Another quiz—this one about the “mother” of all hidden Jane Austen allusions

Here’s another Jane Austen quiz, for those who’ve enjoyed my earlier ones:

What is the single, common, hidden thread pertaining to Mr. Darcy that ties each and every one of the following passages in P&P together in an amazing way?:

Ch. 10: "You have only proved by this," cried Elizabeth, "that Mr. Bingley did not do justice to his own disposition. You have shown him off now much more than he did himself."

"I am exceedingly gratified," said Bingley, "by your converting what my friend says into a compliment on the sweetness of my temper. But I am afraid you are giving it a turn which that gentleman did by no means intend; for he would certainly think better of me, if under such a circumstance I were to give a flat denial, and ride off as fast as I could."

Ch. 11: "I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it himself without disguise."

Ch. 18: "…I have always seen a great similarity in the turn of our minds. We are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to posterity with all the eclat of a proverb."

"This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure," said he. "How near it may be to mine, I cannot pretend to say. You think it a faithful portrait undoubtedly."

…"I can readily believe," answered he gravely, "that reports may vary greatly with respect to me; and I could wish, Miss Bennet, that you were not to sketch my character at the present moment, as there is reason to fear that the performance would reflect no credit on either."

"But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another opportunity."

"I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours," he coldly replied.

Ch. 24: Mr. Bennet treated the matter differently. "So, Lizzy," said he one day, "your sister is crossed in love, I find. I congratulate her. Next to being married, a girl likes to be crossed a little in love now and then. It is something to think of, and it gives her a sort of distinction among her companions. When is your turn to come? You will hardly bear to be long outdone by Jane. Now is your time…”

Ch. 28: To work in this garden was one of his most respectable pleasures; and Elizabeth admired the command of countenance with which Charlotte talked of the healthfulness of the exercise, and owned she encouraged it as much as possible. Here, leading the way through every walk and cross walk, and scarcely allowing them an interval to utter the praises he asked for, every view was pointed out with a minuteness which left beauty entirely behind.

Ch. 31: Colonel Fitzwilliam's manners were very much admired at the Parsonage, and the ladies all felt that he must add considerably to the pleasures of their engagements at Rosings. It was some days, however, before they received any invitation thither—for while there were visitors in the house, they could not be necessary; and it was not till Easter-day, almost a week after the gentlemen's arrival, that they were honoured by such an attention, and then they were merely asked on leaving church to come there in the evening.

Ch. 35: "You may possibly wonder why all this was not told you last night; but I was not then master enough of myself to know what could or ought to be revealed. For the truth of everything here related, I can appeal more particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who, from our near relationship and constant intimacy, and, still more as one of the executors of my father’s will, has been unavoidably acquainted with every particular of these transactions...I will only add, God bless you. Fitzwilliam Darcy”

Ch. 36: At first, the letter so upsets her that she thrusts it aside, resolving never to read it again. But in half a minute the letter was unfolded again, and collecting herself as well as she could, she again began the mortifying perusal of all that related to Wickham, and commanded herself so far as to examine the meaning of every sentence.…She grew absolutely ashamed of herself. Of neither Darcy nor Wickham could she think without feeling she had been blind, partial, prejudiced, absurd.

"How despicably I have acted!" she cried; "I, who have prided myself on my discernment! I, who have valued myself on my abilities! who have often disdained the generous candour of my sister, and gratified my vanity in useless or blameable mistrust! How humiliating is this discovery! Yet, how just a humiliation! Had I been in love, I could not have been more wretchedly blind! But vanity, not love, has been my folly. Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the neglect of the other, on the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away, where either were concerned. Till this moment I never knew myself."

Ch. 43: Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached and saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham, suspended, amongst several other miniatures, over the mantelpiece….

…"If your master would marry, you might see more of him."
"Yes, sir; but I do not know when that will be. I do not know who is good enough for him."
Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying, "It is very much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think so."
"I say no more than the truth, and everybody will say that knows him," replied the other. Elizabeth thought this was going pretty far; and she listened with increasing astonishment as the housekeeper added, "I have never known a cross word from him in my life, and I have known him ever since he was four years old."
This was praise, of all others most extraordinary, most opposite to her ideas. That he was not a good-tempered man had been her firmest opinion. Her keenest attention was awakened; she longed to hear more, and was grateful to her uncle for saying:
"There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are lucky in having such a master."
"Yes, sir, I know I am. If I were to go through the world, I could not meet with a better. But I have always observed, that they who are good-natured when children, are good-natured when they grow up; and he was always the sweetest-tempered, most generous-hearted boy in the world."
Elizabeth almost stared at her. "Can this be Mr. Darcy?" thought she.
"His father was an excellent man," said Mrs. Gardiner.
"Yes, ma'am, that he was indeed; and his son will be just like him—just as affable to the poor."
Elizabeth listened, wondered, doubted, and was impatient for more. Mrs. Reynolds could interest her on no other point. She related the subjects of the pictures, the dimensions of the rooms, and the price of the furniture, in vain. Mr. Gardiner, highly amused by the kind of family prejudice to which he attributed her excessive commendation of her master, soon led again to the subject; and she dwelt with energy on his many merits as they proceeded together up the great staircase.
"He is the best landlord, and the best master," said she, "that ever lived...”

