The young people were at first crestfallen.
“The old dragon will never consent,” mourned Catherine to her beloved. “I am afraid it is of no use appealing to his better nature.”
“If needed, I will force him to it,” said Henry in a voice like steel, with an amber-golden glint in his eyes.
“No,” she replied gently. “Please, let us wait.”
Only, what could ever induce such an impossible change of heart in the general, in him whose heart was already on its way to turning into metal and his flesh to stone?
But Henry heeded his treasure. Thus, for the moment, he returned to what was now his only home, to watch over his young plantations, and extend his improvements for her sake, to whose share in them he looked anxiously forward.
And Catherine remained at Fullerton to cry. Whether the torments of such enforced absence were softened by a clandestine correspondence between the lovers, perhaps employing some form of secret encryption in Capital Letters using the Udolpho Code, dear Reader, let us not inquire. Mr. and Mrs. Morland never did—they had been too kind to exact any promise otherwise. And whenever Catherine received a letter (quite often) they always looked another way.
The anxiety, which in this state of their attachment must be the portion of Henry and Catherine, was eventually resolved to everyone’s satisfaction and their eventual blissful matrimony.
The circumstance which helped immensely was the marriage of the general’s daughter with a man of fortune and consequence, which took place in the course of the summer—an accession of dignity that threw the imbalanced dragon into a fit of good humour, from which he did not recover till after Eleanor had obtained his forgiveness of Henry, and his permission for him “to be a fool if he liked it!”
The marriage of long-suffering Eleanor Tilney, and her eventual happy removal from all the evils of her father and Northanger, to the home of her choice and the man of her choice, was an event blessed by fortune and felicity. Eleanor’s partiality for this gentleman was not of recent origin; and the only thing preventing their union had been the inferiority of his situation. His unexpected accession to title and fortune had removed all his difficulties; and never had the general loved his daughter so well as when he first hailed her “Your Ladyship!”
Her husband was deserving of her; being the most charming young man in the world—and who knows, just possibly, he too was an awakened dragon. One other item that must be noted, is that this was the very same gentleman whose negligent servant left behind him that collection of washing-bills, resulting from a long visit at Northanger, by which our heroine was involved in one of her most alarming demonic adventures.
The positive influence of the viscount and viscountess in their brother’s behalf was assisted by a further clarification of Mr. Morland’s financial circumstances. In short, the general learned that the Morlands were not at all as terribly off as John Thorpe had made them out to be. To be sure, they were not rich, but neither were they dishonorable or destitute—and Catherine would have three thousand pounds.
This so material and tangible an amendment of his expectations greatly contributed to smooth the descent of his dragon pride.
On the strength of this, the general, soon after Eleanor’s marriage, permitted his son to return to Northanger, and thence made him the bearer of his consent, very courteously worded in a page full of empty professions to Mr. Morland.
Nay, the petrifying dragon heart had not strayed from its sorrowful path of gold. But at least some actual gold (and a human treasure) was now within grasp, and merely knowing it calmed the dragon into acquiescence—not to mention, the avoidance of a rather unpleasant continuation of a supernatural battle with his powerful son.
The happy event which the consent authorized soon followed: Henry and Catherine were married, the bells rang, the angels sang in dulcet tones, and everybody smiled.
To begin perfect happiness at the respective ages of twenty-six and eighteen is to do pretty well. The Dragon of Love had gained his rightful one and only true treasure.
And as for the Treasure herself, why, she continued to demonstrate that brave imagination and common sense could not only co-exist, but that indeed they happily must wed each other, in order to provide the world with its due share of bright offspring in the form of angels, dragons, and other true wonders.
The End
APPENDIX
Figure 1
APPENDIX 2
Figure 2: Grey’s Scale Anatomy
A Note on the Text
Northanger Abbey was written in 1797-98 under a different title (it included Angels and Dragons). The manuscript was revised around 1803 and sold to a London publisher, Crosbie & Co., who sold[30] it back in 1816. This fine supernatural text is based on the first edition, published by John Murray, London, in 1818—the year following Miss Austen’s death. Spelling and punctuation have been largely brought into conformity with modern British usage. Supernatural and paranormal beings and elements were retained as deemed prudent and inevitable.
Author’s After-Note
Gentle Reader—
No, this is not she, but the other—the shameless harridan who has taken it upon herself to take up pen and mangle Miss Austen’s deathless (but never undead), perfectly civil, delightfully romantic, pointedly sarcastic, and by all accounts immortal prose, with the crass additions of her own fired imagination.
How is one to satirize an already perfect satire? Why, by taking it into the sublime realm of the fantastic and then by bringing all its already inherent imaginary absurdity to life.
It must be acknowledged that a profound and humble debt of gratitude is owed to the esteemed Mrs. Ann Radcliffe and her fellow gothic novelists who have provided the splendid raw fodder for this little flight of fancy.
Meanwhile, I humbly beg a thousand pardons of Miss Austen’s noble shade, and trust you have enjoyed the horrid delights found only in Northanger Abbey.
Yours, in All Amiability,
The Harridan.
Vera Nazarian
December, 2010
About the Harridan
Vera Nazarian immigrated to the USA from the former USSR as a kid, sold her first story at the age of 17, and since then has published numerous works in anthologies and magazines, and has seen her fiction translated into eight languages.
