Whit Stillman's Novelization of Lady Susan/Love and Friendship

Yesterday, I finally had the chance to sit down and read Whit Stillman's short novelization of his film adaptation of Austen's equally short novella Lady Susan, and I have a few comments:

First, I enjoyed the basic premise of the novelization, which is that the narrator is a new character made up by Stillman, who is the nephew of Sir James Martin, the rich fool who abruptly marries Lady Susan at the end of Austen's story. Sir James's said nephew, writing in first person, purports to enlighten the reader about Jane Austen's "slanderous" misrepresentation of Lady Susan Vernon's marvelous character. The "true" story thus unfolded by the nephew closely tracks the screenplay of Stillman's film (if there are differences, I did not detect them, but I didn't compare them closely enough to be sure). The nephew's version of things, in a nutshell, is that Lady Susan is a good person who has been misunderstood by jealous and mean-spirited people who don't "get" what an amazing person Lady Susan really is.

In very brief illustration, this is from the first paragraph of the narration by the nephew: "They who bear false-witness against the innocent and blameless are rightly condemned. What, though, of they who bear false-witness against those whose histories are not 'spotless'? ...Such was the case of the DeCourcy family  of Parklands, Kent, who disguised their prideful arrogance...under the cloak of moral nicety and correct....the De Courcys did not conduct their soiling 'vendettas' themselves but through the sycophants & hangers-on of their circle, in this case the spinster Authoress notorious for her poison-pen fictions hidden under the lambskin of Anonymity."  You get the picture, I am sure.

What I find most interesting in Stillman's authorial stance is that it implicitly raises what remains for me the most important and intriguing question: did Jane Austen present Lady Susan as a character she intended to be seen by her readers as a heroine, a villain, or both? As I've previously written about this, most recently here....

"Resolving the seeming contradictions of Austen’s Lady Susan (& Stillman’s Love&Friendship)" http://tinyurl.com/zfwzsw4

...my answer is "both", but on different levels of understanding.

Except at the very end, there is no authorial commentary in Austen's novella, just the text of the letters exchanged by Lady Susan and a handful of the other major characters. The penultimate paragraph of that hasty authorial summing up of the tale of Lady Susan perfectly illustrates Austen's witty, teasingly uncommitted description of her protagonist: "Whether Lady Susan was or was not happy in her second Choice [i.e. to marry Sir James Martin instead of Reginald DeCourcy] ---I do not see how it can ever be ascertained--- for who would take her assurance of it on either side of the question? The World must judge from Probability; she had nothing against her but her Husband & her Conscience."

And so we readers of Austen are mostly on our own in assessing Lady Susan's epistolary justifications of her own extraordinary behavior, as well as her bosom friend Alicia Johnson's sympathetic responses, as well as her sister-in-law's very negative, suspicious views of Lady Susan, etc etc -- we must decide what judgment to render on Lady Susan, and my view, in a nutshell, is that Austen means us to understand that she is a charming sociopath who is also a kind of superhero Nemesis force of nature sent by the gods to punish men for abusing women in general. So her character is a very spicy combination of good and evil.

Overall, reading Stillman's novelization had one principal effect on me -- it raised my desire to rewatch his excellent film (which I predicted after my first viewing of same will become part of the highest tier in the pantheon of rewatchable Austen film adaptations). The lines of epistolary dialog written by Austen, as well as those added by Stillman, most spectacularly come alive when spoken by the extraordinary Kate Beckinsale (as well as by her excellent supporting players). And, as I noted back in January, Stillman shows impeccable taste and discretion in his film adaptation, filling in Austen's blanks (mostly re Sir James Martin and Mr. Manwaring) but otherwise letting Austen's amazing words speak for themselves.

And finally, for those considering buying Stillman's book, be aware that he wisely included the full text of Austen's novella as an appendix, so you can have the whole shebang in one volume to peruse one after the other.

Cheers, ARNIE

@JaneAustenCode on Twitter

Jane Austen’s & Sir Walter Scott’s interwoven “everlasting ‘said he’s’ and ‘said she’s’ “

 A month ago, I wrote here…. http://tinyurl.com/hvppyhv  ….about Jane Austen’s winking allusions to Sophia Lee’s historical novel The Recess (1783) and Sir Walter Scott’s historical novel Waverley (1814) in her novel about novels and history, Northanger Abbey (posthumous). In particular, I explored the subtle distinction between a male vs. a female perspective on the writing of histories in the late 18^th & early 19^th centuries, and also the blurry line between novels and histories. Today I’m back with an unexpected gloss on that earlier post, regarding the unrecognized literary dialog which I now believe, more than ever, was covertly conducted between Austen and Scott during the last five years of JA’s life.

I say “unexpected”, because this morning, during my routine periodic trawling of scholarly databases for the latest literary scholarly articles, I happened by pure serendipity upon an article from last winter with a title which ought to raise the intrigued curiosity of Janeites: “Walter Scott’s ‘everlasting said he’s and said she’s’: Dialogue, Painting, & the Status of the Novel” by Christopher J. Scalia in ELH 82/4, Winter 2015 p. 1159 et seq.