…"In what an amiable light does this place him!" thought Elizabeth.
"This fine account of him," whispered her aunt as they walked, "is not quite consistent with his behaviour to our poor friend."
"Perhaps we might be deceived."
"That is not very likely; our authority was too good."
…Mrs. Reynolds anticipated Miss Darcy's delight, when she should enter the room. "And this is always the way with him," she added. "Whatever can give his sister any pleasure is sure to be done in a moment. There is nothing he would not do for her."
…There was certainly at this moment, in Elizabeth's mind, a more gentle sensation towards the original than she had ever felt at the height of their acquaintance. The commendation bestowed on him by Mrs. Reynolds was of no trifling nature. What praise is more valuable than the praise of an intelligent servant? As a brother, a landlord, a master, she considered how many people's happiness were in his guardianship!—how much of pleasure or pain was it in his power to bestow!—how much of good or evil must be done by him! Every idea that had been brought forward by the housekeeper was favourable to his character, and as she stood before the canvas on which he was represented, and fixed his eyes upon herself, she thought of his regard with a deeper sentiment of gratitude than it had ever raised before; she remembered its warmth, and softened its impropriety of expression.

……. When all of the house that was open to general inspection had been seen, they returned downstairs, and, taking leave of the housekeeper, were consigned over to the gardener, who met them at the hall-door.

As they walked across the hall towards the river, Elizabeth turned back to look again; her uncle and aunt stopped also, and while the former was conjecturing as to the date of the building, the owner of it suddenly came forward from the road, which led behind it to the stables.

They were within twenty yards of each other, and so abrupt was his appearance, that it was impossible to avoid his sight. Their eyes instantly met, and the cheeks of both were overspread with the deepest blush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed immovable from surprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced towards the party, and spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least of perfect civility.

She had instinctively turned away; but stopping on his approach, received his compliments with an embarrassment impossible to be overcome. Had his first appearance, or his resemblance to the picture they had just been examining, been insufficient to assure the other two that they now saw Mr. Darcy, the gardener's expression of surprise, on beholding his master, must immediately have told it. They stood a little aloof while he was talking to their niece, who, astonished and confused, scarcely dared lift her eyes to his face, and knew not what answer she returned to his civil inquiries after her family. Amazed at the alteration of his manner since they last parted, every sentence that he uttered was increasing her embarrassment…At length every idea seemed to fail him; and, after standing a few moments without saying a word, he suddenly recollected himself, and took leave.

The others then joined her, and expressed admiration of his figure; but Elizabeth heard not a word, and wholly engrossed by her own feelings, followed them in silence. She was overpowered by shame and vexation...She longed to inquire of the housekeeper whether her master was really absent, but had not the courage for it. At length however, the question was asked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds replied that he was, adding, "But we expect him tomorrow, with a large party of friends." How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day!

…They entered the woods, and bidding adieu to the river for a while, ascended some of the higher grounds…They crossed it by a simple bridge, in character with the general air of the scene; it was a spot less adorned than any they had yet visited… With a triumphant smile they were told that it was ten miles round. It settled the matter; and they pursued the accumstomed circuit; which brought them again, after some time, in a descent among hanging woods, to the edge of the water, and one of its narrowest parts.

…their progress was slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to indulge the taste, was very fond of fishing…Whilst wandering on in this slow manner, they were again surprised, and Elizabeth's astonishment was quite equal to what it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy approaching them, and at no great distance. The walk here being here less sheltered than on the other side, allowed them to see him before they met.

Ch. 45: "How very ill Miss Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy," she cried; "I never in my life saw anyone so much altered as she is since the winter. She is grown so brown and coarse! Louisa and I were agreeing that we should not have known her again."

However little Mr. Darcy might have liked such an address, he contented himself with coolly replying that he perceived no other alteration than her being rather tanned, no miraculous consequence of travelling in the summer.

