J A N E T I L I T Y

          One engaging feature of Austen’s novels is her technique of aligning character traits with their natural (as in nature) affinities or aversions. Elizabeth Bennet’s appreciation for talent and virtue over money and rank is reflected in her reaction to the grounds of Pemberley, i.e., that their “…natural beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste”; Marianne Dashwood’s propensity for dwelling upon loss is reflected in her musings upon Norland’s dead leaves. Mrs. Elton’s affectation is comically rendered in the running monologue that expresses her eroding zeal for strawberry picking. There is an allusion to Catherine Morland’s maturing in an exchange between her and Tilney; when she says that she has learned to love a hyacinth – the flower symbolizing the juvenile attributes of playfulness and sport – he asks whether she might then learn to love a rose – the flower symbolic of romantic love. The selfishness of Sir Walter Elliot and his eldest daughter corresponds to their reluctance to allow a tenant to enjoy the use of their gardens. Sir Walter is “…not fond of the idea of my shrubberies being always approachable [by a tenant]”, and Anne has been dispatched to instruct the gardener in “…which of Elizabeth’s plants are for Lady Russell” – presumably to preserve them from Kellynch’s new occupants.

Sylvestra Le Touzel, as Fanny Price

          In Mansfield Park, when Fanny Price and Mary Crawford stroll the parsonage grounds, their conversation expresses Fanny’s appreciation of nature and Mary’s indifference to it, but the particular object of Fanny’s admiration are the evergreens. “The evergreen! How beautiful, how welcome, how wonderful the evergreen!” Even while Mansfield Park is symbolically channeled through Fanny – her musing on how the same soil can nurture such variety of plants represents the disparate characters who occupy or pass through the Bertram estate – it is the unchanging evergreen, the manifestation of permanence, fidelity, immutability and self-renewal that embodies the character of Fanny Price.

Frances O’Connor, as Fanny Price

          Yet, every so often, Austen readers will encounter an article or a speaker whose topic is something on the order of “In Defense of Fanny Price”; “defense” implying that Fanny Price is deficient when compared to Austen’s other heroines, and therefore requires vindication. Even C. S. Lewis, in “A Note on Jane Austen” maintained that Fanny had “…nothing but rectitude of mind; neither passion, nor physical courage, nor wit, nor resource.” True, she is not as witty as Elizabeth Bennet, nor as passionate as Marianne Dashwood, and her resources are not tested in the manner that Catherine Morland’s are; moreover, Fanny is not as beautiful as Jane Bennet, nor as accomplished as Jane Fairfax; she does not even provide the comic intervals that the reader enjoys by way of Mrs. Bennet or Mrs. Elton.

Billie Piper, as Fanny Price

          Fanny Price is the only Austen heroine who is defined by intrinsic virtue and moral integrity, rather than her failures of character and objectivity. Elizabeth Bennet is susceptible to prejudice, Marianne Dashwood is emotionally indulgent, Emma is self-important and manipulative, Catherine Morland’s limited intellect is warped by popular novels and self-serving acquaintances, Anne Elliot abdicates her natural good judgment in favor of well-meaning (and not-so-well-meaning) relations and friends. As their tales advance, the mechanics of plot are linked to the flawed heroine’s self-realization and eventual contrition. “These recollections will not do at all,” concludes Elizabeth Bennet. “I assure you that I have long been most heartily ashamed [of her language].” Marianne states that, “Whenever I look towards the past I saw some duty neglected or some failing indulged.” Emma comes to hope that “…every future winter of her life…would yet find her more rational, more acquainted with herself, and leave her less to regret when it were gone.” When Catherine understands how far her imagination has offended Henry Tilney, it “…opened her eyes to the extravagance of her late fancies”. Even while the long-suffering Anne justifies her deference to Lady Russell, she concedes that “…for myself, I certainly never should in any circumstance of tolerable similarity, give such advice.”

          In contrast, Fanny is always correct. Her affection is never misplaced, her character assessments are borne out in a plot that, rather than exposing her errors of judgment, reveals where the judgment of the others has gone awry.

