Architectural historian Nikolaus Pevsner contends that Jane Austen is “without exception vague, when it comes to describing buildings” (Pevsner 404). In terms of purely visual aspects, it must be agreed that details are “sparse” (Pevsner 405). Yet although we might not know if a building in an Austen novel is designed in the Palladian or Neoclassical style, we do understand how these spaces operate and how characters interact within them. Regarding spatial description of the eighteenth-century novel, Philippa Tristram suggests that it would “be redundant to describe what every courteous author must assume was already known to his readers” (Tristram 5). Austen, however, does employ more detailed spatial description for moments of characterization. We can imagine Lady Bertram reclining on her sofa, Mr. Woodhouse positioned by his fireside, and Mr. Bennet retreating to his library. Catherine Morland’s overstimulated imagination provides some of Austen’s most richly ornamented scenes that serve to highlight the dispelling of Catherine’s naivete. We are invited into the recesses Northanger Abbey to find, not medieval implements, but rather, furniture with the “elegance of modern taste”—a far cry, indeed, from Catherine’s high-flown expectations (Austen, Northanger Abbey, 165). And of course, there are the windows, Gothic in frame, but modern in glazing— “so large, so clear, so light!” (Austen 165-166). As Tristram explains, the domestic spaces of the long eighteenth century were “extremely bare” as compared with our modern expectations (Tristram 5). Therefore, “[t]he room…is dominated not by its furniture but by its structural features” meaning that the novelist “[registers] the definition of space and not its detail” (Tristram 5). The reader of Austen understands how her characters negotiate these spaces and the subtle ways in which her female characters, in particular, “test the strength of their boundaries” (Wall 367). The liminal space of the window is one of these nexuses of activity in Austen’s novels. Looking through the window, and the visual evidence garnered from this activity, places many of Austen’s female characters in a position of power through the knowledge and foresight—both literal and metaphorical—they gain. Acts of looking, and their symbolic connection to clarity, occur repeatedly in Austen’s novels. Yet Austen also never loses sight of the fact that a “view” is always constructed and framed—and this essay focuses on these nuanced scenes where the window, and the view which it encloses, is manipulated and misconstrued. Further, this essay situates the window at the crossroads of a commodity and structural device. A window is a tangible thing, but it also creates and denotes space, functioning as a liminal boundary or “a veil between inner and outer worlds” (Kohane and Hill 142).
At a time when window taxes were still on the rise, the window was not only a means of shaping space but also a site of display and wealth. In describing homes and their inhabitants, Austen frequently foregrounds the economic value of windows. Sotherton, with “many more rooms than could be supposed to be of any other use than to contribute to the window-tax,” makes even the worldly Henry Crawford shake his head in disappointment (Austen, Mansfield Park, 100). The interior and exterior spaces seamlessly intertwine in the admirable homes of Austen’s novels. At Sotherton, however, “[t]he situation of the house excluded the possibility of much prospect from any of the rooms” – the so-called “improvements” are a folly as there is no communion with the outside world (Austen 99). Rosings, with its windows obsequiously enumerated by Mr. Collins, operates similarly. In Lady Catherine’s presence, “they were all sent to one of the windows, to admire the view” with “Lady Catherine kindly informing them that it was much better worth looking at in the summer” (Austen, Pride and Prejudice, 184). For Lady Catherine, the costly glazing is merely an eye-catching commodity, functional only when receiving attention or praise. Concurrently, in the eighteenth century, the form of the window was undergoing a transformation. With the development of the sash window, that slid upwards and allowed for increased visibility through its larger panes, the popularity of the traditional casement window began to wane. Alongside these native windows, imported forms—including the Venetian, Diocletian, and French window—were intermixed. French windows, of which we hear in Austen, were linked with “a desire to move directly from rooms into the garden” (Louw 62). However, this window type was viewed less favorably than the sash, with concern over its “overcomplicated” form and “its lack of weather-tightness and excessive amount of ironmongery” (Louw 62). We find the French window at Uppercross Cottage, where, when paired with its veranda “and other prettinesses” is “likely to catch the traveller’s eye” (Austen, Persuasion, 39). Here, it is simply a feature to be catalogued by the onlooker, making a statement of form over function. Like Sotherton, it is a wasteful display—captivating on the surface but standing in contrast to its surroundings. Most of Austen’s scenes with windows, however, push beyond the mention of a glazed surface—instead, there are countless examples of characters interacting directly with the space of the window.
