Jane Austen proposal scenes, part 5: Northanger Abbey
J.J. Feild (Henry Tilney) and Felicity Jones (Catherine Morland) in Northanger Abbey (2007)
Northanger Abbey
Background to the proposal scene: While on a visit to Bath with her neighbors the Allens, Catherine Morland made the acquaintance of Eleanor Tilney and her brother Henry. Their father, General Tilney, in the mistaken belief that Catherine was a rich heiress, invited her to return with the family to their estate, Northanger Abbey, on an extended visit. The ancient mansion excited Catherine's fantasies, already fired by a steady diet of Gothic romances such as Ann Radcliffe's The Mysteries of Udolpho, and she imagined that the General practiced cruelties against his wife. When Henry learned of her suspicions, he remonstrated with her: "Dearest Miss Morland, what ideas have you been admitting?" Catherine concluded that "Charming as were all Mrs. Radcliffe's works, and charming even as were the works of all her imitators, it was not in them perhaps that human nature, at least in the Midland counties of England, was to be looked for."
General Tilney had left Northanger Abbey for a week. When he returned late one night, he abruptly insisted that Catherine leave, and early the very next morning sent her on the long journey home by herself. Her sudden dismissal was "as incomprehensible as it was mortifying and grievous." She has been back at home for just a few days, passing her time in "silence and sadness," when an unexpected visitor arrives. . .
The television adaptation: screenplay by Andrew Davies, directed by Jon Jones (2007)
Although compressed to a 90-minute running time, this ITV adaptation covers the major events of the novel, has an excellent and appropriately youthful cast (as Catherine, Felicity Jones really does look as though she could be in her late teens), and includes many witty touches, such as the visualization of Catherine's vivid Gothic fantasies.
https://youtu.be/Bm3QywZFBuA?t=18 [scene ends at 4:49]
The novel:
. . .[Mrs. Morland] knew not that a visitor had arrived within the last few minutes, till, on entering the room, the first object she beheld was a young man whom she had never seen before. With a look of much respect, he immediately rose, and being introduced to her by her conscious daughter as "Mr. Henry Tilney," with the embarrassment of real sensibility began to apologize for his appearance there, acknowledging that after what had passed he had little right to expect a welcome at Fullerton, and stating his impatience to be assured of Miss Morland's having reached her home in safety, as the cause of his intrusion. He did not address himself to an uncandid judge or a resentful heart. Far from comprehending him or his sister in their father's misconduct, Mrs. Morland had been always kindly disposed towards each, and instantly, pleased by his appearance, received him with the simple professions of unaffected benevolence; thanking him for such an attention to her daughter, assuring him that the friends of her children were always welcome there, and entreating him to say not another word of the past.
"Introduced. . .as 'Mr. Henry Tilney.'" Illustration by C.E. Brock for Northanger Abbey (Dent, 1922). Image source: HathiTrust.org
He was not ill-inclined to obey this request, for, though his heart was greatly relieved by such unlooked-for mildness, it was not just at that moment in his power to say anything to the purpose. Returning in silence to his seat, therefore, he remained for some minutes most civilly answering all Mrs. Morland's common remarks about the weather and roads. Catherine meanwhile—the anxious, agitated, happy, feverish Catherine—said not a word; but her glowing cheek and brightened eye made her mother trust that this good-natured visit would at least set her heart at ease for a time. . .
So there is no arrival on a white horse in the novel, and Mrs. Morland does not interrupt the éclaircissement between the lovers by inviting the visitor into the drawing room (instead she finds him already there). But Davies can be forgiven, I think, for wanting to make Henry's arrival more dramatic. And the script nicely captures the awkwardness of the attempts to make conversation in the parlor, as well as Henry's anxiousness to escape and speak to Catherine in private.
