Presented by Dr Gillian Dooley at 2011 Jane Austen Festival Australia
Honorary Research Fellow, EnglishSpecial Collections Librarian
Editor, Transnational Literature
Central Library
Flinders University, Australia
If we think of the fool in
Shakespearean terms, no one springs to mind as readily as Henry Tilney. In his
first conversation with Catherine he has a way of turning upon his listener
with a deflating punch-line which has an air of Shakespeare’s Touchstone about
it:
‘As far as I have had an opportunity of judging, it
appears to me that the usual style of letter-writing among women is faultless,
except in three particulars’ – ‘And what are they?’ ‘A general deficiency of
subject, a total inattention to stops, and a very frequent ignorance of
grammar.’ (49)
Here Henry is adding weight to
the narrator’s satirical views on aspects of society in much the same way as
Touchstone voices satire throughout As
You Like It. Catherine, though entranced, doesn’t know what to make of him
at first: ‘“How can you be so –” she had
almost said, strange.’ (50) Clearly, Henry is the hero of this novel and though
he retains his whimsical wit, and is upbraided by his sister for his ‘odd ways’
(127), he is not a fool in the sense that he lacks judgment or wisdom. He
enjoys being a pedant, and indulges in what might be called intentional catachresis:
deliberately misinterpreting Catherine’s artless use of expressions like ‘nice’
and ‘she promised me faithfully’. He is only reduced to talking nonsense by
happiness in love: on their visit to the Allens at the end of the novel, ‘Henry
talked at random, without sense or connection’ (240), a most unusual state for
this most delightful of Austen’s heroes. This is a neat ironic reversal, since
earlier, in Bath, when Catherine mentioned having to entertain herself at home
by calling on Mrs Allen, he had exclaimed, ‘What a picture of intellectual
poverty!’ (97)
Mrs Allen is of course a fool,
but a relatively harmless one. Her ‘vacancy of mind and incapacity for thinking
were such, that as she never talked a great deal, so she could never be
entirely silent: and, therefore, while she sat at her work, if she lost her
needle or broke her thread, if she heard a carriage in the street, or saw a
speck upon her gown, she must observe it aloud, whether there were any one at
leisure to answer her or not.’ (80) This might seem unkind, but I’m sure we all
know someone like this: I know I do! Mr Allen is a sensible man, except, it
seems, in his choice of wife, who ‘was one of that numerous class of females,
whose society can raise no other emotion than surprise at there being any man
in the world who could like them well enough to marry them.’ (42-3)
Is Henry perhaps similarly
wasted on Catherine? Austen playfully discusses the subject:
The advantages of natural
folly in a beautiful girl have been already set forth by the capital pen of a
sister author [Fanny Burney
in Camilla]; and to her treatment of the
subject I will only add, in justice to men, that though, to the larger and more
trifling part of the sex, imbecility in females is a great enhancement of their
personal charms, there is a portion of them too reasonable, and too
well-informed themselves, to desire anything more in woman than ignorance. But
Catherine did not know her own advantages; did not know that a good-looking
girl -with an affectionate heart, and a very ignorant mind, cannot fail of
attracting a clever young man, unless circumstances are particularly untoward. (125)
But is Catherine really
foolish? She is certainly naïve: as she shows in an early conversation with
Eleanor Tilney, after which ‘they parted – on Miss Tilney’s side with some
knowledge of her new acquaintance’s feelings, and on Catherine’s, without the
smallest consciousness of having explained them’. (92)
And the words ‘folly’ and
‘foolish’ often appear in relation to Catherine. Here are some examples:
Catherine had neither time nor inclination to answer.
