Another precedent can be found in Richard Brinsley Sheridan’s The Rivals (1775), one of the most popular plays of the century (and mentioned in Mansfield Park): its upper-class heroine is so entranced by the illicit elopements found in novels that her lover is forced to disguise himself as an illicit poor suitor in order to win her affection. Jane Austen continued to show her taste for such mockery even in her later years when she declared in a letter that Eaton Barrett’s satirical The Heroine (1813), whose main character falls under the sway of Gothic novels much as Catherine Morland does, “diverted [her] exceedingly” (March 2, 1814). In her final unfinished novel Sanditon, she also creates a foolish character, Sir Edward Denham, “who had read more sentimental novels than agreed with him,” and who, fancying himself the sort of great seducer found in some of those works, aspires to kidnap a young woman he loves and carry her off to Timbuktu.

The switch to this form of parody in Northanger Abbey’s second half furnishes new, and in some respects, superior opportunities for the author. It allows her to focus more closely than before on one specific type of novel, and even to a great degree on one novel, Ann Radcliffe’s most popular work, The Mysteries of Udolpho. More important, it allows Austen to make the parody part of the plot, rather than a commentary on it, by having the heroine’s misguided imaginings about Northanger Abbey lead to foolish actions and speculations, interspersed with developments in which her illusions are dispelled. By this series of events, the author can make her points through pure narration instead of through asides—and as she does, Austen displays great skill in creating the sort of tension and excitement found in the genre she is mocking, though the reader’s knowledge that this is all part of a jest inevitably tempers the suspense.

The Gothic episode does involve a rather abrupt transition to a new plotline and a new tone, as well as a transition in the heroine from someone who takes everything at face value to one who now perceives hidden meanings everywhere. It also means leaving behind most of the characters established in Bath, and much of the superb comedy they provide. But it does continue the process of education and maturation that Catherine had commenced in Bath. Moreover, her heroine’s pursuit of hidden meanings at Northanger links to her earlier literalness because it grows out of her overly literal acceptance of the expectations and categories furnished by Gothic fiction.

For these reasons, any possible awkwardness in the parodic elements of the novel does not detract from the author’s success in conveying the other, more significant throughline of the narrative, the history of Catherine Morland’s entrance into the world. This success starts with the portrayal of Catherine herself, who is so much the center of the novel that there is not a single scene in which she is not present; even the revelation of the crucial exchanges between John Thorpe and General Tilney occurs only in the context of Henry Tilney’s proposal to her. The nineteenth-century novelist Margaret Oliphant opined that “Catherine Morland, with all her enthusiasm and her mistakes, her modest tenderness and right feeling, and the fine instinct which runs through her simplicity, is the most captivating picture of a very young girl which fiction, perhaps, has ever furnished.”2 What makes this picture possible is Jane Austen’s willingness to present the full, unvarnished reality of her heroine’s innocence and eagerness, with no attempt to impute to her any wisdom beyond her years or to disguise her frequent descents into folly. Catherine’s wonder at every new experience, her elation or dejection in the face of every good or bad development, along with her intense hopes and fears regarding what will transpire next, are all vividly before the reader. Other Austen heroines balance such feelings with well-developed, even if sometimes mistaken, ideas for making sense of the world and guiding their behavior; much of the drama therefore lies in the conflict between these ideas and the realities confronted by the heroines. With Catherine, however, we see someone who is just beginning to learn about the world and to formulate ideas and judgments. It is the very process of doing so that constitutes her drama. Hence the simplest incidents, such as looking for a partner at a ball or deciding whether to go on a carriage ride, can become dramatic, since even they present challenges to the untutored heroine—a feature that, in turn, by permitting the author to hew so closely to ordinary experience, also serves her parody of other novels’ departures from that experience.

The potential dangers of having such an innocent heroine are that of making the novel too simple, and of arousing ridicule or contempt rather than sympathy toward the main character. The parody helps to avoid the first danger by providing a complex extra dimension to the novel. As for the second, the author takes pains throughout to balance Catherine’s naïveté with other qualities, including a basic intelligence that enables her, even when not comprehending all that she sees and hears, to respond coherently to what she does discern; a willingness to acknowledge her mistakes and limitations; and, most of all, a moral integrity that makes her always strive to do right and attempt every remedy possible when she finds she has been wrong. Catherine’s guilelessness, in fact, turns out to be a powerful source of both her weaknesses and her strengths.

The novel’s hero is vital to its success as well. Henry Tilney stands out among Austen heroes in several respects. He alone is present throughout the story in the capacity of a romantic interest for the heroine. He alone serves throughout as a powerful and accepted guide for the heroine. Finally, he alone exhibits strongly the qualities of wit and humor that are always such a prominent feature of Austen’s novels (but that she usually assigns to female or secondary male characters). All this makes him a compelling figure in his own right, a particularly valuable asset in a novel that contains only a small cast of characters, and that removes most of them from the stage in the second half. Henry’s personal situation adds to his interest, for he suffers from having a flawed parent that he must respect outwardly even while being aware of his faults; this dilemma, one shared in various respects by the heroines of all other Austen novels, leads to its own complex minor drama, as Henry must struggle, in his conversations with Catherine, over how much to reveal of his awareness of the defects of his father (as well as of his brother).

Henry also serves a number of important functions in the overall structure of the novel. He greatly advances the parody through the elaborate Gothic fantasy he jokingly offers to Catherine, a fantasy that represents the fullest exposition in the novel of the absurdities of the Gothic horror genre and makes her subsequent delusions more plausible. He plays an equally essential part in the all-important process of Catherine’s education, through the various lessons he imparts about human behavior and his exposure of the falseness of her beliefs regarding his mother’s fate. He also frequently elucidates Catherine’s character through his astute commentary on her. This removes some of that burden from the narrator, who in general must assume a heavy role in the exposition, since Catherine’s lack of experience prevents her from serving as the organizing consciousness through whom all events are refracted to nearly the same extent as the heroines of other Austen novels. Moreover, Henry’s wisdom, appreciation of Catherine, and concern for her serve as reassurance that, despite her naïveté and frequent errors, her fate will eventually be a happy one.