Jane Austen

by Andrew Norman

  [her] beloved home made over to others; all the precious rooms and furniture, groves, and prospects beginning to own [accept] other eyes and other limbs!

  When Anne and Captain Wentworth are reunited once again, it is not at Uppercross but at the Great House, the home of the Musgrove family. On this occasion, all that happens is that their eyes meet, with a bow on the one side and a curtsy on the other. When Captain Wentworth has departed, Mary tells Anne that her sister-in-law Henrietta Musgrove of Uppercross, had asked Captain Wentworth what he thought of her (Anne). The Captain had replied that Anne was ‘so altered he should not have known her again’. Despite her mortification at hearing these words, Anne acknowledges the fact that the years have ‘destroyed her youth and bloom’. What makes her feel even more wretched is that she herself has

  used him [Captain Wentworth] ill; deserted and disappointed him; and worse, she had shewn a feebleness of character in doing so … She had given him up to oblige others. It had been the effect of over-persuasion. It had been weakness and timidity.

  The result is that from then on, whenever the two meet, the only conversation is ‘what the commonest civility required. Now they were as strangers; nay, worse than strangers’.

  It appears to Anne that Captain Wentworth is attracted to Charles Musgrove’s sisters Henrietta and Louisa, though she is not sure which one he prefers. In the end she decides that he is not in love with either of them. ‘They were more in love with him; yet there it was not love. It was a little fever of admiration…’

  Anne, her sister Mary, the Musgrove sisters, and Captain Wentworth and Charles Musgrove go for a long walk. They encounter Admiral Croft and his wife who have taken a drive in their gig. When the Crofts offer a lift ‘to any lady who might be particularly tired’, Captain Wentworth takes the initiative by assisting Anne into the carriage. She is thereby impressed by ‘his perception of her fatigue’ and also by his ‘resolution to give her rest’. In fact, she regards this as:

  proof of his own warm and amiable heart, which she could not contemplate without emotions so compounded with pleasure and pain, that she knew not which prevailed.

  Captain Wentworth receives a letter from his friend Captain Harville, who has settled for the winter with his family at Lyme (Regis) on the Dorsetshire coast. Harville had been wounded two years previously and his health has been poor ever since. When Wentworth visits Lyme and describes the ‘fine country’ round about, Anne, Mary, Charles and his sisters Henrietta and Louisa, decide that they too would like to visit that place.

  At Lyme, where the party stays at an inn, Anne is able to comfort Captain Benwick, a friend of Captain Harville, who is residing with him. Benwick is in low spirits, having been engaged to Harville’s sister Fanny, who had died the previous summer while he was at sea. Anne feels that Benwick’s chances of happiness are, if anything, better than hers. She cannot believe that he has ‘a more sorrowing heart’ than she has. He is also younger than her and she feels sure that he will rally again ‘and be happy with another’. She also feels that Benwick is reading too much poetry and ‘ventured to recommend a larger amount of prose in his daily study’. While they are in Lyme, they encounter William Elliot, the heir to Kellynch Hall.

  When Anne is finally reunited with her family in Bath she finds that ‘they have no inclination to listen to her’. Their conversation ‘must be all their own’. William Elliot pays the Elliots a visit and attempts to make amends for his former neglect of the family. Lady Russell’s opinion of him is an extremely favourable one and she believes that Anne and William would make a happy couple. Not only that, but were Anne to become the future mistress of Kellynch this would be ‘the highest possible gratification’ to her ladyship. But Anne has reservations about William, being suspicious of his sudden desire for a reconciliation with the family. She also distrusts him because:

  [he is] not open. There was never any burst of feeling, any warmth and indignation or delight at the evil or good of others.

  This, Anne sees as ‘a decided imperfection’ in his character.

  While in Bath, Anne takes the trouble to call on her former governess Miss Hamilton – now Mrs Smith – a widow who is in poor health and ‘unable even to afford herself the comfort of a servant’. She does, however, have a Mrs Rooke to nurse her.

