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Authors: Elizabeth Kantor
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19
“She had humoured, or softened, or concealed his failings, and promoted his real respectability for seventeen years; and though not the very happiest being in the world herself, had found enough in her duties, her friends, and her children, to attach her to life, and to make it no matter of indifference to her when she was called on to quit them.”
“She had humoured, or softened, or concealed his failings, and promoted his real respectability for seventeen years; and though not the very happiest being in the world herself, had found enough in her duties, her friends, and her children, to attach her to life, and to make it no matter of indifference to her when she was called on to quit them.”
20
Eliza found herself living with a husband who had “no regard for her; his pleasures were not what they ought to have been; and from the first he treated her unkindly.” And Eliza had a mind “so young, so lively, so inexperienced” that she couldn’t resign herself to managing married unhappiness à la Lady Elliot.
Eliza found herself living with a husband who had “no regard for her; his pleasures were not what they ought to have been; and from the first he treated her unkindly.” And Eliza had a mind “so young, so lively, so inexperienced” that she couldn’t resign herself to managing married unhappiness à la Lady Elliot.
21
Colonel Brandon: “I could not trace her beyond her first seducer, and there was every reason to fear that she had removed from him only to sink deeper in a life of sin. Her legal allowance was not adequate to her fortune, nor sufficient for her comfortable maintenance, and I learnt from my brother that the power of receiving it had been made over some months before to another person. He imagined, and calmly could he imagine it, that her extravagance and consequent distress had obliged her to dispose of it for some immediate relief. At last, however, and after I had been six months in England, I
did
find her. Regard for a former servant of my own, who had since fallen into misfortune, carried me to visit him in a spunging-house, where he was confined for debt; and there, in the same house, under a similar confinement, was my unfortunate sister. So altered—so faded—worn down by acute suffering of every kind! hardly could I believe the melancholy and sickly figure before me, to be the remains of the lovely, blooming, healthful girl, on whom I had once doated.”
Colonel Brandon: “I could not trace her beyond her first seducer, and there was every reason to fear that she had removed from him only to sink deeper in a life of sin. Her legal allowance was not adequate to her fortune, nor sufficient for her comfortable maintenance, and I learnt from my brother that the power of receiving it had been made over some months before to another person. He imagined, and calmly could he imagine it, that her extravagance and consequent distress had obliged her to dispose of it for some immediate relief. At last, however, and after I had been six months in England, I
did
find her. Regard for a former servant of my own, who had since fallen into misfortune, carried me to visit him in a spunging-house, where he was confined for debt; and there, in the same house, under a similar confinement, was my unfortunate sister. So altered—so faded—worn down by acute suffering of every kind! hardly could I believe the melancholy and sickly figure before me, to be the remains of the lovely, blooming, healthful girl, on whom I had once doated.”
22
At the moment Emma accepts Mr. Knightley, Jane Austen comments, “Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised, or a little mistaken; but where, as in this case, though the conduct is mistaken, the feelings are not, it may not be very material.” And later, once Harriet accepts Robert Martin, “High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would soon be over.”
At the moment Emma accepts Mr. Knightley, Jane Austen comments, “Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised, or a little mistaken; but where, as in this case, though the conduct is mistaken, the feelings are not, it may not be very material.” And later, once Harriet accepts Robert Martin, “High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would soon be over.”
23
Mr. Knightley: “My Emma, does not every thing serve to prove more and more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with each other?”
Mr. Knightley: “My Emma, does not every thing serve to prove more and more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with each other?”
24
Emma, when she realizes that her schemes for Mr. Elton to marry Harriet have come to naught: “‘Here have I,’ said she, ‘actually talked poor Harriet into being very much attached to this man. She might never have thought of him but for me; and certainly never would have thought of him with hope, if I had not assured her of his attachment, for she is as modest and humble as I used to think him. Oh! that I had been satisfied with persuading her not to accept young Martin. There I was quite right. That was well done of me; but there I should have stopped, and left the rest to time and chance. I was introducing her into good company, and giving her the opportunity of pleasing some one worth having; I ought not to have attempted more. But now, poor girl, her peace is cut up for some time. I have been but half a friend to her; and if she were
not
to feel this disappointment so very much, I am sure I have not an idea of any body else who would be at all desirable for her;—William Coxe—Oh! no, I could not endure William Coxe—a pert young lawyer.’