Ch. 46: 46: She burst into tears as she alluded to it, and for a few minutes could not speak another word. Darcy, in wretched suspense, could only say something indistinctly of his concern, and observe her in compassionate silence.

Ch. 49 "I will go to Meryton," said she, "as soon as I am dressed, and tell the good, good news to my sister Philips…..Oh! Here comes Hill! My dear Hill, have you heard the good news?”

Ch. 59: Darcy professed a great curiosity to see the view from the mount, and Elizabeth silently consented.

Ch .60: From an unwillingness to confess how much her intimacy with Mr. Darcy had been over-rated, Elizabeth had never yet answered Mrs. Gardiner's long letter; but now, having /that/ to communicate which she knew would be most welcome, she was almost ashamed to find that her uncle and aunt had already lost three days of happiness, and immediately wrote as follows:
"I would have thanked you before, my dear aunt, as I ought to have done, for your long, kind, satisfactory, detail of particulars; but to say the truth, I was too cross to write. You supposed more than really existed.  But /now/ suppose as much as you choose; give a loose rein to your fancy, indulge your imagination in every possible flight which the subject will afford, and unless you believe me actually married, you cannot greatly err. You must write again very soon, and praise him a great deal more than you did in your last. I thank you, again and again, for not going to the Lakes. How could I be so silly as to wish it! Your idea of the ponies is delightful. We will go round the Park every day. I am the happiest creature in the world. Perhaps other people have said so before, but not one with such justice. I am happier even than Jane; she only smiles, I laugh. Mr. Darcy sends you all the love in the world that he can spare from me. You are all to come to Pemberley at Christmas. Yours, etc."

Ch. 61: With the Gardiners, they were always on the most intimate terms. Darcy, as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were both ever sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing her into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them.

Hint #1: It may just be the most audacious, provocative, subversive, and disturbing literary allusion in all of Jane Austen’s writing, given that it goes to the heart of our understanding of the relationship between Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy.

Hint #2: Be suspicious at all times of Jane Austen’s Mary Crawford-like love of puns.

Hint #3: There is one person reading this who has had a 4-year head start on the rest of you in guessing the answer, but has not done so.

I will be back to give you the answer as early as midnight today PST, but in all events by no later than Tuesday Noon PST.

Cheers, ARNIE

@JaneAustenCode on Twitter

Jane Austen teaches what IS worth knowing via the paradoxical epigrammatism of Pride & Prejudice

My post yesterday about the subtle cleverness of Eliza Bennet’s lively wit (in her absurdist attribution of one man’s worth of merit in Darcy and Wickham, and one woman’s worth of compassion in herself and Jane) got me thinking again about that mysterious something in P&P---especially in Eliza’s memorable utterances---that makes it JA’s most popular novel among Janeites, and arguably the most popular novel by any author. I start from Ground Zero, i.e., Jane Austen’s own famous and witty words that she wrote to sister Cassandra right after P&P was first published:    “The work is rather too light, and bright, and sparkling; it wants shade; it wants to be stretched out here and there with a long chapter of sense, if it could be had; if not, of solemn specious nonsense, about something unconnected with the story; an essay on writing, a critique on Walter Scott, or the history of Buonaparte, or anything that would form a contrast, and bring the reader with increased delight to the playfulness and epigrammatism of the general style.”

How many Janeites have been taken in by the serious tone of this self-critique, which is actually one of Jane’s greatest put-ons!  It’s written in exactly the sort of mock serious tone which Darcy calls out, when he shows Eliza that he’s totally aware of the danger of taking her words at face value:  "…you could not really believe me to entertain any design of alarming you; and I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know that you find great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which in fact are not your own."  Elizabeth “laughed heartily at this picture of herself”, and then promptly gave an encore, with “I am particularly unlucky in meeting with a person so able to expose my real character, in a part of the world where I had hoped to pass myself off with some degree of credit….”  

But it’s much more than just the love of a great put-on that gives endless pleasure to Janeites in the sophisticated comedy of P&P. The dictionary tells us an epigram is a short proverbial saying which often crosses the reader’s expectations up at the end, sometimes with paradox. In Eliza’s bon mots, and in many of Darcy’s as well, there is a deep love of paradox and contradiction--the joy and enlightenment delivered via a shock of surprise; which jolts the passive reader into awareness of unexamined assumptions.

