by Jane Austen
I am, Gentlemen, etc., etc.,
M. A. D.
Direct to Mrs. Ashton Dennis,
Post Office, Southampton
April 5, 1809.
With this letter was preserved the following reply: —
Madam, — We have to acknowledge the receipt of your letter of the 5th inst. It is true that at the time mentioned we purchased of Mr. Seymour a MS. novel entitled Susan, and paid him for it the sum of £10, for which we have his stamped receipt, as a full consideration, but there was not any time stipulated for its publication, neither are we bound to publish it. Should you or anyone else [publish it] we shall take proceedings to stop the sale. The MS. shall be yours for the same as we paid for it.
For Crosby & Co.
I am yours, etc.
Richard Crosby.
From the fact that this letter was carefully preserved among Jane’s correspondence, from the almost exact coincidence of the dates at which the writer was to leave Southampton, &c., and from the fact that a Mr. Seymour was Henry Austen’s man of business, there can be no reasonable doubt that the letter refers to one of Jane Austen’s works. It need cause no surprise that she should have written under an assumed name, or that she should have got some one else to write for her in view of the secrecy which she long maintained regarding the authorship of her novels. If we assume, then, that the letter concerns one of Jane Austen’s novels — which novel is it? At first sight it might naturally seem to be the story called Lady Susan, which was published in the second edition of the Memoir; but there are two objections to this: one, that so far from making two volumes, Lady Susan could hardly have made more than one very thin volume; secondly, that Lady Susan is generally looked upon as an early and immature production; and Jane’s judgment should have been too good to allow her to desire the publication of an inferior work at a time when she had already completed, in one form or another, three such novels as Sense and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudice, and Northanger Abbey. If, therefore, it was not Lady Susan — What was it? We cannot doubt that it was the novel we now know as Northanger Abbey. When that book was prepared for the press in 1816, it contained the following ‘advertisement’ or prefatory note: —
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 further, the author has never been able to learn.
So far, this accords closely enough with the history of the MS. Susan as related in the letter to Messrs. Crosby. For other details we must go to the Memoir, where we read: —
It [Northanger Abbey] was sold in 1803 to a publisher in Bath for ten pounds; but it found so little favour in his eyes that he chose to abide by his first loss rather than risk further expense by publishing such a work. . . . But when four novels of steadily increasing success had given the writer some confidence in herself, she wished to recover the copyright of this early work. One of her brothers undertook the negotiation. He found the purchaser very willing to receive back his money and to resign all claim to the copyright.
This, too, accords closely enough with the history of the MS. Susan, with the exception of one expression — namely, ‘publisher in Bath’; but probably the writer of the Memoir here made a slip, acting on the very natural inference that a book in the main written about Bath, by a writer at that time living in Bath, would naturally have been offered to a publisher in that town.
We are, indeed, confronted by two alternatives: either that Jane Austen, in the year 1803, sold two MSS. for the sum of ten pounds each — one named Susan, to a London publisher, which has disappeared altogether, unless it is the same as the sketch Lady Susan (which, as we have seen, is improbable), and the other (Northanger Abbey) to a Bath publisher; or that the publisher was really a London and not a Bath publisher, and that the original Christian name of Catherine Morland was Susan.
CHAPTER XIV. SENSE AND SENSIBILITY
1809-1811
We are now bringing Jane Austen to the home which she was to occupy through all the remaining eight years of her life — the home from which she went to lie on her deathbed at Winchester. Into this period were to be crowded a large proportion of her most important literary work, and all the contemporary recognition which she was destined to enjoy. The first six of these years must have been singularly happy. So far as we know, she was in good health, she was a member of a cheerful family party, and she was under the protection of brothers who would see that she and her mother and sister suffered no discomfort. The eldest, James, Rector of Steventon, could reach his mother’s house in a morning’s ride through pleasant country lanes; Edward, the Squire, occasionally occupied the ‘Great House’ at Chawton, and often lent it to one of his naval brothers; while Henry in London was only too happy to receive his sisters, show them the sights of the metropolis, and transact Jane’s literary business. At home were her mother, her life-long friend Martha, and above all her ‘other self’ — Cassandra — from whom she had no secrets, and with whom disagreement was impossible. But besides all these living objects of interest, Jane also had her own separate and peculiar world, peopled by the creations of her own bright imagination, which by degrees became more and more real to her as she found others accepting and admiring them. She must have resumed the habit of writing with diffidence, after her previous experience; but the sense of progress, and the success which attended her venture in publishing Sense and Sensibility would by degrees make ample amends for past disappointments. She was no doubt aided by the quiet of her home and its friendly surroundings. In this tranquil spot, where the past and present even now join peaceful hands, she found happy leisure, repose of mind, and absence of distraction, such as any sustained creative effort demands.
