The word “travel” (or
variants thereof) appears thirteen times in the text of Northanger Abbey, with more than double the frequency in any other
Austen novel. Seven of the thirteen usages in NA are clustered in Chapter 29 – hardly
surprising, since it describes Catherine’s return to Fullerton, her family home.
But I see this dense cluster of “travel” words in Chapter 29 as a sly hint ---
and quintessential Jane Austen Code --- that JA deliberately repeatedly echoed the title of Gulliver’s Travels, so as to direct her readers’ attention to the
most significant parallel between the two novels, which is the way they both end.
I.e., in the final Part of
Swift’s novel, Lemuel Gulliver, the human Yahoo, is abruptly expelled from his idyll with his noble equine Houyhnhnm master; and after some
final travels, he ends up back in his English family home. The decision to
expel Gulliver is made by the Houyhnhnm council, which compels Gulliver’s beloved
master to serve their demand on Gulliver. In NA, Catherine is similarly
abruptly expelled, at host General Tilney’s demand, from the paradise she enjoyed
at the Abbey with Henry and Eleanor--- the latter of whom is, like Gulliver’s
master, forced to deliver Catherine’s “eviction notice”. It is no accident that
the protagonist in both Austen’s and Swift’s famous satires is subjected to the
same ordeal, in the same sequence of events, resulting in the same sort of
distress to messenger and exile. With that brief summary, I will now illustrate
Austen’s clever parody of Swift, by simply presenting you the parallel passages.
Judge for yourself if this is mere coincidence.
First, here’s Lemuel Gulliver
leaving the Houyhnhnms: “I freely confess, that all the little
knowledge I have of any value, was acquired by the lectures I received from my
master, and from hearing the discourses of him and his friends; to which I
should be prouder to listen, than to dictate to the greatest and wisest
assembly in Europe. I admired the strength, comeliness, and speed of the
inhabitants; and such a constellation of virtues, in such amiable persons,
produced in me the highest veneration. At first, indeed, I did not feel
that natural awe, which the Yahoos and all other animals bear toward
them; but it grew upon me by decrees, much sooner than I imagined, and was
mingled with a respectful love and gratitude, that they would condescend to
distinguish me from the rest of my species. When I thought of my family, my
friends, my countrymen, or the human race in general, I considered them, as
they really were, Yahoos in shape and disposition, perhaps a little more
civilized, and qualified with the gift of speech; but making no other use of
reason, than to improve and multiply those vices whereof their brethren in this
country had only the share that nature allotted them. When I happened to behold
the reflection of my own form in a lake or fountain, I turned away my face in
horror and detestation of myself, and could better endure the sight of a common
Yahoo than of my own person. By
conversing with the Houyhnhnms, and looking upon them with delight, I
fell to imitate their gait and gesture, which is now grown into a habit; and my
friends often tell me, in a blunt way, “that I trot like a horse;” which,
however, I take for a great compliment. Neither shall I disown, that in
speaking I am apt to fall into the voice and manner of the Houyhnhnms,
and hear myself ridiculed on that account, without the least mortification.
In the midst of all this happiness, and when I looked
upon myself to be fully settled for life, my master sent for me one morning a
little earlier than his usual hour. I observed by his countenance that he
was in some perplexity, and at a loss how to begin what he had to speak.
