matilda may fall," when your lamp suddenly expires in the socket, and leaves you in total darkness.'
"'Oh, no, no; do not say so. Well, go on!'
"But Henry was too much amused by the interest he had raised to be able to carry it farther: he could no longer command solemnity either of subject or voice, and was obliged to entreat her to use her own fancy in the perusal of Matilda's woes. Catherine, recollecting herself, grew ashamed of her eagerness, and began earnestly to assure him that her attention had been fixed without the smallest apprehension of really meeting with what he related. 'Miss Tilney,' she was sure, 'would never put her into such a chamber as he had described. She was not at all afraid.'"
In spite of her disclaimer, Catherine's nerves had been sufficiently excited by a prolonged course of such reading as Henry Tilney had so well parodied as to be quite capable of any foolish imaginations.
Of course the first sight of Northanger Abbey is disappointing to her, as it is modernized out of all picturesqueness or romance, and even her own room she finds very unlike the one by the description of which Henry had endeavoured to alarm her. Nevertheless, she has not been long in it, and is still occupied in dressing for the five o'clock dinner, when "her eye suddenly fell on a large high chest, standing back in a deep recess on one side of the fire-place. The sight of it made her start; and, forgetting everything else, she stood gazing on it in motionless wonder while these thoughts crossed her: 'This is strange, indeed! I did not expect such a sight as this. An immense heavy chest! What can it hold? Why should it be placed here? Pushed back, too, as if meant to be out of sight! I will look into it; cost me what it may, I will look into it; and directly, too—by daylight. If I stay till evening, my candle may go out.' She advanced, and examined it closely; it was of cedar, curiously inlaid with some darker wood, and raised about a foot from the ground on a carved stand of the same. The lock was silver, though tarnished from age; at each end were the imperfect remains of handles, also of silver, broken, perhaps prematurely, by some strange violence; and on the centre of the lid was a mysterious cipher in the same metal. Catherine bent over it intently, but without being able to distinguish anything with certainty. She could not, in whatever direction she took it, believe the last letter to be a T; and yet that it should be anything else in that house was a circumstance to raise no common degree of astonishment If not originally theirs, by what strange events could it have fallen into the Tilney family?
"Her fearful curiosity was every moment growing greater; and seizing with trembling hands the hasp of the lock, she resolved, at all hazards, to satisfy herself at least as to its contents. . . . One moment, surely, might be spared; and so desperate should be the exertion of her strength, that, unless secured by supernatural means, the lid in one moment should be thrown back. With this spirit she sprang forward, and her confidence did not deceive her. Her resolute effort threw back the lid, and gave to her astonished eyes the view of a white cotton counterpane, properly folded, reposing at one end of the chest in undisputed possession."
Catherine has sense enough to be abashed at the perception of her own folly, but not quite enough to get immediately over the effects of being really in an abbey like one of Mrs. Radcliffe's heroines; and that night her courage is again put to the test. It is a very stormy night, quite "like what one reads about," but Catherine, determined now to be brave, undresses very leisurely, and even resolves not to make up her fire. "That would seem cowardly, as if she wished for the protection of light after she were in bed. The fire, therefore, died away; and Catherine, having spent the best part of an hour in her arrangements, was beginning to think of stepping into bed, when, on giving a parting glance round the room, she was struck by the appearance of a high old-fashioned black cabinet, which, though in a situation conspicuous enough, had never caught her notice before. Henry's words, his description of the ebony cabinet which was to escape her notice at first, immediately rushed across her; and though there could be nothing really in it, there was something whimsical; it was certainly a very remarkable coincidence. She took her candle and looked closely at the cabinet. It was not absolutely ebony and gold, but it was japan, black and yellow japan of the handsomest kind; and as she held her candle, the yellow had very much the effect of gold. The key was in the door, and she had a strange fancy to look into it, not, however, with the smallest expectation of finding anything, but it was so very odd after what Henry had said. In short, she could not sleep till she had examined it. So, placing the candle with great caution on a chair, she seized the key with a very tremulous hand, and tried to turn it; but it resisted her utmost strength. Alarmed, but not discouraged, she tried it another way. A bolt flew, and she believed herself successful; but how strangely mysterious! the door was still immovable. She paused a moment in breathless wonder. The wind roared down the chimney, the rain beat in torrents against