What raised my curiosity was only not the name of the article’s author (who, if you were wondering, is indeed the son of the late SCOTUS Justice Scalia, as well as an expert Scott scholar), but the quotation in the title of Scalia’s article: “everlasting said he’s and said she’s”. This quote reminded me of the following famous, oft-quoted paragraph in Jane Austen’s Jan. 29, 1813 letter to her sister about the critical reception of Pride & Prejudice by its first, Austen-family readers:       ‘There are a few Typical errors – & a “said he” or a “said she” would sometimes make the Dialogue more immediately clear – but “I do not write for such dull Elves” “As have not a great deal of Ingenuity themselves.” ‘

I’ve often written about the mock modesty of JA’s supposed acknowledgment of errors in not providing enough pronoun references for the dialog in P&P—as if she would ever have made such a rookie error! ---and, in addition thereto, three years ago I wrote the following about the Scott aspects of the above-quoted passage:    

“JA alludes to Scott’s famous poem Marmion, but she materially changes and expands his original line, which went: "I do not rhyme to that dull elf, Who cannot image to himself". It’s clear why she changes “rhyme” to “write”, but why does she change Scott’s “image” to the similar-sounding, but different-meaning “ingenuity”? What does she mean by this? Judging by scholarly reaction to that sentence, a number of possible meanings could be plausibly applied to “ingenuity”—and so we must ask, why would JA be so vague, presenting a mangled line of famous poetry in an ambiguous way, instead of writing clearly and exactly what she means? I smell a rat…… ;) My reading of “ingenuity”, by the way, is that JA is herself imagining a sharp-eyed reader who is ingenious enough to figure things out not only who “he” and “she” are in various passages, but, equally important on a metafictional level, to figure out why these attributions have been left ambiguous in the first place—and to then realize that one effect of such ambiguities is that it permits the text to be plausibly read in alternative ways, i.e., where “he” might be, e.g., Darcy in one interpretation, but Bingley in another, with two completely different meanings….this last comment will take on extra meaning by the end of this post.

And JA then goes on to cryptically hint at her own intentionality in these “errors” by highlighting that her final revision involved a massive cutting of text from the last previous draft…plus, JA points out that she is fully cognizant that as a result of her cutting, there is now a much greater proportion of narrative to dialogue in the second volume than there was previously. So it’s not just quantity she has dramatically altered, it’s the fundamental nature of the words themselves, since narration is a whole different beast than dialogue….”  END QUOTE FROM MY 2013 POST

So far, so good, but what neither I nor any other literary scholar has taken note of prior to this post of mine today, was that JA’s decision---in a private letter to her sister written in January 1813, a letter that remained unpublished until seven decades later----to link a bon mot about “he said’s and she said’s” in P&P to an 1809 poem by Sir Walter Scott, must somehow, by some form of off-channel communication, have become known to Walter Scott prior to 1821 when he published The Bride of Lammermoor, the novel containing the passage which Scalia quoted from in his article title! I.e., despite the “truth universally acknowledged” by Austen scholars that Scott and Austen were never in private contact, it is now 100% clear to me that this is not a truth at all, since Scott must’ve seen what JA wrote about Marmion in her private letter written more than eight years earlier.

For other reasons entirely, which I haven’t blogged about publicly [regarding extraordinary novelistic parallels which I’ve detected as Scott and Austen in effect played a remarkable game of “Dueling Novels” between 1814 and 1816], I’ve long speculated that Scott and Austen were in direct, personal communication with each other during the last five years of her life, even though no correspondence between them is known to exist, or to have ever existed. So you can just imagine my pleasure when I happened upon Scalia’s article title, which, as I’ll explain below, provides strong written—even if circumstantial- evidence of exactly that sort of private communication between these two most influential of early 19^th century English novelists.
 

The unlikelihood that Scott’s and Austen’s “said he’s and said she’s” is merely an extraordinary coincidence, is compounded when we take a closer look at the entire passage in Scott’s Bride in which this usage occurs. But first, Scalia’s article expertly summarizes and sets the stage for me:

In both The Bride of Lammermoor and Ivanhoe, Scott seeks to explain the craft of novelistic dialogue by comparing fiction to drama and painting. For Scott, novelistic dialogue is best considered in reference to these art forms because the former relies almost entirely on dialogue and the latter is inherently silent. His use of painting as a touchstone for fictional speech is particularly thought-provoking because he seems to contradict himself in these two passages. The introductory chapter of TBOL features a character named Dick Tinto, who argues that excessive dialogue makes novels too much like drama and that novelists should instead borrow more painterly approaches to composition. Although the chapter is generally interpreted as a straight-forward send-up of Tinto’s attempt to conflate painterly and fictional techniques, I interpret it as a deeply nuanced passage that, while certainly satirizing Tinto, clears original space for novelistic dialogue by both repeating theories that Scott had expressed elsewhere and also relying heavily on contemporary theories of painting. On the other hand, the introductory letter of Ivanhoe aligns theories of painting, and in particular Sir Joshua Reynolds’s arguments about balancing general and specific detail, with Scott’s approaches to dialogue. The barrier separating painting from fiction, constructed in TBOL, is razed in Ivanhoe. But rather than creating a problematic contradiction, this inconsistency comprises a multi-front vindication of the novel in which dialogue represents both the traditional and innovative possibilities of the form, its distance from and proximity to more ancient and critically appreciated arts.”  END QUOTE FROM SCALIA ARTICLE

Scalia goes on in his article to explain the deep nuance he sees in Scott’s treatment of the issue of dialog vs. narration in novels, and so I recommend you read it from start to finish. But for my purposes today, I merely piggyback on Scalia’s observations, which dovetail perfectly with my above-stated claim that Scott must have, sometime between 1813 and 1821, read JA’s paragraph channeling his poem Marmion. I believe Scott produced an excellent literary injoke, by writing a passage in Bride which in effect returns the favor to JA’s letter which alludes to his famous poem, a favor she of course did not live long enough to enjoy.