CHAPTER SIXEmma, when she realizes that her schemes for Mr. Elton to marry Harriet have come to naught: “‘Here have I,’ said she, ‘actually talked poor Harriet into being very much attached to this man. She might never have thought of him but for me; and certainly never would have thought of him with hope, if I had not assured her of his attachment, for she is as modest and humble as I used to think him. Oh! that I had been satisfied with persuading her not to accept young Martin. There I was quite right. That was well done of me; but there I should have stopped, and left the rest to time and chance. I was introducing her into good company, and giving her the opportunity of pleasing some one worth having; I ought not to have attempted more. But now, poor girl, her peace is cut up for some time. I have been but half a friend to her; and if she were
not
to feel this disappointment so very much, I am sure I have not an idea of any body else who would be at all desirable for her;—William Coxe—Oh! no, I could not endure William Coxe—a pert young lawyer.’
“She stopt to blush and laugh at her own relapse.”
1
To put it in literary-critical terms, she starts out writing cruel Jonsonian comedy of humors, but somehow works her way into writing generous Shakespearean comedy.
To put it in literary-critical terms, she starts out writing cruel Jonsonian comedy of humors, but somehow works her way into writing generous Shakespearean comedy.
2
“Dear Eloisa (said I) there’s no occasion for your crying so much about such a trifle (for I was willing to make light of it in order to comfort her). I beg you would not mind it—,You see it does not vex me in the least; though perhaps
I
may suffer most from it after all; for I shall not only be obliged to eat up all the Victuals I have dressed already, but must if Hervey should recover (which however is not very likely) dress as much for you again; or should he die (as I suppose he will) I shall still have to prepare a Dinner for you whenever you marry someone else.... Thus I did all in my power to console her, but without any effect.”
“Dear Eloisa (said I) there’s no occasion for your crying so much about such a trifle (for I was willing to make light of it in order to comfort her). I beg you would not mind it—,You see it does not vex me in the least; though perhaps
I
may suffer most from it after all; for I shall not only be obliged to eat up all the Victuals I have dressed already, but must if Hervey should recover (which however is not very likely) dress as much for you again; or should he die (as I suppose he will) I shall still have to prepare a Dinner for you whenever you marry someone else.... Thus I did all in my power to console her, but without any effect.”
3
In these caricatures—and in the imbalances that her heroes and heroines fall into—Jane Austen touches on a phenomenon that philosophers since ancient times have addressed: the tension between “the good” and what’s our own. To some extent we all naturally admire whatever’s excellent. But we also all give special weight to what belongs to us, reminds us of ourselves, or is associated with our own group. Modern psychologists talk about “identity issues.” Teenagers will neglect what’s obviously and objectively better for them in order to pursue what subjectively makes them feel good about themselves—fitting in, or being able to tell themselves they’re a certain kind of person.
In these caricatures—and in the imbalances that her heroes and heroines fall into—Jane Austen touches on a phenomenon that philosophers since ancient times have addressed: the tension between “the good” and what’s our own. To some extent we all naturally admire whatever’s excellent. But we also all give special weight to what belongs to us, reminds us of ourselves, or is associated with our own group. Modern psychologists talk about “identity issues.” Teenagers will neglect what’s obviously and objectively better for them in order to pursue what subjectively makes them feel good about themselves—fitting in, or being able to tell themselves they’re a certain kind of person.
And we never entirely grow out of our prejudice toward what belongs to us. Jane Austen was keenly aware of this phenomenon. Susan Lesley in Lesley Castle thinks her stepdaughters are “two great, tall, out of the way, over-grown Girls.” And one of those girls returns the favor, writing of her stepmother that “there is something so extremely unmajestic in her little diminutive figure, as to render her in comparison with the elegant height of Matilda and Myself, an insignificant dwarf.” In
Sanditon
, Jane Austen’s last, unfinished novel, she gives us the proto-Victorian spinster Parker sisters, who enjoy the typical Victorian spinster hobbies—hypochondria and do-gooding: “The Sisters were perhaps driven to dissipate [their “Imagination and quick feelings”] in the invention of odd complaints.—The whole of their mental vivacity was evidently not so employed; Part was laid out in a Zeal for being useful.—It should seem that they must either be very busy for the Good of others, or else extremely ill themselves. Some natural delicacy of Constitution in fact, with an unfortunate turn for Medicine, especially quack Medicine, had given them an early tendency at various times, to various Disorders;—the rest of their sufferings was from Fancy, the love of Distinction & the love of the Wonderful.—They had Charitable hearts & many amiable feelings—but a spirit of restless activity, & the glory of doing more than anybody else, had their share in every exertion of Benevolence—and there was Vanity in all they did, as well as in all they endured.”