  When the Crofts visit Bath, Admiral Croft informs Anne that Captain Wentworth is also on his way there. When, subsequently, they catch sight of one another in the street, Anne experiences a mixture of ‘agitation, pain, pleasure, a something between delight and misery’. They exchange pleasantries until William Elliot arrives and walks off with Anne, arm in arm.

  Anne and Captain Wentworth attend a concert in the Octagon Room. They discuss Louisa Musgrove and Captain Benwick, who have formed an attachment to one another – something of which Wentworth disapproves. ‘He is a clever man, a reading man – and I confess that I do consider his attaching himself to her, with some surprise’. They reminisce about Lyme, which to Anne’s mind was a place of real beauty. William Elliot comes and sits next to Anne and begins to flatter her, even alluding to the fact that if he dared, he would make her a proposal of marriage. Anne’s thoughts, however, are for Captain Wentworth, who suddenly approaches her in the middle of the concert to wish her goodnight. ‘Is not this song worth staying for?’ asks Anne, who does not wish him to leave. ‘No, there is nothing worth my staying for’ he replies sombrely.

  Anne calls, once again, on Mrs Smith who apprises her of the real character of William Elliot:

  [He] is a man without heart or conscience; a designing, wary, cold-blooded being, who thinks only of himself; who, for his own interest or ease, would be guilty of any cruelty, or any treachery that could be perpetrated without risk of his general character. He has no feeling for others. Those whom he has been the chief cause of leading into ruin, he can neglect and desert without the smallest compunction. He is totally beyond the reach of any sentiment of justice or compassion. Oh! he is black at heart, hollow and black!

  She knows this because William was formerly an intimate friend of her late husband. William, continued Mrs Smith, was anxious to make his fortune in a quicker manner than his profession as a lawyer would allow. He was, therefore, ‘determined to make it by marriage’. As for the honour of his family, he held it ‘as cheap as dirt’. Anne finally concludes that William is ‘evidently a disingenuous, artificial, worldly man, who has never had any better principle to guide him than selfishness’. She had been right to be suspicious of him, for having previously despised the baronetcy, he had suddenly become determined to renew his acquaintance with the family, solely with the object of inheriting the title and becoming Sir William.

  At the White Hart Inn – where the Musgroves are lodging – Anne encounters Captain Wentworth and Captain Harville. While Wentworth composes a letter, Anne and Captain Harville discuss Captain Benwick. Harville shows Anne a portrait of Benwick which had been painted at Fanny’s (Benwick’s late fiancée and Harville’s sister’s) request. Benwick now intends to give this portrait to Louisa Musgrove. ‘Poor Fanny! She would not have forgotten him so soon!’ says Harville. Anne and Harville then debate whether it is men or women who love the longest or the strongest. The debate ends with Anne saying that the only privilege she claimed for her own sex was ‘that of loving longest, when existence or when hope is gone’.

  Captain Wentworth hands the letter he has written to Anne, then leaves the room. It reads as follows:

  Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone forever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own, than when you almost broke it eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant.

  Anne encounters Wentworth again in Union Street where the couple:

  exchanged again, those feelings and those promises which had once before seemed to secure ev
erything, but which had been followed by so many, many years of division and estrangement. There they returned again into the past, more exquisitely happy, perhaps, in their re-union, than when it had been first projected; more tender, more tried, more fixed in a knowledge of each other’s character, truth and attachment…

  Anne then makes excuses to Captain Wentworth for the behaviour of Lady Russell, who had erred in the advice she gave to her all those years ago. Yet Lady Russell was, ‘in the place of a parent’, and her (Anne’s) conscience would have suffered had she ignored her ladyship’s advice. Now, it was Anne’s opinion that:

  There was nothing less for Lady Russell to do, than to admit that she had been completely wrong, and to take up a new set of pretty opinions and of hopes.

  Anne and Captain Wentworth are finally married and their marriage recorded in the ‘Baronetage’ by her father Sir Walter Elliot – in his own handwriting.

