Northanger Abbey - Chapter Twenty

Chapter 20 - the very short version General Tilney turns out to be high maintenance (no shock); Catherine enjoys an open carriage ride and story time with Henry.

A word about curricles A curricle was an updated version of a chariot, and was usually pulled by two horses (unusual for a light gig at that time - why use two horses when one would suffice?); the horses were often a matched pair. The curricle was as much about seeing and being seen as it was about speed. In the curricle which you see to the right, the small person at the back is a servant known as a "tiger". It was a matter of pride to have the smallest tiger, oddly enough.

For an amusing take on the difference between a gig (John Thorpe's vehicle) and a curricle (Henry Tilney's), read Margaret Sullivan's article at Tilneys and Trapdoors.

Chapter 20
I don't know about you, but I find the beginning of the chapter uncomfortable. Austen does such a great job at describing the General that I was instantly transported to occasions in my own life when I've heard someone's superior (boss, parent, whatever) go off on them, in part because they are trying to ensure that things are right for me (or others in my presence). You get the discomfort of listening to someone (here, Captain Tilney) being taken to task, with the added discomfort of knowing that they are using you - in whole or in part - as the basis for their temper tantrum. Of course, Austen summed it up better than I did: "[Catherine] was quite pained by the severity of his father's reproof, which seemed disproportionate to the offence; and much was her concern increased when she found herself the principal cause of the lecture, and that his tardiness was chiefly resented from being disrespectful to her."

At their rest stop along the way, Catherine observes how the General seems to suck all the joy out of the room: "General Tilney, though so charming a man, seemed always a check upon his children's spirits, and scarcely any thing was said but by himself; the observation of which, with his discontent at whatever the inn afforded, and his angry impatience at the waiters, made Catherine grow every moment more in awe of him, and appeared to lengthen the two hours into four." On leaving for the final leg of their trip, however, the General suggests that Catherine accompany Henry. In an open carriage.

To be driven by him, next to being dancing with him, was certainly the greatest happiness in the world. It turns out that Henry, like Rainman, is an excellent driver. I rather agree with Maggie Sullivan's opinion that "Catherine would have approved of an ox-cart had Henry Tilney been driving it". Still, it's more than just his driving. Thorpe was all popping the clutch and hollering "Whoa, Nellie! My horse is so spirited that we would die were it not for my efforts - WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT'S SLOW!" whereas Henry is all "Lovely day for a drive with such a lovely girl. You are so sweet to come spend time with my beloved sister. Giddyap" while executing smooth lane changes on the Autobahn.

While Maggie Sullivan compared their equipages, I rather expect that Austen intended readers to deduce a little something about the men from the way they handle their horses. Thorpe is rather erratic and slightly clueless in his handling of horses and in his dancing; Tilney is adroit and assured in both. Most likely readers were meant to extrapolate that one's skills in these areas represented their skills in a relationship (sexual and otherwise), and I'd have to say that based on what we know about their personalities, it seems likely. Henry is kind and considerate, generous and coordinated, clever and well-read; John Thorpe is . . . not. *wink wink nudge nudge, say no more, say no more*

Time out for a brief digression involving an Executive Transvestite. For reasons that will make sense to nobody, perhaps, but me, my last comments brought to mind Eddie Izzard's bit about coffee from Dress to Kill. My digression, let me show you it:







I have to say, I love that Henry speaks so lovingly of his sister and so sweetly to Catherine before he decides to have her on about her notions of a Gothic abbey. Knowing that she likes Udolpho, he does his best to depict his father's home as just such a place, complete with brooding housekeeper, thunderstorms and more . . . until he finds he can no longer keep his countenance because Catherine has gotten too involved in his story. Instead, he breaks character as "serious, solemn narrator" and cracks up. Gotta love Mr. Tilney for that, say I.

Imagine, then, Catherine's consternation at finding herself inside a beautifully appointed, modern residence (particularly after Henry's Gothic recitation). The narrator wryly assures us that Catherine was disappointed to find that the windows were clean and there were no cobwebs, as she had so been looking forward to finding something like the edifices described by Ann Radcliffe in her novels.

The General's pronouncement of the time and the rapid response it triggered in all parties is an indicator of the General's rigid adherence to his schedule and rituals. Being, as they were, in the country, dinner was likely to be served no later than 6 p.m., and possibly as early as 5:30. Having traveled all day, the Tilneys and Catherine were undoubtedly wearing travel clothes (a particular form of "morning" dress, designed not to show the wear and dirt of travel - it is highly unlikely that even Miss Tilney was wearing white, despite her being inside a closed carriage the whole way). One would wish to discard outer layers and remove bonnets (which would likely necessitate a new hair style). One would also wish to clean ones' face and hands - the only parts of the body that were washed with any true regularity, since they were pretty much all that showed.