Chawton was a charming village, about a mile from Alton, and deep in the country; although two main roads from Gosport and Winchester respectively joined on their way towards London just in front of the Austens’ cottage. Indeed, the place still refuses to be modernised, in spite of three converging railways, and a necessary but civil notice in the corner requesting motorists to ‘drive slowly through the village.’ The venerable manor-house (then always called the ‘Great House’) is on the slope of a hill above the Church, surrounded by garden, meadows, and trees, and commanding a view over the intervening valley to a hill opposite, crowned with a beech wood and known as ‘Chawton Park.’ The cottage is in the centre of the village, and, as it actually abuts on the road, the Austens could easily see or be seen by travellers. It is supposed to have been built as a posting inn, but it had lately been occupied by Edward Austen’s steward. The author of the Memoir describes his uncle’s improvements to the place in the following words: —
A good-sized entrance and two sitting-rooms made the length of the house, all intended originally to look upon the road; but the large drawing-room window was blocked up and turned into a book-case, and another opened at the side which gave to view only turf and trees, as a high wooden fence and hornbeam hedge shut out the Winchester road, which skirted the whole length of the little domain.
He goes on to speak of the garden laid out at the same time, which proved a great interest to the party of ladies, and in which old Mrs. Austen worked vigorously, almost to the end of her days, often attired in a green round smock like a labourer’s: a costume which must have been nearly as remarkable as the red habit of her early married life.
Jane Austen was now between thirty-three and thirty-four years old. She was absolutely free from any artistic self-consciousness, from any eccentricity of either temper or manner. ‘Hers was a mind well balanced on a basis of good sense, sweetened by an affectionate heart, and regulated by fixed principles; so that she was to be distinguished from many other amiable and sensible women only by that peculiar genius which shines out clearly . . . in her works.’ Her tastes were as normal as her nature. She read English literature with eagerness, attracted by the eighteenth-century perfection of style — and still more by the return to
nature in Cowper and the introduction of romance in Scott — but repelled by coarseness, which she found even in the Spectator, and the presence of which in Fielding made her rank him below Richardson. As for the latter, ‘Every circumstance narrated in Sir Charles Grandison, all that was ever said or done in the “Cedar Parlour,” was familiar to her; and the wedding days of Lady L. and Lady G. were as well remembered as if they had been living friends.’ Her ‘dear Dr. Johnson’ was a constant companion; and a younger friend was found in Crabbe, whom — as she used to pretend — she was quite prepared to marry: not knowing at the time whether he had a wife living or not. As to her other tastes, she greatly delighted in the beauties of nature, and no doubt would have enjoyed foreign travel, had not that pleasure been quite out of her reach. Her attitude to music, as an art, is more doubtful. She learnt to play the piano in her youth, and after spending many years without an instrument, took it up again on settling at Chawton; but she says herself that she did this in order to be able to play country-dances for her nephews and nieces; and when she goes to a concert she sometimes remarks on her inability to enjoy it. A concert in Sydney Gardens, however, was not perhaps likely to offer to the hearer many examples of high art; and we have no means of knowing whether, if she had had a chance of being introduced to classical music, it would have appealed to her, as it sometimes does to intellectual people who have been previously quite ignorant that they possessed any musical faculty. We are told that she had a sweet voice, and sang with feeling. ‘The Soldier’s Adieu’ and ‘The Yellow-haired Laddie’ survive as the names of two of her songs.
She was extraordinarily neat-handed in anything which she attempted. Her hand-writing was both strong and pretty; her hemming and stitching, over which she spent much time, ‘might have put a sewing-machine to shame’; and at games, like spillikins or cup-and-ball, she was invincible.
If this description does not seem to imply so wide a mental outlook as we wish to see in a distinguished author, we must remember that Jane Austen (as her nephew tells us) ‘lived in entire seclusion from the literary world,’ and probably ‘never was in company with any person whose talents or whose celebrity equalled her own.’ She was in the middle of a small family circle, the members of which were well-educated according to the fashion of the times, intelligent, and refined; but not especially remarkable for learning or original thought. They accepted the standards and views of their generation, interpreting them in a reasonable and healthy manner. She had therefore no inducement, such as might come from the influence of superior intellects, to dive into difficult problems. Her mental efforts were purely her own, and they led her in another direction; but she saw what she did see so very clearly, that she would probably have been capable of looking more deeply into the heart of things, had any impulse from outside induced her to try. Her vision, however, might not have remained so admirably adapted for the delicate operations nearer to the surface which were her real work in life.