  In Persuasion, as is so often the case with Jane’s novels, there are echoes of her own life. For example, a family being obliged to vacate their home (which happened to the Austens on more than one occasion) and an interfering person (Mrs Lefroy) taking it upon herself to destroy the happiness of a young couple in love. The heroine Anne not only reproaches herself for being dictated to by Lady Russell but, most significantly, she attributes her premature loss of youth and bloom to the tragedy which her ladyship created. (This implies that Jane may have attributed the fact of her own fading looks to a failed relationship. The truth, however, was that before she had completed Persuasion, she had begun to develop the symptoms and signs of a chronic illness. This will be discussed shortly). Also, Jane’s brother Francis’s adventures are reflected by Jane in her character Admiral Croft who had taken part ‘in the Trafalgar action’ – although, as already mentioned, Francis had narrowly missed the Battle of Trafalgar.

  In the debate about love, Anne Elliot is surely echoing Jane’s own thoughts when she says that although her heart had previously been broken (in Jane’s case by both Tom Lefroy and probably by Samuel Blackall), she still loved, even when all hope was gone. Unlike Jane, however, Anne Elliot achieves a happy ending to her story.

  Jane’s brothers were never far from her thoughts. For instance, she speaks of the many people ‘whom Edward’s charity has reached’. She also takes a lively interest in his activities, as in her mention of ‘some very fine chestnuts [trees]’ which he had selected for planting at Godmersham Park.

  Her other brother Henry’s physician, Dr Matthew Baillie, was also physician to the Prince Regent. Not only did Baillie inform Jane that the Prince was a great admirer of her novels, but a request was subsequently made to Jane that she dedicate her novel Emma to the Prince – which, of course, she did. It was published in December 1815.

  In 1816 Henry’s banking house of Austen, Maunde and Tilson collapsed, and on 15 March he was declared bankrupt. He then took holy orders, whereupon his brother Edward presented him with the gift of a curacy at Bentley, near Chawton. (Henry subsequently became Rector of Steventon).

  Jane was by now aged 40 and still a single woman – as was her sister Cassandra. Meanwhile, of her six brothers, five had married (but not George), and four had children. And yet, there was no jealousy on Jane’s part – only regret, that thus far she had been unfortunate enough not to find a partner. Instead, she rejoiced at the happiness of her married brothers, together with that of her nephews and nieces (with the possible exception of James and his family, whom she considered to be money-grabbing). She also had to bear the brunt of looking after her ageing mother – who suffered from chronic ill health – and did occasionally complain when she believed one or other of her siblings were not pulling their weight in family matters.

  21

  Jane Austen:­ A Loss of Youth and Bloom

  By almost all accounts Jane Austen, in her prime, was an attractive and vivacious woman who took a pride in her appearance, loved children (provided, of course, that they were well behaved) and loved to dance. Jane’s niece Caroline Austen, born in 1805 and daughter of her brother James, said this about her aunt:

  Hers was the first face that I can remember thinking pretty... Her face was rather round than long – she had a bright, but not a pink colour – a clear brown complexion and very good hazle eyes. She was not, I believe an absolute beauty, but before she left Steventon she was established as a very pretty girl, in the opinion of most of her neighbours … Her hair, a darkish brown, curls naturally – it was in short curls round her face. She always wore a cap …1

  Caroline also said that Jane’s ‘charm to children was great sweetness of manner – she seemed to love you, and you loved her naturally in return’.

