NORTHANGER
ABBEY
By Jane Austen (1803)
PART 1
ADVERTISEMENT BY THE AUTHORESS, TO NORTHANGER ABBEY
THIS
little work was finished in the year 1803, and intended for immediate
publication. It was disposed of to a bookseller, it was even advertised, and
why the business proceeded no farther, the author has never been able to learn.
That any bookseller should think it worth-while to purchase what he did not
think it worth-while to publish seems extraordinary. But with this, neither the
author nor the public have any other concern than as some observation is
necessary upon those parts of the work which thirteen years have made
comparatively obsolete. The public are entreated to bear in mind that thirteen
years have passed since it was finished, many more since it was begun, and that
during that period, places, manners, books, and opinions have undergone considerable
changes.
CHAPTER 1
No one
who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy would have supposed her born
to be an heroine. Her situation in life, the character of her father and
mother, her own person and disposition, were all equally against her. Her
father was a clergyman, without being neglected, or poor, and a very
respectable man, though his name was Richard—and he had never been handsome. He
had a considerable independence besides two good livings—and he was not in the
least addicted to locking up his daughters. Her mother was a woman of useful
plain sense, with a good temper, and, what is more remarkable, with a good
constitution. She had three sons before Catherine was born; and instead of
dying in bringing the latter into the world, as anybody might expect, she still
lived on—lived to have six children more—to see them growing up around her, and
to enjoy excellent health herself. A family of ten children will be always
called a fine family, where there are heads and arms and legs enough for the
number; but the Morlands had little other right to the word, for they were in
general very plain, and Catherine, for many years of her life, as plain as any.
She had a thin awkward figure, a sallow skin without colour, dark lank hair,
and strong features—so much for her person; and not less unpropitious for
heroism seemed her mind. She was fond of all boy's plays, and greatly preferred
cricket not merely to dolls, but to the more heroic enjoyments of infancy,
nursing a dormouse, feeding a canary-bird, or watering a rose-bush. Indeed she
had no taste for a garden; and if she gathered flowers at all, it was chiefly
for the pleasure of mischief—at least so it was conjectured from her always
preferring those which she was forbidden to take. Such were her
propensities—her abilities were quite as extraordinary. She never could learn
or understand anything before she was taught; and sometimes not even then, for
she was often inattentive, and occasionally stupid. Her mother was three months
in teaching her only to repeat the "Beggar's Petition"; and after
all, her next sister, Sally, could say it better than she did. Not that
Catherine was always stupid—by no means; she learnt the fable of "The Hare
and Many Friends" as quickly as any girl in England. Her mother wished her
to learn music; and Catherine was sure she should like it, for she was very
fond of tinkling the keys of the old forlorn spinnet; so, at eight years old
she began. She learnt a year, and could not bear it; and Mrs. Morland, who did
not insist on her daughters being accomplished in spite of incapacity or
distaste, allowed her to leave off. The day which dismissed the music-master
was one of the happiest of Catherine's life. Her taste for drawing was not
superior; though whenever she could obtain the outside of a letter from her
mother or seize upon any other odd piece of paper, she did what she could in
that way, by drawing houses and trees, hens and chickens, all very much like
one another. Writing and accounts she was taught by her father; French by her
mother: her proficiency in either was not remarkable, and she shirked her
lessons in both whenever she could. What a strange, unaccountable
character!—for with all these symptoms of profligacy at ten years old, she had
neither a bad heart nor a bad temper, was seldom stubborn, scarcely ever
quarrelsome, and very kind to the little ones, with few interruptions of
tyranny; she was moreover noisy and wild, hated confinement and cleanliness,
and loved nothing so well in the world as rolling down the green slope at the
back of the house.
Such was
Catherine Morland at ten. At fifteen, appearances were mending; she began to
curl her hair and long for balls; her complexion improved, her features were
softened by plumpness and colour, her eyes gained more animation, and her
figure more consequence. Her love of dirt gave way to an inclination for
finery, and she grew clean as she grew smart; she had now the pleasure of
sometimes hearing her father and mother remark on her personal improvement.
