Preservation and Northanger Abbey

By Jenna Remley


    The copy of Northanger Abbey that I start reading is worn and fragile. The front cover is barely hanging on to the spine. As I open it delicately for the first time, I see the inside cover has a sketched portrait of Jane Austen, made by her sister. Beyond the physical wear, the book shows other signs of being distinctly used - there are passages marked in pen throughout the novel, although no margin notes to reveal why these particular parts stood out to a past reader.

    This book was something I took from the literal towers of books that occupied my aunt Janet's house. After Janet died, my mother was chiefly in charge of clearing her house out. When I helped out, I often sorted through Janet's countless books, dusting them off and then placing them into piles: recycle, donate, or keep. Among the many books I chose to keep, I picked out Northanger Abbey, one of Austen’s novels I'd never read. I knew ahead of time that the book satirized conventions of the Gothic novels popular in Austen’s day, but since I wasn’t well-versed in Gothic literature myself, I wasn’t sure how well I’d be able to grasp the parody.
    
    When I studied in London for a semester, some of my friends took a Gothic lit class. My schedule was less focused on single genres, instead taking in a wide survey of British literature. I wanted to learn as much about London and Britain as I could, both through studying literature and personally exploring my surroundings. Our program provided a number of cultural outings available for free to students, including a day trip to the city of Bath.

    We took a chartered bus from London, and when we arrived in Bath we were shown around the city by our cultural guide, a charming, enthusiastic man named Tony. Near the end of our tour we briefly stopped in the Bath Assembly Rooms, where I snapped a photo of a chandelier and a stately 18th-century portrait. Then we were released to entertain ourselves until our scheduled tour of the Roman baths for which the city is named. My friends and I, following some advice from Tony, made a beeline for the Pump Room.


   This was, by far, our fanciest tea in England to date, a huge step up from our routine visits to Costa where we’d study while consuming caffeinated drinks and snacks. I was wearing jeans, and felt criminally underdressed for a dining room with tablecloths. We ordered the cheapest options and were served a variety of teas in large porcelain pots, along with a three-tiered tray of small, delicate, and impeccably-presented foodstuffs.

 
   We carefully nibbled on finger sandwiches and scones with clotted cream. There were two shot glasses of a salmony cream topped with caviar, which I cautiously tried, never having had the opportunity or desire to eat caviar before. It was fine, but not life-changing.

 
   We enjoyed our meal and listened to the piano covers of pop songs that played in the background - evidence that even the Pump Room has modernized in some ways. It was still so lovely, the strong tea and delicious pastries and gentile ambiance, and it felt Austen-esque to me.

    It was, unfortunately, the first day of my period, so after enjoying our meal at the Pump Room for a while I had to take my leave to go lock myself in the bathroom, take deep breaths, and try not to puke. I told my friends to go on without me, so when my cramps finally felt manageable, I wandered into the square outside and found a bench to sit on by myself. The city, like many places I visited in Europe, was a mishmash of ancient and modern. History felt strong here, the past visible wherever you turned. I watched shoppers head in and out of a department store housed in a building made of the same sand-colored bricks as the Pump Room and the Georgian houses that surround the iconic Circus. I wandered into Bath Abbey, and while it looked approximately the same as the countless other Gothic churches I saw throughout Europe, it was still beautiful and peaceful. I reunited with my friends, and we went to tour the ancient Roman baths.

    During this trip, I had only a vague sense that Jane Austen had any attachment to Bath. While I’d read and thoroughly enjoyed both Pride and Prejudice and Emma, I hadn’t gotten into any of her work that was set in Bath, where she lived for a number of years. It would only be in retrospect that I could appreciate these places in relation to this incredible author. Reading Northanger Abbey, four years later, I would feel the thrill of recognition when scenes took place in the Pump Room, or an important character was introduced at a ball in the Assembly Rooms. It’s so simple, but it still feels special to have been somewhere that’s recreated in fiction, to be able to imagine a story unfolding in a place you have memories of, to realize that you’ve walked the same floors as these characters (metaphorically speaking - the Assembly Rooms have been renovated many times over the past few centuries).



    My aunt Janet visited me in London, and then traveled to Madrid with me when I headed there for a summer program. She loved to travel, and I aspired to see more of the world as she had. My decision to study in Spain was partially influenced by her, as she’d spent a year in Madrid during college. It was also well known that Janet was a huge fan of Austen’s work, but it wasn’t something I ever talked to her about in-depth. Northanger Abbey was one of a number of Austen-related books I kept from Janet’s house - I also took a copy of Pride and Prejudice and a collection of Austen’s letters. Since she died, two years ago, I’ve read several of her old books, including One Hundred Years of Solitude and The Bell Jar. The copy of Northanger Abbey is certainly the oldest of her books that I’ve read - not just in terms of original publication date, but also in regards to the printing of this particular book, which was made in the UK fifteen years before I was born. While there are passages marked with pen in the margins, it’s entirely likely that they weren’t made by Janet, but instead some previous owner from this book’s long life.

    While Northanger Abbey turned out to be my least favorite Austen novel so far, I still enjoyed reading it. Catherine, our heroine, is not as admirably headstrong as Elizabeth Bennet or delightfully meddling as Emma Woodhouse. The love interest is not as nuanced as Mr. Darcy or as likeable as Edward Ferrars. The satire is sometimes tonally at odds with the marriage plot, but is still quite amusing. Catherine is so obsessed with Gothic novels that she imagines their tropes bleeding over into real life. She spirals into grand delusions about sinister truths hiding behind rather banal events and circumstances in her life as she stays at a former abbey owned by the family of her love interest. Austen’s trademark wit is still there, and the comedy of manners provides an entertaining mix of secondhand embarrassment and scandal. And beyond the content of the book itself, there’s a certain satisfaction in just reading it, in having more of Austen’s work under my belt, in understanding her more broadly as a writer.

    I was reading the book in bed by candlelight one night - not for ambiance, but because my reading lamp was out of battery - when I turned a page and something fell out of the book, hitting me in the face. I had a moment of panic, of disbelief, of wondering how this book had momentarily come alive and hit me. Then I reached to my pillow where the falling object had landed, and realized it was a plant. A thin, green-and-tan stem topped with a burst of tiny blooms. It was dry and flat. I realized it had been pressed between the pages, preserved in the novel for who knows how long. I knew who had put it there, though - Janet had often pressed flowers in books, and kept dried flowers all around her house.

    In Northanger Abbey, Catherine is equally scared and thrilled by the idea that the stories she reads might come alive and impact her life, that the ghosts of fiction will haunt her in reality. Yet for me, a dusty, worn book had presented a gift. Even if it wasn’t the most gorgeous flower, it was in itself a concrete connection to Janet, a token from a lost loved one. It was a simple reminder of who Janet was, flower-presser and international-traveler and Austen-lover; an emblem of the things she cared about, and the myriad ways she’s impacted my life. When this book hit me in the face, it provided not an ominous message from a grim specter, but an accidental present from someone I loved dearly. While Northanger Abbey may not be Austen’s greatest work, no other book has given me any gift quite like this.

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