English literature -- History and criticism; Literature, Modern -- History and criticism
That elusive quality is indeed often made up of very different parts,
which it needs a peculiar genius to bring together. The wit of Jane
Austen has for partner the perfection of her taste. Her fool is a fool,
her snob is a snob, because he departs from the model of sanity and
sense which she has in mind, and conveys to us unmistakably even while
she makes us laugh. Never did any novelist make more use of an
impeccable sense of human values. It is against the disc of an unerring
heart, an unfailing good taste, an almost stern morality, that she shows
up those deviations from kindness, truth, and sincerity which are among
the most delightful things in English literature. She depicts a Mary
Crawford in her mixture of good and bad entirely by this means. She lets
her rattle on against the clergy, or in favour of a baronetage and ten
thousand a year with all the ease and spirit possible; but now and again
she strikes one note of her own, very quietly, but in perfect tune, and
at once all Mary Crawford’s chatter, though it continues to amuse, rings
flat. Hence the depth, the beauty, the complexity of her scenes. From
such contrasts there comes a beauty, a solemnity even which are not only
as remarkable as her wit, but an inseparable part of it. In _The
Watsons_ she gives us a foretaste of this power; she makes us wonder why
an ordinary act of kindness, as she describes it, becomes so full of
meaning. In her masterpieces, the same gift is brought to perfection.
Here is nothing out of the way; it is midday in Northamptonshire; a dull
young man is talking to rather a weakly young woman on the stairs as
they go up to dress for dinner, with housemaids passing. But, from
triviality, from commonplace, their words become suddenly full of
meaning, and the moment for both one of the most memorable in their
lives. It fills itself; it shines; it glows; it hangs before us, deep,
trembling, serene for a second; next, the housemaid passes, and this
drop in which all the happiness of life has collected gently subsides
again to become part of the ebb and flow of ordinary existence.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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