"Catherine grows quite a good-looking girl—she is almost pretty
today," were words which caught her ears now and then; and how welcome
were the sounds! To look almost pretty is an acquisition of higher delight to a
girl who has been looking plain the first fifteen years of her life than a
beauty from her cradle can ever receive.
Mrs.
Morland was a very good woman, and wished to see her children everything they
ought to be; but her time was so much occupied in lying-in and teaching the
little ones, that her elder daughters were inevitably left to shift for
themselves; and it was not very wonderful that Catherine, who had by nature
nothing heroic about her, should prefer cricket, baseball, riding on horseback,
and running about the country at the age of fourteen, to books—or at least
books of information—for, provided that nothing like useful knowledge could be
gained from them, provided they were all story and no reflection, she had never
any objection to books at all. But from fifteen to seventeen she was in training
for a heroine; she read all such works as heroines must read to supply their
memories with those quotations which are so serviceable and so soothing in the
vicissitudes of their eventful lives.
From
Pope, she learnt to censure those who
"bear about the mockery of woe."
From
Gray, that
"Many a flower is born to blush unseen,
"And waste its fragrance on the desert air."
From
Thompson, that—
"It is a delightful task
"To teach the young idea how to shoot."
And from
Shakespeare she gained a great store of information—amongst the rest, that—
"Trifles light as air,
"Are, to the jealous, confirmation strong,
"As proofs of Holy Writ."
That
"The poor beetle, which we tread upon,
"In corporal sufferance feels a pang as great
"As when a giant dies."
And that
a young woman in love always looks—
"like Patience on a monument
"Smiling at Grief."
So far
her improvement was sufficient—and in many other points she came on exceedingly
well; for though she could not write sonnets, she brought herself to read them;
and though there seemed no chance of her throwing a whole party into raptures
by a prelude on the pianoforte, of her own composition, she could listen to
other people's performance with very little fatigue. Her greatest deficiency
was in the pencil—she had no notion of drawing—not enough even to attempt a
sketch of her lover's profile, that she might be detected in the design. There
she fell miserably short of the true heroic height. At present she did not know
her own poverty, for she had no lover to portray. She had reached the age of
seventeen, without having seen one amiable youth who could call forth her
sensibility, without having inspired one real passion, and without having
excited even any admiration but what was very moderate and very transient. This
was strange indeed! But strange things may be generally accounted for if their
cause be fairly searched out. There was not one lord in the neighbourhood;
no—not even a baronet. There was not one family among their acquaintance who
had reared and supported a boy accidentally found at their door—not one young
man whose origin was unknown. Her father had no ward, and the squire of the
parish no children.
But when
a young lady is to be a heroine, the perverseness of forty surrounding families
cannot prevent her. Something must and will happen to throw a hero in her way.
Mr.
Allen, who owned the chief of the property about Fullerton, the village in
Wiltshire where the Morlands lived, was ordered to Bath for the benefit of a
gouty constitution—and his lady, a good-humoured woman, fond of Miss Morland,
and probably aware that if adventures will not befall a young lady in her own
village, she must seek them abroad, invited her to go with them. Mr. and Mrs.
Morland were all compliance, and Catherine all happiness.
CHAPTER 2
In
addition to what has been already said of Catherine Morland's personal and
mental endowments, when about to be launched into all the difficulties and
dangers of a six weeks' residence in Bath, it may be stated, for the reader's
more certain information, lest the following pages should otherwise fail of
giving any idea of what her character is meant to be, that her heart was
affectionate; her disposition cheerful and open, without conceit or affectation
of any kind—her manners just removed from the awkwardness and shyness of a
girl; her person pleasing, and, when in good looks, pretty—and her mind about
as ignorant and uninformed as the female mind at seventeen usually is.