the windows, and everything seemed to speak the awfulness of her situation. To retire to bed, however, unsatisfied on such a point, would be vain, since sleep must be impossible with the consciousness of a cabinet so mysteriously closed in her immediate vicinity. Again, therefore, she applied herself to the key, and, after moving it in every way for some instants with the determined celerity of hope's last effort, the door suddenly yielded to her hand. . . . A double range of small drawers appeared in view, with some larger drawers above and below them, and in the centre a small door, closed also with lock and key, secured, in all probability, a cavity of importance. Catherine's heart beat quickly, but her courage did not fail her. With a cheek flushed by hope, and an eye straining with curiosity, her fingers grasped the handle of a drawer, and drew it forth. It was entirely empty. With less alarm and greater eagerness, she seized a second, a third, a fourth—each was equally empty. Not one was left unsearched, and in not one was anything found. Well read in the art of concealing a treasure, the possibility of false linings to the drawers did not escape her, and she felt round each, with anxious acuteness, in vain. The place in the middle alone remained now unexplored; and, though she had never from the first had the smallest idea of finding anything in any part of the cabinet, and was not in the least disappointed at her ill success thus far, it would be foolish not to examine it thoroughly while she was about it. It was some time, however, before she could unfasten the door, the same difficulty occurring in the management of this inner lock as of the outer; but at length it did open; and not in vain, as hitherto, was her search: her quick eyes directly fell on a roll of paper pushed back into the farther part of the cavity, apparently for concealment; and her feelings at that moment were indiscribable; her heart fluttered, her knees trembled, and her cheeks grew pale. She seized with an unsteady hand the precious manuscript—for half a glance sufficed to ascertain written characters—and, while she acknowledged with awful sensations this striking exemplification of what Henry had foretold, resolved instantly to peruse every line before she attempted to rest.
"The dimness of the light her candle emitted made her turn to it with alarm; but there was no danger of its sudden extinction; it had yet some hours to burn, and, that she might not have any greater difficulty in distinguishing the writing than what its ancient date might occasion, she hastily snuffed it. Alas! it was snuffed and extinguished in one. A lamp could not have expired with more awful effect. Catherine for a few moments was motionless with horror. . . . In the pause which succeeded, a sound like receding footsteps and the closing of a distant door struck on her affrighted ear. A cold sweat stood on her forehead, the manuscript fell from her hand, and groping her way to the bed she jumped hastily in, and sought some suspension of agony by creeping far underneath the clothes. Hour after hour passed away, and the wearied Catherine had heard three proclaimed by all the clocks in the house before the tempest subsided, or she unknowingly fell asleep."
When daylight brought returning courage and cheerfulness, her first thought was for the manuscript, "and springing from her bed in the very moment of the maid's going away, she eagerly collected every scattered sheet which had burst from the roll on its falling to the ground, and flew back to enjoy the luxury of their perusal on her pillow. She now plainly saw that she must not expect a manuscript of equal length with the generality of what she had shuddered over in books; for the roll, seeming to consist entirely of small disjointed sheets, was altogether but of trifling size, and much less than she had supposed it to be at first. Her greedy eyes glanced rapidly over a page. She started at its import. Could it be possible, or did not her senses play her false? An inventory of linen, in coarse and modern characters, seemed all that was before her! If the evidence of sight might be trusted, she held a washing-bill in her hand. She seized another sheet, and saw the same articles with little variation; a third, a fourth, and a fifth presented nothing new: shirts, stockings, cravats, and waistcoats faced her in each. Two others, penned by the same hand, marked an expenditure, scarcely more interesting, in letters, hair-powder, shoe-string, and breeches-ball; and the larger sheet, which had enclosed the rest, seemed, by its first cramp line, 'To poultice chestnut mare,' a farrier's bill. Such was the collection of papers (left, perhaps, as she could then suppose, by the negligence of a servant, in the place whence she had taken them) which had filled her with expectation and alarm, and had robbed her of half her night's rest. . . . Why the locks should have been so difficult to open, however, was still something remarkable, for she could now manage them with perfect ease. In this there was surely something mysterious; and she indulged in the flattering suggestion for half a minute, till the possibility of the door's having been at first unlocked, and of being herself its fastener, darted into her head, and cost her another blush."