Back then (and, indeed, in some houses even today), one dressed for dinner, which usually required a complete change of dress. For a woman, that would have involved the assistance of a maid, and the following alterations would have occurred: The outer dress would have been removed and replaced, along with (in many instances) the petticoats underneath. One would, of course, use the facilities (such as they were - a privy chair, perhaps, or an outhouse if the weather were fine - Regency women often said they were stepping out "to pluck a rose"). One would likely re-dress one's hair; a woman's hair at that time was often exceedingly long when down. In a recollection from her childhood, Jane Austen's niece, Louisa Knight, recalled that her Aunt Jane's hair hung almost to her knees when down - that takes a while to dress and/or re-dress. It goes without saying that the more one changed, the longer it took; hence, Eleanor's exhortation to make as little alteration as possible (a hint to Catherine not to take too long getting ready, and one that Catherine immediately understands).

Tomorrow: Foreboding furniture and forbidding weather

Northanger Abbey - Chapter Twenty

Chapter 20 - the very short version General Tilney turns out to be high maintenance (no shock); Catherine enjoys an open carriage ride and story time with Henry.

A word about curricles A curricle was an updated version of a chariot, and was usually pulled by two horses (unusual for a light gig at that time - why use two horses when one would suffice?); the horses were often a matched pair. The curricle was as much about seeing and being seen as it was about speed. In the curricle which you see to the right, the small person at the back is a servant known as a "tiger". It was a matter of pride to have the smallest tiger, oddly enough.

For an amusing take on the difference between a gig (John Thorpe's vehicle) and a curricle (Henry Tilney's), read Margaret Sullivan's article at Tilneys and Trapdoors.

Chapter 20
I don't know about you, but I find the beginning of the chapter uncomfortable. Austen does such a great job at describing the General that I was instantly transported to occasions in my own life when I've heard someone's superior (boss, parent, whatever) go off on them, in part because they are trying to ensure that things are right for me (or others in my presence). You get the discomfort of listening to someone (here, Captain Tilney) being taken to task, with the added discomfort of knowing that they are using you - in whole or in part - as the basis for their temper tantrum. Of course, Austen summed it up better than I did: "[Catherine] was quite pained by the severity of his father's reproof, which seemed disproportionate to the offence; and much was her concern increased when she found herself the principal cause of the lecture, and that his tardiness was chiefly resented from being disrespectful to her."

At their rest stop along the way, Catherine observes how the General seems to suck all the joy out of the room: "General Tilney, though so charming a man, seemed always a check upon his children's spirits, and scarcely any thing was said but by himself; the observation of which, with his discontent at whatever the inn afforded, and his angry impatience at the waiters, made Catherine grow every moment more in awe of him, and appeared to lengthen the two hours into four." On leaving for the final leg of their trip, however, the General suggests that Catherine accompany Henry. In an open carriage.

To be driven by him, next to being dancing with him, was certainly the greatest happiness in the world. It turns out that Henry, like Rainman, is an excellent driver. I rather agree with Maggie Sullivan's opinion that "Catherine would have approved of an ox-cart had Henry Tilney been driving it". Still, it's more than just his driving. Thorpe was all popping the clutch and hollering "Whoa, Nellie! My horse is so spirited that we would die were it not for my efforts - WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT'S SLOW!" whereas Henry is all "Lovely day for a drive with such a lovely girl. You are so sweet to come spend time with my beloved sister. Giddyap" while executing smooth lane changes on the Autobahn.

While Maggie Sullivan compared their equipages, I rather expect that Austen intended readers to deduce a little something about the men from the way they handle their horses. Thorpe is rather erratic and slightly clueless in his handling of horses and in his dancing; Tilney is adroit and assured in both. Most likely readers were meant to extrapolate that one's skills in these areas represented their skills in a relationship (sexual and otherwise), and I'd have to say that based on what we know about their personalities, it seems likely. Henry is kind and considerate, generous and coordinated, clever and well-read; John Thorpe is . . . not. *wink wink nudge nudge, say no more, say no more*

Time out for a brief digression involving an Executive Transvestite. For reasons that will make sense to nobody, perhaps, but me, my last comments brought to mind Eddie Izzard's bit about coffee from Dress to Kill. My digression, let me show you it:







I have to say, I love that Henry speaks so lovingly of his sister and so sweetly to Catherine before he decides to have her on about her notions of a Gothic abbey. Knowing that she likes Udolpho, he does his best to depict his father's home as just such a place, complete with brooding housekeeper, thunderstorms and more . . . until he finds he can no longer keep his countenance because Catherine has gotten too involved in his story. Instead, he breaks character as "serious, solemn narrator" and cracks up. Gotta love Mr. Tilney for that, say I.