Here, then, is that Bride passage, in the context set up by Scalia, above. It is in Chapter 1 of Scott’s novel, and is a first person narrative by the character Pattieson, a novelist, describing the debate of the aesthetics of dialog vs. narration in novels with his painter friend Tinto, whose artistic services Pattieson has commissioned to illustrate his novel:

“...while [Tinto] thus proposed to unite his own powers with mine for the illustration of these narratives, he mixed many a dose of salutary criticism with the panegyrics which my composition was at times so fortunate as to call forth.

“Your characters,” he said, “my dear Pattieson, make too much use of the gob box; they patter too much (an elegant phraseology which Dick had learned while painting the scenes of an itinerant company of players); there is nothing in whole pages but mere chat and dialogue.”

“The ancient philosopher,” said I in reply, “was wont to say, ‘Speak, that I may know thee’; and how is it possible for an author to introduce his personae dramatis to his readers in a more interesting and effectual manner than by the dialogue in which each is represented as supporting his own appropriate character?”

“It is a false conclusion,” said Tinto; “I hate it, Peter, as I hate an unfilled can. I grant you, indeed, that speech is a faculty of some value in the intercourse of human affairs, and I will not even insist on the doctrine of that Pythagorean toper, who was of opinion that over a bottle speaking spoiled conversation. But I will not allow that a professor of the fine arts has occasion to embody the idea of his scene in language, in order to impress upon the reader its reality and its effect. On the contrary, I will be judged by most of your readers, Peter, should these tales ever become public, whether you have not given us a page of talk for every single idea which two words might have communicated, while the posture, and manner, and incident, accurately drawn, and brought out by appropriate colouring, would have preserved all that was worthy of preservation, and saved THESE EVERLASTING ‘SAID HE’S’ AND ‘SAID SHE’S,’ with which it has been your pleasure to encumber your pages.”

I replied, “That he confounded the operations of the pencil and the pen; that the serene and silent art, as painting has been called by one of our first living poets, necessarily appealed to the eye, because it had not the organs for addressing the ear; whereas poetry, or that species of composition which approached to it, lay under the necessity of doing absolutely the reverse, and addressed itself to the ear, for the purpose of exciting that interest which it could not attain through the medium of the eye.”

Dick was not a whit staggered by my argument, which he contended was founded on misrepresentation. “Description,” he said, “was to the author of a romance exactly what drawing and tinting were to a painter: words were his colours, and, if properly employed, they could not fail to place the scene which he wished to conjure up as effectually before the mind’s eye as the tablet or canvas presents it to the bodily organ. The same rules,” he contended, “applied to both, and an exuberance of dialogue, in the former case, was a verbose and laborious mode of composition which went to confound the proper art of fictitious narrative with that of the drama, a widely different species of composition, of which dialogue was the very essence, because all, excepting the language to be made use of, was presented to the eye by the dresses, and persons, and actions of the performers upon the stage. But as nothing,” said Dick, “can be more dull than a long narrative written upon the plan of a drama, so where you have approached most near to that species of composition, by indulging in prolonged scenes of mere conversation, the course of your story has become chill and constrained, and you have lost the power of arresting the attention and exciting the imagination, in which upon other occasions you may be considered as having succeeded tolerably well.”

I made my bow in requital of the compliment, which was probably thrown in by way of placebo, and expressed myself willing at least to make one trial of a more straightforward style of composition, in which my actors should do more, and say less, than in my former attempts of this kind. Dick gave me a patronising and approving nod…”  END QUOTE FROM SCOTT’S BRIDE OF LAMMERMOOR

I believe you can already discern from the above passage why I claim that it makes it even less likely to be coincidental that Scott’s novel contains unusual verbiage identical to that of JA’s private letter. This is because of the other, related, remarkable parallel which permeates the above passage, i.e., that both JA’s letter and Scott’s novel refer to “he said’s and she said’s” in the context of discussion of novelistic artistry. More specifically, JA’s acknowledgment of “usual errors” is a mock, ironic critique on her manner of depicting dialog in P&P; and Dick Tinto’s fictional critique of his friend Pattieson’s writing is also a commentary on novelistic dialog—one which is moreover also ironic (as Scalia acutely noted), when we consider that the above quoted passage is….filled with dialog! This shows that Tinto the character who hates dialog in novels did not speak for his creator Scott the novelist, who gives Tinto a great deal of dialog in Scott’s novel….criticizing dialog in novels!  Wheels within ironic wheels!

And there are three other parallels between Scott and Austen which also emerge upon closer consideration:

First, as I just reread Dick Tinto’s critique while writing this post, I heard in his aesthetic judgment “But as nothing can be more dull than a long narrative written upon the plan of a drama…” what seems like a further wink at another private Austen document – JA’s famous satirical and ironic “Plan of a Novel”, her mock description of a surefire plotline for a successful novel, along the lines suggested to her in total seriousness by the clueless James Stanier Clarke, the Prince Regent’s court librarian.

Second, I also reconsidered my prior observation about how JA’s famous “lopping and cropping” of P&P while revising same in 1812, must’ve involved cutting out a lot of narration from the first half of the novel, leaving it the most extended narrative-scarce extended section in all of JA’s novels. Did Scott realize this? I think so!

