Janespotting: North by Northanger by Carrie Bebris

This is the third in the series of "Mr. and Mrs. Darcy Mysteries" that Carrie Bebris has written, inspired by various Austen novels. I thought the first, Pride and Prescience, handled the characters and the mystery quite well, while the second, Suspense and Sensibility, was less successful as a mystery, although it made good use of a couple of minor characters from Sense and Sensibility. I'm happy to say that North by Northanger (another clever title!) is my favorite in the series so far.

The novel opens with Elizabeth settling in at Pemberley, awaiting the birth of her first child and trying to figure out how make her new role as mistress of Pemberley her own. She is constantly reminded of her husband's late mother, Lady Anne, by both the house itself and the servants, and worries how to measure up. When she moves an old writing desk and discovers a letter written from Lady Anne to her future successor, it is the beginning of a mystery involving a missing family heirloom.

First, however, the Darcys head to Bath to interview a doctor who will attend the baby's birth. This gives us some good Bath scenes—filled with lots of repartee between the spouses—as well as chance to introduce Capt. Frederick Tilney into the story. Tilney sees Darcy's name in the Pump Room book and invites him to Northanger Abbey, claiming that their mothers were friends and wanting to renew the connection. The Darcys agree, but upon arriving at the Abbey find conditions very strange. There is a lack of servants—and their own attendants mysteriously disappear, and are later discovered to have been drugged—their host doesn't show up for their substandard supper; when they do meet Tilney, they find him severely injured but in good spirits, asking strange questions about their mothers and hinting at the search for a family secret.

Tilney's behavior seems especially peculiar, considering that when the Darcys mention they have found personal belongings in the late Mrs. Tilney's rooms where they have been lodged—a set of diamond jewelry, to be exact—Capt. Tilney doesn't seem interested. The reason seems clear when the Darcys cut their visit short, and within hours are accused of stealing the Tilney diamonds. The jewels are found in a clever replica of Darcy's walking stick, and Darcy is charged with the crime by an overzealous magistrate who won't consider the possibility he has been framed. He is especially disinclined to release Fitzwilliam after Henry Tilney shows up and says that Capt. Tilney died some time ago, and he never heard of the housekeeper the Darcys met.

The Darcys are forced to call on Lady Catherine de Bourgh to get him released, and she returns with them to Pemberley. Elizabeth must deal with her constant disapproval and interference, even as she goes through Lady Anne's old letters to see if there really was a friendship between her and Mrs. Tilney, and thus find some clue as to why their visit to Northanger Abbey went awry. She finds the friendship was real, and is somehow connected to Lady Anne's missing family heirloom, and she and Darcy manage to unravel all the mysteries (and thwart Lady Catherine) whilst preparing for the new baby as well.

I thought this was the best mystery of the series so far; there were no supernatural elements to cloud the mystery (Elizabeth thinking she feels Lady Anne's spirit had little to do with the mystery plot), and the connections between the Darcy family and Tilney family seemed logical. I thought Henry Tilney's character was different than how Austen portrayed him in NA—he showed none of the quirky wit that made him interesting—but then, he's introduced in a very tense situation. Other Austen characters are involved in the mystery in a very organic way, and the Darcys' relationship continues to show affection and witty banter, so that's a minor quibble. The scenes in Bath and at Northanger Abbey have much the same feel as the original Austen, as well. So I'd give this sequel—one of the very few to NA—an unqualified thumbs up.

Next up: Mansfield Park. (And yes, I meant not to use an exclamation point. Sigh.)

Janespotting: Uninvited Guests by Jane Gillespie

I've finally reached the unofficial "sequels" to Austen's Northanger Abbey, and I'm beginning with this 1994 work by Jane Gillespie. Gillespie has also produced other Austen sequels, including one to Sense and Sensibility that I enjoyed very much. So how would she approach continuing Austen's neglected satire?