After a short silence, he told me,
“he did not know how I would take what he was going to say: that in the last
general assembly, when the affair of the Yahoos was entered upon, the
representatives had taken offence at his keeping a Yahoo (meaning
myself) in his family, more like a Houyhnhnm than a brute animal; that
he was known frequently to converse with me, as if he could receive some
advantage or pleasure in my company; that such a practice was not agreeable to
reason or nature, or a thing ever heard of before among them; the assembly did
therefore exhort him either to employ me like the rest of my species, or
command me to swim back to the place whence I came: that the first of these
expedients was utterly rejected by all the Houyhnhnms who had ever seen
me at his house or their own; for they alleged, that because I had some
rudiments of reason, added to the natural pravity of those animals, it was to
be feared I might be able to seduce them into the woody and mountainous parts
of the country, and bring them in troops by night to destroy the Houyhnhnms’
cattle, as being naturally of the ravenous kind, and averse from labour.” My
master added, “that he was daily pressed by the Houyhnhnms of the
neighbourhood to have the assembly’s exhortation executed, which he could not
put off much longer. He doubted it would be impossible for me to swim to
another country; and therefore wished I would contrive some sort of vehicle,
resembling those I had described to him, that might carry me on the sea; in which
work I should have the assistance of his own servants, as well as those of his
neighbours.” He concluded, “that for his own part, he could have been
content to keep me in his service as long as I lived; because he found I had
cured myself of some bad habits and dispositions, by endeavouring, as far as my
inferior nature was capable, to imitate the Houyhnhnms.”
I should here observe to
the reader, that a decree of the general assembly in this country is expressed
by the word hnhloayn, which signifies an exhortation, as near as I can
render it; for they have no conception how a rational creature can be
compelled, but only advised, or exhorted; because no person can disobey reason,
without giving up his claim to be a rational creature. I was struck with the
utmost grief and despair at my master’s discourse; and being unable to support
the agonies I was under, I fell into a swoon at his feet. When I came to
myself, he told me “that he concluded I had been dead;” for these people are
subject to no such imbecilities of nature. I answered in a faint voice,
“that death would have been too great a happiness; that although I could not
blame the assembly’s exhortation, or the urgency of his friends; yet, in my
weak and corrupt judgment, I thought it might consist with reason to have been
less rigorous; that I could not swim a league, and probably the nearest land to
theirs might be distant above a hundred: that many materials, necessary for
making a small vessel to carry me off, were wholly wanting in this country;
which, however, I would attempt, in obedience and gratitude to his honour,
although I concluded the thing to be impossible, and therefore looked on myself
as already devoted to destruction; that the certain prospect of an unnatural
death was the least of my evils; for, supposing I should escape with life by
some strange adventure, how could I think with temper of passing my days among Yahoos,
and relapsing into my old corruptions, for want of examples to lead and keep me
within the paths of virtue? that I knew too well upon what solid reasons all
the determinations of the wise Houyhnhnms were founded, not to be shaken
by arguments of mine, a miserable Yahoo; and therefore, after presenting
him with my humble thanks for the offer of his servants’ assistance in making a
vessel, and desiring a reasonable time for so difficult a work, I told him I
would endeavour to preserve a wretched being; and if ever I returned to
England, was not without hopes of being useful to my own species, by
celebrating the praises of the renowned Houyhnhnms, and proposing their
virtues to the imitation of mankind.” My master, in a few words, made me a very
gracious reply; allowed me the space of two months to finish my boat; and
ordered the sorrel nag, my fellow-servant (for so, at this distance, I may
presume to call him), to follow my instruction; because I told my master, “that
his help would be sufficient, and I knew he had a tenderness for me.”
…When all was ready, and
the day came for my departure, I took leave of my master and lady and the whole
family, my eyes flowing with tears, and my heart quite sunk with grief.
But his honour, out of curiosity, and, perhaps, (if I may speak without vanity,)
partly out of kindness, was determined to see me in my canoe, and got several
of his neighbouring friends to accompany him. I was forced to wait above
an hour for the tide; and then observing the wind very fortunately bearing
toward the island to which I intended to steer my course, I took a second leave
of my master: but as I was going to prostrate myself to kiss his hoof, he did
me the honour to raise it gently to my mouth. I am not ignorant how much
I have been censured for mentioning this last particular. Detractors are
pleased to think it improbable, that so illustrious a person should descend to
give so great a mark of distinction to a creature so inferior as I.
Neither have I forgotten how apt some travellers are to boast of extraordinary favours
they have received. But, if these censurers were better acquainted with
the noble and courteous disposition of the Houyhnhnms, they would soon
change their opinion. I paid my respects to the rest of the Houyhnhnms
in his honour’s company; then getting
into my canoe, I pushed off from shore.