As Cynthia Wall explains, it is “in the more ambiguous spaces of stairs, vestibules, doorways, windows, and outside the houses altogether” where “opinions are formed, prejudices confirmed, and dramatic twists [are] enacted” among Austen’s characters (367). In these marginal spaces, we see characters taking control and adapting space to their benefit. The alluring Mary Crawford is a skillful arranger of space as she situates herself in front of a window to best advantage in the Parsonage. After the long delay in the arrival of her harp, Mary daily entertains Edmund with her enchanting songs. As Austen describes, “A young woman, pretty, lively, with a harp as elegant as herself, and both placed near a window, cut down to the ground, and opening on a little lawn, surrounded by shrubs in the rich foliage of summer, was enough to catch any man’s heart. The season, the scene, the air, were all favourable to tenderness and sentiment.” (Austen, Mansfield Park, 76). Mary understands the art of creating a captivating composition, and the language of the “scene” emphasizes the dismantling of boundaries between interior and exterior space. By placing herself against a lush backdrop, Mary serves only to enhance her personal charms. Set alongside her, the harp, which “rather added to [Mary’s] beauty, wit, and good-humour,” serves as a prop and another element of this set design (Austen 76). Mary even has background players: “Mrs. Grant and her tambour were not without their use” while Dr. Grant does “the honours” of passing the sandwich tray (Austen 76). Viewed together, “it was all in harmony” (Austen 76). Edmund proves a captive audience, returning to the Parsonage daily “to be indulged with his favourite instrument” (Austen 76). Yet Edmund is stripped of his emotional agency and is malleable in Mary’s presence; without “knowing what he was about, Edmund was beginning, at the end of a week of such intercourse, to be a good deal in love” (Austen 76). Fanny is not granted access into the Parsonage, and “uninvited,” she is left to linger on the edges and watch from afar (Austen 77). However, there is a language of foresight and clarity in Fanny’s thoughts that is absent from Edmund: “[s]he was a little surprised that he could spend so many hours with Miss Crawford, and not see more of the sort of fault which he had already observed, and of which she was almost always reminded by a something of the same nature whenever she was in her company; but so it was” (Austen 77).
Even as Edmund watches Mary play in front of a window, which links this domestic space to the garden and landscape beyond, the “naturalness” of this view is an illusion. Apertures, like windows and doors, are linked metaphorically with the body; the framing of a window, by someone like Mary, “[makes] a spectacle of the body within” (Kohane and Hill, 151). This particular window—“cut down to the ground”—around which Mary orders space, may fall into the category of a French window, or it may be of the sash window door variety. Associated with the picturesque movement, the sash window door allowed ease of visual connection and access to the landscape; its three tiers of glass panes provided the viewer with “a great sense of transparency.” (Louw 54). This type of window, like Mary, dissolves and visually breaks through barriers—the visual transparency of the scene quickly enchants Edmund as Mary skillfully plays both her harp and his heart. Fanny, however, by distancing herself from this scene is granted a clearer view. From Mansfield, she “could look down the park, and command a view of the Parsonage and all its demesnes, gently rising beyond the village road” (Austen 78-79). Her perspective is more comprehensive than Edmund’s narrow and tightly framed pictorial view.
The window, with its seamless visual connection between in and out, is easily accepted as a threshold that ushers in clarity and truth. Catherine Morland, however, serves as a reminder to not give too much credence to visual evidence alone. She observes Isabella Thorpe walking down the street from her window, “admir[ing] the graceful spirit of her walk, the fashionable air of her figure and dress; and felt grateful…for the chance which had procured her such a friend” (Austen 26). Catherine innocently takes things at surface level—whether the text of her gothic novels, or Isabella’s hollow promises, she is, at first, easily deceived by what her senses tell her. Marianne Dashwood proves to be similarly misguided by her shortsighted view of Willoughby that negates the existence of alternative perspectives. Episodes of extended spatial description arise when Austen’s protagonists examine a masculine living space as they enter an unfamiliar environment and catalogue its features. Marianne is most desirous for such a tour and effusive about its results, as she details the spaces of Allenham to Elinor:
There is one remarkably pretty sitting room up stairs; of a nice comfortable size for constant use… It is a corner room, and has windows on two sides. On one side you look across the bowling-green, behind the house, to a beautiful hanging wood, and on the other you have a view of the church and the village, and, beyond them, of those fine bold hills that we have so often admired. (Austen, Sense and Sensibility, 80-81)
On the surface, the view from this dazzling room appears ordinary, but it presents dichotomies that mirror Willoughby’s character. Fronting the landscape is the bowling-green, a space of leisure and pleasure, which is then contrasted with its background of the hanging wood, an economically productive landscape of timber; Willoughby’s extravagant lifestyle and habits only are made possible with someone financially, and visually, backing him. Mrs. Smith—and her purse strings—looms large over Willoughby’s character even while she remains in the background of the narrative. The view from the other side of the room includes a foreground of civil harmony centering on a church and village. The “bold hills” beyond, and the untamed wilderness they denote, however, will not conform to this domesticated landscape. It is these background views to which Willoughby ultimately retreats, unable to envision life without the freedom of wealth. This layered view, like Mary’s arrangement of space, is superficially captivating—but its visual variety and brilliancy conceal aspects of Willoughby’s character, just as Edmund turns a blind eye to Mary’s faults as he is drawn in to her space with increasing frequency. We also receive this spatial description only through Marianne’s voice, in contrast to the narratorial voice that sets the scene in the Parsonage; this view becomes more subjective and questionable as we are left only with Marianne’s flighty imagination and enthusiastic retelling.