Imagine, then, Catherine's consternation at finding herself inside a beautifully appointed, modern residence (particularly after Henry's Gothic recitation). The narrator wryly assures us that Catherine was disappointed to find that the windows were clean and there were no cobwebs, as she had so been looking forward to finding something like the edifices described by Ann Radcliffe in her novels.

The General's pronouncement of the time and the rapid response it triggered in all parties is an indicator of the General's rigid adherence to his schedule and rituals. Being, as they were, in the country, dinner was likely to be served no later than 6 p.m., and possibly as early as 5:30. Having traveled all day, the Tilneys and Catherine were undoubtedly wearing travel clothes (a particular form of "morning" dress, designed not to show the wear and dirt of travel - it is highly unlikely that even Miss Tilney was wearing white, despite her being inside a closed carriage the whole way). One would wish to discard outer layers and remove bonnets (which would likely necessitate a new hair style). One would also wish to clean ones' face and hands - the only parts of the body that were washed with any true regularity, since they were pretty much all that showed.

Back then (and, indeed, in some houses even today), one dressed for dinner, which usually required a complete change of dress. For a woman, that would have involved the assistance of a maid, and the following alterations would have occurred: The outer dress would have been removed and replaced, along with (in many instances) the petticoats underneath. One would, of course, use the facilities (such as they were - a privy chair, perhaps, or an outhouse if the weather were fine - Regency women often said they were stepping out "to pluck a rose"). One would likely re-dress one's hair; a woman's hair at that time was often exceedingly long when down. In a recollection from her childhood, Jane Austen's niece, Louisa Knight, recalled that her Aunt Jane's hair hung almost to her knees when down - that takes a while to dress and/or re-dress. It goes without saying that the more one changed, the longer it took; hence, Eleanor's exhortation to make as little alteration as possible (a hint to Catherine not to take too long getting ready, and one that Catherine immediately understands).

Tomorrow: Foreboding furniture and forbidding weather

The Brilliant Fall of Gianna Z by Kate Messner

Up front, I have to disclose that I know Kate personally, and that she very kindly handed me a signed copy of the ARC for her forthcoming novel when I saw her at the New England SCBWI Conference. You might assume that, with Kate being a friend, I'd be predisposed to want to like her novel, and you'd be correct. You might assume that with her being a friend, if I'm mentioning her novel in a public forum such as this, I'm going to say that I like it.

You'd be wrong.

Because this novel? I love it.

Kate juggles a bundle of fairly heavy plotlines as if they weighed no more than a pile of leaves, managing her story with humor and grace.

Gianna Zales is a middle school cross-country star, a true artist, a good friend, and a bit of a free spirit. Two weeks ago, her science teacher gave the class a month to collect twenty-five leaves from different species of trees, identify them, and put together a visual representation of their distribution. One week from now, it's due. And unless Gianna gets a good grade on her science project, she won't be allowed to run in the cross-country sectionals. Not just that, but the hateful Bianca will run in her place.

Gianna is helped by her good friend Zig, who is starting to show signs of being interested in Gee as a girl, not just as a friend. Gianna is frankly hindered by her family, no matter what they say; I mean, they lecture her on the importance of meeting a Monday sub-deadline on Saturday, while in the car on the way to the Italian market in Montreal. And this isn't the only family obligation that pops up along the way to prevent her from actually doing what they tell her she ought to be doing. I'm just saying. (You will note that Kate must be an excellent writer based on my degree of anger towards Gianna's parents for this whole "say one thing, do another" routine they've got going. Actual anger on the part of a reader about obstacles faced by a character in a book is a surefire sign of good writing.)

Now, Gianna is a cross-country runner, but I have to tell you, the way this book goes, she ought to be a hurdler. There are low hurdles, like the fact that her father's a mortician and that she frequently arrives at school in a hearse, or that her mother's got an unhealthy fixation on health food. And there are mid-sized hurdles, like figuring out what to say to a girl she knows whose grandmother has just died. And there are some really high hurdles indeed, such as the fact that her Nonna is starting to forget things - not just the occasional word or where she left her glasses, but important things, like where she is.

Like a cross-country course after a rain storm, there are an awful lot of puddles to avoid - like Bianca's attempts to belittle Gianna and others, or her efforts to replace Gianna at sectionals. Like unexpected developments with her leaf collection at several turns. Like a bunch of issues with her grandmother and her mother (both separately and together). And like whether she likes the way things are changing with Zig, who was always just a friend before.