She made her novelist debut with the critically acclaimed arabesque “collage” novel Dreams of the Compass Rose, followed by epic fantasy about a world without color, Lords of Rainbow. Her novella The Clock King and the Queen of the Hourglass from PS Publishing (UK) with an introduction by Charles de Lint made the Locus Recommended Reading List for 2005. Her debut short fiction collection Salt of the Air, with an introduction by Gene Wolfe, contains the 2007 Nebula Award-nominated “The Story of Love.” Recent work includes the 2008 Nebula Award-nominated, self-illustrated baroque fantasy novella The Duke in His Castle, science fiction collection After the Sundial (2010), Jane Austen parody Mansfield Park and Mummies (2009), The Perpetual Calendar of Inspiration (2010), and this literary curiosity that you now hold in your hands. . . .
Vera lives in Los Angeles, and uses her Armenian sense of humor and her Russian sense of suffering to bake conflicted pirozhki and make art.
In addition to being a writer and award-winning artist, she is also the publisher of Norilana Books.
Official website:
http://www.veranazarian.com/
* * *
[1] Gentle Reader, not all Richards are “Poor” nor are they all “Dicks.”
[2] As opposed to a Windows mouse.
[3] The Astute Reader is surely stunned! But yes indeed, baseball is known and acknowledged by the Esteemed Author—possibly its earliest literary mention ever!
[4] A creature of nightmares, rumored to be first observed and harbored at a certain fine estate called Mansfield Park.
[5] It must be noted that some “last” volumes work better than others that actually precede the first volume in an endless series
of imperial space battle rehashes, cute stuffed creature aliens and brother-sister pairings, strange forces that may or may not be with one—that is, ahem! Upon my word, what was that all about?
[6] Ahem! Gentle Reader, it is not what one thinks it is. Besides, there is nothing wrong with that.
[7] Vide a letter from Mr. Richardson, No. 97, Vol. ii, “Rambler.” Verily dear Reader, young ladies in love must never divulge their delicate amorous state, for gentlemen are such flighty creatures, easily frightened out of their wits.
[8] Delightful pastime consisting of observing people and objects at a distance through a magnifying glass in order to generate better informed gossip, or plan a more effective courtship, or, in some instances, to quit the room in a hurry.
[9] Goodness, how thoroughly unseemly!
[10] A Novel is a metaphysical Object of great power, capable of Changing Minds and Creating Worlds of untold wonder. It is also a secret means of universal travel.
[11] Be warned, O Fair Reader, this is an Authorial Aside, and as such, a measure of passion on the part of the humble Author must be excused, for she speaks from the heart, and Knows what she Speaketh.
[12] A Reviewer is a metaphysical Being for whom there are no proper earthly terms, O Blessed Reader; verily, neither angel, nor demon, nor dragon, nor even a monstrous duck. And yet, all that can be said is, Thou must Fear and Tremble!
[13] Ahem!
[14] One begs to differ—there is that fiendish Thing that rhymes, commonly found inside a greeting card.
[15] A Reader! A most happy breed of all, for Thou art Blessed and Wanted and Worshiped and Adored! Ahem! (The Author must hereby be pardoned for going into these warmest effusions of sentiment.)
[16] A Novelist is a metaphysical Being who has taken it upon her sorry shoulders to carry the burden of conscience of the entire modern civilization, while being paid less than minimum wage, working three or more additional jobs to avoid homelessness and starvation, and having no personal life to speak of, all in exchange for the privilege of speaking the Truth clad in Story.
[17] A forgotten periodical, gentle Reader, which finely illustrates the argument.
[18] Unless the gentleman is Beau Brummell or Oscar Wilde, in which case fashion moves the heart with Swiss precision.
[19] Oh dear! This is not in any way intended to remind the gentle reader of a certain Oscar Wilde, but rather of a happy butterfly, fluttering in the breeze.
[20] Gentle Reader, this Author is duly shocked. Whatever gutter filth must be passing through your thoughts! Oh dear! You must hasten to procure good soap and use it!
[21] Gentle Reader, pray, do not attempt to make sense of this.
[22] Be warned, O Virtuous Reader, what follows is a Meaningful Moral Lesson. An Aside, if you will (and even if you won’t). Thus, you must steadfastly persevere onward, for there is no escaping your instruction in Theological Cosmology, nor in the culinary art of baking!
[23] Gentle Reader, there is nothing more frightening than aggressive ignorance. To impose your own misinformed or vacant state upon someone else is a human crime. And yet, irony of ironies! It is a condition found, disturbingly often, precisely in the character of those who sit in judgment over human crimes.
[24] Being “curiously inlaid” is an absolute requirement when one discovers mysterious chests under such circumstances.
[25] Presumed to be neither a front portion of a moving vehicle, nor a guitar—items the Reader would be hard pressed to find in Northanger Abbey.
[26] Oh dear! One truly knows not what to say!
[27] A very, very bad man. Seriously, thou needst google it.
[28] Pray, do not think of a certain gentleman by the name of Oscar Wilde.
[29] Hold fast, bear onward! This one shall be brief!
[30] The publisher was an imbecilic twit.
Vera Nazarian, Northanger Abbey and Angels and Dragons
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