When the
hour of departure drew near, the maternal anxiety of Mrs. Morland will be naturally
supposed to be most severe. A thousand alarming presentiments of evil to her
beloved Catherine from this terrific separation must oppress her heart with
sadness, and drown her in tears for the last day or two of their being
together; and advice of the most important and applicable nature must of course
flow from her wise lips in their parting conference in her closet. Cautions
against the violence of such noblemen and baronets as delight in forcing young
ladies away to some remote farm-house, must, at such a moment, relieve the
fulness of her heart. Who would not think so? But Mrs. Morland knew so little
of lords and baronets, that she entertained no notion of their general
mischievousness, and was wholly unsuspicious of danger to her daughter from
their machinations. Her cautions were confined to the following points. "I
beg, Catherine, you will always wrap yourself up very warm about the throat,
when you come from the rooms at night; and I wish you would try to keep some
account of the money you spend; I will give you this little book on
purpose."
Sally, or
rather Sarah (for what young lady of common gentility will reach the age of
sixteen without altering her name as far as she can?), must from situation be
at this time the intimate friend and confidante of her sister. It is
remarkable, however, that she neither insisted on Catherine's writing by every
post, nor exacted her promise of transmitting the character of every new
acquaintance, nor a detail of every interesting conversation that Bath might
produce. Everything indeed relative to this important journey was done, on the
part of the Morlands, with a degree of moderation and composure, which seemed
rather consistent with the common feelings of common life, than with the
refined susceptibilities, the tender emotions which the first separation of a
heroine from her family ought always to excite. Her father, instead of giving
her an unlimited order on his banker, or even putting an hundred pounds
bank-bill into her hands, gave her only ten guineas, and promised her more when
she wanted it.
Under these
unpromising auspices, the parting took place, and the journey began. It was
performed with suitable quietness and uneventful safety. Neither robbers nor
tempests befriended them, nor one lucky overturn to introduce them to the hero.
Nothing more alarming occurred than a fear, on Mrs. Allen's side, of having
once left her clogs behind her at an inn, and that fortunately proved to be
groundless.
They
arrived at Bath. Catherine was all eager delight—her eyes were here, there,
everywhere, as they approached its fine and striking environs, and afterwards
drove through those streets which conducted them to the hotel. She was come to
be happy, and she felt happy already.
They were
soon settled in comfortable lodgings in Pulteney Street.
It is now
expedient to give some description of Mrs. Allen, that the reader may be able
to judge in what manner her actions will hereafter tend to promote the general
distress of the work, and how she will, probably, contribute to reduce poor
Catherine to all the desperate wretchedness of which a last volume is
capable—whether by her imprudence, vulgarity, or jealousy—whether by
intercepting her letters, ruining her character, or turning her out of doors.
Mrs.
Allen was one of that numerous class of females, whose society can raise no
other emotion than surprise at there being any men 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 entree into life could not take place till after three or four days
had been spent in learning what was mostly worn, and her chaperone 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. Her hair was cut and dressed by the best hand,
her clothes put on with care, and both Mrs. Allen and her maid declared she
looked quite as she should do. With such encouragement, Catherine hoped at
least to pass uncensured through the crowd. As for admiration, it was always
very welcome when it came, but she did not depend on it.
Mrs.
Allen was so long in dressing that they did not enter the ballroom till late.
The season was full, the room crowded, and the two ladies squeezed in as well
as they could. As for Mr. Allen, he repaired directly to the card-room, and
left them to enjoy a mob by themselves. With more care for the safety of her
new gown than for the comfort of her protegee, Mrs. Allen made her way through
the throng of men by the door, as swiftly as the necessary caution would allow;
Catherine, however, kept close at her side, and linked her arm too firmly
within her friend's to be torn asunder by any common effort of a struggling
assembly. But to her utter amazement she found that to proceed along the room
was by no means the way to disengage themselves from the crowd; it seemed
rather to increase as they went on, whereas she had imagined that when once
fairly within the door, they should easily find seats and be able to watch the
dances with perfect convenience. But this was far from being the case, and
though by unwearied diligence they gained even the top of the room, their
situation was just the same; they saw nothing of the dancers but the high
feathers of some of the ladies. Still they moved on—something better was yet in
view; and by a continued exertion of strength and ingenuity they found
themselves at last in the passage behind the highest bench. Here there was
something less of crowd than below; and hence Miss Morland had a comprehensive
view of all the company beneath her, and of all the dangers of her late passage
through them. 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
totally ineffectual, that Catherine grew tired at last, and would thank her no
more.