As for my third and last point, I once more rely on Scalia’s article to introduce it:

“As if to underscore that theories of painting can apply to fiction—and recalling Scott’s appropriation of painterly theory in Bride-both Ivanhoe and the Quarterly Review piece adapt controversial ideas expressed by Sir Joshua Reynolds in his influential Discourses on Art, delivered to the Royal Academy between 1769 and 1790. In these lectures, Reynolds frequently instructs historical painters to avoid including minute details and to focus instead on the commonalities between ages, to prefer the general or ideal over the particular. For example, in his fourth discourse, delivered in 1771, Reynolds argues that minute detail distracts the audience from the more important elements of a painting…” END QUOTE

I wrote two years ago… http://sharpelvessociety.blogspot.com/2014/03/scotts-1816-review-emma-reynoldss-cupid.html … about Sir Walter Scott’s famous 1816 review of Emma in which Scott picked up on Austen’s covert allusion in Emma to Sir Joshua Reynolds’s highly sexualized painting of “Cupid as Link Boy”, as well as via the character “Mrs. REYNOLDS” in P&P. I also wrote a few months ago about the extensive, barely veiled allusion to Gilpin’s picturesque theories in P&P. So, the theme of visual art that saturates so much of P&P is exactly the sort of thematic engagement that is debated by Dick Tinto and his writing friend in Scott’s Bride.

In conclusion, then: the aggregate of all of the above, densely clustered parallels between Austen’s 1813 letter and Scott’s 1821 novel, reinforces my prior confidence that Scott and Austen were in direct communication about their respective literary productions. It frees me to imagine a series of private meetings between these two immortals of English literature, perhaps during JA’s extended stays in the anonymous privacy of London, which they mutually agreed to keep secret from the world, which would have made their game of literary cat and mouse more delicious to them both.

But then, when JA passed away so prematurely at 41 ½, Scott (who survived JA by 15 years, despite having been 4 years older) would’ve mourned the loss of his friendly literary sparring partner very strongly. And that would suggest even more poignancy in Scott’s famous journal entry in 1826:

“Also read again, and for the third time at least, Miss Austen’s very finely written novel of Pride and Prejudice. That young lady had a talent for describing the involvements and feelings and characters of ordinary life, which is to me the most wonderful I ever met with. The Big Bow-wow strain I can do myself like any now going; but the exquisite touch, which renders ordinary commonplace things and characters interesting, from the truth of the description and the sentiment, is denied to me. What a pity such a gifted creature died so early!”

To which I only add, what a pity that it took nearly two centuries to recognize the secret bond between these two such gifted creatures!

Cheers, ARNIE
@JaneAustenCode on Twitter

Mr. Darcy’s significant (shadowy) smiles

Yesterday, the following exchange occurred in Austen-L:

Tracy Marks: “In the article that Arnie posted about Colin Firth's recollections about playing Darcy, [Firth] refers to reading the book and perceiving that Darcy was scowling all the time. That's not true. Although Firth is my favorite Darcy, he is not true to the Darcy of the book in one very important way. Just skim through the first half of P&P and note how many times Darcy SMILES! He smiles a lot in the book. (Actually I think I will do that eventually, and count the smiles!) Colin Firth as Darcy only smiled near the end of the film.......”
Me:  “Thank you for your reply, Tracy! What you point out about Darcy smiling several times in the first half of the novel is absolutely correct and significant! It is particularly so, because it is Darcy, who as we all know initially tells Bingley that Jane Bennet "smiles too much". And I suspect you are not aware that John Wiltshire, the well-known Aussie Austen scholar emeritus, actually wrote an entire article A few years back entitled "Darcy smiles", which I'm sure you can find via the Internet. However, where I suspect I depart from both you and Wiltshire is that I realized several years ago that Darcy's smiles are all profoundly ambiguous. I.e., I believe that Elizabeth has no idea why Darcy smiles when he does, in particular when he smiles during his botched first proposal at Hunsford. In a nutshell, I believe that Darcy smiles not in a friendly way or because he's happy, but because he knows some very important facts as to which Elizabeth is blissfully unaware, regarding certain offstage transactions between the key characters in the novel.”

Today Anel Vlok chimed in: “I agree with Arnie that it is seldom clear why Darcy is smiling. Vexing.. Although, obviously being a romantic myself.. my favourite smile [implied, rather than described as a smile], is the following at the second proposal: ‘Had Elizabeth been able to encounter his eye, she might have seen how well the expression of heartfelt delight, diffused over his face, became him.’ [and now dear Arnie will commence illustrating how this was actually an evil grimace.. ;) ]”

Anel, not a grimace, but a figment of Elizabeth’s overactive imagination! I.e., the narration of the full paragraph fits very well not only with your romantic interpretation, but also with Elizabeth being too anxious, embarrassed, flattered, and (most notably) submissive to look at him; instead she retreats to the privacy of her own mind, speculating wildly, and projecting feelings onto Darcy without any insight into his true character, and without the slightest awareness that she is deluding herself in this way:

“Elizabeth, feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety of his situation, now forced herself to speak; and immediately, though not very fluently, gave him to understand that her sentiments had undergone so material a change, since the period to which he alluded, as to make her receive with gratitude and pleasure his present assurances. The happiness which this reply produced, was such as he had PROBABLY never felt before; and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as warmly as a man violently in love can be SUPPOSED to do. Had Elizabeth been able to encounter his eye, she MIGHT HAVE SEEN how well the expression of heartfelt delight, diffused over his face, became him; but, THOUGH SHE COULD NOT LOOK, she could listen, and he told her of feelings, which, in proving of what importance she was to him, made his affection every moment more valuable.”