            Fanny experiences unhappiness, but no moral regret, unless you count those “…feelings so near akin to envy as to make her hate herself for having them.” Her uncomplaining submission to the indolence of Lady Bertram and the tyranny of Mrs. Norris may aggravate the reader; her steadiness, when compared to the spirited repartee of Elizabeth Bennet or the resolute folly of Emma or Catherine, may appear static and colorless. If Fanny does not possess the buoyancy and wit of Austen’s other heroines, she does have – without the accompanying advantages of wealth, status, accomplishment or even physical stamina – a moral intuition that is as intriguing (considering the households in which she was raised) as cleverness and charm.

          Fanny may not, as Lewis observes, have “physical courage” (though I think the same may be said for most of Austen’s heroines), but she does have to draw upon emotional reserves in a way that other heroines (with the possible exception of Elinor Dashwood) do not; Elizabeth, Anne, Catherine, Emma may face an obstacle to romance, but the obstacle does not materialize in the form of a competitor. Darcy is not attached to Anne deBourgh, nor would Knightley ever marry Harriet Smith; Wentworth dallies with Louisa and Henrietta without being serious about either, and Tilney is not in love with anyone else. Even Willoughby’s choice is a matter of fortune rather than affection. But Fanny does have a rival for Edmund’s affection in the beautiful and accomplished Mary Crawford. Unlike Darcy, Tilney, Knightley, or even Edward Ferrars or Willoughby, Edmund Bertram is the one Austen hero who falls in love with someone other than the heroine. Unlike Fanny’s response to Henry Crawford, Edmund rationalizes Mary’s impropriety, and continues to hope that she will overlook the fact that he is a second son and a clergyman, until her sentiments prove to be so corrupt that Edmund cannot continue to justify them. Fanny, on the other hand, is able to witness Henry’s newly-expressed gentleness and consideration, without weakening, and views it as sign that he may just enough of a changed character that he will “not much longer persevere in a suit so distressing to her”. She can appreciate the improvement in his conduct, but her opinion of him as a potential husband is not swayed.

          Perhaps in an era where undeserving “celebrities” reap undeserved attention there are those who consider “rectitude of mind” to be “nothing”. But Austen readers should know better.

“We have tried to get Self-Control, but in vain. I should like to know what her Estimate is, but am always afraid of finding a clever novel too clever and of finding my own story and my own people all forestalled.” So wrote Jane Austen to Cassandra on the last day of April, 1811.

“I should like to know what her Estimate is…”

Is Austen’s “I should like to know what her Estimate [i.e., reception and readership] is” disingenuous? Self-Control, the first novel of Scottish author Mary Brunton, had been published in early 1811 and was an immediate success. At the time that Austen wrote her letter, Brunton was correcting proofs for the novel’s second printing; Austen could not have been unaware of Brunton’s very favorable “Estimate”.

Self-Control is a rambling part-romance/part-morality tale. Seventeen-year-old Laura Montreville, raised in rural Scotland, possesses “…an active mind, a strong sense of duty and the habit of meeting and overcoming adverse circumstances.” She has become infatuated with the most eligible of her suitors, the wealthy Colonel Villiers Hargrave. Unfortunately for Laura, the Hargrave she admires “…was a creature of her imagination”. When he attempts to seduce her, she innocently assumes he is proposing marriage. Her disgust and his remorse effect an agreement: if Hargrave will demonstrate his contrition by living a scrupulously honorable life for two years, Laura will marry him at the end of them.

An error that has delayed the payment of the Montrevilles’ annuity requires Laura’s widowed father to meet with agents in London. He is accompanied by Laura, and there they are introduced to the son of a former acquaintance, Montague DeCourcy. DeCourcy becomes Laura’s admirer and her anonymous patron, when she attempts to meet their expenses by selling her paintings. Hargrave pursues Laura to town, but even as Laura’s father encourages her to accept his proposals, she learns that he has not kept to his pledge, but has become involved in a sordid affair with a married woman.

