In previous posts, I've discussed why I disagree with the notion that Austen promoted politically radical ideas.  I’ve quoted and re-quoted that wisdom from Professor Garnett, above, because I think he gets at the heart of Jane Austen.
   Of course Austen’s novels featured love stories -- they were novels, after all, not collections of sermons or texts on seafaring. However, she wasn't all about romance, nor was she trying to upend the social order. She believed in virtue, self-knowledge and self-control -- in other words, morality.
    However, after reading Mary Waldron’s Jane Austen and the Fiction of Her Time, I am compelled to add a big “BUT." I think Waldron is correct that Austen did not care for authors who bashed their readers over the head with their morality and their beliefs. 
   Her aversion to this writing style wasn't because she thought preachiness was bad for book sales. For example, she was critical of Hannah More and Mary Brunton, who easily outsold her (in her lifetime.) (However popular in their day, Hannah More's Coelebs in Search of a Wife and Mary Brunton’s Self-Control are best known today for what Austen said about them in her private letters, a pretty amazing reversal of fame.)

  As Mary Waldron explains, Hannah More's best-selling Coelebs in Search of a Wife, is “tiresomely prescriptive” and features a hero who “is about as improbable as a man of twenty-four… could be.” Charles engages in a coolly systematic hunt for a wife who will meet his expectations and Christian principles, but can’t find a suitable girl in the fleshpots of London. He goes to visit Mr. Stanley, his late father’s old friend, and meets Stanley’s daughter Lucilla. Lucilla is the perfect, pious, modest, charitable, feminine, hard-working Regency girl. She is in fact faultless, although it would have been a sin of vanity for her to think so.
  Very little happens to, or between, Charles and Lucilla. Most of the action involves side characters about whom Mr. Stanley moralizes. He talks about his neighbours to illustrate his opinions about religion and raising children, which, under any other circumstances, would make him the most judgmental, inveterate old gossip you’ve ever met in your life. 
    I actually rather like Hannah More’s writing – she could turn a deft phrase -- and I admire her as a self-made woman, an educator, an abolitionist, and a philanthropist. But however much I admire More, Coelebs is not her best work, best-seller though it was.  Coelebs may be a novel, technically, but all the characters, especially Lucilla’s father, are just animated points of view, propounding More's doctrines of Evangelical Anglicanism. (For more about Coelebs, check out this helpful blog). (I've written another comparison of Mansfield Park and Coelebs in this post). 
    Austen could not accept making the story in the novel subservient to the moralizing, because you end up with a story inhabited by people who bear no relation to real, fallible, humans. “Pictures of perfection, as you know,” she told her niece, “make me sick and wicked.” She thought that faultless heroines like Lucilla Stanley were too far removed from reality, sometimes comically so. And when you start out with perfect characters, there is no opportunity for character development. 

Next post:  She is never, ever, wrong.

Many actors say that playing the conniving villain is more fun than playing the upright hero, and I think it is very entertaining to write villains as well!  I enjoyed writing a short story based on Persuasion from the point of view of Mrs. Clay, the artful gold-digger, which appears in the Quill Ink anthology, Rational Creatures.

Clutching My Pearls is my ongoing blog series about my take on Jane Austen’s beliefs and ideas, as based on her novels. Click here for the first in the series.  

   In Jane Austen's time, a gentleman's reputation was so important that he sometimes risked his life for the sake of honour -- with pistols at dawn. Or, as in the case of Colonel Brandon, they dueled to punish someone else's dishonourable conduct.
   However, the plot of Pride & Prejudice turns on another characteristic habit of English gentlemen: Darcy does not deign to explain his past dealings with Wickham. His reticence has consequences: too late, Darcy realizes that Wickham has prejudiced the mind of the woman he loves against him. Stung, he writes Elizabeth a long letter. After realizing she misjudged Darcy and Wickham, Elizabeth tells her sister Jane. They both decide to keep the whole matter to themselves, as Darcy would wish, and to preserve Wickham's character -- after all, he's leaving town anyway.
    As Janeites will recall, when Elizabeth learns that Darcy was a witness to Wickham's forced marriage to Lydia, she writes to her aunt, begging for an explanation. Mrs. Gardiner explains that Darcy took the blame for Wickham's seduction of Lydia.
    Now we get to the crux of the matter. As Mrs. Gardiner explains: "He generously imputed the whole to his mistaken pride, and confessed that he had before thought it beneath him to lay his private actions open to the world. His character was to speak for itself. He called it, therefore, his duty to step forward, and endeavour to remedy an evil which had been brought on by himself."
   This is the "Pride" in "Pride and Prejudice."  Darcy has carried his implacable pride too far, which is also why he totally botched his first proposal of marriage to Elizabeth. When they are happily reconciled, he tells her, "by you, I was properly humbled."
   Darcy holds his reputation to be so unimpeachable that he will not descend to defend himself. Was this a common attitude at the time or was he unusually aloof?

