The Gothic Heroine

In Northanger Abbey, Jane Austen enters the conversation about novel-reading and whether or not it is harmful to young girls. She does this through through narrative asides as well as the character of Catherine Morland. One narrative aside defending novels comes early in the novel in Chapter 5 where Austen has just informed us that Catherine and Isabella often got together to discuss novels. “Yes, novels; for I will not adopt that ungenerous and impolitic custom so common with novel writers, of degrading by their contemptuous censure the very performances, to the number of which they are themselves adding–joining with their greatest enemies in bestowing the harshest epithets on such works, and scarcely every permitting them to be read by their own heroine, who, if she accidentally take up a novel, is sure to turn over its insipid pages with disgust.” And later in the same paragraph she further defends novels: “‘Oh! it is only a novel!’ replies the young lady…. in short, only some work in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humour are conveyed to the world in the best chosen language.” These sorts of comments are found interspersed in the novel, defending her own craft, and they reminded me a bit of Fielding’s own remarks on his work in Joseph Andrews. There is truth, these writers claim, in their fictitious worlds.

The best evidence of Austen’s defense for novels, though, is in the character of Catherine Morland. She is the perfect Gothic heroine–reminiscent of Adeline in Romance of the Forest. Unlike Adeline, though, Catherine is uninterested in the sentimentality surrounding her; she is much more interested in anything “horrid”. She is independently minded and adventurous. When she is invited to stay at an Abbey with the Tilneys, Austen sets her on a path of seeming adventures that all end up having rather mundane ends. The secret manuscript in the closet is simply a laundry list, the giant chest contains blankets, even the mother, who Catherine imagines killed or hidden away by General Tilney, is found out to have died of natural causes surrounded by her two sons. Austen introduces one Gothic encounter after another only to tear down each one with practical explanations. When Catherine is caught, on her last adventure into the late Mrs. Tilney’s bedroom, by Henry, Austen sets us up for her lesson on what exactly the Gothic entails. Realizing that Catherine has been suspecting his father of murder, Henry explains, “Remember the country and the age in which we live. Remember that we are English, that we are Christians…. Does our education prepare us for such atrocities? … Could they be perpetrated without being known, in a country like this?” Here we’re given to understand that the Gothic really is foreign and could never take place somewhere as civilized as England. And if that were the end, we’d come away with a confirmed idea of the “Otherness” of the Gothic and the damages Gothic novels can do to the mind of a young girl.

Austen, however, has other plans. Just a few chapters later General Tilney, having found out that Catherine isn’t rich, kicks her out of the house, alone, without money, in the middle of the night (well, she’s allowed to stay until the early morning)—not even a servant to keep her company or a carriage to take her home. Here is the only truly horrid, truly Gothic thing that happens in the novel, and it is perpetrated by an Englishman in England, and is not the result of novel-reading. I think Austen plays with all the conventions of the Gothic to emphasize this most atrocious of acts: the abandonment of an innocent girl for the most ridiculous of reasons: lack of money. Luckily Eleanor Tilney remembers to ask Catherine if she has enough money to get home, and so the happy ending—also a usual for Gothic novels—can come to pass. And Catherine–although an admitted novel reader, and a Gothic novel reader at that–is seen to not be at all damaged by what she read. She finds her way home all alone, and we can see that she was right in her suspicions about Northanger Abbey and General Tilney after all. Northanger Abbey, we find, was not a happy place, and General Tilney might not have killed his wife, but he could definitely be considered a villain in his own right.

Maybe novel-reading actually helped Catherine out in the end, making her more astute about the world around her.

The Progress of Romance

Reading The Progress of Romance by Clara Reeves is like reading a summary of our class discussions all semester. I found it very helpful to hear differing opinions about the novel and romances  from an 18th century author. It was interesting, too, to see the differing opinions that Reeves presents in Progress through the characters of Hortensius and Euphrasia, with Sophronia acting as a mediary of sorts. The debate, of course, is about the effects of romances on readers–especially women and children.  The two debaters sum up the two sides effectively in Book II, Evening XII. When Hortensius raises objections about reading novels making youths think themselves wiser than their parents, Euphrasia says, “All this is undoubtedly true, but at the same time would you exclude all works of fiction from the young reader?–In this case you would deprive him of the pleasure and improvement he might receive from works of genius, taste and morality.” Hortensius answers, “Yes, I would serve them as the Priest  did Don Quixote’s library, burn the good ones for being found in bad company.” So basically the one side thinks all novels should be burnt and kept from the young (and women) to preserve them from the potential of reading trash; whereas the other side thinks there should just be some discrimination–mainly from the children’s parents–about what they allow their children to read. They should choose only those novels and romances that teach virtue and good qualities and not allow them to read the ones that teach the opposite.

Euphrasia makes many arguments over the course of the work about why some romances and novels are good for people to read, but one of the ones I found most surprising was when she told Hortensius he was being incredibly severe on books meant for females but rather lax about those meant for males. When he asks her where she can find such books to support her argument, she points out schoolbooks commonly used for boys. “They are taught the History–the Mythology–the morals–of the great Ancients, whom you and all learned men revere–But with these, they learn also–their Idolatry–their follies–their vices–and every thing that is shocking to virtuous manners.” And earlier she mentioned that she doesn’t approve of books that mix truth with fantasy. So novels and romances are alright as long as they don’t mix. Novels should be based on real life, and romances are wild adventures that are obviously not real although they can have authentic morals int hem…or at least I think that’s what she is saying. She points out in Book I that there are many positive things that can be learned from romances–sort of like we discussed with The Female Quixote. “If it taught young women to deport themselves too much like Queens and Princesses, it taught them at the same time that virtue only could give lustre tto every rank and degree.–It taught the young men to look upon themselves as the champions and protectors of the weaker sex;–to treat the object of their passion with the utmost respect;–to avoid all improper familiarities, and, in short, to expect from her the reward of their virtues.” The Progress of Romance, in short,  is an interesting peek into the 18th century debate surrounding novels and romances from those living in the midst of it.