Sanditon
, Jane Austen’s last, unfinished novel, she gives us the proto-Victorian spinster Parker sisters, who enjoy the typical Victorian spinster hobbies—hypochondria and do-gooding: “The Sisters were perhaps driven to dissipate [their “Imagination and quick feelings”] in the invention of odd complaints.—The whole of their mental vivacity was evidently not so employed; Part was laid out in a Zeal for being useful.—It should seem that they must either be very busy for the Good of others, or else extremely ill themselves. Some natural delicacy of Constitution in fact, with an unfortunate turn for Medicine, especially quack Medicine, had given them an early tendency at various times, to various Disorders;—the rest of their sufferings was from Fancy, the love of Distinction & the love of the Wonderful.—They had Charitable hearts & many amiable feelings—but a spirit of restless activity, & the glory of doing more than anybody else, had their share in every exertion of Benevolence—and there was Vanity in all they did, as well as in all they endured.”
“Vanity,” “the glory of doing more than anybody else,” “the love of Distinction”—those are the motivators that a modern psychologist would put under the “identity issues” label. Jane Austen thought of that impulse (what we might think of as a need to cater to your own ego) as a drag away from a balanced (what we might call an objective) view of things. She understood that the chief handicap preventing us from seeing the real value of something—or, when it comes to love, the true excellence of some
one—
is some distorting influence proceeding from our own issues, those absurd extremes her minor characters fall into. Being in the right balance means standing in the center, where you can see things straight and clear, not from any distorting angle.
one—
is some distorting influence proceeding from our own issues, those absurd extremes her minor characters fall into. Being in the right balance means standing in the center, where you can see things straight and clear, not from any distorting angle.
4
Sir John Middleton, whose ruling humor is “the dread of being alone,” is delighted to hear that Elinor and Marianne are coming to London because to him even “the acquisition of two, to the number of inhabitants in London, was something.” Charlotte Palmer, “thoroughly good-natured,” and “determined to be happy,” laughs at absolutely everything, from her husband’s rudeness to “the
loss of her favourite plants, unwarily exposed, and nipped by the lingering frost.” John Dashwood is the epitome of transparent selfishness, just guilty enough about doing nothing for his sisters that he’s “exceedingly anxious that everybody else should do a good deal; and an offer from Colonel Brandon, or a legacy from Mrs. Jennings, was the easiest means of atoning for his own neglect.”
Sir John Middleton, whose ruling humor is “the dread of being alone,” is delighted to hear that Elinor and Marianne are coming to London because to him even “the acquisition of two, to the number of inhabitants in London, was something.” Charlotte Palmer, “thoroughly good-natured,” and “determined to be happy,” laughs at absolutely everything, from her husband’s rudeness to “the
loss of her favourite plants, unwarily exposed, and nipped by the lingering frost.” John Dashwood is the epitome of transparent selfishness, just guilty enough about doing nothing for his sisters that he’s “exceedingly anxious that everybody else should do a good deal; and an offer from Colonel Brandon, or a legacy from Mrs. Jennings, was the easiest means of atoning for his own neglect.”
5
Lady Middleton’s insipid elegance, Lucy Steele’s clever scheming.
Lady Middleton’s insipid elegance, Lucy Steele’s clever scheming.
6
“The violence of [Eliza’s] passions” and “the weakness of her understanding.”
“The violence of [Eliza’s] passions” and “the weakness of her understanding.”
7
He tells Louisa, “It is the worst evil of too yielding and indecisive a character, that no influence over it can be depended on.—You are never sure of a good impression being durable. Every body may sway it; let those who would be happy be firm.”
He tells Louisa, “It is the worst evil of too yielding and indecisive a character, that no influence over it can be depended on.—You are never sure of a good impression being durable. Every body may sway it; let those who would be happy be firm.”
8
That’s the theme of the conversation between him and Louisa, when Anne overhears him comparing Louisa to “a beautiful glossy nut, which, blessed with its original strength, has outlived all the storms of autumn.”