Of course her great anxiety now is to conceal her folly from Henry Tilney's satirical observation, and for some time she succeeds; but her lively imagination leads her into another hallucination, from which she does not escape so easily.
She gathers from Miss Tilney that her mother had not been so fully valued by the General as she might have been, and thereupon jumps to three conclusions, first, that he had been unkind to his wife in her lifetime, secondly, that he had been in some way instrumental in causing her death, and, finally, as her fancy continues to run riot, that perhaps Mrs. Tilney was not really dead at all, but kept somewhere in close confinement by a cruel and tyrrannical husband. The successive stages by which this crowning point of absurd delusion is reached are very well worked out, and they culminate in intense anxiety on Catherine's part to see Mrs. Tilney's room, which, she hears, has been left exactly as it was at her death, and from which she thinks she may discover something; she scarcely knows what. Miss Tilney is puzzled by her extreme desire to visit the room, but is very willing to show it to her. The inopportune presence of the General, however, more than once prevents them; and Catherine, convinced that his interference is not accidental, determines to visit the important room by herself, and see what revelations it will make to her. "Of the way to the apartment she was now perfectly mistress, and, as she wished to get it over before Henry's return, who was expected on the morrow, there was no time to be lost. The day was bright, her courage high; at four o'clock the sun was now two hours above the horizon, and it would be only her retiring to dress half an hour earlier than usual.
"It was done; and Catherine found herself alone in the gallery before the clocks had ceased to strike. It was no time for thought; she hurried on, slipped with the least possible noise through the folding doors, and, without stopping to look or breathe, rushed forward to the one in question. The lock yielded to her hand, and luckily with no sullen sound that could alarm a human being. On tip-toe she entered; the room was before her; but it was some minutes before she could advance another step. She beheld what fixed her to the spot, and agitated every feature. She saw a large well-proportioned apartment, a handsome dimity bed, unoccupied, arranged with a housemaid's care, a bright Bath stove, mahogany wardrobes, and neatly painted chairs, on which the warm beams of a western sun gaily poured through two sash-windows. Catherine had expected to have her feelings worked, and worked they were. Astonishment and doubt first seized them, and a shortly succeeding ray of common sense added some bitter emotions of shame. . . . She was sick of exploring, and desired but to be safe in her own room with her own heart only privy to its folly; and she was on the point of retreating as softly as she had entered, when the sound of footsteps, she could hardly tell where, made her pause and tremble." Thereupon Henry Tilney presents himself, having returned a day before he is expected, and is much amazed at finding Catherine there by herself. She is unable wholly to conceal from him what her delusions had been, and she gets from him, in consequence, a half lover-like, half brotherly lecture, which makes her thoroughly ashamed of herself, and as she is—au fond—a really nice girl, does her a world of good. "It was not only with herself that she was sunk, but with Henry. Her folly, which now seemed even criminal, was exposed to him, and he must despise her for ever. The absurdity of her curiosity and her fears—could they ever be forgotten? . . . In short, she made herself as miserable as possible for about half an hour, went down with a broken heart when the clock struck five, and could scarcely give an intelligible answer to Eleanor's inquiry if she were well. The formidable Henry soon followed her into the room, and the only difference in his behaviour to her was that he paid her rather more attention than usual. Catherine had never needed comfort more, and he looked as if he were aware of it."
