When Jane Austen died in 1817, her novels were soon forgotten. They were considered too tame, too normal. All they did was reflect her time, her society, her friends and neighbors. Not like the dramatic novels of, say, Dumas (of Three Musketeers fame) or Sir Walter Scott. No knights in armor, no swordfights. No car chases, either.
No, all dear Jane did was accurately and wickedly portray the faults and foibles of her privileged class in Georgian England. You barely hear a whisper about that rascal Napolean causing trouble on the continent.
It wasn’t till 1833, when her books were put into a set, that interest in our Jane revived. Then, boy did it.
Today you can buy a Jane Austen baseball cap, Jane Austen T-Shirts, Jane Austen candy, Jane Austen soap, and, of course, her books, which will likely remain in print until this planet turns to ashes. Even then, someone will be in a bombed-out shell of a house, sitting by the nuclear fission fireside, reading Pride and Prejudice.
Also “of course,” there are novels written featuring Jane. She is a detective. She is a matchmaker. She is a ghost. And she’s a boardgame.
A busy girl.
I have just finished reading Godmersham Park, a novel by Gil Hornby (who also wrote a Jane Austen novel about her sister Cassanra, Miss Austen. The drawing above is of Jane by her sister.) A good novel, solid writing, lots of research. But it emphasized, to me, the difference between good writing and great writing.
Good writing does not stop you by wooly sentences or stupid events. You read smoothly, with enjoyment, and like the characters and the story. It doesn’t exactly thrill you or make you sit on the edge of your reading chair, but you appreciate good writing in a world filled with bad writing. A book you might want to read if you like Jane Austen.
Thing is, all of the books I’ve read with Dear Jane as a character make it sound like everyone in her time knew she was a friggin’ genius. (Note: She was a friggin’ genius, one of the best writers of the English language or any other one, for that matter. Any woman that can make me care about wealthy Georgian landowners and their pursuit of a marriageable partner is a friggin’ genius. And I will fight the man who says different.)
In her time, her friends and family were proud of her novels, of her writing “career.” But no one in 1811 said she was a genius or praised her as being the seminal writer of her era and class. They were too busy praising Ivanhoe.
No, as the fading of Jane’s work after her death shows, the world sucks and people suck even more. I suppose we are lucky that Richard Benson decided to include Jane’s work in a series of republished novels in 1833. Otherwise, we’d be left with Ivanhoe.
Another qualm I have is the dialogue. In Godmersham Park the characters sound like they’ve stepped out of Sense and Sensibility. Here’s a sample:
“My dear child…Think of your grandfather as he makes his way to the eternal. The finest of men…The very best of us. Never forget that it is from him that we have all come. ‘Tis a memoery to honour.”
Or here’s bad boy Henry trying to woo Anne:
“And besides, I value your company…Tell me, Miss Sharp, though I have no right to ask it. Might I hope to believe that, in some small measure, you value mine, too?”
I would be willing to be that if you were to be transported to Jane Austen’s time and talk like this, everyone would look at you like you were insane. “What the hell?” Jane would say. “Speak English.”
To be a relative of Jane’s is a dangerous thing. You end up in the strangest modern novels. The aforesaid Godmersham Park concerns her relative Elizabeth and Edward Austen, and her ne’er do well brother Henry. Henry does not figure well in the novel, essentially asking the protagonist Anne Sharp, the governess at Godmersham Park, to become his mistress. She wisely said no.
But at least you are not forgotten. Your connection to the now-famous Jane Austen guarantees that. All you have to worry about is modern novelists who want to elevate Jane to your detriment.
Mark Bruce, Writer 