She did it by revisiting three of the novel's most ridiculous characters: John and Isabella Thorpe and Captain Frederick Tilney. As it is at least 20 years since the close of NA the latter is now Colonel Tilney, but he is still vain, self-centered, and inclined to coast on his name. Although he inherited Northanger Abbey a few years ago, he hasn't spent any time there, finding the countryside boring. When he meets up with John Thorpe in Bath, he takes his old acquaintance's word that the Abbey is in need of repairs, and takes him up on his offer to oversee the work.

Of course, if he had been as familiar with John Thorpe as we are, he would have known the man was prone to exaggeration and just as unlikely to do any real work as he was to tell the truth. But by Chapter 3, Thorpe is ensconced at the Abbey, where his sister Isabella, the impoverished widow Firth, soon joins him, having been turned out of her other siblings' homes. After throwing over James Morland because he wasn't as rich as she had thought, Isabella married a wealthy scion of a Scottish family; she only discovered after the wedding that he had been disinherited. Now she waits for her son Roland to finish his schooling and help support her. Roland, however, feels obligated to continue tutoring the young Charles Ballard, the crippled (but treasured) son of an industrialist. When Isabella decides she must have her son's company, both he and Charles join the group at Northanger Abbey.

The party is complete when Colonel Tilney's daughter Paulina arrives, along with her "uncle" James Morland, a reverend. Hijinks ensue: Thorpe's attempts at uncovering and rebuilding the Abbey's old chapel are increasingly ridiculous; Charles decides to explore an underground passage by himself, injuring his one good hand; and Isabella, once she finally recognizes the bearded James, makes another play for him—at least, until Paulina is called to join her family because her mother is deathly ill. Then Isabella envisions herself as the future mistress of the Abbey—she caught Tilney's attention once before, didn't she?—and ignores him forthwith. The only people who act sensibly are Roland and Paulina, who of course fall in love.

Things come to a head when the Colonel finally discovers what has been going on at the Abbey, and rushes back with Paulina to put a stop to it. He is ready to have Thorpe arrested, but Isabella provides proof the Colonel gave permission, and the situation is defused by Charles's practical father, who also joined the party. Still, it means all the "uninvited guests" must leave: Thorpe to his own unfinished project; Isabella to another sibling's house (still unwed, as the Colonel's wife recovered her health and James Morland his senses); and Roland and Charles to the seaside. All that remains is to remove any obstacles between the young lovers, and these are solved when Roland receives a letter informing him that he has come into a large trust fund from his late grandfather.

The plot isn't anything spectacular, but the fun lies in the way the author uses the characters, especially Thorpe and Isabella. They are so clueless about their own ridiculousness that it's a lot of fun to read about them even if they're not doing very much. So even though the tone of the novel is completely different from Austen's original, this sequel gets a thumb's up from me.

Janespotting: The Castle of Otranto by Horace Walpole

For my last exploration of the Gothic novels that inspired Austen's Northanger Abbey, I decided to go to the Grandaddy of them all, Horace Walpole's The Castle of Otranto. It's not that Austen references it specifically in NA; she only mentions The Mysteries of Udolpho and The Monk in any detail, and Walpole isn't among the seven other "horrid" novels Isabella Thorpe suggests Catherine add to her reading list. But Henry Tilney does make mention of a Gothic heroine named Matilda—also the name of Walpole's heroine, although Tilney doesn't seem to be referencing a specific one—and as The Castle of Otranto is considered the first Gothic novel, and I wanted to try Walpoling (see Monty Python cheese shop sketch), I thought, why not? (Especially since I saw that the Oxford University Press edition is only 176 pages long. Bonus!)

So I downloaded a copy from Project Gutenberg and made short work of Walpole's 1764 work, published while he was still serving in Parliament. The book was initially published anonymously—Walpole being the son of the former Prime Minister—and purported to be a translation of a medieval manuscript from the time of the Crusades. All the action centers around the Italian Castle of Otranto, which is owned by Lord Manfred and is to be the setting of his son Conrad's marriage to the Princess Isabella. Within the first ten paragraphs, Conrad is killed: squished by a giant helmet (complete with plumes) that has mysteriously fallen from the sky. By the end of the first chapter, Manfred has decided he should divorce his wife Hippolita, who only gave him the sickly Conrad and his sister Matilda as heirs, and marry Isabella himself. Since Isabella has been living with the family as a daughter, she is sickened by the idea and runs away to the local church, aided by a mysterious but attractive peasant boy.