. . .at the end of a quarter of an hour [Mrs. Morland] had nothing to say. After a couple of minutes' unbroken silence, Henry, turning to Catherine for the first time since her mother's entrance, asked her, with sudden alacrity, if Mr. and Mrs. Allen were now at Fullerton? And on developing, from amidst all her perplexity of words in reply, the meaning, which one short syllable would have given, immediately expressed his intention of paying his respects to them, and, with a rising colour, asked her if she would have the goodness to show him the way. "You may see the house from this window, sir," was information on Sarah's side, which produced only a bow of acknowledgment from the gentleman, and a silencing nod from her mother; for Mrs. Morland, thinking it probable, as a secondary consideration in his wish of waiting on their worthy neighbours, that he might have some explanation to give of his father's behaviour, which it must be more pleasant for him to communicate only to Catherine, would not on any account prevent her accompanying him. They began their walk, and Mrs. Morland was not entirely mistaken in his object in wishing it. Some explanation on his father's account he had to give; but his first purpose was to explain himself, and before they reached Mr. Allen's grounds he had done it so well that Catherine did not think it could ever be repeated too often. She was assured of his affection; and that heart in return was solicited, which, perhaps, they pretty equally knew was already entirely his own; for, though Henry was now sincerely attached to her, though he felt and delighted in all the excellencies of her character and truly loved her society, I must confess that his affection originated in nothing better than gratitude, or, in other words, that a persuasion of her partiality for him had been the only cause of giving her a serious thought. It is a new circumstance in romance, I acknowledge, and dreadfully derogatory of an heroine's dignity; but if it be as new in common life, the credit of a wild imagination will at least be all my own.
. . .as he proceeded to give the particulars, and explain the motives of his father’s conduct, her feelings soon hardened into even a triumphant delight. The General had had nothing to accuse her of, nothing to lay to her charge, but her being the involuntary, unconscious object of a deception which his pride could not pardon, and which a better pride would have been ashamed to own. She was guilty only of being less rich than he had supposed her to be. Under a mistaken persuasion of her possessions and claims, he had courted her acquaintance in Bath, solicited her company at Northanger, and designed her for his daughter-in-law. On discovering his error, to turn her from the house seemed the best, though to his feelings an inadequate proof of his resentment towards herself, and his contempt of her family.
. . .Catherine, at any rate, heard enough to feel that in suspecting General Tilney of either murdering or shutting up his wife, she had scarcely sinned against his character, or magnified his cruelty.
In the television adaptation, of course, the explanation and condemnation of his father's conduct comes before Henry's proposal, rather than afterward. And this is where the greatest divergence with Austen's novel occurs. In Davies' script Henry compares his father's behavior towards his wife to "vampirism" (a word that does not appear in Austen's novel), and says that "our mother did suffer grievously. . .we did watch him drain the life out of her." In the novel, however, when Henry finds Catherine in his mother's now-unused room, he tells her, "You have erred in supposing him not attached to her. He loved her, I am persuaded, as well as it was possible for him to—we have not all, you know, the same tenderness of disposition—and I will not pretend to say that while she lived, she might not often have had much to bear, but though his temper injured her, his judgment never did. His value of her was sincere; and, if not permanently, he was truly afflicted by her death" (from a sudden illness, not ill-treatment).
Understandably, given the 90-minute running time, Davies omits the General's ultimate acquiescence to his younger son's choice of fiancée (instead he has Henry say "I've broken with my father"). As a result he must also eliminate the felicitous idea that the several months' delay in their marriage occasioned by the General's initial lack of consent helped the young couple to know and love one another better. But, of course, Davies takes the irresistible final words directly from Austen.
. . .Henry and Catherine were married, the bells rang, and everybody smiled; and, as this took place within a twelvemonth from the first day of their meeting, it will not appear, after all the dreadful delays occasioned by the General's cruelty, that they were essentially hurt by it. To begin perfect happiness at the respective ages of twenty-six and eighteen is to do pretty well; and professing myself moreover convinced that the General's unjust interference, so far from being really injurious to their felicity, was perhaps rather conducive to it, by improving their knowledge of each other, and adding strength to their attachment, I leave it to be settled, by whomsoever it may concern, whether the tendency of this work be altogether to recommend parental tyranny, or reward filial disobedience.
For more on the novel, please see " Northanger Abbey and women writers and readers"
Next time: Persuasion
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