There’s then more than a little of Socrates and Zen masters in Eliza Bennet and Mr. Darcy, and in that spirit I’ve collected some famous epigrammatical passages from P&P, accompanied by my analyses of their paradoxical genius. It’s fitting to begin with the most famous words of Lizzy’s first and most influential teacher of picturesque and provocative self-expression:  her father, the elegant epigrammatist:

"Come here, child," cried her father as she appeared. "I have sent for you on an affair of importance. I understand that Mr. Collins has made you an offer of marriage. Is it true?" Elizabeth replied that it was. "Very well—and this offer of marriage you have refused?"   "I have, sir."

"Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother insists upon your accepting it. Is it not so, Mrs. Bennet?"   "Yes, or I will never see her again."

"An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must be a stranger to one of your parents. – Your mother will never see you again if you do not marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again if you do’”

We can readily imagine that Mr. Bennet was many times similarly put through his rhetorical paces by his philosophy tutor at Oxford or Cambridge, and so he delights in providing a similar but informal education to his precocious daughter, who’d have manifested an early affinity for inspired play of wit. And we also can imagine the same game as a regular feature of real life at Steventon when Jane Austen was a girl; such that she, at age 23---the very age she wrote First Impressions---would’ve found it second nature to toss off epigrammatic epistolary gems like the one that caught the eye of new author L.M. Montgomery when she was writing Anne of Green Gables: “Miss Blackford is agreeable enough. I do not want people to be very agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking them a great deal.“

So, here are some of the passages in P&P in which we witness Lizzy’s (and Darcy’s) dazzling skill and delight in producing utterances which exhibit that unique and extraordinary blend of wordplay, rhetoric and epistemology, which helps motivate Janeites to reread this novel countless times. It only occurs to me now that the great joke hidden behind JA’s above-quoted epistolary mock self-critique is that the deepest meanings of the novel are transmitted directly into the reader’s heart and mind via that same subtle epigrammatism! Austen, like her great model, Shakespeare, was “unwilling to speak, unless [she] expect[ed] to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to posterity with all the eclat of a proverb.".  And we are that very same posterity, so prepare to be properly amazed:

“…If I may so express it, he has a right to be proud."

"That is very true," replied Elizabeth, "and I could easily forgive his pride, if he had not mortified mine."

Is it not often the case that our powers of empathy for and understanding of the foibles of others tend to be disabled when we are attacked on the very same vulnerability?

"What a charming amusement for young people this is, Mr. Darcy! There is nothing like dancing after all. I consider it as one of the first refinements of polished society."

"Certainly, sir; and it has the advantage also of being in vogue amongst the less polished societies of the world. Every savage can dance."

There is sharp, compelling irony in Darcy, the unabashed elitist, being the puncturer of Sir William’s pretentious blather. And if we consider more deeply, we also hear Jane Austen herself, the Audenesque cynic, exposing the clueless hypocrisy of a society founded on unspeakable economic, social savagery---most of all, colonial slavery and exploitation of the domestic poor.

"And so ended his affection," said Elizabeth impatiently. "There has been many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder who first discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love!"

"I have been used to consider poetry as the food of love," said Darcy.

"Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything nourishes what is strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away."

How does one convey love in words? Eliza cynically exposes the fine line between insincere overblown words of love, and honest expression of feeling.

"Miss Eliza Bennet," said Miss Bingley, "despises cards. She is a great reader, and has no pleasure in anything else."

"I deserve neither such praise nor such censure," cried Elizabeth; "I am not a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things."

What trial lawyer wouldn’t want to have Eliza as their star witness, when she demonstrates such lightning fast agility in dodging leading questions, and then tossing them back with interest?

"All this she must possess," added Darcy, "and to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading."

"I am no longer surprised at your knowing only six accomplished women. I rather wonder now at your knowing any."

What is particularly apt and lovely about Elizabeth’s riposte, is that she implicitly demonstrates (to sharp elves, at least) “the improvement of her mind by extensive reading”, without needing to make it explicit. And Darcy later shows that he received that message loud and clear, later, at Rosings, when he says, “You are perfectly right. You have employed your time much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you can think anything wanting.”

And consider then how JA’s own skill at conveying ideas to her readers without being explicit, is subliminally contrasted to Bingley’s style of writing:

"My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them—by which means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents."

"Your humility, Mr. Bingley," said Elizabeth, "must disarm reproof."

And there’s another interesting, timeless question---does/should humility disarm reproof?  In particular, what should we make of Jane Austen’s own false humility about her own skilled writing that she so famously minimized in her letters?

"To yield readily—easily—to the persuasion of a friend is no merit with you."

"To yield without conviction is no compliment to the understanding of either."

Eliza and Darcy have quickly gotten to the heart of the argument---how does one determine when showing proper tact and delicacy toward the feelings of a friend ends, and paying the compliment of rational disagreement beings?