Over the next four chapters—and that's all there are—the readers discovers that the peasant boy is the son of the prior Jerome, the former Count of Falconara; that Manfred's family stole the Castle from the virtuous Alfonso, Isabella's distant relative, and a prophecy foretells its return; that the Knight who comes to challenge Manfred for the castle on behalf of Isabella's father is actually her father; and that the peasant boy Theodore is actually the true heir to the castle. In the meantime, Isabella and Matilda both fall in love with Theodore; Theodore falls in love with Matilda; Manfred pursues Isabella; and the Knight Frederic is convinced to marry Matilda. Theodore accidentally wounds Frederic (he lives) and Manfred accidentally wounds Matilda (she dies), and we get ghostly noises and apparitions (and that giant helmet and a giant sword) until Manfred eventually gives up the castle to retire to the cloister, leaving Theodore free to marry Isabella. That may sound like a happy ending, but the marriage is only decided after "he was persuaded he could know no happiness but in the society of one with whom he could for ever indulge the melancholy that had taken possession of his soul." Yeesh.

That's a lot to pack into 176 pages, and a lot to keep track of, but since it happens all so fast, I really didn't need to pay attention. This novel was all plot and no character development (the opposite of Udolpho, if you can consider 700+ pages of moping "character development), so if I got confused, something new would happen soon enough and clear things up. The atmosphere wasn't what I thought of as Gothically spooky—it's hard to build suspense at a breakneck pace—but the novel was chock full of those coincidences, chance encounters, mysterious family resemblances, and endangered young women that Austen pokes fun at in Northanger Abbey.

So after my admittedly brief and incomplete survey of the Gothic novel, I have a fuller understanding of what Austen was parodying. I don't think I necessarily needed that understanding to enjoy the humor and wit of Northanger Abbey, but now that I can see more parallels, I think the next time I revisit it my experience will be enriched. I think I can stop with three Gothics, though and turn my attention to Northanger sequels. Stay tuned.

Janespotting: The Monk by Matthew Lewis

I'm continuing my perusal of Gothic novels mentioned by Austen in Northanger Abbey, and after the interminable tepid delays that made up Ann Radcliffe's Mysteries of Udolpho, I had higher hopes for Matthew Lewis's The Monk. After all, the rogue John Thorpe, who lies to Catherine in order to monopolize her time, declares the novel the only "tolerably decent one [to] come out since Tom Jones." The latter novel, a 1749 work by Henry Fielding, was notorious for its inclusion of prostitution and general naughtiness, and Lewis's work, published in 1796, would garner a similarly scandalous reputation.

So I eagerly opened the file (thanks, Project Gutenberg), hoping to be rewarded with loads of Gothic excitement and melodrama. And I wasn't disappointed: not only were we introduced to the title character in the first chapter, we got the essentials of the plot. The Monk of the title is Ambrosio, the head of the Capuchin order in Madrid, noted for his eloquence and piety, and in the first chapter several key figures come to hear him preach: Antonia, a beautiful young girl whose widowed mother is hoping to get financial support from an estranged relative; Don Lorenzo, a cavalier who falls in love with her; and Lorenzo's friend Don Christoval, who is seeking his missing sister.

Chapter two brings several shocking events: a pregnant nun! (The missing sister.) A woman disguised as a novice! Ambrosio forsaking his vows to indulge in carnal pleasures! It just gets dirtier and nastier and more tragic: witchcraft! murder! riots! rape! incest! a couch!* Because Ambrosio was raised in the cloister and never faced temptation, his confidence in his upright character had no basis in experience, and he falls victim to a female temptress, and then to Satan himself. For the other characters there is tragedy and triumph, all equally as melodramatic (and unlikely).