After writing the above, I wondered whether anyone besides Wiltshire had written about Darcy’s smiles before the above exchange in Austen-L, and Google led me…..back to Austen-L (& my own blog) circa October 2010! I.e., Tracy and I both completely forgot that six years ago, we went down exactly this same road—she asked the same question, and I was the one who answered her!  This provides an interesting window into how my thinking has evolved about Darcy’s smiles since then, as you can read below. While I was already well aware in 2010 that Austen’s narration is profoundly ambiguous and can be plausibly read two very different ways---as either objective or subjective---I was in 2010 still in the early stages of digging deeper into the ambiguity of Darcy’s mysterious character:

http://sharpelvessociety.blogspot.com/2010/10/darcys-smiles-it-takes-one-to-know-one.html

[Tracy in 2010 in Austen L]: "Anyone in eastern Mass. going to John Wiltshire's talk today? Since I have been a bit obsessively pointing out how often Darcy smiles in the book but not in the P&P films, I'm curious what Wiltshire has to say and why he chose Mr. Darcy's Smile as his topic."
[Me] “…a factor which I claim DOUBLES the interpretive task of the reader--is that so much of the narration in JA's novels can be read as either (i) objective, or (ii) colored, to varying degrees, by the SUBJECTIVE-and therefore, potentially mistaken--perceptions and judgments of the heroine. For example, focusing on Darcy's smiles in particular, look at these examples from the text of P&P where the narration makes it EXPLICIT that Lizzy is INTERPRETING Darcy's smile, and therefore is not necessarily correct in her interpretation…” END QUOTE FROM MY 2010 POST

I then quoted and briefly analyzed several textual examples, including noting the irony of Darcy being the one who repeats that Jane Bennet smiles too much. But in the past 6 years, I’ve taken my decoding  of the shadow story of P&P to a level of substantial completion, and so I’ll now take another brief tour through the shadow Darcy’s most significant smiles, and reveal what’s really going on in the shadows that Elizabeth, again, has no clue about. The first 4 examples take place at Netherfield Park:

DARCY SMILE #1:  “[Mrs. Bennet] ‘When [Jane] was only fifteen, there was a man at my brother Gardiner's in town so much in love with her that my sister-in-law was sure he would make her an offer before we came away. But, however, he did not. Perhaps he thought her too young. However, he wrote some verses on her, and very pretty they were."  "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." DARCY ONLY SMILED; and the general pause which ensued made Elizabeth tremble lest her mother should be exposing herself again….”           

MEANING OF DARCY’S SMILE #1: In the shadow story, Darcy was that very same erstwhile poet, which is why Darcy interjects by paraphrasing the love-sick Duke Orsino – he’s defending himself! So of course he smiles after Elizabeth responds so cluelessly.

DARCY SMILE #2:  "By all means," cried Bingley; "let us hear all the particulars, not forgetting their comparative height and size; for that will have more weight in the argument, Miss Bennet, than you may be aware of. I assure you, that if Darcy were not such a great tall fellow, in comparison with myself, I should not pay him half so much deference. I declare I do not know a more awful object than Darcy, on particular occasions, and in particular places; at his own house especially, and of a Sunday evening, when he has nothing to do."

MR. DARCY SMILED; but Elizabeth thought she could perceive that he was rather offended, and therefore checked her laugh. Miss Bingley warmly resented the indignity he had received, in an expostulation with her brother for talking such nonsense.          

MEANING OF DARCY’S SMILE #2: In the shadow story, Darcy and Bingley are actually a romantic couple, as has been intriguingly portrayed by Ann Herendeen in Pride/Prejudice….. https://books.google.com/books?id=8EnkIc4hzEMC&printsec=frontcover&dq=pride/prejudice+ann+herendeen&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwih9LD9tvvOAhUS22MKHb3gCzcQ6AEIHDAA#v=onepage&q=pride%2Fprejudice%20ann%20herendeen&f=false

… and so Darcy smiles as Bingley teases him by that broad hint.

DARCY SMILE #3: "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." "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."

"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."

MEANING OF DARCY’S SMILE #3: The surface meaning of Darcy’s smile is that he is enjoying the sharp repartee with Elizabeth—the shadow meaning is that he gets a sadistic charge out of Eliza having no knowledge of his offstage romantic relationships with Bingley, and also with….Eliza’s sister Jane!

DARCY SMILE #4: "I do not think we were speaking at all. Sir William could not have interrupted two people in the room who had less to say for themselves. We have tried two or three subjects already without success, and what we are to talk of next I cannot imagine." "What think you of books?" SAID HE, SMILING.  "Books—oh! no. I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same feelings."

"I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at least be no want of subject. We may compare our different opinions."  "No—I cannot talk of books in a ball-room; my head is always full of something else."  "The present always occupies you in such scenes—does it?" said he, with a look of doubt.     