They were
not long able, however, to enjoy the repose of the eminence they had so
laboriously gained. Everybody was shortly in motion for tea, and they must
squeeze out like the rest. Catherine began to feel something of
disappointment—she was tired of being continually pressed against by people,
the generality of whose faces possessed nothing to interest, and with all of
whom she was so wholly unacquainted that she could not relieve the irksomeness
of imprisonment by the exchange of a syllable with any of her fellow captives;
and when at last arrived in the tea-room, she felt yet more the awkwardness of
having no party to join, no acquaintance to claim, no gentleman to assist them.
They saw nothing of Mr. Allen; and after looking about them in vain for a more
eligible situation, were obliged to sit down at the end of a table, at which a
large party were already placed, without having anything to do there, or
anybody to speak to, except each other.
Mrs.
Allen congratulated herself, as soon as they were seated, on having preserved
her gown from injury. "It would have been very shocking to have it
torn," said she, "would not it? It is such a delicate muslin. For my
part I have not seen anything I like so well in the whole room, I assure
you."
"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."
"What
shall we do? The gentlemen and ladies at this table look as if they wondered
why we came here—we seem forcing ourselves into their party."
"Aye,
so we do. That is very disagreeable. 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."
"Had
not we better go away as it is? Here are no tea-things for us, you see."
"No
more there are, indeed. How very provoking! But I think we had better sit
still, for one gets so tumbled in such a crowd! How is my head, my dear?
Somebody gave me a push that has hurt it, I am afraid."
"No,
indeed, it looks very nice. 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. There goes a strange-looking woman! What an odd gown she has got on!
How old-fashioned it is! Look at the back."
After
some time they received an offer of tea from one of their neighbours; it was
thankfully accepted, and this introduced a light conversation with the
gentleman who offered it, which was the only time that anybody spoke to them
during the evening, till they were discovered and joined by Mr. Allen when the
dance was over.
"Well,
Miss Morland," said he, directly, "I hope you have had an agreeable
ball."
"Very
agreeable indeed," she replied, vainly endeavouring to hide a great yawn.
"I
wish she had been able to dance," said his wife; "I wish we could
have got a partner for her. I have been saying how glad I should be if the
Skinners were here this winter instead of last; or if the Parrys had come, as
they talked of once, she might have danced with George Parry. I am so sorry she
has not had a partner!"
"We
shall do better another evening I hope," was Mr. Allen's consolation.
The
company began to disperse when the dancing was over—enough to leave space for
the remainder to walk about in some comfort; and now was the time for a
heroine, who had not yet played a very distinguished part in the events of the
evening, to be noticed and admired. Every five minutes, by removing some of the
crowd, gave greater openings for her charms. She was now seen by many young men
who had not been near her before. Not one, however, started with rapturous
wonder on beholding her, no whisper of eager inquiry ran round the room, nor
was she once called a divinity by anybody. Yet Catherine was in very good
looks, and had the company only seen her three years before, they would now
have thought her exceedingly handsome.
She was
looked at, however, and with some admiration; for, in her own hearing, two
gentlemen pronounced her to be a pretty girl. Such words had their due effect;
she immediately thought the evening pleasanter than she had found it before—her
humble vanity was contented—she felt more obliged to the two young men for this
simple praise than a true-quality heroine would have been for fifteen sonnets
in celebration of her charms, and went to her chair in good humour with
everybody, and perfectly satisfied with her share of public attention.
CHAPTER 3
Every
morning now brought its regular duties—shops were to be visited; some new part
of the town to be looked at; and the pump-room to be attended, where they
paraded up and down for an hour, looking at everybody and speaking to no one.