END QUOTE FROM G.T.
And now, with Gulliver’s
sad leavetaking from his master fresh in your mind, read Catherine Morland’s sad
parting from Eleanor (and note all the “TRAVELS”, as well as the wink at SWIFT’s
surname!):
Ch. 28: “…Catherine
thought she heard [Eleanor’s] step in the gallery, and listened for its
continuance; but all was silent…She trembled a little at the idea of anyone's
approaching so cautiously; but resolving not to be again overcome by trivial
appearances of alarm, or misled by a raised imagination, she stepped quietly
forward, and opened the door. Eleanor, and only Eleanor, stood there.
Catherine's spirits, however, were tranquillized but for an instant, for
Eleanor's cheeks were pale, and her manner greatly agitated. Though evidently
intending to come in, it seemed an effort to enter the room, and a still
greater to speak when there. Catherine, supposing some uneasiness on Captain
Tilney's account, could only express her concern by silent attention, obliged
her to be seated, rubbed her temples with lavender-water, and hung over her
with affectionate solicitude. "My dear Catherine, you must not—you must
not indeed—" were Eleanor's first connected words. "I am quite well.
This kindness distracts me—I cannot bear it—I come to you on such an errand!"
"Errand! To me!" "How shall I tell you! Oh! How shall I
tell you!" A new idea now darted into Catherine's mind, and turning as
pale as her friend, she exclaimed, "'Tis a messenger from Woodston!" "You are mistaken, indeed," returned
Eleanor, looking at her most compassionately; "it is no one from Woodston.
It is my father himself." Her voice faltered, and her eyes were turned to
the ground as she mentioned his name. His unlooked-for return was enough in
itself to make Catherine's heart sink, and for a few moments she hardly
supposed there were anything worse to be told. She said nothing; and Eleanor,
endeavouring to collect herself and speak with firmness, but with eyes still
cast down, soon went on. "You are too good, I am sure, to think the worse
of me for the part I am obliged to perform. I am indeed a most unwilling
messenger. After what has so lately passed, so lately been settled between
us—how joyfully, how thankfully on my side!—as to your continuing here as I
hoped for many, many weeks longer, how can I tell you that your kindness is not
to be accepted—and that the happiness your company has hitherto given us is to
be repaid by—But I must not trust myself with words. My dear Catherine, we are
to part. My father has recollected an engagement that takes our whole family
away on Monday. We are going to Lord Longtown's, near Hereford, for a
fortnight. Explanation and apology are equally impossible. I cannot attempt
either." "My dear
Eleanor," cried Catherine, suppressing her feelings as well as she could,
"do not be so distressed. A second engagement must give way to a first. I
am very, very sorry we are to part—so soon, and so suddenly too; but I am not
offended, indeed I am not. I can finish my visit here, you know, at any time;
or I hope you will come to me. Can you, when you return from this lord's, come
to Fullerton?" "It will not be
in my power, Catherine." "Come
when you can, then."
…"Ah, Catherine! Were
it settled so, it would be somewhat less intolerable, though in such common
attentions you would have received but half what you ought. But—how can I tell
you?—tomorrow morning is fixed for your leaving us, and not even the hour is
left to your choice; the very carriage is ordered, and will be here at seven o'clock,
and no servant will be offered you." Catherine sat down, breathless and speechless.
"I could hardly believe my senses, when I heard it; and no displeasure, no
resentment that you can feel at this moment, however justly great, can be more
than I myself—but I must not talk of what I felt. Oh! That I could suggest
anything in extenuation! Good God! What will your father and mother say! After
courting you from the protection of real friends to this—almost double distance
from your home, to have you driven out of the house, without the considerations
even of decent civility! Dear, dear Catherine, in being the bearer of such a
message, I seem guilty myself of all its insult; yet, I trust you will acquit
me, for you must have been long enough in this house to see that I am but a
nominal mistress of it, that my real power is nothing."