  Kathryn Sutherland, editor of James E. Austen-Leigh’s A Memoir of Jane Austen, describes a ‘lightly executed pencil-and-watercolour portrait’ of Jane, made by Cassandra and dated around 1810 as, ‘the only authentic representation known to exist’.2 In it, she is depicted unsmiling with chubby cheeks, brown curls, and wearing a bonnet. However, R.W. Chapman describes another portrait, which is also believed to be of Jane and also in watercolour. This time, she is depicted side on, in an outfit of blue and white, with overskirt, petticoat and bonnet with white ribbon. The portrait is signed and dated by Cassandra ‘C.E.A. 1804’.3

  In late October 1798 Jane wrote humorously to Cassandra:

  next week shall begin my operations on my hat, on which You know my principal hopes of happiness depend.4

  In late December she told Cassandra that she had attended a ball and had danced twenty dances

  without any fatigue – I was glad to find myself capable of being able to dance so much & with so much satisfaction as I did …5

  On 2 June 1799, writing from Bath, Jane told Cassandra that she looked forward, with pleasure, to a grand gala to be held shortly in Sydney Gardens where there was to be a concert with illuminations and fireworks.6 And in January 1801 she told Cassandra that she ‘shall want two new coloured gowns for the summer’.7

  Ten years later, in late April 1811, Jane wrote to Cassandra to say that she had been described by the Revd Dr Wyndham Knatchbull (son of Sir Edward Knatchbull by his second wife Frances), as ‘a pleasing looking young woman’. She said, ‘That must do; – one cannot pretend to anything better now – [I am] thankful to have it continued a few years longer!’8 Alas, for Jane it would only be for a few years.

  Jane told Cassandra, in March 1814, that she was still concerned about her attire:

  I have been ruining myself in black sattined ribbon with proper pe[a]rl edge & now I am trying to draw it up into [a] kind of Roses instead of putting it in plain double plaits.9

  Early in 1816 it was clear that all was not well with Jane Austen. In A Biographical Notice of the Author, published in 1818, her brother Henry stated that, ‘The symptoms of a decay, deep and incurable, began to shew themselves …’10 Jane’s niece Caroline said, ‘I believe Aunt Jane’s health began to fail some time before we knew she was really ill’.11

  On 8–9 September that year Jane wrote to Cassandra, who had recently paid her a visit, saying:

  Thank you, my Back has given me scarcely any pain for many days. – I have an idea that agitation does it as much harm as fatigue, & that I was ill at the time of your going, from the very circumstance of your going.12

  Three months later, Jane refused an invitation to dinner. She said, ‘I was forced to decline it, the walk is beyond my strength (though I am otherwise very well)’.13

  On 24 January 1817 Jane wrote to her friend Alethea Bigg as follows:

  I have certainly gained strength through the Winter & am not far from being well; & I think I understand my own case now so much better than I did, as to be able by care to keep off any serious return of illness. I am more & more convinced that Bile is at the bottom of all I have suffered, which makes it easy to know how to treat myself.14

  Bile is a bitter, greenish-brown alkaline fluid which is produced by the liver, stored in the gall bladder, and secreted into the
gut. It contains waste products and also enzymes, which break down fat and aid digestion. A bilious attack, which Jane appears to have suffered from at least one of, indicates vomiting of such severity as to cause the contents, not only of the stomach but also of its exit passage the duodenum, to reflux up into the oesophagus and mouth.

  Little information is available for the month of February 1817, apart from the fact that Jane had pain in one knee which she wrapped in flannel. However, a letter of hers dated 23/25 March, and written to her favourite niece Fanny Knight, contains important information:

  I certainly have not been very well for many weeks, & about a week ago I was very poorly, I have had a good deal of fever at times & indifferent nights, but am considerably better now & recovering my Looks a little, which have been bad enough, black & white & every wrong colour. I must not depend upon being ever blooming again. Sickness is a dangerous Indulgence at my time of Life.15

  Jane was evidently distressed by her changing facial appearance, yet she resigned herself to it in her typically courageous way.

  At the beginning of April 1817 Jane’s niece Caroline went to stay for a few days at Wyards, a mile north of Chawton, which was the home of her half-sister Anna and Anna’s husband Ben Lefroy. From here, she visited Jane and reported as follows:

  She was keeping to her room but she said she would see us, and we went up to her – She was in her dressing gown and was sitting quite like an invalide in an arm chair – but she got up, and kindly greeted us – and then pointing to the seats which had been arranged for us by the fire, she said, ‘There’s a chair for the married lady, and a little stool for you, Caroline.’