MEANING OF DARCY’S SMILE #4: As I noted in a post 18 months ago: “Darcy, very quick on his feet, verbally as well as in dance steps, has decided that one good turn deserves another, and so he turns the teasing tables on Elizabeth, and surprises her with a sudden thrust at her weak point--her discomfort with not being as well read as the truly accomplished woman of Darcy's dreams,” which was the topic of conversation several chapters earlier in the Netherfield salon.

SMILES #5 & #6:  Much later, at Rosings Park, Darcy smiles twice in the same exchange:

“…Elizabeth laughed heartily at this picture of herself, and said to Colonel Fitzwilliam, "Your cousin will give you a very pretty notion of me, and teach you not to believe a word I say. 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. Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it is very ungenerous in you to mention all that you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire—and, give me leave to say, very impolitic too—for it is provoking me to retaliate, and such things may come out as will shock your relations to hear."

"I am not afraid of you," SAID [DARCY], SMILINGLY.  "Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of," cried Colonel Fitzwilliam. "I should like to know how he behaves among strangers."

"You shall hear then—but prepare yourself for something very dreadful. The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must know, was at a ball—and at this ball, what do you think he did? He danced only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce; and, to my certain knowledge, more than one young lady was sitting down in want of a partner. Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny the fact."

"I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the assembly beyond my own party."

"True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball-room. Well, Colonel Fitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers wait your orders." "Perhaps," said Darcy, "I should have judged better, had I sought an introduction; but I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to strangers."

"Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?" said Elizabeth, still addressing Colonel Fitzwilliam. "Shall we ask him why a man of sense and education, and who has lived in the world, is ill qualified to recommend himself to strangers?" "I can answer your question," said Fitzwilliam, "without applying to him. It is because he will not give himself the trouble."

"I certainly have not the talent which some people possess," said Darcy, "of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done."  "My fingers," said Elizabeth, "do not move over this instrument in the masterly manner which I see so many women's do. They have not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my own fault—because I will not take the trouble of practising. It is not that I do not believe my fingers as capable as any other woman's of superior execution."  DARCY SMILED and said, "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."’       

MEANING OF DARCY’S SMILES #5&6: As I posted here…. http://tinyurl.com/kkflwom  …on the bicentennial of the publication of P&P:  “During all that sparring, Lizzy has repeatedly, albeit inadvertently and Freudianly, given Darcy a series of sexual come-ons, seeming to be engaged in hot-cold sexual teasing in which she leads him on one moment, then pushes him away the next.The poor guy doesn’t know what to think, but it’s for sure that she has thereby unwittingly fanned the flames of his ardor.”  And that’s why Darcy smiles twice in that scene, these are sexually charged smiles, as to which (yet again) Eliza is completely clueless with her talk of moving her fingers over “this instrument in the masterly manner which..so many women’s do”! If you were Darcy, you’d smile too, and also believe you’d been given unmistakable encouragement to propose marriage soon afterwards!

DARCY SMILE #7: "It must be very agreeable for her to be settled within so easy a distance of her own family and friends."  "An easy distance, do you call it? It is nearly fifty miles."

"And what is fifty miles of good road? Little more than half a day's journey. Yes, I call it a very easy distance."  "I should never have considered the distance as one of the advantages of the match," cried Elizabeth. "I should never have said Mrs. Collins was settled near her family."

"It is a proof of your own attachment to Hertfordshire. Anything beyond the very neighbourhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would appear far." As he spoke there was A SORT OF SMILE which Elizabeth fancied she understood; he must be supposing her to be thinking of Jane and Netherfield…”            MEANING OF DARCY’S SMILE #7: In the shadow story, Darcy is thinking of Jane, but not vis a vis Bingley. Rather, Darcy is thinking about what it would be like to marry Eliza, the sister of his former mistress, Jane! 

DARCY SMILE #8: "I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted there. You dare not, you cannot deny, that you have been the principal, if not the only means of dividing them from each other—of exposing one to the censure of the world for caprice and instability, and the other to its derision for disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest kind."  She paused, and saw with no slight indignation that he was listening with an air which proved him wholly unmoved by any feeling of remorse. He even looked at her with A SMILE OF AFFECTED INCREDULITY.  "Can you deny that you have done it?" she repeated.

With assumed tranquillity he then replied: "I have no wish of denying that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your sister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards him I have been kinder than towards myself."          

MEANING OF DARCY’S SMILE #8: In the shadow story, Darcy fears that Elizabeth knows about Darcy having made Jane pregnant-so ironically, he’s relieved when he learns that she’s only accusing him of the “misdemeanor” of playing matchbreaker with Jane and Bingley.

So, thanks, Tracy, for prompting me to revisit Darcy’s significant, shadowy smiles --- it always pays to keep turning and turning Austen’s novels. There’s always more to see, especially when we each bring our own perspective: serendipitous synergy in thinking is always just around the next turn.

Cheers, ARNIE

@JaneAustenCode on Twitter

Jonathan Swift, Yahoo John Thorpe, & Master Tilney in Northanger Abbey

This is the third post (with one more to following within a few days) of mine about the veiled allusion to Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels that I see in Northanger Abbey. Today I will focus on JA’s wordplay in NA, by which I claim she subliminally but unmistakably pointed to Swift’s famous novel:

PART ONE: “THE JUDGEMENT OF A YAHOO”: 

In my first post in this thread, I argued that JA’s ironic 1799 epistolary comment to her sister about “the Judgement of a Yahoo” in referring to the horse-obsessed Mr. Evelyn, was a wink at the character of John Thorpe in NA. Surely Thorpe was already present in the 1798 Susan, the first version of Northanger Abbey that JA had sold for 50 pounds to the publisher Crosby a year earlier. Susan of course was never published, and, alas, no trace of its manuscript remained in existence, after JA significantly revised it during the final decade of her life.