And like the happy feeling that rushes through you during and after a cross-country run*, the book is full of warm, happy, funny bits. Gianna's brother, Ian, is hilarious, in spite of (or maybe because of - it's hard to say) his fondness for jokes and paparazzi-like photography. Her friend Ruby is pretty terrific, too. And although there are some sad things about Nonna, when she's on her game, Nonna is a riot - the exact sort of grandmother that pretty much anyone would love to have. She knows when to encourage and when to scold, how to intervene with Mom, how to support Gianna (openly or on the sly), and how to make the very best Italian Wedding Cookies in the world.

Do I love the repeated references to Robert Frost's poem, "Birches"? You know I do. Particularly since the poem is not only referenced and quoted, but also thoughtfully considered and discussed along the way. Also a high point? The references to Gianna's talent for and love of art.

Without being didactic, there are take-home messages about responsibility and the importance of personal expression, about the diversity of nature and the desirability of understanding natural science, about understanding and empathy for others and the true nature of friendship, and about the pitfalls of middle school, something about which Kate possesses and displays intimate knowledge.

Before I go, a word about the book design. I think that Nicole Gastonguay deserves special mention for what she's put together here. Now, I only have an ARC, but I have to assume that the finished copy of the book is going to have that same gorgeous cover image by Joe Cepeda, the same artist who did the lovely cover for Pam Munoz Ryan's Esperanza Rising. And that the right hand edge of each odd-numbered page bears a gray maple leaf, conveniently located at varying locations from top to bottom, top to bottom, so that if you hold the book steady at the spine and thumb the pages, you generate a flip-page animation of a falling leaf. Believe me when I say that this is a) huge fun and b) strangely hypnotic.

Kate's book is due out on September 1st - that's a week from today!

* I am taking that endorphin thing on faith people - you won't catch me actually testing it out.

Two Back-to-School Poetry Collections to Look For

Disclaimer: Both of these books are written by people whom I consider friends. This does not mean that I'm not being honest in my reviews, but I figure I owe it to you to disclose that I have a personal relationship with the authors, both of whom were kind enough to ask their publishers to send me a copy of their books. So, I have.


For the lower elementary set

STAMPEDE! Poems to Celebrate the Wild Side of School by my friend Laura Purdie Salas, illustrated by Steven Salerno. Laura used terms related to the animal kingdom in creating her collection of poems, and Steven Salerno took her quite literally in creating the illustrations, which show the children as animal-hybrids throughout the book.

Laura's work is clever, creative and playful. It includes poems about groups of children (e.g., "Swarm", which likens the buzz of conversation to a swarm of bees or "Stampede", which compares the thundering of kids heading for the exit at day's end to a herd of elephants) as well as poems about individuals - usually in uncomfortable situations that most kids can relate to. Here's the second poem in the book, "New Mouse":

New Mouse
by Laura Purdie Salas

Go left, then right,
Wrong turns, dead ends,
Can't find my class,
I've got no friends.

Each hallway is
a hallway clone.
Can't find my way
around alone.

A thousand halls,
a thousand ways,
I'm lost inside
this new-school maze.

The poems are set up in a way that essentially moves through the school day - gym class, lunch, recess, references to various classes and situations (such as picture day and rumored crushes). A fun collection of poems about school. Recommended for the elementary school crowd: K-3 per the publisher, but I'm pretty sure kids in upper elementary school would still like this book!

Laura set up a website for the book, which will give you the opportunity to read two more of Laura's poems (the first and last ones in the book). It will also let you see some of Steven Salerno's artwork.


For the upper elementary and middle school set

Countdown to Summer: A Poem for Every Day of the School Year by my friend J. Patrick Lewis, illustrated by Ethan Long. This book does for the older elementary and middle school age group what Billy Collins's Poetry 180 does for teens: it provides you with 180 poems, one for each day of school. But unlike Collins's book (and the related website from the Library of Congress, both of which are anthologies consisting of poems by a number of poets, all the poems are by a single author.

Pat's book starts with poem #180 and counts its way down to #1. Not all of the poems are funny, although many of them are. Not all of them are about school, although some of them are. Librarians will probably like #175: "Reading Harry Potter Under the Sheets", but they are guaranteed to love #173: "Book Etiquette", which gives directions on how to treat a book properly. But my favorite book-related poem is probably #28: "Ars Libri"

Ars Libri: after Archibald MacLeish
by J. Patrick Lewis

A book should be spirited and odd
As a divining rod,

Wild
As the wonder of a child,

Open to the sky and the slanting rain
As an attic's shattered windowpane.

A book should measure its success
By a censor's distress.

* *

A book should be ten candle-watts
Of afterthoughts,

Brilliant as a marbled vein in a quarry
Of story,

Bold enough to leave behind
Unpeace of mind.

A book should be a welcome late-night guest
After a day-long standardized test.

* *

A book should be the map, flashlight, and skeleton key
To literacy.

For all imaginations out of whack or work,
The CEO and the filing clerk,

For kids
Who yearn to see but hesitate to dream--

A book should both be
And seem.