"Have I offended the
general?" said Catherine in a faltering voice. "Alas! For my feelings as a daughter, all
that I know, all that I answer for, is that you can have given him no just
cause of offence. He certainly is greatly, very greatly discomposed; I have
seldom seen him more so. His temper is not happy, and something has now
occurred to ruffle it in an uncommon degree; some disappointment, some
vexation, which just at this moment seems important, but which I can hardly
suppose you to have any concern in, for how is it possible?" It was with pain that Catherine could speak at
all; and it was only for Eleanor's sake that she attempted it. "I am
sure," said she, "I am very sorry if I have offended him. It was the
last thing I would willingly have done. But do not be unhappy, Eleanor. An
engagement, you know, must be kept. I am only sorry it was not recollected
sooner, that I might have written home. But it is of very little consequence."
"I hope, I earnestly hope, that to
your real safety it will be of none; but to everything else it is of the
greatest consequence: to comfort, appearance, propriety, to your family, to the
world. Were your friends, the Allens, still in Bath, you might go to them with
comparative ease; a few hours would take you there; but a journey of seventy
miles, to be taken post by you, at your age, alone, unattended!" "Oh, the journey is nothing. Do not think
about that. And if we are to part, a few hours sooner or later, you know, makes
no difference. I can be ready by seven. Let me be called in time." Eleanor
saw that she wished to be alone; and believing it better for each that they
should avoid any further conversation, now left her with, "I shall see you
in the morning."
Catherine's swelling heart
needed relief. In Eleanor's presence friendship and pride had equally
restrained her tears, but no sooner was she gone than they burst forth in
torrents. Turned from the house, and in such a way! Without any reason that
could justify, any apology that could atone for the abruptness, the rudeness,
nay, the insolence of it. Henry at a distance—not able even to bid him
farewell. Every hope, every expectation from him suspended, at least, and who
could say how long? Who could say when they might meet again? And all this by
such a man as General Tilney, so polite, so well bred, and heretofore so
particularly fond of her! It was as incomprehensible as it was mortifying and
grievous. From what it could arise, and where it would end, were considerations
of equal perplexity and alarm. The manner in which it was done so grossly
uncivil, hurrying her away without any reference to her own convenience, or
allowing her even the appearance of choice as to the time or mode of her
travelling; of two days, the earliest fixed on, and of that almost the earliest
hour, as if resolved to have her gone before he was stirring in the morning,
that he might not be obliged even to see her. What could all this mean but an
intentional affront? By some means or other she must have had the misfortune to
offend him. Eleanor had wished to spare her from so painful a notion, but
Catherine could not believe it possible that any injury or any misfortune could
provoke such ill will against a person not connected, or, at least, not
supposed to be connected with it. Heavily passed the night. Sleep, or repose
that deserved the name of sleep, was out of the question. That room, in which
her disturbed imagination had tormented her on her first arrival, was again the
scene of agitated spirits and unquiet slumbers. Yet how different now the
source of her inquietude from what it had been then—how mournfully superior in
reality and substance! Her anxiety had foundation in fact, her fears in
probability; and with a mind so occupied in the contemplation of actual and
natural evil, the solitude of her situation, the darkness of her chamber, the
antiquity of the building, were felt and considered without the smallest
emotion; and though the wind was high, and often produced strange and sudden
noises throughout the house, she heard it all as she lay awake, hour after
hour, without curiosity or terror. Soon
after six Eleanor entered her room, eager to show attention or give assistance
where it was possible; but very little remained to be done. Catherine had not
loitered; she was almost dressed, and her packing almost finished. The