Marianne’s unchaperoned and surreptitious visit to Allenham is full of impropriety. Not only is Mrs. Smith—“with whom Marianne had not the smallest acquaintance”—present in the house during her tour, but also Marianne travels alone with Willoughby in his “open carriage” which puts Marianne and her behavioral breaches on full display (Austen 79, 80). Marianne has put herself on view repeatedly while at Allenham: from “spen[ding] a considerable time…in walking about the garden and going all over the house” to lingering in this corner sitting room that is exposed by glazing on two sides (Austen 79). Mary Crawford, too, puts herself on display, but this is part of her contrivance; Marianne, in contrast, is stubbornly unheeding to social cues. The fragility of the window and the extremely thin and tenuous boundary it presents between spaces is exploited by Austen in these scenes where all is not as it appears. Social transgressions and fractured relationships are mirrored by the breaking and pushing against the spatial boundary of the window. Marianne and Edmund are both so completely enthralled by the scenes before them that they screen themselves from the advice and viewpoints of their closest confidantes. Elinor cannot reason with Marianne, who both sees and hears only what she wishes. As she tells Marianne, even if Allenham “were one day to be your own…you would not be justified in what you have done” (Austen 80). Marianne, however, is “gratified” by this association of Allenham as her home, “blush[ing] at this hint,” and taking no heed of Elinor’s caution (Austen 80). Even Edmund begins to distance himself from Fanny emotionally as “there began now to be some danger of dissimilarity” in their opinions as “he was in a line of admiration of Miss Crawford, which might lead him where Fanny could not follow” (Austen 76).
It is not that other Austen characters do not manipulate space to serve themselves, but rather, it is done in a different manner. For instance, we see Charlotte Lucas use an upper window to her advantage as she catches sight of Mr. Collins and contrives to “meet him accidentally in the lane” (Austen, Pride and Prejudice, 136-137). Charlotte’s “scheme” to capture Mr. Collins, however, is simply a last resort to secure “a comfortable home” when her family could provide her with only “little fortune” (Austen 136-137). In contrast, Mary Crawford turns to Edmund because “he pleased her for the present” (Austen 77). She cares little about Edmund’s feelings at first and is surprised, and “could hardly understand it,” when Edmund “began to be agreeable to her” (Austen 77). In this moment, she merely trifles with his affections. And unlike Marianne whose visit to Allenham only bolsters her fixed and insistent view of Willoughby, Elizabeth Bennet’s preconceptions of Darcy begin to dissolve at Pemberley. Once inside, Elizabeth “slightly suvey[s]” the rooms, instead choosing to linger near the windows, absorbing the naturally harmonious prospect “with delight” (Austen 272). With movement the scene is only amplified: “[a]s they passed into other rooms, these objects were taking different positions; but from every window there were beauties to be seen” (Austen 272). While the same landscape features are seen from each of these windows, they are presented at a new angle and in a new light, just as is Darcy, as his character takes on new meaning through this layered viewing. Marianne, in contrast, relates a static view from the windows of Allenham—she looks, but does not investigate or move through the space with an intention of learning something new. Any metaphorical clarity to be gained from looking through a window must come with an opening of perspectives too.
Brief discussions of windows appear in Austen-centric articles and books, but there has been no lengthy study of their spatial power and narrative presence in Austen’s oeuvre. When we do receive spatial or architectural descriptions in Austen’s works, windows feature prominently. And architectural and interior spaces are of great importance in Austen’s works; after all, most of her protagonists are searching for a space of their own. This essay was sparked by an interest in linking developments in architectural history with the spaces that Jane Austen creates. The window, like the views it offers, has a multiplicity of uses. Employed by Austen, this static surface functions not only as a means of aesthetic display, but it also becomes a dynamic boundary around which her characters interact.