The others walked away, John Thorpe was still in view, and she gave herself up
for lost. That she might not appear, however, to observe or expect him, she
kept her eyes intently fixed on her fan; and a self-condemnation for her folly,
in supposing that among such a crowd they should even meet with the Tilneys in
any reasonable time, had just passed through her mind, when she suddenly found
herself addressed and again solicited to dance, by Mr. Tilney himself.( 93)
How could she have so imposed on herself? Heaven
forbid that Henry Tinley should ever know her folly! And it was in a great
measure his own doing, for had not the cabinet appeared so exactly to agree
with his description of her adventures, she would never have felt the smallest
curiosity about it. This was the only comfort that occurred. Impatient to get
rid of those hateful evidences of her folly, those detestable papers then
scattered over the bed, she rose directly; and folding them up as nearly as
possible in the same shape as before, returned them to the same spot within the
cabinet, with a very hearty wish that no untoward accident might ever bring
them forward again, to disgrace her even with herself.( 178)
[On visiting
Mrs Tilney’s room and finding nothing to incriminate the General] She was sick
of exploring, and desired but to be safe in her own room, with her own heart
only privy to its folly, and she was on the point of retreating as softly as
she had entered, when the sound of footsteps, she could hardly tell where, made
her pause and tremble. To be found there, even by a servant, would be
unpleasant, but by the General (and he seemed always at hand when least wanted)
much worse.( 196)
The visions of romance were over. Catherine was completely
awakened. Henry's address, short as it had been, had more thoroughly opened her
eyes to the extravagance of her late fancies than all their several
disappointments had done. Most grievously was she humbled. Most bitterly did
she cry. It was not only with herself that she was sunk, but with Henry. Her
folly, which now seemed even criminal, was all exposed to him, and he must
despise her for ever. The liberty which her imagination had dared to take with
the character of his father, could he ever forgive it? The absurdity of her
curiosity and her fears, could they ever be forgotten? She hated herself more
than she could express. (201)
Her mind made up on these several points, and her
resolution formed, of always judging and acting in future with the greatest
good sense, she had nothing to do but to forgive herself and be happier than
ever; and the lenient hand of time did much for her by insensible gradations in
the course of another day. Henry's astonishing generosity and nobleness of
conduct, in never alluding in the slightest way to what had passed, was of the
greatest assistance to her; and sooner than she could have supposed it possible,
in the beginning of her distress, her spirits became absolutely comfortable,
and capable, as heretofore, of continual improvement by anything he said. There
were still some subjects, indeed, under which she believed they must always
tremble; the mention of a chest or a cabinet, for instance, and she did not
love the sight of japan in any shape: but even she could allow that an occasional memento of past folly,
however painful, might not be without use.( 203)
She was tired of the woods and the shrubberies [of
Northanger], always so smooth and so dry; and the abbey itself was no more to
her now than any other house. The painful remembrance of the folly it had
helped to nourish and perfect was the only emotion which could spring from a
consideration of the building.( 212)
It is striking how often she
is described as being aware of her folly, which is, of course, the beginning of
wisdom. As Touchstone says, ‘a fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man
knows himself to be a fool’ – and we might observe that Austen specifically
refers to the ‘great store of information’ Catherine gained by reading
Shakespeare (39).
There is little doubt that
John Thorpe thinks himself very wise, but that he is a paragon of
self-deception, as can be seen in this scene with Catherine:
When the contents of the letter were
ascertained, John Thorpe, who had only waited its arrival to begin his journey
to London, prepared to set off. " Well, Miss Morland," said he, on
finding her alone in the parlour, " I am come to bid you good-by."
Catherine wished him a good journey. Without appearing to hear her, he walked
to the window, fidgeted about, hummed a tune, and seemed wholly self-occupied.
" Shall not you be late
at Devizes?" said Catherine. He made no answer; but after a minute's
silence burst out with, " A famous good thing this marrying scheme, upon
my soul! A clever fancy of Morland's and Belle's. What do you think of it, Miss
Morland? I say it is no bad notion."
" I am sure I think it a
very good one."
"Do you?—that's honest, by heavens! I am
glad you are no enemy to matrimony, however. Did you ever hear the old song, '
Going to one wedding brings on another?' I say, you will come to Belle's
wedding, I hope."
" Yes; I have promised
your sister to be with her, if possible."