possibility of some conciliatory message from the general occurred to her as
his daughter appeared. What so natural, as that anger should pass away and
repentance succeed it? And she only wanted to know how far, after what had
passed, an apology might properly be received by her. But the knowledge would
have been useless here; it was not called for; neither clemency nor dignity was
put to the trial—Eleanor brought no message. Very little passed between them on
meeting; each found her greatest safety in silence, and few and trivial were
the sentences exchanged while they remained upstairs, Catherine in busy
agitation completing her dress, and Eleanor with more goodwill than experience
intent upon filling the trunk. When everything was done they left the room,
Catherine lingering only half a minute behind her friend to throw a parting
glance on every well-known, cherished object, and went down to the
breakfast-parlour, where breakfast was prepared. She tried to eat, as well to
save herself from the pain of being urged as to make her friend comfortable;
but she had no appetite, and could not swallow many mouthfuls. The contrast
between this and her last breakfast in that room gave her fresh misery, and
strengthened her distaste for everything before her. It was not four and twenty
hours ago since they had met there to the same repast, but in circumstances how
different! With what cheerful ease, what happy, though false, security, had she
then looked around her, enjoying everything present, and fearing little in
future, beyond Henry's going to Woodston for a day! Happy, happy breakfast! For
Henry had been there; Henry had sat by her and helped her. These reflections
were long indulged undisturbed by any address from her companion, who sat as
deep in thought as herself; and the appearance of the carriage was the first
thing to startle and recall them to the present moment. Catherine's colour rose
at the sight of it; and the indignity with which she was treated, striking at
that instant on her mind with peculiar force, made her for a short time
sensible only of resentment. Eleanor seemed now impelled into resolution and
speech.
"You must write to
me, Catherine," she cried; "you must let me hear from you as soon as
possible. Till I know you to be safe at home, I shall not have an hour's
comfort. For one letter, at all risks, all hazards, I must entreat. Let me have
the satisfaction of knowing that you are safe at Fullerton, and have found your
family well, and then, till I can ask for your correspondence as I ought to do,
I will not expect more. Direct to me at Lord Longtown's, and, I must ask it,
under cover to Alice." "No, Eleanor, if you are not allowed to
receive a letter from me, I am sure I had better not write. There can be no
doubt of my getting home safe." Eleanor only replied, "I cannot
wonder at your feelings. I will not importune you. I will trust to your own
kindness of heart when I am at a distance from you." But this, with the
look of sorrow accompanying it, was enough to melt Catherine's pride in a
moment, and she instantly said, "Oh, Eleanor, I will write to you
indeed." …Catherine had never thought on the subject till that moment,
but, upon examining her purse, was convinced that but for this kindness of her
friend, she might have been turned from the house without even the means of
getting home; and the distress in which she must have been thereby involved
filling the minds of both, scarcely another word was said by either during the
time of their remaining together. Short, however, was that time. The carriage
was soon announced to be ready; and Catherine, instantly rising, a long and
affectionate embrace supplied the place of language in bidding each other
adieu; and, as they entered the hall, unable to leave the house without some
mention of one whose name had not yet been spoken by either, she paused a
moment, and with quivering lips just made it intelligible that she left
"her kind remembrance for her absent friend." But with this approach
to his name ended all possibility of restraining her feelings; and, hiding her
face as well as she could with her handkerchief, she darted across the hall,
jumped into the chaise, and in a moment was driven from the door.
Ch. 29: Catherine was too
wretched to be fearful. The journey in itself had no terrors for her; and she
began it without either dreading its length or feeling its solitariness.
