Why everyone in 19th century wrote novels

In my own case, instead of thinking about the excitement of young ladies going to Bath or London for the season, I think of what it must be like for them the rest of the year—throughout those bleak, empty days with nothing to look forward to except a walk to the post office in the rain. These poor women spend pretty much every day at home until, if they’re very lucky (and pretty), they marry and move into somebody else’s house, and the whole thing starts again. They may have one or two female friends they can visit, and perhaps a horse to ride, but most of their days are spent waiting for something to happen. The long days are spent reading aloud, sewing, writing letters, or playing the piano. On the outside, in Austen’s novels, very little happens; on the inside, a great deal happens, but it’s rarely pleasant. People are constantly judging one another according to invisible, almost inseparable distinctions that are as thin and fragile as a porcelain teacup.

And then there’s the English weather. It’s a long time since I lived in that Victorian house in Oxford, but every time I go back to visit, even in summer, I’m reminded of that horrible, bone-chilling British cold. During the winter of 1963, it was so cold that the English Channel froze over. Sure, it can be frigid in the United States, but enough to freeze the sea? Plus, over here it’s cold in the winter, when you would expect, but only outside. Not so in England. I feel it everywhere, all the time, not just in older buildings, though drafty, rattling windows and a lack of insulation certainly make it worse. Almost every structure in Britain has central heating now, though when I ask if it can be turned up, the usual response is, “Why don’t you put on another sweater?” So maybe the feeling is psychological, but whenever I’m there, I sense that whatever’s standing between me and the elements is very, very thin—plunging me immediately into a depression. I’m sure it must have been the same in the 18th century, if not much worse. Forget about Prozac—they didn’t even have electricity.