"This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had better go into the avenue."

But Elizabeth, who had not the least inclination to remain with them, laughingly answered:

"No, no; stay where you are. You are charmingly grouped, and appear to uncommon advantage. The picturesque would be spoilt by admitting a fourth. Good-bye."

Once again displaying remarkable intellectual flexibility, Eliza makes an off the wall yet very suggestive connection between the seemingly unrelated fields of  visual aesthetics an;d interpersonal dynamics –this being a particularly witty form of proverb-tweaking--saying, in so many words, that when it comes to both landscapes and shrubbery strolls, “Three’s company, four’s a crowd”!

"Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride—where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation."

Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile.

"Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume," said Miss Bingley; "and pray what is the result?"

"I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it himself without disguise."

Here Bingley has astutely characterized the repartee between Eliza and Darcy as a scene in an Oxford classroom, which perhaps will surprise those who are quick to see Bingley as a dull elf. And then Eliza, with the skill of an experienced don, in effect reframes Darcy’s self-justification as the indirect boast that it really is. Game on, Darcy:

"No," said Darcy, "I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for. It is, I believe, too little yielding—certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought, nor their offenses against myself. My feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper would perhaps be called resentful. My good opinion once lost, is lost forever."

"That is a failing indeed!" cried Elizabeth. "Implacable resentment is a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well. I really cannot laugh at it. You are safe from me."

And here Eliza has once again landed a palpable hit on the not-quick-enough Darcy---she has led him into a trap, and he walks right into it, admitting his implacable resentment, an even nastier side of his character, which she once again has brilliantly induced him to reveal. Again, your move, Darcy?:

"There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil—a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome."

"And your defect is to hate everybody."

"And yours," he replied with a smile, "is willfully to misunderstand them."

But here we have the thrillingly brilliantly climax of this joust---is Eliza willfully misunderstanding him? Or does she use her exquisite sense of paradox to provoke him into repeatedly hoisting himself on his own rhetorical petard? Or both?

And then they resume their jousting at Rosings:

"You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear me? I will not be alarmed though your sister does play so well. There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me."

Again, a paradox: courage encouraged, not discouraged, by intimidation. Is this perhaps the very scene that Aldous Huxley picked up on, for the scene in his 1939 P&P screenplay, to show us a Darcy who has (shockingly) sent Lady Catherine to go and try to intimidate Eliza, precisely so as to activate her courage?

And now that you’re primed, I will leave it to you to provide your own commentary on the Merry War of (the) Rosings that begins with Darcy rationalizing...

"Perhaps I should have judged better, had I sought an introduction; but I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to strangers."

…but ends with Darcy confessing…

"You are perfectly right. You have employed your time much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you can think anything wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers."

I’ll cut to the end, past the scene with Lizzy’s conceit on the limited quantities of merit and compassion, and on to another dialog between Lizzy and Jane, which includes the most enigmatic and suggestive epigram in the entire novel, one so strange that it never makes it into any of the P&P films:

"… I am perfectly satisfied, from what [Bingley’s] manners now are, that he never had any design of engaging my affection. It is only that he is blessed with greater sweetness of address, and a stronger desire of generally pleasing, than any other man." "You are very cruel," said her sister, "you will not let me smile, and are provoking me to it every moment." "How hard it is in some cases to be believed!"  "And how impossible in others!" "But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I acknowledge?"  "That is a question which I hardly know how to answer. We all love to instruct, though we can teach only what is not worth knowing. Forgive me; and if you persist in indifference, do not make me your confidante."

The core paradox of this most philosophical of novels, epitomized in Lizzy’s koan-like utterance, is that Jane Austen loved to instruct, and she transcended the paradox by invented a way of teaching what is worth knowing, by that extraordinarily powerful “non-teaching” tool, her posterity-amazing epigrams.

Cheers, ARNIE

@JaneAustenCode on Twitter

Jane Austen (aka Miss Josephine Barry), elder kindred spirit of L.M. Montgomery (aka Anne Shirley)

On Christmas Eve, 1798, a week after turning 23, Jane Austen returned home from a visit to the Bigg sisters at their nearby Hampshire family estate, Manydown, and wrote the following lively, witty, amusing gossip to sister Cassandra, away in Kent chez brother Edward at his grand estate, Godmersham:

“I returned from Manydown this morning, and found my mother certainly in no respect worse than when I left her. She does not like the cold weather, but that we cannot help. I spent my time very quietly and very pleasantly with Catherine [Bigg]. Miss Blackford is agreeable enough. I do not want people to be very agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking them a great deal. I found only Catherine and her when I got to Manydown on Thursday.…. Mr. Calland …appeared as usual with his hat in his hand, and stood every now and then behind Catherine and me to be talked to and abused for not dancing. We teased him, however, into it at last. I was very glad to see him again after so long a separation, and he was altogether rather the genius and flirt of the evening. He enquired after you. There were twenty dances, and I danced them all, and without any fatigue. …My black cap was openly admired by Mrs. Lefroy, and secretly I imagine by everybody else in the room.”