The collection includes lovely poems about Eid ul-Fitr, Thanksgiving, Kwanzaa, Chanukah, Martin Luther King Day and more, riddles here and there, poems guaranteed to make you chuckle and the occasional political poem.

(Don't believe me? I direct you to #143, "Proposed Amendment to the Constitution":

The President and Vice-President
of the United States shall be required
to take the Fourth Grade Standardized
Achievement Test so that
No President or Vice-President
shall be left behind.

To which I say, "Preach it, Pat!"

Truly, it's not all highbrow. Take #149: "A Lasting Impression"

I scratched your initials
on the seat of my chair --
now you're stuck
on my underwear!

So, even though summer is not yet over here in New Jersey (my kids don't go back to school until September 8th), I am recommending that you get your hands on Countdown to Summer, and that you check out "the Wild Side of School" with Stampede.

Northanger Abbey - Chapter Thirty-One

My, but that month/book went by rather . . . slowly, if I'm being honest. I'm not used to reading a book at this pace, and even though I read the book all the way through (for something like the fifth time) before I got started this month , I ended up reading a chapter a day as I went in order to prepare the posts. It's kind of interesting, slowing something down like that. I know I learned a lot about what Austen did (and, in some cases, how she did it) this way, so I have to declare the month a success. I hope those of you who've been reading along (or who eventually manage to do so) agree.

Moving on.

Chapter 31 - the very short version "And they all lived happily ever after. The End."

Chapter 31

The Morlands are surprised when Henry asks to marry Catherine, but quickly recover. Even without any inheritance from his father, he's already a much better match for Catherine than they'd ever expected her to be able to make, and they don't doubt his love and affection for Catherine. Henry's independently wealthy (or at least well-off enough to support a wife), so unlike the case of James Morland when he wished to wed Isabella, there's no financial impediment to an immediate marriage.

Permission requested
That said, the Morlands are traditional enough to require that General Tilney consent to the marriage (even though Henry is beyond the age of consent) before they will allow the engagement to become official. They're not looking for actual approbation; simple parental permission will do. As a result of this, Henry and Catherine are not technically engaged at this point, although their intention is, of course, to become so.

Henry and Catherine are not surprised by it - unhappy about it, sure, but they go along with it. Henry returns to Woodston while "Catherine remained at Fullerton to cry." Gotta love Austen's narrator here, and how concisely she conveys Catherine's sentiments and actions.

Secret correspondence

Whether the torments of absence were softened by a clandestine correspondence, let us not inquire. Mr. and Mrs. Morland never did -- they had been too kind to exact any promise; and whenever Catherine received a letter, as, at that time, happened pretty often, they always looked another way.

Any correspondence between Henry and Catherine would be "clandestine" because they are a) unrelated and b) not engaged. I like what Austen accomplishes with this bit of narration. She first asserts that she won't inquire as to whether there was correspondence, then pretty much assures us that there was, all quite indirectly. The willingness of the Morlands to look the other way shows them to be sympathetic to the young couple and their plight. They never asked Catherine or Henry not to correspond, nor do they ask Catherine the identity of her correspondents, thereby giving tacit permission for her to correspond with her beau.

Permission granted
I'd like to point out that as miserable as we believe Catherine and Henry to be, it doesn't last all that long. Catherine got to Northanger Abbey in March (that little tidbit comes at the start of Chapter 22) and stayed there for five weeks, making it at least April when she left for Fullerton. We are told that the General gave his permission for the match in the summer, thanks to Eleanor's having made an advantageous match of her own. This means a delay of only a few months, at most.

Now, before you say "that was short work, Eleanor", I'll remind you what the narrator has to say about it. It's worth noting how the narrator doesn't just narrate here, but opines heavily as well:

The marriage of Eleanor Tilney, her removal from all the evils of such a home as Northanger had been made by Henry's banishment, to the home of her choice and the man of her choice, is an event which I expect to give general satisfaction among all her acquaintance. My own joy on the occasion is very sincere. I know no one more entitled, by unpretending merit, or better prepared by habitual suffering, to receive and enjoy felicity. Her partiality for this gentleman was not of recent origin; and he had been long withheld only by inferiority of situation from addressing her. His unexpected accession to title and fortune had removed all his difficulties; and never had the General loved his daughter so well in all her hours of companionship, utility, and patient endurance as when he first hailed her "Your Ladyship!" Her husband was really deserving of her; independent of his peerage, his wealth, and his attachment, being to a precision the most charming young man in the world. Any further definition of his merits must be unnecessary; the most charming young man in the world is instantly before the imagination of us all. Concerning the one in question, therefore, I have only to add -- (aware that the rules of composition forbid the introduction of a character not connected with my fable) -- that this was the very gentleman whose negligent servant left behind him that collection of washing-bills, resulting from a long visit at Northanger, by which my heroine was involved in one of her most alarming adventures.