That’s the theme of the conversation between him and Louisa, when Anne overhears him comparing Louisa to “a beautiful glossy nut, which, blessed with its original strength, has outlived all the storms of autumn.”
9
“Now armed with the idea of merit in maintaining her own way.”
“Now armed with the idea of merit in maintaining her own way.”
10
Anne was “exalt[ed] in his estimation” once he “understood the perfect excellence of the mind with which Louisa’s could so ill bear a comparison.”
Anne was “exalt[ed] in his estimation” once he “understood the perfect excellence of the mind with which Louisa’s could so ill bear a comparison.”
11
Lydia’s empty-headed “rage for admiration” and Wickham’s weaknesses for women and gambling are absurdities that pull them off center and make them more like the caricatures in Jane Austen’s early works than like her happy lovers.
Lydia’s empty-headed “rage for admiration” and Wickham’s weaknesses for women and gambling are absurdities that pull them off center and make them more like the caricatures in Jane Austen’s early works than like her happy lovers.
12
She thinks that everyone who knows the two of them must be coupling their names. (“She could not but suppose it to be a match that every body who knew them must think of.”) She pictures him declaring his love. She thinks about how she’ll answer him.
She thinks that everyone who knows the two of them must be coupling their names. (“She could not but suppose it to be a match that every body who knew them must think of.”) She pictures him declaring his love. She thinks about how she’ll answer him.
13
“She looked back; she compared the two—compared them, as they had always stood in her estimation, from the time of [Frank’s] becoming known to her—and as they must at any time have been compared by her, had it—oh! Had it, by any blessed felicity, occurred to her, to institute the comparison.—She saw that there never had been a time when she did not consider Mr. Knightley as infinitely superior, or when his regard for her had not been infinitely the most dear.”
“She looked back; she compared the two—compared them, as they had always stood in her estimation, from the time of [Frank’s] becoming known to her—and as they must at any time have been compared by her, had it—oh! Had it, by any blessed felicity, occurred to her, to institute the comparison.—She saw that there never had been a time when she did not consider Mr. Knightley as infinitely superior, or when his regard for her had not been infinitely the most dear.”
14
Including her uncle“who lived by trade, and within view of his own warehouses”—one thing Darcy was referring to when he wrote of the “objectionable” “situation of your mother’s family.”
Including her uncle“who lived by trade, and within view of his own warehouses”—one thing Darcy was referring to when he wrote of the “objectionable” “situation of your mother’s family.”
15
When that same uncle fortuitously brings her to Pemberley. “[Elizabeth] could hardly suppress a smile, at his being now seeking the acquaintance of those very people, against whom his pride had revolted, in his offer to herself.”
When that same uncle fortuitously brings her to Pemberley. “[Elizabeth] could hardly suppress a smile, at his being now seeking the acquaintance of those very people, against whom his pride had revolted, in his offer to herself.”
16
“He had followed [Wickham and Lydia] purposely to town, he had taken on himself all the trouble and mortification attendant on such a research; in which
supplication had been necessary to a woman [the former companion who had attempted to betray his sister into marriage with the fortune- and revenge-hunting Wickham] whom he must abominate and despise, and where he was reduced to meet, frequently meet, reason with, persuade, and finally bribe, the man whom he always most wished to avoid, and whose very name it was punishment for him to pronounce.”
“He had followed [Wickham and Lydia] purposely to town, he had taken on himself all the trouble and mortification attendant on such a research; in which
supplication had been necessary to a woman [the former companion who had attempted to betray his sister into marriage with the fortune- and revenge-hunting Wickham] whom he must abominate and despise, and where he was reduced to meet, frequently meet, reason with, persuade, and finally bribe, the man whom he always most wished to avoid, and whose very name it was punishment for him to pronounce.”
17
Any woman who ever gave way to the foolish urge to wash the horrifying pile of dishes in some guy’s apartment sink (yes, I once stupidly did this in a fit of premature domesticity aimed at a man who, I knew but didn’t want to admit to myself, had already moved on) will feel the psychological realism of Jane Austen heroines’ finding that love is a powerful impulse for noble self-sacrifice. Think, for example, of the fact that Anne Elliot “would have attended on Louisa with a zeal above the common claims of regard, for his sake” and, later, of her “musings of high-wrought love and eternal constancy... almost enough to spread purification and perfume all the way.” Or of how Elinor makes the arrangements between Colonel Brandon and Edward over the living that’s going to make it possible for him to marry Lucy. The way love impels us to goodness—even of this extreme, self-denying, and possibly counter-productive kind, but also of the sort that makes Elizabeth so happy with Darcy—has something to do with courting displays, wanting to look good to a potential mate. But it’s more than that; human beings are more than peacocks. As Jane Austen knew, love and goodness are real.
