Austen's Funniest Book

Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen

A few weeks ago I was making sure the $10 paid for my New Yorker subscription didn’t go to waste and landed on an essay by Adelle Waldman on Northanger Abbey. It begins thusly: “Northanger Abbey is the least beloved of Jane Austen’s six novels. It also appears frequently in university-level literature classes. These two things are related.”

You can imagine that my interest was piqued. I love to be contrarian (make unbeloved things my beloveds), and I love university-level literature classes (though it’s been a while, the spirit of the thing remains in/with me). Waldman goes on to highlight the distinct charm of Austen’s first written, posthumously published novel—Austen’s signature wit, and a charmingly unheroic heroine in Catherine Morland, PLUS on top of that, a meta-defense of the novel as a form.

I seemed to have forgotten all of this—except for maybe Catherine’s naïveté, which I hazily recalled from my first reading five years ago. I decided right then and there that I had to read it again, and being between books anyway was distinctly suited to do so, as Austen might say, post haste.

Reader—I did just that, and I was delighted. I must join Waldman in wondering how it could be that Northanger is not more of a favorite among Austen acolytes. Perhaps I go even further than Waldman, since the reason she lands on for its relative unpopularity is the same reason I have landed on for why I loved it so much. Austen—or her narrator, who speaks in that unmistakable and cherished voice, is more prominent here than it is in any of her other books. In reading, you are chatting with her, that unnamed, sharp & witty story teller. Her company is wonderful.

Catherine Morland is a sweetly ordinary middle-class English girl of seventeen. She is the fourth child and first girl in a family of ten children, living in a somewhat sleepy country town. When she’s invited to join the Allens—the Morland’s wealthy and childless neighbors—for a trip to Bath, her adventures begin.

Shortly after arriving she makes the acquaintance of Henry Tilney. He is in town with his father, the General and his sister Eleanor. Slowly but surely the Tilney siblings’ affection for Catherine grows, and hers likewise for them. They invite her to join them at Northanger Abbey—their stately home, once a convent. Catherine imagines its “long, damp passages, its narrow cells and ruined chapel” where in any corner or behind any loose brick there surely may be “some traditional legends, some awful memorials of an injured and ill-fated nun.” Yes, our dear Catherine’s imagination begins to run off the tracks.

You see, she is a lover of novels! And in particular the gothic varietal so popular during Austen’s lifetime—like the very real Mysteries of Udolpho, by Ann Radcliffe which is discussed at length. But don’t get it twisted. Catherine’s love for gothic novels may skew her perception of reality—just a tad!—but Austen is far from jumping on the novel-shaming bandwagon of her time. To the contrary, both in the mouths of her characters and the pen of her narrator, there is nothing so pleasurable and powerful as the novel.

I must agree again—this time with Austen. How agreeable I am today! This is (if memory serves) Austen’s funniest novel. I took it out to dinner at Zimmi’s, and I was laughing out loud at the bar. The cast of supporting characters is expertly and amusingly drawn. Tilney is a worthy hero. Catherine—though not born a heroine, and only “almost pretty” and “often inattentive, and occasionally stupid,”—proves to be a most charming and easy to root for. That’s all! Read it if you haven’t.

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