The title, the reader soon learns, is literal. The author explains why she decided to assemble a shelf of Jane Austen’s books—that is, the ones, written by women, that Austen read and mentioned in her letters.
The Jane Austen fan, or reader of Enlightenment Era books is aware that Austen undoubtedly read a lot more than we see named in the letters, which are a fraction of those she wrote. There is no mention of Aphra Behn, or Mary Davys, or even Eliza Heywood, whose great popularity a generation before Austen was born surely meant that her books were to be found in any library that included novels. But these are the names culled from the letters that Jane Austen’s sister Cassandra left for us.
In this book, Romney sets out to acquaint herself with not only the works of these female authors, but with the writers themselves. Most of these authors I’ve already encountered, but I find it fun to read others’ takes on their work. And I really enjoy a literary exploration that brings in the writer’s own experiences and perspective.
Romney is a rare book dealer, which shapes the structure of this book; though I did skim past descriptions of searches for specific copies, and the deets of auctions, as I have never had the discretionary income to spend on rare books, I comprehend cathexis, and agree that some of the satisfaction of reading a physical book is the feel of the book, the font, the illos—and the commentary inside from long-gone owners of the copy. Plus one’s memories of when one first encountered the book, and the emotions evoked by picking up that copy once again. I own a first edition of Chesterfield’s Letters. The pages were uncut, which meant it sat untouched on someone’s shelf for over two hundred years. It might be worth something, it might not. But I would have cherished it far more had this copy been worn from much reading, perhaps with notes and comments from Enlightenment-era or Victorian-era or even early twentieth century previous owners.
So once I skimmed past the auction parts of Romney’s searches, I really enjoyed her description of the physical books. The feel of them in her hands. Her delight in discovering writing on flyleaves.
Another aspect of this book that I relished was Romney’s awareness of the human being behind the printed pages. She gives the reader a quick and sympathetic history of each woman, even of Hannah More, whose work Romney finally gave up on. (Um, yes, so did I. If only there had been even a glimmer of humor…) This book is filled with insights, and also questions. Even when I disagree with Romney’s conclusions, I can see where she’s coming from—and can imagine sitting around a comfortable tea room, exchanging ideas.
She begins with Ann Radcliffe, whose work I don’t like any more than I like Hannah More’s, though for different reasons. I don’t care for Gothick suspense, and the thread of anti-Catholicism running through Radcliffe’s books doesn’t make it worth reading for the elegiac landscape descriptions, much less the creepy horrors and grues. But I appreciated Romney’s digging into the reviews of Radcliff’s books written in her lifetime, and I followed with interest Romney’s detective work tracing the gradual disappearance of Radcliff from popularity, to her present near-obscurity. Romney goes into the “explained supernatural” (in other words, all the supposed supernatural encounters in the books turn out to have rational explanations—unlike Horry Walpole’s ridiculous and flagrantly male-gazey The Castle of Otranto). Romney points out that in keeping her books firmly within the explained supernatural, Radcliffe was bringing logic to an emotional argument. She then traces through reviews and news reports about Radcliffe the false claims that Radcliffe stopped writing because she had sunk into madness.
In exploring this idea, Romney brings forth the seldom-acknowledged point that Catherine Morland, the teenage heroine of Northanger Abbey, who is so delighted by her discovery of Gothic novels that she brings the “emotional logic” of Gothics to imagining Mrs. Tilney being locked up before her death, learns from her mistakes, which are made in the ignorance of youth. Unlike General Tilney and his own quite Gothic, and ridiculous, assumptions about Catherine. He, an experienced man of middle years, has no excuse!
In wrestling with Hannah More’s determination that human beings are morally obliged to stay in their place (that includes women being subordinate to men), Romney states: “I found myself sitting for ten minutes at a time with a Hannah More biography in my lap, staring at nothing. This, too, is a part of reading. What we feel when we read does not remain on the page. We take it with us. We absorb it. It doesn’t have to change us, exactly (though it can, but it does affect us. It becomes a part of all the little moments that make up our lives.”
It's insights like this one, strewn through the book, that made it such a delicious read, as she goes on to give similar attention to Charlotte Lennox, Elizabeth Inchbald, Maria Edgeworth, and Hester Thrale Piozzi. And then traces how and why these women, once so famous, fell out of favor.
Did I agree with everything Romney brings up? No. She calls the unctuous, freckled Mrs. Clay from Persuasion a fraud, which I think is disingenuous; it’s true that Jane Austen’s narrator despises Mrs. Clay, but her situation, and her behavior at crucial points, isn’t a whole lot different from that of Mrs. Smith, who is better born, and who the narrator favors.
And again, Romney, in mentioning Mansfield Park seems to regard Fanny Price as humorless (wrong), and professes not to understand why Fanny disapproves of Inchbald’s play being mounted by the young people. She doesn’t seem to distinguish that it’s not the play Fanny objects to, it’s the flagrant disrespect for the missing Bertram paterfamilias—a disrespect that all the others are quite aware of when Sir Thomas comes unexpectedly home. But I blather at length about that in my review here on Goodreads.
And from specific instances to general points, Romney maintains that several of these authors’ books are great literature, and deserve rediscovery. This of course goes straight into subjective territory. My own feeling is that there are indeed terrific moments in all of these books, and one can see how they influenced Austen, but (to generalize drastically) they share one fault: unexamined tropes, or downright cliches, both in plot and in language. Whereas Austen was side-eyeing these tropes, and the threadbare figurative language common to all these writers (such as blazing eyes, and frequent faintings, etc etc), and either playing with the expectations or abjuring them altogether. Which is what elevates Austen from really entertaining writer to genius. But again, highly subjective.
My point is, even when Romney and I come to different conclusions, I enjoyed her description of how she got there, and why. I enjoyed this book to such an extent that I plan to buy a print copy once it comes out, and to recommend it to my face-to-face Jane Austen Discussion Group. We should have a blast exploring all its ideas.