Now that her mind is cleared of all its strange delusions, she has time and opportunity to consider their origin, and her conclusions, are given us with some delightful touches. "Charming as were all Mrs. Radcliffe's works, and charming even as were the works of all her imitators, it was not in them, perhaps, that human nature—at least, in the midland counties of England—was to be looked for. Of the Alps and Pyrenees, with their pine-forests and their vices, they might give a faithful delineation; and Italy, Switzerland, and the south of France might be as fruitful in horrors as they were there represented. Catherine dared not doubt beyond her own country, and even of that, if hard pressed, would have yielded the northern and western extremities. But in the central part of England there was surely some security for the existence even of a wife not beloved, in the laws of the land, and the manners of the age. Murder was not tolerated, servants were not slaves, and neither poison nor sleeping-potions to be procured like rhubarb from every druggist. Among the Alps and Pyrenees, perhaps, there were no mixed characters. There, such as were not as spotless as an angel, might have the disposition of a fiend. But in England it was not so; among the English, she believed, in their hearts and habits, there was a general, though unequal, mixture of good and bad. Upon this conviction she would not be surprised if even in Henry and Eleanor Tilney some slight imperfection might hereafter appear; and upon this conviction she need not fear to acknowledge some actual specks in the character of their father, who, though cleared from the grossly injurious suspicions which she must ever blush to have entertained, she did believe, upon serious consideration, to be not perfectly amiable."
Catherine's imaginary troubles are at an end, but there are some very real ones in store for her. Her brother's engagement with Isabella Thorpe is broken off through Isabella's hoping to secure a better match for herself; and Catherine, who receives the news in a letter from James, feels his sorrow as if it were her own. The affectionate sympathy of Henry and Eleanor has just restored her to some comfort, when a far greater blow falls. The young Tilneys have never been able to understand their father's marked partiality for Catherine, being quite unaware that when in Bath he had received from John Thorpe a glowing account of her parents' position and her future expectations. Thorpe had at that time intended to marry her himself, and, as his sister was also on the eve of an engagement to her brother, his vanity had led him into telling the General a series of untruths, all tending to the glorification of the Morland family.
While Catherine is at Northanger Abbey General Tilney goes to London for a week, and there again encounters Thorpe, who being by this time greatly angered at the failure of all the projected marriages between his family and the Morlands, not only retracts all he had before said in their favour, but casts imputations upon them and represents them as not only poor but far from respectable. The General is a man of ungovernable temper, and his rage at the mistake he has been led into is past all control. He returns instantly to Northanger Abbey, and actually forces Catherine out of the house alone, at a few hours' notice, under the obviously flimsy pretext of an engagement for himself and his daughter. He gives no explanation, even to Eleanor, of his motives; her grief and shame at the whole transaction are great, but she is powerless, and Henry is away. Catherine leaves Northanger Abbey under the full conviction that she shall never see it or any of its inmates again, and her wretchedness may be imagined. She is not, however, left long uncomforted, for Henry, on learning what has happened, follows her as soon as possible, and makes her an offer of his heart and hand, which are, of course, accepted. His conduct is in direct defiance of his father's last directions; but he is independent as regards income; confident of obtaining the General's consent when his rage has cooled down and he is able to understand the real position of the Morlands, which is far from despicable. These explanations take place in about a year's time; and the story winds up with the happy marriages of both Henry and Eleanor Tilney; Catherine being, as may be supposed, at the seventh heaven of felicity.
I think that Catherine Morland, though in many respects attractive, is the most uninteresting of Jane Austen's heroines, and betrays the writer's youth. Emma Woodhouse, Fanny Price, and Elizabeth Bennet are all women we should like to have known, while for Anne Elliot what words of praise are high enough? But Catherine Morland is an obvious copy of Evelina: a good-hearted, simple-minded little goose, who will never develop into much. She is distinctly inferior to Eleanor Tilney, and it is impossible not to have a lurking suspicion that Henry, after trying—as he would do for some years—to form his wife's mind, will discover, like David Copperfield, that it is already formed, and that his life at Woodston Parsonage may some day be just a little dull. Probably Jane Austen felt this herself, for she closes the story with a playful account of their marriage, and makes no attempt to picture their future life together. It is the only one of her stories in which the heroine is decidedly inferior to the hero, and that was so often the case with the standard novels of her day that it is impossible not to see in this the unconscious plagiarism of a young author, and to feel that Northunger Abbey, in plan and construction if not in all its details, must have been one of her earliest attempts at novel writing.