​   Clearly, Darcy is not the only British gentleman who feels it would be beneath his dignity to respond to some idle slur on his character. 
​   In his influential work, A Theory of Moral Sentiments (1759), the economist Adam Smith analyzed and explored human nature with observations of people and society. For example, he says we admire someone who reacts to the loss of a loved one with fortitude and self-command.  (I think some of the reactions that he assumed were universal were in fact particularly British, such as the British admiration for stoicism and the stiff upper lip. In other cultures, you would be expected to wail loudly and tear your clothes upon the death of a loved one.)
​      Just like Mary Bennet, Smith distinguishes between pride and vanity. 
​   Smith says of the proud man: "When we compare them with [their critics] they may appear... very much above the common level. Where there is this real superiority, pride is frequently attended with many respectable virtues; with truth, with integrity, with a high sense of honour, with cordial and steady friendship, with the most inflexible firmness and resolution." ​   
​   Does that sound like anyone we know?

   We also learn from Northanger Abbey that it was a popular trope in 18th century novels for a heroine's reputation to be blighted by misunderstanding or rumor. Jane Austen satirizes this when Catherine Morland appears to be lacking a dance partner because John Thorpe keeps her waiting:
​"To be disgraced in the eye of the world, to wear the appearance of infamy while her heart is all purity, her actions all innocence, and the misconduct of another the true source of her debasement, is one of those circumstances which peculiarly belong to the heroine's life, and her fortitude under it what particularly dignifies her character. Catherine had fortitude too; she suffered, but no murmur passed her lips."

       In addition to not deigning to respond to attacks on one's character, it was vulgar to hunger after fame. In this passage from The Theory of Moral Sentiments, Smith explains that the virtuous and wise man might even disdain fame, so long as he approved of his own conduct:
   "The love of just fame... is not unworthy even of a wise man. He sometimes, however, neglects and even despises it; and he is never more apt to do so when he has the most perfect assurance of the perfect propriety of his own conduct. His self-approbation, in this case, stands in need of no confirmation from the approbation of other men."
​   Jane Austen published her novels anonymously in her lifetime, and this is typically ascribed to the patriarchal system she lived in. But in the early days of the English novel, it was common for men as well as women to publish anonymously, and this often had to do with dignity and reticence. As Professor John Mullan explained on a BBC In Our Time program, "Writers who achieve popularity and fame have to go through all sorts of maneuvers to claim that they didn't mean it. Great writers of the early 18th century like Pope and Swift sometimes pretend that they didn't write a book or that it got published by accident." In his book  Anonymity: a Secret History of English Literature, Mullan adds that in the 16th century, "Ambitious writers who did allow their work to be printed often exhibited reluctance or distaste."
   Of the reticence of Jane Austen and other female writers, Mullan says: "Sometimes it is difficult to disentangle gender from class when encountering prejudices against publication. At a time when it was widely considered ungentlemanly for a man to publish under his own name, we should not suppose that clever women would have resented the requirement that they keep their names off what they write... It was in bad taste for a man to publish what he had composed, and doubly unacceptable for a woman."

  For a final example of reacting to criticism with "silent contempt," we have the poet and author Anna Laetitia Barbould. She wrote an anti [Napoleonic] war poem, 1811, (which I quoted in my Remembrance Day blog post).  When the poem was published, it received a sarcastic and condescending review, calling Barbould to task for writing about public affairs: "She has wandered from the course in which she was respectable and useful... an irresistible impulse of public duty [has] induced her to dash down her shagreen spectacles and her knitting needles and stray outside her domestic sphere of competence."
   Barbould's friend, fellow author Maria Edgeworth, wrote to her: "I cannot describe to you the indignation or rather the disgust that we felt at the manner in which you are treated in the Quarterly Review... My father and I in the moment of provocation snatched up our pens to answer it, but a minute's reflexion convinced us that silent contempt is the best answer."  
    We don't know if Barbould agreed, or wished that Edgeworth had spoken up to defend her.

Next post:  Pictures of Perfection

In my novel A Marriage of Attachment, poor Fanny Price's character is attacked by a woman who is jealous of her. For more about my Mansfield Trilogy, click here.