Jane Austen and Her Country-house Comedy

by W. H. Helm

Of the "vacant chaff well-meant for grain" of which Tennyson sings so sadly, Jane brought little to market. She would express to Cassandra her sympathy with their acquaintances under great disasters and trivial misfortunes with the same penful of ink. What she wrote to her sister—of her devotion for whom, from earliest childhood, her mother said, "If Cassandra was going to have her head cut off, Jane would insist on sharing her fate"—is far more free than what she uttered in the family circle. Few have realized better the value of the unspoken word, or given their relations less opportunity to remind them of the evils of indiscretion.

If she was unemotional and, in the ordinary sense of the word, unsympathetic, she is not to be blamed for this lack of the qualities with one of which she so amply endowed Marianne and with the other Elinor Dashwood. We can no more make ourselves emotional or sympathetic than we can make ourselves fair or dark, or rather, we can only alter our ways as we can alter our complexions, by artifice. The outward show of sympathy which is not felt is one of the commonest of hypocrisies, perhaps inevitable at times from very charity. Happily it is not a necessary part of that ultimate barrier which, even in the truest friendships and the deepest love, makes it as impossible for one human being to see the whole of another's heart as it is impossible to see more than a little of the "other side" of the moon. We cannot help being more or less unfeeling, but we can subdue our selfishness in action. Almost everything that can be learned about Jane Austen strengthens the conviction that she was one of the least selfish of women.

In her last illness the fidelity of her spirit is constantly shown, and her affection becomes more unreserved in its utterance. There is one letter wherein, after speaking of Cassandra, she says, in a phrase curiously suggestive of Thackeray: "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."

That she was by nature "meek and lowly," as one of her American adorers declares, I cannot believe, but if she preferred the spacious rooms and well-spread board of her brother's mansion to the common parlour and boiled mutton-and-turnips of her father's rectory, she did not grizzle over her state, nor did she allow her conscious superiority of intelligence to claim distinction in her home. One of the few glimpses (apart from her own writings) that we have of her in her family relations is when, in the closing year of her life, her illness having begun to weaken her body, she was obliged to lie down frequently during the day. There was only one sofa at Chawton Cottage, and although Mrs. Austen, in spite of the many ailments she had formerly complained of, was a tolerably healthy old lady, the stricken daughter made herself a couch by putting several chairs together, and declared that she preferred it to the sofa which her mother commonly occupied. Sofas, we must remember, were at least as rare then as oak-panelled walls are now. It was in those days that Cobbett regretted that the sofa had ever been introduced into his country, and he no doubt, according to his habit, held the Prime Minister responsible for the aid to effeminate indulgence of which his contemporary Cowper sang.

Jane's discontent with the comparative poverty of her surroundings was not translated into ill temper. There are many reasons for believing, and few indeed for doubting, that she tried to do her duty in that state of life to which she was born, and from which she was not destined to emerge into the more varied pleasures and pains of a larger world. What if, among those whom she trusted, she could not resist expressing the lively thoughts suggested to her acute wit by the acts or utterances of her friends. She was the pride of her family, and its sunshine, even if her rays were more akin to the sun as we know him on a fine spring day at home than as we seek him on the Côte d'Azur.

She seems to have been more nearly understood among the clergy and squires, and other members of her family, than most humourists in their immediate circles. The common experience of the genius in childhood and youth, if biographers are to be credited, is for the delicate shoots of his intelligence to be nipped by domestic frosts; but if there had been any freezing in the Austen family, it was more likely to be produced by the chill of Jane's own satirical remarks than by any harm that the convention and narrowness of others could do to a mind so well defended as hers. There are few traces of any such wintry weather having occurred at Steventon or Chawton. Jane was certainly beloved, greatly and deservedly, in her home. She was, no doubt, a little lonely, as genius, one may suppose, must always be, and as those who are blest, or curst, with a strong sense of the absurd must be whether they be geniuses or not. Her sister was her closest friend, but Jane's published letters to Cassandra, read in the light of the novels, suggest a reserve in discussing her inmost thoughts with that devoted spirit which seems hardly compatible with the closest concordance of ideas, in spite of the completest concordance of affection and a high respect on Jane's part for Cassandra's sound sense and critical judgment. Very different is the tone of the letters of that other pretty humourist, Dorothy Osborne, to William Temple. In Dorothy's case there was a perfect confidence in the entire sympathy and comprehension of the recipient. This factor apart, how much there is in common between the two dear women. The one was dead more than eighty years before the other was born, but in all the history of womanhood is there any pair in which the smiling philosophy that is the salt of the mind is more fairly divided? Jane Austen lives still in Elizabeth Bennet and in Emma Woodhouse; Dorothy Osborne only in her sweet self. The one had no passion but her work—and it was a quiet, unconsuming passion. The other had no passion but her love, and it was never able to overmaster her intelligence. "In earnest," she wrote, "I am no more concerned whether people think me handsome or ill-favoured, whether they think I have wit or that I have none, than I am whether they think my name Elizabeth or Dorothy." It was not quite true in her case, nor would it have been in Jane's, but it contains no more exaggeration than is allowed to any woman of sense, and it was as true of the one as of the other.

Love has lately been defined by a ruthless analyzer of feelings as "a specific emotion, exclusive in selection, more or less permanent in duration, and due to a mental fermentation in itself caused by a law of attraction." Jane Austen had never read such an explanation of love as this, yet her views on the most powerful of the mixings of animal and spiritual instincts are usually more placid than would please the fancies of maidens who sleep with bits of wedding-cake beneath their pillows. That passionate love "is woman's whole existence" is not exemplified by Jane's favourite heroines. Emma or Elizabeth did not so regard it, even if Anne Elliot did lose some of her good looks and Catherine Morland her appetite when their hopes of particular bridegrooms seemed likely to be disappointed. Elizabeth would not have worried greatly over Darcy if he had not come back for her, and Emma would have been as happy at Hartfield without a husband as she had always been, so long as Knightley was friendly.

We cannot imagine that Jane Austen could ever have written to any man, as Dorothy Osborne wrote to Temple of a love which she could not make her family understand: "For my life I cannot beat into their heads a passion that must be subject to no decay, an even perfect kindness that must last perpetually, without the least intermission. They laugh to hear me say that one unkind word would destroy all the satisfaction of my life, and that I should expect our kindness should increase every day, if it were possible, but never lessen."

The conjugal instinct was not strongly developed in Jane; and, although she seems to have been very fond of children, and especially of her nephews and nieces, it may be assumed with some confidence that the maternal instinct also found little place in her nature.

Marianne Dashwood, emotional, fastidiously truthful—she left to her elder sister "the whole task of telling lies when politeness required it"—romantically fond of scenery and poetry as any of Mrs. Radcliffe's heroines, stands out among the girls of Jane's imagining as the only one who outwardly exhibits the conventional signs of passionate affection for a lover, Catherine's and Fanny's emotions being more suggestive of maiden fancies, of "the flimsy furniture of a country miss's brain," than of the yearnings of a Juliet or a Roxane.