It was much juicier (and shorter) than Udolpho ... and sure, it wasn't particularly deep and meaningful, but at least it was fun. I could totally buy that young girls would be both fascinated and scandalized by the book, whereas Udolpho was a stretch. So which is more typical of the Gothic genre? My next (and last) Gothic experiment, Horace Walpole's The Castle of Otranto, should break the tie.

*if you've never experienced the Reduced Shakespeare Company's Complete Works of Shakespeare (Abridged), get thee to a theater or DVD rental place.

Janespotting: The Mysteries of Udolpho by Ann Radcliffe

When it came time to reading adaptations/sequels/variations on Northanger Abbey, I was presented with a bit of a dilemma: there aren't many. There are only two, in fact. That doesn't make for a very thorough examination of the novel and its influence, but I was ready to go ahead with what limited resources I had, when I thought ... wait a minute ... I'm going about this the wrong way. There's no reason for me to search out nonexistent sequels when Austen's novel—a satire on the gothic books of her time—is about other novels! So yes, for fun I am going to do what others have done for school: I'm going to look at some of the novels that Austen mentions in Northanger Abbey. (But this being a blog instead of school, I don't have to be very deep in my discussions. Tee hee hee.)

Of course, the novel I must start out with is Ann Radcliffe's The Mysteries of Udolpho (1794). It's mentioned 18 times during the course of NA, and the author five times, so it's the one that engendered the most curiosity. It's the book that Catherine and Isabella exclaim over: there is a mysterious black veil with something shocking behind it, and Isabella proclaims that once Catherine is finished she will give her a dozen more books that are just as "horrid." So I was expecting something dreadful (by tame 18th century standards), a novel of suspense and horror.

Sigh. What I got was endless pages of a) descriptions of the sublime (lots of scenery and peasants dancing); b) regular bouts of poetry (mostly inspired by the sublime); c) overly passionate characters on the verge of collapse (physical and emotional); and d) endless hint after hint of secrets to be revealed, which of course weren't revealed until the very last chapter. It's not that I have any objection to being teased by a book, but if you're going to spend 54 chapters on a novel called The Mysteries of Udolpho, you should at least mention Udolpho before Chapter 3 of Part 2. (And let me add that these weren't short chapters by any stretch of the imagination; although I read an e-book from the awesome Project Gutenberg, hard copies run at least 700 pages.)

Instead, the first volume is devoted to showing us the St. Aubert family of France as the father and daughter, Emily, lose their beloved mother and take a trip along the Pyrenees for a change of scenery. And oh, boy, do we gets lots and lots of scenery, all of which uplifts the St. Auberts' souls exactly as the British philosophers of the time said the sublime should. During the trip they meet a very nice young man named Valancourt and travel with him for a few chapters, until Msr. St. Aubert's health fails (another few chapters) and he expires in a little town near an abandoned chateau where mysterious music is often heard. His dying instructions are for Emily to burn some of his papers without reading them, and of course she sees a glimpse that horrifies her, but she burns them before finding anything else out (or revealing it to us). Emily mopes to the point of fainting for two more chapters, until she is put in custody of her aunt, whereupon she mopes for two more chapters in Paris. Her aunt at first refuses to let her see Valancourt, then promotes the match when she discovers it would be socially advantageous. Emily allows herself to fall in love, but her aunt's sudden marriage to the sinister Montoni cuts the relationship short, as he takes them all to Italy.

We get many many more sublime scenes (many of which inspire poetic verses) as Emily crosses the Alps, goes to Venice, and is finally—after some 17 chapters—taken to Montoni's stronghold, Udolpho. There he imprisons Emily's aunt to force her to sign over some property, threatens Emily after her aunt dies, heads his own army (which borders on being brigands), and generally makes life rotten. The mysteries of Udolpho are mainly: what happened to the woman from whom Montoni got the castle; what is behind the black veil that Emily glimpses (but doesn't describe fully until the end); and who is making the mysterious music she can hear at midnight?