It occurred to me yesterday to check the text of Northanger Abbey for usages of the word “judgment”, and that turned out to be a shrewd hunch, as I found not one but three passages in which “judgment” is indeed directly and significantly connected to the Yahoo-like Mr. Evelyn’s fictional double, John Thorpe:

Chapter 7: Right after John Thorpe displays his crude tastelessness by dissing Burney’s Camilla, we are treated to examples of his boorishness toward his family, and it is in reaction thereto that we read the narrator’s ironic reference to “her [Catherine’s] judgment” of the Yahoo-like John Thorpe being “bought off” by Isabella’s rosy-colored reframe of her brother’s dreadful manners (remarkably similar to what we witness in the U.S. political news on a daily basis):      

 “This critique, the justness of which was unfortunately lost on poor Catherine, brought them to the door of Mrs. Thorpe's lodgings, and the feelings of the discerning and unprejudiced reader of Camilla gave way to the feelings of the dutiful and affectionate son, as they met Mrs. Thorpe, who had descried them from above, in the passage.  [Thorpe] "Ah, Mother! How do you do?" said he, giving her a hearty shake of the hand. "Where did you get that quiz of a hat? It makes you look like an old witch. Here is Morland and I come to stay a few days with you, so you must look out for a couple of good beds somewhere near."

And this address seemed to satisfy all the fondest wishes of the mother's heart, for she received him with the most delighted and exulting affection. On his two younger sisters he then bestowed an equal portion of his fraternal tenderness, for he asked each of them how they did, and observed that they both looked very ugly. These manners did not please Catherine; but he was James's friend and Isabella's brother; and HER JUDGMENT WAS FURTHER BOUGHT OFF by Isabella's assuring her, when they withdrew to see the new hat, that John thought her the most charming girl in the world, and by John's engaging her before they parted to dance with him that evening…”

Chapter 9: Here we get our most extensive view of Thorpe’s “expertise” on horses, and that is when Thorpe boasts about “his judgment” in foretelling the winners of horseracing matches. This is the passage which, I claim, JA must in particular have had in mind when she referred to “the judgement of a Yahoo” while wryly describing the real life Mr. Evelyn’s horse obsession:    

“Thorpe's ideas then all reverted to the merits of his own equipage, and she was called on to admire the spirit and freedom with which his horse moved along, and the ease which his paces, as well as the excellence of the springs, gave the motion of the carriage. She followed him in all his admiration as well as she could. To go before or beyond him was impossible. His knowledge and her ignorance of the subject, his rapidity of expression, and her diffidence of herself put that out of her power; she could strike out nothing new in commendation, but she readily echoed whatever he chose to assert, and it was finally settled between them without any difficulty that his equipage was altogether the most complete of its kind in England, his carriage the neatest, his horse the best goer, and himself the best coachman.

"You do not really think, Mr. Thorpe," said Catherine, venturing after some time to consider the matter as entirely decided, and to offer some little variation on the subject, "that James's gig will break down?"

"Break down! Oh! Lord! Did you ever see such a little tittuppy thing in your life? There is not a sound piece of iron about it. The wheels have been fairly worn out these ten years at least—and as for the body! Upon my soul, you might shake it to pieces yourself with a touch. It is the most devilish little rickety business I ever beheld! Thank God! we have got a better. I would not be bound to go two miles in it for fifty thousand pounds."            "Good heavens!" cried Catherine, quite frightened. "Then pray let us turn back; they will certainly meet with an accident if we go on. Do let us turn back, Mr. Thorpe; stop and speak to my brother, and tell him how very unsafe it is."          "Unsafe! Oh, lord! What is there in that? They will only get a roll if it does break down; and there is plenty of dirt; it will be excellent falling. Oh, curse it! The carriage is safe enough, if a man knows how to drive it; a thing of that sort in good hands will last above twenty years after it is fairly worn out. Lord bless you! I would undertake for five pounds to drive it to York and back again, without losing a nail." 

Catherine listened with astonishment; she knew not how to reconcile two such very different accounts of the same thing; for she had not been brought up to understand the propensities of a rattle, nor to know to how many idle assertions and impudent falsehoods the excess of vanity will lead…He told her of horses which he had bought for a trifle and sold for incredible sums; of racing matches, in which HIS JUDGMENT HAD INFALLIBLY FORETOLD the winner…”

Chapter 16: Finally, here Isabella Thorpe unsuccessfully attempts to diminish Henry in Catherine’s eyes, and pushes John forward as an alternative suitor. Next, Catherine points to General Tilney’s civility and attention toward herself; whereupon Isabella starts to cite “John’ s judgment” of the General, but gets no further, because Catherine, who clearly no longer has the patience to hear John’s judgment of anything, peremptorily cuts Isabella off!:

[Isa.] "How contemptible! Of all things in the world inconstancy is my aversion. Let me entreat you never to think of [Henry] again, my dear Catherine; indeed he is unworthy of you."     [Cath.] "Unworthy! I do not suppose he ever thinks of me."