The wish of a numerous acquaintance in Bath was still uppermost with Mrs.
Allen, and she repeated it after every fresh proof, which every morning
brought, of her knowing nobody at all.
They made
their appearance in the Lower Rooms; and here fortune was more favourable to
our heroine. The master of the ceremonies introduced to her a very
gentlemanlike young man as a partner; his name was Tilney. He seemed to be
about four or five and twenty, was rather tall, had a pleasing countenance, a
very intelligent and lively eye, and, if not quite handsome, was very near it.
His address was good, and Catherine felt herself in high luck. There was little
leisure for speaking while they danced; but when they were seated at tea, she
found him as agreeable as she had already given him credit for being. He talked
with fluency and spirit—and there was an archness and pleasantry in his manner
which interested, though it was hardly understood by her. After chatting some
time on such matters as naturally arose from the objects around them, he
suddenly addressed her with—"I have hitherto been very remiss, madam, in
the proper attentions of a partner here; I have not yet asked you how long you
have been in Bath; whether you were ever here before; whether you have been at
the Upper Rooms, the theatre, and the concert; and how you like the place
altogether. I have been very negligent—but are you now at leisure to satisfy me
in these particulars? If you are I will begin directly."
"You
need not give yourself that trouble, sir."
"No
trouble, I assure you, madam." Then forming his features into a set smile,
and affectedly softening his voice, he added, with a simpering air, "Have
you been long in Bath, madam?"
"About
a week, sir," replied Catherine, trying not to laugh.
"Really!"
with affected astonishment.
"Why
should you be surprised, sir?"
"Why,
indeed!" said he, in his natural tone. "But some emotion must appear
to be raised by your reply, and surprise is more easily assumed, and not less
reasonable than any other. Now let us go on. Were you never here before,
madam?"
"Never,
sir."
"Indeed!
Have you yet honoured the Upper Rooms?"
"Yes,
sir, I was there last Monday."
"Have
you been to the theatre?"
"Yes,
sir, I was at the play on Tuesday."
"To
the concert?"
"Yes,
sir, on Wednesday."
"And
are you altogether pleased with Bath?"
"Yes—I
like it very well."
"Now
I must give one smirk, and then we may be rational again." Catherine
turned away her head, not knowing whether she might venture to laugh. "I
see what you think of me," said he gravely—"I shall make but a poor
figure in your journal tomorrow."
"My
journal!"
"Yes,
I know exactly what you will say: Friday, went to the Lower Rooms; wore my
sprigged muslin robe with blue trimmings—plain black shoes—appeared to much
advantage; but was strangely harassed by a queer, half-witted man, who would
make me dance with him, and distressed me by his nonsense."
"Indeed
I shall say no such thing."
"Shall
I tell you what you ought to say?"
"If
you please."
"I
danced with a very agreeable young man, introduced by Mr. King; had a great
deal of conversation with him—seems a most extraordinary genius—hope I may know
more of him. That, madam, is what I wish you to say."
"But,
perhaps, I keep no journal."
"Perhaps
you are not sitting in this room, and I am not sitting by you. These are points
in which a doubt is equally possible. Not keep a journal! How are your absent
cousins to understand the tenour of your life in Bath without one? How are the
civilities and compliments of every day to be related as they ought to be,
unless noted down every evening in a journal? How are your various dresses to
be remembered, and the particular state of your complexion, and curl of your
hair to be described in all their diversities, without having constant recourse
to a journal? My dear madam, I am not so ignorant of young ladies' ways as you
wish to believe me; it is this delightful habit of journaling which largely
contributes to form the easy style of writing for which ladies are so generally
celebrated. Everybody allows that the talent of writing agreeable letters is
peculiarly female. Nature may have done something, but I am sure it must be
essentially assisted by the practice of keeping a journal."
"I
have sometimes thought," said Catherine, doubtingly, "whether ladies
do write so much better letters than gentlemen! That is—I should not think the
superiority was always on our side."
"As
far as I have had opportunity of judging, it appears to me that the usual style
of letter-writing among women is faultless, except in three particulars."