Laura’s father dies, and the scene shifts to the household of the wealthy Lady Pelham, the estranged maternal aunt to whom Laura appeals for help. This lady’s country residence is in the neighborhood of the DeCourcy manor and Laura and DeCourcy become more attached to one another, while evidence of Hargrave’s depravity mounts. Lady Pelham allies herself with Hargrave for the wealth and station that marriage to him would confer upon Laura (and, by extension, herself) and collaborates with him to trick Laura into an elopement.

From here, the plot takes an improbable course. Hargrave has Laura spirited off to North America, and detained in an isolated cabin. Laura escapes, makes her way through the woods, finds a canoe along a riverbank, navigates it down the river, through rapids and over a waterfall, is rescued by settlers who help her arrange passage back to Scotland, where she is reunited with DeCourcy.

When Austen again mentions the novel, about a week before the release of Sense and Sensibility, she is less apprehensive about it’s being “too clever”. While she concedes that it is “…an excellently-meant, elegantly written work”, she adds that it lacks “nature or probability”, and that “I do not know whether Laura’s passage down the American river is not the most natural, possible, every-day thing she ever does.”

It is difficult to detect any relief from Austen’s moderately generous remark, but upon finally getting her hands on a copy of Self-Control, complacency would have been “the most natural, possible, every-day” response. She would have been too modest to boast of her superiority as a novelist, but the differences in style, humor, characterization, plotting were obvious. Self-Control is exposition without “voice”, behavior without insight, contrivance without humor, essentially a 300 page plot squeezed into 500 wordy pages that calls up a remark of Sherlock Holmes: “…he had not that supreme gift of the artist, the knowledge of when to stop.”

Still, Austen may have seen hints of “my own story and my own people” in Brunton’s work. In the incompatible match between Montreville and his wife, there are shades of the Palmers, the Bertrams or the Bennets. The garrulous, well-meaning landlady, Mrs. Dawkins, with her dissimilar daughters calls up Mrs. Jennings, Lady Middleton and Charlotte Palmer. In the presumption of Montreville’s business associate toward Laura, we see something of John Thorpe or Mr. Elton. Like Mr. Collins, Miss DeCourcy’s placid suitor, Mr. Bolingbroke “…was resolved to marry, for he considered marriage as one of the duties of his station.” When Hargrave confides his intentions to Lady Pelham, her imagination jumps from the wedding announcement, to herself riding around in her married niece’s barouche and four, to public acclaim for her bringing about the match as rapidly as Caroline Bingley’s imagination progresses from admiration to love to marriage; and when Lady Pelham chastises Laura for refusing Hargrave, we hear in her “…you will never have it in your power to throw away such another offer. You need hardly expect to awaken such another passion”, a reproof similar to Mr. Collins’ reaction to Lizzy’s refusal.

“I should like to know what HER estimate is…”

Self-Control certainly forestalls Sense and Sensibility in Laura’s “Team Elinor” conviction that “Her own sensibility she had been taught to consider as a weakness to be subdued, not as an ornament to be gloried in”, and there is a frankness about the inequity of consequence in extra-marital relationships; i.e., that men can retain their social footing, while women are permanently disgraced.

There are a few pioneering plot elements as well: at one point, Laura decides to earn a living as a painter, with some success; later she decides to study the male-dominated field of mathematics, and shows some aptitude for it. A heroine who is intellectually curious and who is able and willing to be self-supporting is noteworthy, but both subplots are undeveloped and short-lived.

Austen’s recollections of Self-Control were not short-lived. Three years later, Mansfield Park was published (and comparisons can certainly be drawn between the Fanny/Henry Crawford and Laura/Hargrave relationships), and Austen tallied the opinions of friends and family; they were generally complimentary, but many expressed a preference for her previous publication, Pride and Prejudice. In a letter to Anna Lefroy, she addresses Brunton’s novel more satirically: “I will redeem my credit…by writing a close imitation of Self-Control as soon as I can. I will improve upon it; my Heroine shall not merely be wafted down an American river in a boat by herself, she shall cross the Atlantic in the same way.”