Any woman who ever gave way to the foolish urge to wash the horrifying pile of dishes in some guy’s apartment sink (yes, I once stupidly did this in a fit of premature domesticity aimed at a man who, I knew but didn’t want to admit to myself, had already moved on) will feel the psychological realism of Jane Austen heroines’ finding that love is a powerful impulse for noble self-sacrifice. Think, for example, of the fact that Anne Elliot “would have attended on Louisa with a zeal above the common claims of regard, for his sake” and, later, of her “musings of high-wrought love and eternal constancy... almost enough to spread purification and perfume all the way.” Or of how Elinor makes the arrangements between Colonel Brandon and Edward over the living that’s going to make it possible for him to marry Lucy. The way love impels us to goodness—even of this extreme, self-denying, and possibly counter-productive kind, but also of the sort that makes Elizabeth so happy with Darcy—has something to do with courting displays, wanting to look good to a potential mate. But it’s more than that; human beings are more than peacocks. As Jane Austen knew, love and goodness are real.
18
Way too much of our modern love lives is just playacting—because we’ve long since given up any hope of getting what we want in reality. Rihanna doesn’t even aspire to be the “the only girl”—just to feel like she is, for one night. “Only Girl (in the World),” written and recorded by Rihanna.
Way too much of our modern love lives is just playacting—because we’ve long since given up any hope of getting what we want in reality. Rihanna doesn’t even aspire to be the “the only girl”—just to feel like she is, for one night. “Only Girl (in the World),” written and recorded by Rihanna.
19
Going by my totally unscientific guestimate that at least ninety-nine percent of people can understand why sex shops stock handcuffs for every one percent who can see the point of a shoe fetish.
Going by my totally unscientific guestimate that at least ninety-nine percent of people can understand why sex shops stock handcuffs for every one percent who can see the point of a shoe fetish.
20
So that Elizabeth can ask him why “you chose to tell me that you liked me against your will, against your reason, and even against your character?”
CHAPTER SEVENSo that Elizabeth can ask him why “you chose to tell me that you liked me against your will, against your reason, and even against your character?”
1
See R. W. Chapman, “The Manners of the Age,” appended to
Emma
(vol. IV) of Chapman’s edition of
The Novels of Jane Austen: The Text based on Collation of the Early Editions, With Notes Indexes and Illustrations from Contemporary Sources in Five Volumes,
3rd ed. (Oxford University Press, 1933, reprinted 1988), pp. 506–7.
See R. W. Chapman, “The Manners of the Age,” appended to
Emma
(vol. IV) of Chapman’s edition of
The Novels of Jane Austen: The Text based on Collation of the Early Editions, With Notes Indexes and Illustrations from Contemporary Sources in Five Volumes,
3rd ed. (Oxford University Press, 1933, reprinted 1988), pp. 506–7.
2
Jane shared a room with her sister Cassandra all her life. And besides long visits to friends and family, Jane Austen lived outside her parents’ home only as a baby at the wet nurse’s and then for two periods of schooling as a little girl, one
en famille
with a connection of her mother’s, and both together with Cassandra. On her visits to friends as a grown woman, she would expect the kind of sleepover-style intimacy that most of us today leave behind in our teens. Here’s Jane Austen describing a visit—when she was twenty-three years old—with her friend Martha Lloyd: “Martha kindly made room for me in her bed, which was the shut-up one in the new nursery. Nurse and the child slept upon the floor, and there we all were in some confusion and great comfort. The bed did exceedingly well for us, both to lie awake in and talk till two o’clock, and to sleep in the rest of the night” (January 8, 1799 letter to Cassandra). Martha Lloyd eventually joined the Austen household—Jane and Cassandra and their mother—and kept house with them at Chawton. Jane Austen lived in a world so full of brothers and sisters, cousins and friends living cheek by jowl that she could find a young woman’s “great want of a companion at home” a remarkable circumstance that “may well make any tolerable acquaintance important to her” and give “her a claim on my attention” (April 21, 1805, letter to Cassandra).