In 1908, just before the end of her first novel, Anne of Green Gables, Lucy Maud Montgomery wrote the following passage about Avonlea seen through the precocious eyes and mind of her young heroine, Anne Shirley:

“Anne worked hard and steadily. Her rivalry with Gilbert was as intense as it had ever been in Avonlea school, although it was not known in the class at large, but somehow the bitterness had gone out of it. Anne no longer wished to win for the sake of defeating Gilbert; rather, for the proud consciousness of a well-won victory over a worthy foeman. It would be worth while to win, but she no longer thought life would be insupportable if she did not.

In spite of lessons the students found opportunities for pleasant times. Anne spent many of her spare hours at Beechwood and generally ate her Sunday dinners there and went to church with Miss Barry. The latter was, as she admitted, growing old, but her black eyes were not dim nor the vigor of her tongue in the least abated. But she never sharpened the latter on Anne, who continued to be a prime favorite with the critical old lady.

"That Anne-girl improves all the time," she said. "I get tired of other girls--there is such a provoking and eternal sameness about them. Anne has as many shades as a rainbow and every shade is the prettiest while it lasts. I don't know that she is as amusing as she was when she was a child, but she makes me love her and I like people who make me love them. It saves me so much trouble in making myself love them."

Aside from noting the similar witty, lively tone in both these passages, I hope you also picked up on one very striking parallelism between Austen’s “Miss Blackford is agreeable enough. I do not want people to be very agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking them a great deal.” and Montgomery’s Miss  Barry’s fond comments about Anne: “I don't know that she is as amusing as she was when she was a child, but she makes me love her and I like people who make me love them. It saves me so much trouble in making myself love them."

It’s not just the close tracking of verbiage and epigrammatic style, it’s the identical idea behind both. I.e., Montgomery provides the other side of the proverbial coin to Austen’s wonderfully Wildean ironic epigram. Whereas Austen drily notes her reciprocation of Miss Blackford’s cold indifference, Miss Barry drily acknowledges that she has come to love Anne, because Anne is the anti-Miss Blackford-she works hard to win over Miss Barry, and in so doing, unwittingly reminds Miss Barry of her imaginative, passionate, brilliant much younger self.

On the basis of this one startling parallel alone, I claim that the 34 year old L. M. Montgomery, in her very first novel, published in 1908, was broadly hinting that she had already read Jane Austen’s above quoted Christmas Eve 1798 letter, which appeared in numerous editions of Austen’s letters published between 1884 and 1906. This is apparently news in the world of Montgomery scholarship, because iit’s only surprisingly recently (given the longstanding, large overlap between readership of Austen’s and Montgomery’s novels, respectively) that a systematic case has even been made that Montgomery was an avid Janeite.

This was convincingly demonstrated several years ago by my fellow JASNA member, Prof. Miriam Rheingold Fuller: http://www.jasna.org/persuasions/on-line/vol29no1/fuller.html “Jane of Green Gables: L.M. Montgomery’s Reworking of Austen’s Legacy”. Here’s the core of Fuller’s argument:

“These similarities are deliberate. Montgomery enjoyed Austen very much; she writes in her journal after rereading Emma:  “There are some things I am not sick of, . . . and one of them is Jane Austen’s novels”…She owned at least three Austen novels:  Pride and Prejudice, Mansfield Park, and Emma…it is probable that she owned other Austen works.  Montgomery scholar and biographer Mary Rubio believes that Montgomery “read all of Jane Austen many times” as she did with any work that she particularly enjoyed.  Montgomery classed Austen with other great writers whom she admired…The connections between Anne Shirley, Austen’s heroines, and Montgomery herself are extremely complex….”  END QUOTE FROM FULLER ARTICLE

So, I believe my catch today establishes that Montgomery was so focused not only on Austen’s novels, but also on her life and letters, that in her first novel, Lucy Maud chose to hide this unmistakable hint

of that love of Austen in plain sight.  But that’s not all I see. As I reread the above quoted passage in Anne of Green Gables, I made a further leap, and realized that the allusion to Jane Austen’s Christmas eve letter was only the tip of an iceberg, and that Anne’s de facto Aunt Josephine was actually Montgomery’s veiled portrait of Jane Austen herself! Miss Barry is also a woman born long before Montgomery and her alter ego, Anne, and I believe Montgomery conceived Miss Barry as a Jane Austen figure, who would love the much younger writer for her literary ambition and fearless mind and heart?