" And then you
know"—twisting himself about, and forcing a foolish laugh—" I say,
then you know, we may try the truth of this same old song."
" May we? but I never
sing. Well, I wish you a good journey. I dine with Miss Tilney to-day, and must
now be going home."
-'Nay, but there is no such confounded hurry.
Who knows when we may be together again? Not but that I shall be down again by
the end of a fortnight, and a devilish long fortnight it will appear to
me."
-' Then why do you stay away
so long?" replied Catherine, finding that he waited for an answer.
" That is kind of you,
however; kind and good-natured. I shall not forget it in a hurry. But you have
more good-nature, and all that, than anybody living, I believe. A monstrous
deal of good-nature, and it is not only good-nature, but you have so much—so
much of everything; and then you have such—upon my soul, I do not know any body
like you."
" Oh dear! there are a
great many people like me, I dare say, only a great deal better. Good morning
to you."
-- But I say, Miss Morland, I
shall come and pay my respects at Fullerton before it is long, if not
disagreeable."
" Pray do; my father and
mother will be very glad to see you."
" And I hope—I hope, Miss
Morland you will not be sorry
to see me."
"Oh dear! not at all. There are very few people I
am sorry to see. Company is always cheerful."
[She goes on]…And as to most matters, to say the truth, there
are not many that I know my own mind about."
" By Jove, no more do I! It is not my way to
bother my brains with what does not concern me. My notion of things is simple
enough. Let me only have the girl I like, say I, with a comfortable house over
my head, and what care I for all the rest? Fortune is nothing. I am sure of a
good income of my own; and if she had not a penny, why so much the
better." (136)
The amount of inaccuracy in
the last paragraph alone is obvious: It is
his way to bother his brains with what doesn’t concern him, and he does care about money, just as his
sister Isabella does. Isabella, however, is more calculating then John: more
duplicitous and manipulative, as Catherine realizes when she finally receives a
letter from her after the engagement with James has been broken: ‘Such a strain
of shallow artifice could not impose even upon Catherine. Its inconsistencies,
contradictions, and falsehood, struck her from the very first.’ (217)
General Tilney would have to
be very foolish himself to be taken in by John Thorpe – to believe his boasts
about the Morland family in the first place, and then to take him at his word
when Isabella and James’s engagement is broken off and he declares them to be
‘a necessitous family; numerous too almost beyond example … a forward,
bragging, scheming race’ (242-3). It seems unlikely that a man of the world like
the General would believe this nonsense from Thorpe, who couldn’t impose even
on the naïve Catherine, but as Anne Ehrenpreis observes in her introduction to
the Penguin Classics edition of the novel, the General ‘changes as Jane
Austen’s requirements for him vary. … [s]ince [his] function is “to promote the
general distress of the work” we are not allowed to take him seriously.’ (20)
Austen, in her disquisition in praise of folly, says that
‘to come with a well-informed mind is to come with an inability of
administering to the vanity of others, which a sensible person would always
wish to avoid. A woman especially, if she have the misfortune of knowing any
thing, should conceal it as well as she can.’ (125) ‘Tis folly to be wise’,
indeed!
In one sense, all Jane Austen’s characters are fools, except
the chosen few: the heroine (at least by the end of the novel, if not at the
beginning), the hero, and usually one or two others. Some are dupes, some
benign, like Mrs Allen; others are dangerous, like the Thorpe siblings. Isabella
and John Thorpe in some ways foreshadow the bright, attractive, far more
complex Crawfords in Mansfield Park,
who also befriend the heroine with unhappy results. But Thorpe is a caricature,
with no redeeming features apart from his entertainment value to the reader. His
foolishness, as well as being a not always convincing plot device, is a
yardstick against which all other characters are measured – and none measures
up to him in this respect. It is he and others of his type that help Austen
create ‘the illusion of traveling intimately with a hardy little band of
readers whose heads are screwed on tight and whose hearts are in the right
place’, as Wayne Booth wrote (Rhetoric of Fiction, 2nd ed, 266).