In reflecting upon the parallels between his professional life and episodes from the novels of Jane Austen, Sherlock Holmes would likely have seen a good deal of Mansfield Park’s Mary Crawford in Irene Adler, his adversary in A Scandal in Bohemia. Both Sherlock Holmes and Mansfield’s Edmund Bertram are second sons who find themselves captivated by brilliant, but morally compromised women. For Holmes, the “adventuress” Irene Adler is The Woman, who “eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex”; Edmund Bertram believes it “impossible…that he should ever meet with such another woman [as Mary Crawford].” Mary is “the only woman in the world whom [Edmund] could ever think of as a wife”; and while Holmes is not a marrying man, “there was but one woman to him, and that woman was…Irene Adler.”

There are the obvious similarities – Mary and Irene are brunette, charming, accomplished, musical – and the similarities of character: Mary is “active and fearless”; Irene is “quick and resolute”. Holmes’s client describes Adler: “She has the face of the most beautiful of women and the mind of the most resolute of men” with “a soul of steel”; Mary Crawford describes herself: “I will stake my last like a woman of spirit…I am not born to sit still and do nothing.”

Even before Holmes sees Irene Adler, the case would suggest Mansfield Park. When his gauche client, under the alias of “Count Von Kramm”, parades into Holmes’s sitting room in his “deep blue cloak lined with flame-colored silk”, would he not immediately call up an image of the obtuse Rushworth/Count Cassel and his “blue dress and a pink satin cloak”?

Count Cassel is a character in the play “Lovers’ Vows”, which the young people of Mansfield Park attempt to stage, with Mary Crawford taking the part of Amelia. Amelia is caught between an arranged marriage to the immoral Count and the possibility of a love match with the poor clergyman, Anhalt. Irene Adler, likewise, is between lovers – the hereditary King of Bohemia who has jilted her and the young lawyer who wants to marry her. It is interesting that Mary urges Edmund Bertram to at least “go into the law” rather than the church, implying that she could condescend to marry a lawyer (as Irene Adler does) but not a country clergyman.

Sherlock Holmes, always conscious of irony, would have recognized the ironic contrast between Irene’s real marriage, and the play upon marriage during the Bertrams’ visit to Sotherton, Maria Bertram’s future home. When Maria and her fiancé stand at the altar of the family chapel, their friends/witnesses remark that it is a pity Edmund is not yet ordained; only a clergyman is wanted for Maria and Rushworth to be married immediately. Irene Adler and her husband-to-be have secured a clergyman, but their vows are stalled for the lack of a witness – until Holmes is drafted into the role. It is an ironic touch – “a distinct touch”, as Holmes would have called it – that he infiltrates Adler’s household disguised as “a dear, kind old clergyman”.

Each story ends with the lady’s departure; Mary Crawford leaves Mansfield Park and settles in London. Irene Adler leaves England for the Continent “never to return”. But what of their futures?

Austen leaves Mary Crawford “long in finding among the dashing representatives or idle heir apparents…anyone who could satisfy the tastes she had acquired at Mansfield.” But it is unlikely that a woman who relishes the sort of “pure, genuine pleasure” she experiences in horseback riding, or the attractions of the Mansfield theatricals sat still and did nothing. Irene Adler, while married at the end of A Scandal in Bohemia, seems no closer to domestic tranquility than Mary. She has married a London lawyer and they have left England – but what are they to live on? Unless her husband is independently wealthy, they will have had to rely upon Irene’s talent to support them.

I wonder whether Mary Crawford, like Irene Adler, was formed for a life on the stage. “I have been trained as an actress myself,” Adler writes to Holmes and Edmund Bertram, thinking of Mary’s eagerness to take a part in “Lovers’ Vows” concludes, “…the charm of acting might well carry fascination to the mind of genius.”

Perhaps it was Mary Crawford, under the stage name of “Miss Rock” who portrayed Amelia when Lovers’ Vows was performed on January 6, 1820 at the Theatre-Royal in Edinburgh.

Another distinct touch, as January 6 was Sherlock Holmes’s birthday.

Janetility welcomes comments provided they are made with good humor and civility.