There are a couple of passages in Anne of Green Gables which confirm my hunch. First, see the following in Chapter 19, when Miss Barry is first introduced to the reader, after Anne and her friend Diana have disturbed the elderly lady by inadvertently jumping on her while she slept in bed:

"Who is your Aunt Josephine?"

"She's father's aunt and she lives in Charlottetown. She's awfully old--seventy anyhow--and I don't believe she was EVER a little girl. We were expecting her out for a visit, but not so soon. She's awfully prim and proper and she'll scold dreadfully about this, I know. Well, we'll have to sleep with Minnie May--and you can't think how she kicks."

Miss Josephine Barry did not appear at the early breakfast the next morning. Mrs. Barry smiled kindly at the two little girls.

"Did you have a good time last night? I tried to stay awake until you came home, for I wanted to tell you Aunt Josephine had come and that you would have to go upstairs after all, but I was so tired I fell asleep. I hope you didn't disturb your aunt, Diana."

Diana preserved a discreet silence, but she and Anne exchanged furtive smiles of guilty amusement across the table.”

Eventually, Anne bravely decides to confess to Miss Barry that she was the true culprit:

“With this encouragement Anne bearded the lion in its den--that is to say, walked resolutely up to the sitting-room door and knocked faintly. A sharp "Come in" followed.

Miss Josephine Barry, thin, prim, and rigid, was knitting fiercely by the fire, her wrath quite unappeased and her eyes snapping through her gold-rimmed glasses. She wheeled around in her chair, expecting to see Diana, and beheld a white-faced girl whose great eyes were brimmed up with a mixture of desperate courage and shrinking terror.

"Who are you?" demanded Miss Josephine Barry, without ceremony.

"I'm Anne of Green Gables," said the small visitor tremulously, clasping her hands with her characteristic gesture, "and I've come to confess, if you please."

"Confess what?"

"That it was all my fault about jumping into bed on you last night. I suggested it. Diana would never have thought of such a thing, I am sure. Diana is a very ladylike girl, Miss Barry. So you must see how unjust it is to blame her."

"Oh, I must, hey? I rather think Diana did her share of the jumping at least. Such carryings on in a respectable house!"

"But we were only in fun," persisted Anne. "I think you ought to forgive us, Miss Barry, now that we've apologized. And anyhow, please forgive Diana and let her have her music lessons. Diana's heart is set on her music lessons, Miss Barry, and I know too well what it is to set your heart on a thing and not get it. If you must be cross with anyone, be cross with me. I've been so used in my early days to having people cross at me that I can endure it much better than Diana can."

Much of the snap had gone out of the old lady's eyes by this time and was replaced by a twinkle of amused interest. But she still said severely: "I don't think it is any excuse for you that you were only in fun. Little girls never indulged in that kind of fun when I was young. You don't know what it is to be awakened out of a sound sleep, after a long and arduous journey, by two great girls coming bounce down on you."

"I don't KNOW, but I can IMAGINE," said Anne eagerly. "I'm sure it must have been very disturbing. But then, there is our side of it too. Have you any imagination, Miss Barry? If you have, just put yourself in our place. We didn't know there was anybody in that bed and you nearly scared us to death. It was simply awful the way we felt. And then we couldn't sleep in the spare room after being promised. I suppose you are used to sleeping in spare rooms. But just imagine what you would feel like if you were a little orphan girl who had never had such an honor."

All the snap had gone by this time. Miss Barry actually laughed--a sound which caused Diana, waiting in speechless anxiety in the kitchen outside, to give a great gasp of relief.  "I'm afraid my imagination is a little rusty--it's so long since I used it," she said. "I dare say your claim to sympathy is just as strong as mine. It all depends on the way we look at it. Sit down here and tell me about yourself."

"I am very sorry I can't," said Anne firmly. "I would like to, because you seem like an interesting lady, and you might even be a kindred spirit although you don't look very much like it. But it is my duty to go home to Miss Marilla Cuthbert. Miss Marilla Cuthbert is a very kind lady who has taken me to bring up properly. She is doing her best, but it is very discouraging work. You must not blame her because I jumped on the bed. But before I go I do wish you would tell me if you will forgive Diana and stay just as long as you meant to in Avonlea."