[Isa.] "That is exactly what I say; he never thinks of you. Such fickleness! Oh! How different to your brother and to mine! I really believe John has the most constant heart."          [Cath.] "But as for General Tilney, I assure you it would be impossible for anybody to behave to me with greater civility and attention; it seemed to be his only care to entertain and make me happy."

[Isa.] "Oh! I know no harm of him; I do not suspect him of pride. I believe he is a very gentleman-like man. John thinks very well of him, and JOHN’S JUDGMENT—"               [Cath.] "Well, I shall see how they behave to me this evening; we shall meet them at the rooms."

PART TWO: SWIFT, MASTER & HORSE

In my previous post, I suggested that at the heart of the allusion to Gulliver’s Travels in Northanger Abbey  there are strong intentional parallels between the reverential attitude of Catherine toward Henry and Eleanor Tilney, on the one hand, and the reverential attitude of Gulliver toward his  Houyhnhnm equine master, on the other.

On another hunch, I searched to find the uses of the word “master”, as well as of the word “swift” (or its variants) in NA. These hunches also turned out to be spot-on, and I’ll show you the relevant passages in NA in a moment. But first I must point out that there are five usages of “swift” words in NA. This does not sound like very many, until you learn that there is only one other usage (in Emma) of “swift” in all five other Austen novels combined, and none at all in JA’s surviving letters! That tells us that “swift” was not part of JA’s working lexicon, and therefore those five usages in NA were deliberate and special, and almost certainly her playful winks at the surname of Jonathan Swift, the author she was emulating in NA!:

Chapter 2: As for Mr. Allen, he repaired directly to the card-room, and left them to enjoy a mob by themselves. With more care for the safety of her new gown than for the comfort of her protegee, Mrs. Allen made her way through the throng of men by the door, as SWIFTLY as the necessary caution would allow…

Chapter 9: "You will not be frightened, Miss Morland," said Thorpe, as he handed her in, "if MY HORSE should dance about a little at first setting off. He will, most likely, give a plunge or two, and perhaps take the rest for a minute; but he will soon know HIS MASTER. He is full of spirits, playful as can be, but there is no vice in him."  Catherine did not think the portrait a very inviting one, but it was too late to retreat, and she was too young to own herself frightened; so, resigning herself to her fate, and trusting to the animal's boasted knowledge of its owner, she sat peaceably down, and saw Thorpe sit down by her. Everything being then arranged, the servant who stood at the HORSE's head was bid in an important voice "to let him go," and off they went in the quietest manner imaginable, without a plunge or a caper, or anything like one. Catherine, delighted at so happy an escape, spoke her pleasure aloud with grateful surprise; and her companion immediately made the matter perfectly simple by assuring her that it was entirely owing to the peculiarly judicious manner in which he had then held the reins, and the singular discernment and dexterity with which he had directed his whip. Catherine, though she could not help wondering that with such perfect command of his HORSE, he should think it necessary to alarm her with a relation of its tricks, congratulated herself sincerely on being under the care of so excellent a coachman; and perceiving that the animal continued to go on in the same quiet manner, without showing the smallest propensity towards any unpleasant vivacity, and (considering its inevitable pace was ten miles an hour) by no means alarmingly fast, gave herself up to all the enjoyment of air and exercise of the most invigorating kind, in a fine mild day of February, with the consciousness of safety…

And she would neither believe her own watch, nor her brother's, nor the servant's; she would believe no assurance of it founded on reason or reality, till Morland produced his watch, and ascertained the fact; to have doubted a moment longer then would have been equally inconceivable, incredible, and impossible; and she could only protest, over and over again, that no two hours and a half had ever gone off so SWIFTLY before, as Catherine was called on to confirm…

Chapter 13: To such anxious attention was the general's civility carried, that not aware of her extraordinary SWIFTNESS in entering the house, he was quite angry with the servant whose neglect had reduced her to open the door of the apartment herself. "What did William mean by it? He should make a point of inquiring into the matter." And if Catherine had not most warmly asserted his innocence, it seemed likely that William would lose the favour of HIS MASTER forever, if not his place, by her rapidity.

Chapter 16: Henry smiled and said, "I am sure my brother would not wish to do that." "Then you will persuade him to go away?" "Persuasion is not at command; but pardon me, if I cannot even endeavour to persuade him. I have myself told him that Miss Thorpe is engaged. He knows what he is about, and must be HIS OWN MASTER."

Chapter 23: After an evening, the little variety and seeming length of which made her peculiarly sensible of Henry's importance among them, she was heartily glad to be dismissed; though it was a look from the general not designed for her observation which sent his daughter to the bell. When the butler would have lit HIS MASTER'S candle, however, he was forbidden. The latter was not going to retire. 

Chapter 26: The room in question was of a commodious, well-proportioned size, and handsomely fitted up as a dining-parlour; and on their quitting it to walk round the grounds, she was shown, first into a smaller apartment, belonging peculiarly to THE MASTER of the house, and made unusually tidy on the occasion; and afterwards into what was to be the drawing-room, with the appearance of which, though unfurnished…

Chapter 24: At that instant a door underneath was hastily opened; someone seemed with SWIFT steps to ascend the stairs, by the head of which she had yet to pass before she could gain the gallery. She had no power to move.

Chapter 29: 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 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.

And so there you have further evidence of Jane Austen’s veiled allusion to Gulliver’s Travels in Northanger Abbey.

Cheers, ARNIE

@JaneAustenCode on Twitter

Catherine’s (Swift) Travels

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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