Dear Jane, your deus ex machina is showing again. But it's so charming that I'm willing to overlook it. Plus, I love Eleanor and agree that she deserves happiness. I'm glad you didn't leave her stranded at Northanger Abbey with General Crankypants.

Henry and Catherine were married, the bells rang, and every body smiled; and, as this took place within a twelvemonth from the first day of their meeting, it will not appear, after all the dreadful delays occasioned by the General's cruelty, that they were essentially hurt by it.

"And they all lived happily ever after. The End."

Okay, so that's not quite how she ends it. She leaves us, instead, with a point to ponder: The General's interference, rather than separating them, appears to have strengthened their relationship. The parting sentence asks a book club sort of question: whether the story actually speaks in support of parental tyranny (like the General's), or in favor of filial disobedience (like Henry's).

To begin perfect happiness at the respective ages of twenty-six and eighteen, is to do pretty well; and professing myself moreover convinced, that the General's unjust interference, so far from being really injurious to their felicity, was perhaps rather conducive to it, by improving their knowledge of each other, and adding strength to their attachment, I leave it to be settled, by whomsoever it may concern, whether the tendency of this work be altogether to recommend parental tyranny, or reward filial disobedience.

I hope you've enjoyed August at the Abbey. I know I have. I'm also looking forward to School in September. (No, it's not a series of posts - it's a reality for my kids, but it won't begin until after Labor Day. Alas.)

Northanger Abbey - Chapter Thirty

Chapter 30 - the very short version Henry comes to Fullerton and proposes.

Chapter 30
Catherine got home on Sunday night. It's now Wednesday, and Catherine's spirits are still suffering, and Mrs. Morland has had enough. She tries to get Catherine to do her work - here, a reference to needlework. Evidently, Catherine's supposed to be making shirts for one of her brothers, but she's been remiss. She's so disheartened that she can't really concentrate on anything.

I find what happens next to be very interesting, because Austen and her narrator do something a bit unusual - they follow Mrs. Morland out of the sitting room and upstairs to rummage about and look for a treatise that Mrs. Morland intends to use to beat some sense into get Catherine to stop moping. And so it is that we, the readers, as well as Mrs. Morland are entirely surprised to find Henry Tilney sitting in the parlor with a very happy Catherine. An excellent use of surprise, and well set-up, too. Writers wishing to pull of such a coup on their own may want to take at look at the opening seven paragraphs of this chapter to see the master at work.

After a few minutes of awkward conversation, Henry seizes upon the Allens as a topic of conversation, asking Catherine to take him over to pay his respects. Now, as modern readers, this strikes us pretty much solely as a fabricated pretext for a private conversation - and, indeed, it is a pretext for a private conversation, but there was nothing fabricated about it at all. Having made the acquaintance of the Allens in Bath, it would have been considered extremely rude of Henry to be in the neighborhood and not drop in, although the timing of his particular visit is an excuse to get Catherine alone, as he, Catherine and Mrs. Morland are all aware. Mrs. Morland thinks he just wants to tell Catherine what was up with his father, because she hasn't the slightest clue of his relationship with Catherine at this point. In the movie clip below, however, you will see that Mrs. Moreland is far savvier than her counterpart within the book. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The conversation between Henry and Catherine

I love how the narrator conveys the conversation here. It's worth pointing out that Henry doesn't lead with what was up with his dad, but goes straight for a declaration of love, which is, of course, reciprocated. The narrator's glee in pointing out that Catherine's feelings are not a secret to anyone, including Henry, makes me very happy. Also funny? Her assertion that the reason he ever gave Catherine a serious look in the first place was her attraction to Henry. But where it becomes positively hilarious is where the narrator acknowledges that such motivation may be a first within the pages of a novel, but is a commonplace in the real world:

Some explanation on his father's account he had to give; but his first purpose was to explain himself, and before they reached Mr. Allen's grounds he had done it so well, that Catherine did not think it could ever be repeated too often. She was assured of his affection; and that heart in return was solicited, which, perhaps, they pretty equally knew was already entirely his own; for, though Henry was now sincerely attached to her, though he felt and delighted in all the excellencies of her character and truly loved her society, I must confess that his affection originated in nothing better than gratitude, or, in other words, that a persuasion of her partiality for him had been the only cause of giving her a serious thought. It is a new circumstance in romance, I acknowledge, and dreadfully derogatory of an heroine's dignity; but if it be as new in common life, the credit of a wild imagination will at least be all my own. (Emphasis added.)

The happy couple visits Mrs. Allen only briefly, during which both of them are pretty much incoherent - again, a fact in keeping with real life, I think. Besides, do you suppose that Mrs. Allen noticed they were incoherent? I rather suspect not.