"I think perhaps I will if you will come over and talk to me occasionally," said Miss Barry.

That evening Miss Barry gave Diana a silver bangle bracelet and told the senior members of the household that she had unpacked her valise.  "I've made up my mind to stay simply for the sake of getting better acquainted with that Anne-girl," she said frankly. "She amuses me, and at my time of life an amusing person is a rarity."

Marilla's only comment when she heard the story was, "I told you so." This was for Matthew's benefit.

Miss Barry stayed her month out and over. She was a more agreeable guest than usual, for Anne kept her in good humor. They became firm friends.  When Miss Barry went away she said:  "Remember, you Anne-girl, when you come to town you're to visit me and I'll put you in my very sparest spare-room bed to sleep."

"Miss Barry was a kindred spirit, after all," Anne confided to Marilla. "You wouldn't think so to look at her, but she is. You don't find it right out at first, as in Matthew's case, but after a while you come to see it. Kindred spirits are not so scarce as I used to think. It's splendid to find out there are so many of them in the world."

I am sure Montgomery did think of Jane Austen as a kindred spirit, and that’s why she gives the following wink that zeroes in with pinpoint aim on Austen’s Christmas Eve letter where Lucy Maud found that epigram about saving trouble, in this passage in Chapter 25 of Anne of Green Gables:

When the commonplace breakfast was over Diana appeared, crossing the white log bridge in the hollow, a gay little figure in her crimson ulster. Anne flew down the slope to meet her.

"Merry Christmas, Diana! And oh, it's a wonderful Christmas. I've something splendid to show you. Matthew has given me the loveliest dress, with such sleeves. I couldn't even imagine any nicer."

"I've got something more for you," said Diana breathlessly. "Here-- this box. Aunt Josephine sent us out a big box with ever so many things in it--and this is for you. I'd have brought it over last night, but it didn't come until after dark, and I never feel very comfortable coming through the Haunted Wood in the dark now."

Anne opened the box and peeped in. First a card with "For the Anne-girl and Merry Christmas," written on it; and then, a pair of the daintiest little kid slippers, with beaded toes and satin bows and glistening buckles.

"Oh," said Anne, "Diana, this is too much. I must be dreaming."

So, I see the kid slippers as Montgomery’s clever symbol for Jane Austen’s letter as a Christmas “present” from Jane Austen to her—they each allow Montgomery’s imagination to dance!

But the veiled portrait is not all sweetness and light-a very chapters before Montgomery’s veiled quotation from JA’s Christmas Eve letter, we see the bittersweet side of Anne’s making Miss Barry love her, when the lonely old woman has to send her niece and her lively friend home after a long, lovely day at an Exhibition:

"Well, I hope you've enjoyed yourselves," said Miss Barry, as she bade them good-bye.

"Indeed we have," said Diana.

"And you, Anne-girl?"

"I've enjoyed every minute of the time," said Anne, throwing her arms impulsively about the old woman's neck and kissing her wrinkled cheek. Diana would never have dared to do such a thing and felt rather aghast at Anne's freedom. But Miss Barry was pleased, and she stood on her veranda and watched the buggy out of sight. Then she went back into her big house with a sigh. It seemed very lonely, lacking those fresh young lives. Miss Barry was a rather selfish old lady, if the truth must be told, and had never cared much for anybody but herself. She valued people only as they were of service to her or amused her. Anne had amused her, and consequently stood high in the old lady's good graces. But Miss Barry found herself thinking less about Anne's quaint speeches than of her fresh enthusiasms, her transparent emotions, her little winning ways, and the sweetness of her eyes and lips.

"I thought Marilla Cuthbert was an old fool when I heard she'd adopted a girl out of an orphan asylum," she said to herself, "but I guess she didn't make much of a mistake after all. If I'd a child like Anne in the house all the time I'd be a better and happier woman."

So, in conclusion, I think it’s very clear indeed that Lucy Maud Montgomery imagines Jane Austen as “a kindred spirit”, a fiercely independent, brilliant single author, who would have recognized literary genius in Montgomery as a young novelist. And, it’s also clear that Montgomery’s lively wit took strong inspiration from the “rusty” imagination of Jane Austen (dead nearly a century in body) living on forever in the minds and hearts of LM Montgomery and all the readers who love them both.

Cheers, ARNIE

@JaneAustenCode on Twitter

P.S.: The above lends further support to my claim six weeks ago of the daring lesbian allusion to

Austen’s Mansfield Park in L.M. Montgomery’s diary: http://tinyurl.com/kmhng84