It turns out the music is from an imprisoned Frenchman who is not Valancourt, but he escapes with Emily, her maid, and the maid's boyfriend. They end up being shipwrecked near the town where Emily's father died, and there (after 35 chapters!) we are introduced to a whole new family: the Count de Villefort and his daughter, who now occupy the mysterious chateau. They befriend Emily, who sadly learns that Valancourt has fallen into vice and gambling and debt and is too sinful for her to consider marrying any more. They take two chapters to say goodbye, and Emily mopes for the rest of the book, even as the Frenchman who rescued her waits in the wings. We get more mysterious music, appearances, and hidden identities at the Chateau, until all is resolved in a single chapter, after a dying nun reveals her relation to Udolpho and Emily's relation to the Chateau. Valancourt turns out to be falsely accused, and the two can get married, which is good, because they've been so miserable without each other it's been miserable to read about them.

As for the mysteries? Nothing is supernatural or dreadful; what's behind the black veil is a trick (if I had to read 700 pages to discover exactly what, you do too), and hidden passages account for others. It's not shocking or scary at all, which I suppose I should have known from reading NA. After all, Henry Tilney—a man of the cloth—admits to reading and enjoying the novel, while John Thorpe considers it uninteresting. Unfortunately, I have to agree with the scoundrel ... if you're going to hold my attention through 700 repetitive pages of the sublime, you need to show me what's scary, not just show me someone else being scared ... especially if that character is an overly emotional, silly girl with no backbone of her own.

Janespotting: Northanger Abbey, 2007 tv-film

After the psychedelic experience that was the 1987 adaptation of Northanger Abbey, I had high hopes for the 2007 version, especially when I saw it was written by Andrew Davies, the same person who penned the essential 1995 Pride & Prejudice (as well as the 1996 Kate Beckinsale Emma and the recent miniseries of Sense & Sensibility, as well as the sublime Bridget Jones's Diary). As this 2007 tv-film is only the second adaptation of NA, it didn't have a very high bar to clear to be the best ever, and I'm pleased to report it vaulted over that standard with no trouble at all.

My main problem with the previous version was in the tone—it was less a satire of the Gothic novel than a tribute to it—so I was extremely pleased when this version of NA began with Austen's own words in voiceover: "No one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy would have supposed her born to be an heroine." The film follows the plot very closely, and although it condenses a bit, we get the same progression as the book: an early acquaintance with Henry Tilney that happens almost by chance at the Pump Room; the growing friendship with Isabella and the growing interference of her brother; the friendship with Eleanor Tilney and the invitation to Northanger Abbey. This version brings in Gothic elements in ways that are clearly satirical: the characters read from the books, or talk about them, and occasionally we get an imagined scene that is exaggerated. It all remains true to the essential heart of the novel: Catherine is a true innocent, uncognizant of the real plots and intrigues that swirl around her even as she imagines Gothic ones that nearly cost her her chance at happiness.

Although the script is a big reason for the faithfulness of this version, much credit must be given to the casting and acting. Felicity Jones is perfect as Catherine; with her big eyes showing every emotion that crosses her face, she is innocent, open, and appealing. JJ Feild strikes the right note as Henry Tilney: playful, intrigued by Catherine's purity of spirit, and serious when he must go against his father's wishes. Just as good is recent Golden Globe-nominee Carey Mulligan as Isabella Thorpe, for she makes her a complex character who is sweet and sympathetic when Catherine first meets her, and only gradually reveals her flaws. The rest of the cast, as well as the costumes and settings, bring the rest of the novel to life just as you might envision it.

Altogether, this is a superb example of how an adaptation should be done, and this would be a great introduction to Northanger Abbey (or Austen) if you don't have time to read the book.

Janespotting: Northanger Abbey, 1987 TV-film

There haven't been many film adaptations for Northanger Abbey—the fewest of any of Austen's novels—probably owing to its relative lack of popularity as well as the difficulty of translating all the literary references to film. I felt fortunate that my library had the first such adaptation, a 90-minute BBC/A&E production broadcast in 1987. I approached it with a mixture of hope and trepidation. After all, less than a decade later a BBC/A&E collaboration would give us the sublime Pride & Prejudice mini-series. Still, 1987 might be a little early to expect an upgrade from the bland quality of some early productions. After having viewed this version of NA, however, I can safely say it wasn't bland. Instead, I think the writer and director might have erred a little too much in the other direction, for there were times I thought I might have enjoyed the film better if I had been on hallucinogens.