Jane shared a room with her sister Cassandra all her life. And besides long visits to friends and family, Jane Austen lived outside her parents’ home only as a baby at the wet nurse’s and then for two periods of schooling as a little girl, one
en famille
with a connection of her mother’s, and both together with Cassandra. On her visits to friends as a grown woman, she would expect the kind of sleepover-style intimacy that most of us today leave behind in our teens. Here’s Jane Austen describing a visit—when she was twenty-three years old—with her friend Martha Lloyd: “Martha kindly made room for me in her bed, which was the shut-up one in the new nursery. Nurse and the child slept upon the floor, and there we all were in some confusion and great comfort. The bed did exceedingly well for us, both to lie awake in and talk till two o’clock, and to sleep in the rest of the night” (January 8, 1799 letter to Cassandra). Martha Lloyd eventually joined the Austen household—Jane and Cassandra and their mother—and kept house with them at Chawton. Jane Austen lived in a world so full of brothers and sisters, cousins and friends living cheek by jowl that she could find a young woman’s “great want of a companion at home” a remarkable circumstance that “may well make any tolerable acquaintance important to her” and give “her a claim on my attention” (April 21, 1805, letter to Cassandra).
Jane Austen’s parents not only raised seven children (an eighth, a son with disabilities, was permanently lodged elsewhere; two of the five other boys did leave home early to be Royal Navy midshipmen; and a third was eventually adopted by wealthy relatives) in a country rectory but also maintained a substantial number of servants and took in paying pupils. The house was so crowded that Jane Austen’s father warned a niece that the only time of year there was room for visitors was during his pupils’ summer and Christmas vacations. But with barely “a place to hide your head” at the Austens’ house even during vacation time, extended family still did come to visit and put on amateur theatricals at the holidays. William Austen-Leigh and Richard Arthur Austen-Leigh,
Jane Austen: Her Life and Letters: A Family Record
(Russell & Russell, 1965), pp. 39–40, 65.
Jane Austen: Her Life and Letters: A Family Record
(Russell & Russell, 1965), pp. 39–40, 65.
On the size of the Steventon rectory, see Linda Walker Robinson, “Why Was Jane Austen Sent Away to School at Seven? An Empirical Look at a Vexing Question,” Persuasions On-Line (a publication of the Jane Austen Society of North America) 26, no. 1 (winter 2005),
http://www.jasna.org/persuasions/on-line/vol26no1/walker.htm
. The article is marred by high dudgeon against Jane Austen’s parents, justified only by Robinson’s apparent assumption that late twentieth- and twenty-first-century childrearing norms—in the wake of what John Zmirak has called “the collapse of the extended family into
its unstable ‘nuclear’ core” (John Zmirak and Denise Matychowiak,
The Bad Catholic’s Guide to Wine, Whiskey, & Song: A Spirited Look at Catholic Life and Lore from the Apocalypse to Zinfandel
(Crossroad, 2007), p. 108.)—are the standard by which all parental choices should be judged. But Robinson has dug up many fascinating facts and spins some interesting speculation about the Austens’ living arrangements. (Assuming, that is, that her historical judgment is more to be trusted than her logic. Robinson: “By logic alone, we know that Jane Austen had an unhappy childhood. If her home life was happy, then she was exiled from it for three years; if her home life wasn’t happy, then it’s doubtful her childhood was either.”)
http://www.jasna.org/persuasions/on-line/vol26no1/walker.htm
. The article is marred by high dudgeon against Jane Austen’s parents, justified only by Robinson’s apparent assumption that late twentieth- and twenty-first-century childrearing norms—in the wake of what John Zmirak has called “the collapse of the extended family into
its unstable ‘nuclear’ core” (John Zmirak and Denise Matychowiak,
The Bad Catholic’s Guide to Wine, Whiskey, & Song: A Spirited Look at Catholic Life and Lore from the Apocalypse to Zinfandel
(Crossroad, 2007), p. 108.)—are the standard by which all parental choices should be judged. But Robinson has dug up many fascinating facts and spins some interesting speculation about the Austens’ living arrangements. (Assuming, that is, that her historical judgment is more to be trusted than her logic. Robinson: “By logic alone, we know that Jane Austen had an unhappy childhood. If her home life was happy, then she was exiled from it for three years; if her home life wasn’t happy, then it’s doubtful her childhood was either.”)
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