Clever use of "telling"
Austen's narrator cleverly tells us the entire story behind General Tilney's actions in taking a liking to Catherine and later chucking her out, filling us in on John Thorpe's role in the matter. Only after she's filled us in on the whole General Tilney line (which makes perfect sense as backstory to his actions and motivations throughout, by the by) does she mention that Henry didn't tell Catherine all of that, but that it was patched together from a variety of sources. Genius, I tell you.

Henry proves his mettle by standing up to his father on multiple counts: he expresses disapproval of how the General treated Catherine, refuses to go with him to Herefordshire, and tells his father that he intends to propose to Catherine. He left his furious father at Northanger, returned to Woodston, then set off for Fullerton the following day.

It is worth noting that Henry's disagreement with his father is justified to the reader, as a means of showing that Henry is morally in the right here in bucking parental authority. Otherwise, you see, his lack of respect for his father would be shocking indeed.

But, in such a cause, [the General's] anger, though it must shock, could not intimidate Henry, who was sustained in his purpose by a conviction of its justice. He felt himself bound as much in honour as in affection to Miss Morland, and believing that heart to be his own which he had been directed to gain, no unworthy retraction of a tacit consent, no reversing decree of unjustifiable anger, could shake his fidelity, or influence the resolutions it prompted.

And now, for a bit of the final scene (with a squee-inducing kiss, I might add):





Tomorrow: Do we get our happily ever after?

Northanger Abbey - Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter 29 - the very short version Catherine gets home and her family thinks the General was a jerk.

Chapter 29

In what ought to be the most frightening episode in the book, Catherine is sent on a solitary journey of 11 hours of relatively steady travel by post chaise without any sort of companion. However, our heroine has matured so very much that even this holds no real fear for her - instead, she passes it in grief and concern: what will Henry say when he arrives at Northanger Abbey on Monday and finds her gone? and how will her family react when she arrives unlooked-for and unannounced? Will they be so affronted by the General's rudeness that they extend their dislike for Henry and Eleanor as well?

I love how Austen inserts her narrator into this scene to remind us how very average Catherine is, and how far from a novel this novel is. It also serves to describe the scene whilst claiming that the scene is not worth describing. Brilliant irony, Miss Austen.

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.

Home again, home again, jiggety-jigOn reaching home, Catherine is happy to see her family, and they are happy to see her. On hearing how her sudden trip home came about, they all agree that the General was impolite, to say the least. In a line given to one of Catherine's sisters, we read the precise reaction that so many readers have upon finishing the last chapter: "'I can allow for his wishing Catherine away, when he recollected this engagement,' said Sarah, 'but why not do it civilly?'"

The next morning, Catherine immediately sits down to write to Eleanor, wishing to reassure Eleanor that she reached home and that she still thinks well of Eleanor. I love how we get to listen in on Catherine as she agonizes over how to say what she wants without sounding, well, wrong somehow, and in a way that wouldn't embarrass her if Henry were to read the letter. I'm sure we've all been there, whether in personal or business correspondence. It's one of those real-life details that Austen draws in so well, allowing the reader to fully engage with her main character as a result.

Mrs. Morland attempts to cheer Catherine up

Mrs. Morland can't help but notice that Catherine is not quite herself. So she first goes for the "they weren't good enough for you" sort of message. However, when Mrs. Morland opines that perhaps Catherine is well-shot of the Tilneys (lumping them in with Isabella Thorpe, no less), Catherine springs to Eleanor's defense (you'll note that she hasn't spilled her affection for Henry). Although her words are about Eleanor, her emotional reaction is based on Henry - what will happen if she doesn't see him for years? Will he move on? Seeing Catherine upset, her mother switches to distraction: Let's go see Mrs. Allen!

Oh, Mrs. Allen!
Mr. Allen expresses unhappiness at hearing how Catherine was treated, which Mrs. Allen echoes, settling on a mantra of "I really have not patience with the General", followed by a discussion of various clothing items. She does, however, say kind things about Henry Tilney, which Mrs. Morland manages not to seize upon.

Mutual inattention
Mrs. Allen usually pays little attention to other people, preferring her own certainty in her own perspective, and so it is in this scene. But she's not the only one: as the scene closes, Mrs. Morland prattles to Catherine about how recent acquaintances are unimportant and keeping long-term friends is the source of true happiness, all while Catherine is busy thinking that Henry must have gotten to Northanger by now and must be on his way to Herefordshire with Eleanor and General Tilney to visit the General's friend.

I am already jumping up and down, for tomorrow brings HENRY with it!

Northanger Abbey - Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter 28 - the very short version The General takes a short trip to London, and on his return directs Eleanor to tell Catherine to leave. Tomorrow. Unescorted.