I understand that there is a challenge in conveying Catherine's interest in Gothic literature, one that is most easily met by showing scenes from these novels. In this adaptation these scenes are shown as Catherine's fantasies (starring Catherine and other characters), but often they bleed into scenes that are supposed to be taking place in the "real" world. For instance, there is one scene that in the novel takes place in Bath's Pump Room, but in the film is set in the Grand Bath. Men and women are in special swimming costumes (gowns for the ladies), still wear their elaborate hats, and have little plates worn around their necks that float in the water and hold edible treats. Evidently this co-ed bathing was a custom at the time (but without the hats), although as portrayed in the film it looks like something out of Fellini. A similarly bizarre scene occurs during Catherine's visit to the Abbey, when a visit from the General's friend the Marchioness (an invented character who looks ridiculously like a harlequin) leads to a fantasy involving the Marchioness's young African servant leading Catherine outdoors, where she is rescued by Henry on a horse. Extremely weird.

The strangeness wasn't helped any by several design elements, in particular the music, hair, and costumes. The latter involved lots of bright colors, tons of ribbons, huge feathers, and a style that was entirely too baroque for the era. The hair was very '80s, with lots of feathers and curls (even, God help us, on blond Henry Tilney). And the music ... completely bizarre and out of character. I get that they were trying to enhance the Gothic mood, but when you hear electric guitar and keyboard during landscape scenes, or a saxophone during a romantic scene, or Gregorian chants during the bathing scenes, it just takes you entirely out of the Austen mood.

I think that was my main problem with this adaptation: it doesn't have the Austen mood. I'm not sure they understood that Austen's NA is a satire of Gothic novels, not a tribute to them. This version too often tried to re-create the Gothic atmosphere—even to the point of exaggerating both James Thorpe's and General Tilney's characters so that they seem genuinely threatening—but the whole point of NA is that Catherine is seeking the Gothic in a place where it doesn't exist. And the one scene in the novel that most closely resembles the Gothic—when John Thorpe"kidnaps" Catherine for a coach ride when she has promised the Tilneys a walk—is for some reason omitted in favor of her first ride, when all he does is go a little too fast.

Still, I don't want to leave the impression this adaptation wasn't any fun at all. The performances were pretty good, especially Peter Firth (no relation to P&P's Colin Firth) as Henry Tilney. Some scenes were spot on (despite the music), especially the one where Catherine finally gets her countryside walk with the Tilneys, and I liked how they fleshed out the final romantic declaration that Austen is frequently too modest to detail. There were many good uses of dialogue directly from the book, and even one phrase that I believe is original but sounded so like Austen I had to look it up to see. As the film opens, and Catherine's brother calls her away from her book, she tells him, "literature and solitude are as necessary to a young woman's development as sunshine is to ripe fruit." Now that is a sentiment I can fully agree with.

Janespotting: Northanger Abbey (Austen's original)

The holidays interrupted me, but finally I get to resume my examination of Austen and her imitators by moving onto her novel Northanger Abbey, which was published posthumously in 1818. Why skip over Mansfield Park and Emma? First of all, NA was actually the first novel Austen actually completed and sold for publication, although the bookseller who initially purchased it decided not to publish after all, and Austen's brother Edward ended up buying back the rights. (What a comfort to us aspiring authors: even Jane Austen had problems getting published.) Second, NA is one of my favorite Austen novels, for it's her funniest. It's a parody of the gothic fiction of the time, and there's more about writing and books in it than in any of her other works. On several occasions she defends novels and the writing of them:

I will not adopt that ungenerous and impolitic custom so common with novel-writers, of degrading by their contemptuous censure the very performances, to the number of which they are themselves adding—joining with their greatest enemies in bestowing the harshest epithets on such works, and scarcely ever permitting them to be read by their own heroine, who, if she accidentally take up a novel, is sure to turn over its insipid pages with disgust. Alas! If the heroine of one novel be not patronized by the heroine of another, from whom can she expect protection and regard? I cannot approve of it.