Leaning back in one corner of the carriage, in a violent burst of tears, she
was conveyed some miles beyond the walls of the abbey before she raised her
head; and the highest point of ground within the park was almost closed from
her view before she was capable of turning her eyes towards it. Unfortunately,
the road she now TRAVELLED was the same which only ten days ago she had so
happily passed along in going to and from Woodston; and, for fourteen miles,
every bitter feeling was rendered more severe by the review of objects on which
she had first looked under impressions so different. Every mile, as it brought
her nearer Woodston, added to her sufferings, and when within the distance of
five, she passed the turning which led to it, and thought of Henry, so near,
yet so unconscious, her grief and agitation were excessive. The day which she
had spent at that place had been one of the happiest of her life. It was there,
it was on that day, that the general had made use of such expressions with
regard to Henry and herself, had so spoken and so looked as to give her the
most positive conviction of his actually wishing their marriage. Yes, only ten
days ago had he elated her by his pointed regard—had he even confused her by
his too significant reference! And now—what had she done, or what had she
omitted to do, to merit such a change? The only offence against him of which
she could accuse herself had been such as was scarcely possible to reach his
knowledge. Henry and her own heart only were privy to the shocking suspicions
which she had so idly entertained; and equally safe did she believe her secret
with each. Designedly, at least, Henry could not have betrayed her. If, indeed,
by any strange mischance his father should have gained intelligence of what she
had dared to think and look for, of her causeless fancies and injurious
examinations, she could not wonder at any degree of his indignation. If aware
of her having viewed him as a murderer, she could not wonder at his even
turning her from his house. But a justification so full of torture to herself,
she trusted, would not be in his power. Anxious as were all her conjectures on
this point, it was not, however, the one on which she dwelt most. There was a
thought yet nearer, a more prevailing, more impetuous concern. How Henry would
think, and feel, and look, when he returned on the morrow to Northanger and
heard of her being gone, was a question of force and interest to rise over
every other, to be never ceasing, alternately irritating and soothing; it
sometimes suggested the dread of his calm acquiescence, and at others was
answered by the sweetest confidence in his regret and resentment. To the
general, of course, he would not dare to speak; but to Eleanor—what might he
not say to Eleanor about her?
…With these feelings, she
rather dreaded than sought for the first view of that well-known spire which
would announce her within twenty miles of home. Salisbury she had known to be
her point on leaving Northanger; but after the first stage she had been
indebted to the post-masters for the names of the places which were then to
conduct her to it; so great had been her ignorance of her route. She met with
nothing, however, to distress or frighten her. Her youth, civil manners, and
liberal pay procured her all the attention that a TRAVELLER like herself could
require; and stopping only to change horses, she TRAVELLED on for about eleven
hours without accident or alarm, and between six and seven o'clock in the evening
found herself entering Fullerton. A heroine returning, at the close of her
career, to her native village, in all the triumph of recovered reputation, and
all the dignity of a countess, with a long train of noble relations in their
several phaetons, and three waiting-maids in a TRAVELLING chaise and four,
behind her, is an event on which the pen of the contriver may well delight to
dwell; it gives credit to every conclusion, and the author must share in the
glory she so liberally bestows. But my affair is widely different; I bring back
my heroine to her home in solitude and disgrace; and no sweet elation of
spirits can lead me into minuteness. A heroine in a hack post-chaise is such a
blow upon sentiment, as no attempt at grandeur or pathos can withstand. SWIFTLY
therefore shall her post-boy drive through the village, amid the gaze of Sunday groups, and speedy
shall be her descent from it. But, whatever might be the distress of
Catherine's mind, as she thus advanced towards the parsonage, and whatever the humiliation
of her biographer in relating it, she was preparing enjoyment of no everyday
nature for those to whom she went; first, in the appearance of her carriage—and
secondly, in herself. The chaise of a TRAVELLER being a rare sight in
Fullerton, the whole family were immediately at the window…She was received by
the Allens with all the kindness which her unlooked-for appearance, acting on a
steady affection, would naturally call forth; and great was their surprise, and
warm their displeasure, on hearing how she had been treated—though Mrs.
Morland's account of it was no inflated representation, no studied appeal to
their passions. "Catherine took us quite by surprise yesterday evening,"
said she. "She TRAVELLED all the way post by herself, and knew nothing of
coming till Saturday night; for General Tilney, from some odd fancy or other,
all of a sudden grew tired of having her there, and almost turned her out of
the house. Very unfriendly, certainly; and he must be a very odd man; but we
are so glad to have her amongst us again! And it is a great comfort to find
that she is not a poor helpless creature, but can shift very well for herself."
So now you see that
Catherine’s travels were slyly modeled on Gulliver’s Travels!
Cheers, ARNIE
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