Chapter 28
The General takes a short trip to London, during which Eleanor and Catherine agree that she's to stay with them for weeks and weeks more, making Eleanor, Catherine and Henry terribly happy. On Saturday, Henry heads to Woodston so he can perform his ministerial duties. That night, the General returns, and directs Eleanor to tell Catherine to leave. Tomorrow. Unescorted. Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.

How rude is General Tilney? Let me count the ways:

1. For a host to tell an invited guest to leave was pretty rude.

2. To tell them to leave on extremely short notice was really rude.

3. To arrange travel arrangements for the guest's departure before the guest is even aware that they're going is pretty . . . inconsiderate. (I am reminded of the mover in the "Don't F*ck With Mr. Zero" T-shirt knowing about Harry's separation before he did.)

4. To send a young lady off unescorted was exceedingly rude. Slap-in-the-face rude. Inviting trouble rude.

5. Travelling on Sunday was considered poor manners unless there was some particularly exacerbating circumstance.

6. Forcing someone else to travel on Sunday is that much worse - you are forcing someone who might never violate the "no travel on Sunday" injunction to do just that.

To sum up, our host, General Tilney, told an invited guest to get the hell out, on very short notice, with arrangements for her departure already made before she knows a thing about it. She is being sent post-chaise* without a servant or other escort, and she's being forced to leave at a beastly early hour on Sunday morning - not only will she be travelling on Sunday, but he's preventing her from attending church as well. Oh - and he's forcing her to arrive at her family's home unexpectedly and unannounced. It's all highly irregular and extraordinarily unmannerly, when taken as a whole.

*post-chaise: The General is sending Catherine in a closed carriage. It's a private vehicle (sometimes owned, sometimes hired), and not a form of public transportation like a stage coach. That said, when travelling a distance, stops would be made and horses would be changed. The driver would likely have ridden postilion (astride the left-hand horse of the pair closest to the carriage - there would have been either two or four horses pulling the carriage; if there were two pair, he'd have held the reins to the front pair while riding the back pair). Catherine is being sent without an escort to keep her company at any rest stops, so she has to manage whatever needs to be done on her own - an unusual circumstance for a young, unmarried lady.

Catherine's thoughts on the matter show remarkable discernment, and display character growth:

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.

Brava, Catherine! You've finally gotten something right. Too bad there's no way you can correctly sort out what it is that has the General's knickers in a twist. In this scene in which Catherine has to react/respond to something truly horrible, she manages to react and respond rationally. Does she cry? Yes, but only when alone. She wonders about the possible reasons and sorts out that the General is (to borrow from Lady Catherine De Bourgh in the 1995 BBC Production) "quite put out". Catherine's exit from Northanger Abbey is another "civilized" twist on a Gothic theme, in which the heroine is sent on a midnight carriage ride alone under horrifying conditions. Now, Catherine's not leaving at midnight, but she is leaving terribly early in the morning and under all of the rude circumstances already discussed. Dear Jane Austen: I c what u did thar.

Before moving on, let's take a second to recall how Catherine spent her first night at the Abbey - wigged out about the storm and wondering about the documents she found in that cabinet right before her candle went out. Now, let's look at how our little girl has grown through the course of the novel:

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.

Catherine isn't kept awake by fantasies and fictions, but by actual concern over a very real situation. It is natural for one to be distressed under such circumstances, and what keeps her awake is not the noises she hears, but her curiosity and distress over what has occurred.

Poor Eleanor. Eleanor is in a horrible situation here as well. She is expected to be obedient to her father, and also expected not to violate any confidence he may have imparted as to the reason for his incivility. But she is genuinely fond of Catherine and seriously unhappy with the way her father is behaving. Nevertheless, she is constrained to act in accordance with his wishes. Under the circumstances, she does the best she can. She offers to help Catherine pack, requests that she write*, and ensures that Catherine has sufficient funds to pay her way home, all the while revealing herself to be upset and acting under severe strain.

*requests to correspond: Despite the fact that pretty much every member of the 19th-century gentry generated a large amount of personal correspondence, one did not simply send letters to people willy-nilly. One waited to be invited to correspond (you may recall that immediately prior to being invited to visit the Abbey back in Chapter 17, Catherine was hopeful that Eleanor was going to ask her to correspond). Eleanor has specifically asked Catherine to open a correspondence with her; however, given her father's fit of pique, Eleanor has asked Catherine to enter into a surreptitious correspondence by directing the letter to Eleanor's friend Alice (whom she will be visiting, presumably) as a means of getting the letter through undetected.

Eleanor's and Catherine's leave-taking concludes with Catherine making reference to Henry before bursting into tears and racing into the carriage. What will her family say when she gets home tomorrow?