NA's heroine, Catherine Morland, is certainly not snobbish about novels; she devours Gothic romances like Ann Radcliffe's The Mysteries of Udolpho with gusto. There's not much else for her to do at home in the country with her many brothers and sisters, but soon she's called to accompany her wealthy neighbors, the Allens, to Bath. Ah, Bath! Later, in Persuasion, Austen would portray this resort city as tiresome (as she herself found it), but in NA we see it full of all the fun and activity that would enchant a naive 17 year old: plays, shopping, and best of all, assemblies where one might make new acquaintances. Almost immediately Catherine makes the acquaintance of Henry Tilney, a young clergyman with a quirky wit who catches her fancy.

Not long afterward she befriends Isabella Thorpe, the daughter of one of Mrs. Allen's friends. Isabella is quick to claim her as a bosom friend, and introduces Catherine to her brother John, who is a bit crude and wild, but is also a friend of Catherine's brother James, so she tries to be polite. She would much rather spend time with Henry Tilney and his sister Eleanor, but Isabella and James conspire to usurp Catherine's time, even going so far as to lie in order to get her to accompany them on a drive instead of a prior engagement with the Tilneys. (This "kidnapping" scene is just one of many that parodies typical events in a gothic novel.) Still, Catherine remains close to Isabella, especially after she announces her engagement to James.

Things start to head south in Bath after Isabella discovers that James's marriage settlement will be less than she imagined ... and she imagined quite a lot, it's clear from both her attitude and James's pursuit of Catherine. Catherine, of course, remains clueless to this, just as she doesn't realize that the Tilneys have extended an invitation to their home at Northanger Abbey because General Tilney, Eleanor and Henry's father, believes her to be an heiress. Catherine is excited about the trip to the Abbey, believing it will be just as full of atmosphere as the castles and monasteries of her Gothic favorites. Henry even teases her about it on the trip there:

How fearfully will you examine the furniture of your apartment! And what will you discern? Not tables, toilettes, wardrobes, or drawers, but on one side perhaps the remains of a broken lute, on the other a ponderous chest which no efforts can open, and over the fireplace the portrait of some handsome warrior, whose features will so incomprehensibly strike you, that you will not be able to withdraw your eyes from it.

Of course, after Catherine arrives she lets her imagination run away with her. She looks into a wardrobe only to find a laundry list, and misinterprets General Tilney's reluctance for her to see the late Mrs. Tilney's rooms as something sinister. When Henry catches her peeking into his mother's rooms and intuits her thinking, she is deeply ashamed. She also wises up about the Thorpe family, after Isabella throws over James for the wealthier Captain Tilney, and then writes Catherine to intercede with James after she discovers Tilney was only playing with her. Still, Catherine is puzzled when General Tilney suddenly comes home one day and abruptly orders her out, not realizing that the General has just discovered she isn't an heiress.

She returns home, sad and puzzled, and after a few days everything is resolved quickly, in true Gothic fashion: Henry visits, appalled by his father's behavior, and proposes; Eleanor own, previously unmentioned, suitor comes into money and a title and softens General Tilney's objections; and the Thorpes fade into obscurity.

With a typical happy ending, and a whole bunch of comic subversions of the Gothic genre, why isn't NA more of a favorite with readers? My best guess is that it's because Catherine Morland is a rather unexciting heroine. Although she's honest and sweet, she's naive, not particularly witty, and ignorant. Even Austen recognized Catherine's limitations:

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.

Personally, I love reading Northanger Abbey; it makes me giggle, all those literary subversions. It even makes me curious about all those Gothic originals ... and I'll be reading those for future "Janespotting" installments, although first I'll be visiting some of the TV adaptations. Next up: the 1987 BBC/A&E movie.