"And
what are they?"
"A
general deficiency of subject, a total inattention to stops, and a very
frequent ignorance of grammar."
"Upon
my word! I need not have been afraid of disclaiming the compliment. You do not
think too highly of us in that way."
"I
should no more lay it down as a general rule that women write better letters
than men, than that they sing better duets, or draw better landscapes. In every
power, of which taste is the foundation, excellence is pretty fairly divided
between the sexes."
They were
interrupted by Mrs. Allen: "My dear Catherine," said she, "do
take this pin out of my sleeve; I am afraid it has torn a hole already; I shall
be quite sorry if it has, for this is a favourite gown, though it cost but nine
shillings a yard."
"That
is exactly what I should have guessed it, madam," said Mr. Tilney, looking
at the muslin.
"Do
you understand muslins, sir?"
"Particularly
well; I always buy my own cravats, and am allowed to be an excellent judge; and
my sister has often trusted me in the choice of a gown. I bought one for her
the other day, and it was pronounced to be a prodigious bargain by every lady
who saw it. I gave but five shillings a yard for it, and a true Indian muslin."
Mrs.
Allen was quite struck by his genius. "Men commonly take so little notice
of those things," said she; "I can never get Mr. Allen to know one of
my gowns from another. You must be a great comfort to your sister, sir."
"I
hope I am, madam."
"And
pray, sir, what do you think of Miss Morland's gown?"
"It
is very pretty, madam," said he, gravely examining it; "but I do not
think it will wash well; I am afraid it will fray."
"How
can you," said Catherine, laughing, "be so—" She had almost said
"strange."
"I
am quite of your opinion, sir," replied Mrs. Allen; "and so I told
Miss Morland when she bought it."
"But
then you know, madam, muslin always turns to some account or other; Miss
Morland will get enough out of it for a handkerchief, or a cap, or a cloak.
Muslin can never be said to be wasted. I have heard my sister say so forty
times, when she has been extravagant in buying more than she wanted, or
careless in cutting it to pieces."
"Bath
is a charming place, sir; there are so many good shops here. We are sadly off
in the country; not but what we have very good shops in Salisbury, but it is so
far to go—eight miles is a long way; Mr. Allen says it is nine, measured nine;
but I am sure it cannot be more than eight; and it is such a fag—I come back
tired to death. Now, here one can step out of doors and get a thing in five
minutes."
Mr.
Tilney was polite enough to seem interested in what she said; and she kept him
on the subject of muslins till the dancing recommenced. Catherine feared, as
she listened to their discourse, that he indulged himself a little too much
with the foibles of others. "What are you thinking of so earnestly?"
said he, as they walked back to the ballroom; "not of your partner, I
hope, for, by that shake of the head, your meditations are not
satisfactory."
Catherine
coloured, and said, "I was not thinking of anything."
"That
is artful and deep, to be sure; but I had rather be told at once that you will
not tell me."
"Well
then, I will not."
"Thank
you; for now we shall soon be acquainted, as I am authorized to tease you on
this subject whenever we meet, and nothing in the world advances intimacy so
much."
They
danced again; and, when the assembly closed, parted, on the lady's side at
least, with a strong inclination for continuing the acquaintance. Whether she
thought of him so much, while she drank her warm wine and water, and prepared
herself for bed, as to dream of him when there, cannot be ascertained; but I
hope it was no more than in a slight slumber, or a morning doze at most; for if
it be true, as a celebrated writer has maintained, that no young lady can be
justified in falling in love before the gentleman's love is declared,* it must
be very improper that a young lady should dream of a gentleman before the
gentleman is first known to have dreamt of her. How proper Mr. Tilney might be
as a dreamer or a lover had not yet perhaps entered Mr. Allen's head, but that
he was not objectionable as a common acquaintance for his young charge he was
on inquiry satisfied; for he had early in the evening taken pains to know who
her partner was, and had been assured of Mr. Tilney's being a clergyman, and of
a very respectable family in Gloucestershire.