Jane’s person is thus described for us by her niece Anna, now becoming a grown-up girl and a keen observer: ‘The figure tall and slight, but not drooping; well balanced, as was proved by her quick firm step. Her complexion of that rare sort which seems the particular property of light brunettes; a mottled skin, not fair, but perfectly clear and healthy; the fine naturally curling hair, neither light nor dark; the bright hazel eyes to match, and the rather small, but well-shaped, nose.’ This is a delightful description; but she adds that in spite of all this, her aunt was not regularly handsome, though most attractive. As to her charm and lovableness there is absolute unanimity among all those who were near enough to her to know what she really was. Jane had by this time seen a good deal of society, and enjoyed it, though with a certain critical aloofness which belonged to her family, and which was hardly to be avoided by so clever a person as herself. This critical spirit was evidently a quality of which she endeavoured to rid herself as of a fault; and one of her nieces, who was too young to know her aunt intimately, until almost the end of her life, was able then to say: ‘She was in fact one of the last people in society to be afraid of. I do not suppose she ever in her life said a sharp thing. She was naturally shy and not given to talk much in company, and people fancied, knowing that she was clever, that she was on the watch for good material for books from their conversation. Her intimate friends knew how groundless was the apprehension and that it wronged her.’ She was not only shy: she was also at times very grave. Her niece Anna is inclined to think that Cassandra was the more equably cheerful of the two sisters. There was, undoubtedly, a quiet intensity of nature in Jane for which some critics have not given her credit. Yet at other times she and this same niece could joke so heartily over their needlework and talk such nonsense together that Cassandra would beg them to stop out of mercy to her, and not keep her in such fits of laughing. Sometimes the laughter would be provoked by the composition of extempore verses, such as those given in the Memoir celebrating the charm of the ‘lovely Anna’; sometimes the niece would skim over new novels at the Alton Library, and reproduce them with wilful exaggeration. On one occasion she threw down a novel on the counter with contempt, saying she knew it must be rubbish from its name. The name was Sense and Sensibility — the secret of which had been strictly kept, even from her.
The niece who shared these hearty laughs with her aunts — James’s eldest daughter, Anna — differed widely from her cousin, Edward’s daughter, Fanny. She was more brilliant both in looks and in intelligence, but also more mercurial and excitable. Both occupied a good deal of Jane’s thoughts and affections; but Anna must have been the one who caused her the most amusement and also the most anxiety. The interest in her was heightened when she became engaged to the son of Jane’s old friend, Mrs. Lefroy. Anna’s giddiness was merely that of youth; she settled down into a steady married life as the careful mother of a large family. She cherished an ardent affection for her Aunt Jane, who evidently exercised a great influence on her character.
Jane Austen’s literary work was done mainly in the general sitting-room: liable at any moment to be interrupted by servants, children, or visitors — to none of whom had been entrusted the secret of her authorship. Her small sheets of paper could easily be put away or covered with blotting-paper, whenever the creaking swing-door (which she valued for that reason) gave notice that anyone was coming.
Her needlework was nearly always a garment for the poor; though she had also by her some satin stitch ready to take up in case of the appearance of company. The nature of the work will help to contradict an extraordinary misconception — namely, that she was indifferent to the needs and claims of the poor: an idea probably based on the fact that she never used them as ‘copy.’ Nothing could be further from the truth. She was of course quite ignorant of the conditions of life in the great towns, and she had but little money to give, but work, teaching, and sympathy were freely bestowed on rustic neighbours. A very good criterion of her attitude towards her own characters is often furnished by their relations with the poor around them. Instances of this may be found in Darcy’s care of his tenants and servants, in Anne Elliot’s farewell visits to nearly all the inhabitants of Kellynch, and in Emma’s benevolence and good sense when assisting her poorer neighbours.
So began the Austens’ life at Chawton — probably a quieter life than any they had yet led; their nearest neighbours being the Middletons (who rented the ‘Great House’ for five years and were still its inmates), the Benns at Faringdon, the Harry Digweeds, Mr. Papillon the Rector (a bachelor living with his sister), and the Clements and Prowting families.
The ladies took possession of their cottage on July 7, and the first news that we have of them is in a letter from Mrs. Knight, dated October 26, 1809: ‘I heard of the Chawton party looking very comfortable at breakfast from a gentleman who was travelling by their door in a post-chaise about ten days ago.’
After this the curtain falls again, and we have no letters and no information for a year and a half from this time. We are sure, how
ever, that Jane settled down to her writing very soon, for by April 1811 Sense and Sensibility was in the printers’ hands, and Pride and Prejudice far advanced.
Since her fit of youthful enthusiasm, when she had composed three stories in little more than three years, she had had much experience of life to sober and strengthen her. Three changes of residence, the loss of her father, the friendship of Mrs. Lefroy and the shock of her death, her own and her sister’s sad love stories, the crisis in the Leigh Perrot history, and her literary disappointments — all these must have made her take up her two old works with a chastened spirit, and a more mature judgment. We cannot doubt that extensive alterations were made: in fact, we know that this was the case with Pride and Prejudice. We feel equally certain that, of the two works, Sense and Sensibility was essentially the earlier, both in conception and in composition, and that no one could have sat down to write that work who had already written Pride and Prejudice. There is, indeed, no lack of humour in the earlier work — the names of Mrs. Jennings, John Dashwood, and the Palmers are enough to assure us of this; but the humorous parts are not nearly so essential to the story as they become in her later novels: the plot is desultory, and the principal characters lack interest. We feel, in the presence of the virtue and sense of Elinor, a rebuke which never affects us in the same way with Jane Bennet, Fanny Price, or Anne Elliot; while Marianne is often exasperating. Edward Ferrars is rather stiff; and Colonel Brandon is so far removed from us that we never even learn his Christian name.
