Northanger Abbey (rewritten)

Chapter 1

If you ever saw Catherine Morland as a baby, you'd never think she was destined for heroic adventures. Everything about her seemed to work against the idea, from her family background to her own personality. Her father was a clergyman, not poor, and quite respectable, even though he wasn't exactly handsome. He had a decent income, two good parishes, and he didn't feel the need to lock up his daughters.

Her mother was a practical, level-headed woman with a good temper and strong health. She had three sons before Catherine, and rather than facing any grim fate during childbirth, she thrived and had six more kids. Having ten children is often called a "large family," if there are enough resources to go around. But the Morlands were, in general, a very plain family.

Catherine had an awkward, slim figure, pale, colorless skin, dark straight hair, and strong features. She preferred boys' games over dolls and any other stereotypically feminine pursuits. She'd choose cricket over playing with dolls or nurturing animals or tending to a garden. In fact, she didn't care for gardening at all, and when she picked flowers, it was often to cause mischief, especially if she wasn't supposed to take them.

Her talents were as remarkable as her looks. She couldn't grasp things until she was taught, and sometimes not even then. It took her mom three months just to teach her the "Beggar's Petition" and even then, her sister Sally recited it better. Not that Catherine was dim by any means: she learned "The Hare and Many Friends" fable as fast as any girl in England.

Her mom wanted her to learn music, thinking she'd like it since she enjoyed playing the old, dilapidated spinet. So, at eight, Catherine began her lessons. But after a year, she couldn't stand it and, luckily, her mom didn't push her to be skilled in something she didn't enjoy. The day the music teacher was let go was one of Catherine's happiest moments.

As for her artistic skills, they weren't exceptional either. Whenever she got her hands on a scrap of paper, she'd draw houses, trees, hens, and chickens that all looked quite similar. She was taught writing and math by her father, and her mom taught her French. But she didn't excel in either, often avoiding her lessons whenever possible.

So, she was a peculiar, unpredictable character. Despite showing signs of mischief at the tender age of ten, she didn't have a bad heart or a terrible temper. She rarely got stubborn or quarrelsome and was very kind to the little ones, with only occasional bossy moments. She was a whirlwind of noise and adventure, despised being cooped up and clean, and cherished nothing more than rolling down the grassy hill behind the house.

That's who Catherine Morland was at the age of ten. By the time she turned fifteen, things were looking up. She started curling her hair and dreaming of going to fancy balls. Her complexion got better, her face became rounder and more colorful, her eyes sparkled with life, and her figure started to have a bit more presence. Her fondness for getting dirty turned into a love for dressing up, and she became as neat as she was stylish. Now and then, she'd hear her parents comment on her physical transformation with phrases like, "Catherine is turning into quite a good-looking girl – she's almost pretty today." Those words were music to her ears. Looking almost pretty meant more to a girl who had felt plain for the first fifteen years of her life than a naturally beautiful girl could ever understand.

Mrs. Morland was a good woman who wanted her children to be the best they could be, but she was so busy giving birth and taking care of the little ones that her older daughters had to fend for themselves. It's no surprise that Catherine, who wasn't naturally heroic, preferred playing cricket, baseball, riding horses, and running around the countryside at the age of fourteen over books. Well, at least books that were all about information. If a book didn't offer any useful knowledge and was purely stories without deep thinking, Catherine didn't mind books at all.

But from fifteen to seventeen, she was in training to be a heroine. She read all the kinds of books heroines needed to read to stock their minds with those quotes that come in handy during the ups and downs of their adventurous lives.

From Pope, she learnt to disapprove of those who

"bear about the mockery of woe."

From Gray, that

"Many a flower is born to blush unseen,
"And waste its fragrance on the desert air."

From Thomson, that—

"It is a delightful task
"To teach the young idea how to shoot."

And from Shakespeare she gained a great store of information—amongst the rest, that—

"Trifles light as air,
"Are, to the jealous, confirmation strong,
"As proofs of Holy Writ."

That

"The poor beetle, which we tread upon,
"In corporal sufferance feels a pang as great
"As when a giant dies."

And that a young woman in love always looks—

"like Patience on a monument
"Smiling at Grief."

Her progress had been good so far. In many ways, she was doing well. While she couldn't write sonnets, she managed to read them. And though she wasn't about to sweep a whole party off their feet with a piano prelude of her own creation, she could sit through other people's performances without much fuss. Her biggest struggle was with drawing; she couldn't even make a basic sketch, let alone a portrait of her secret crush. In this department, she was far from heroic.

But back then, she wasn't even aware of her artistic shortcomings because she didn't have a lover to illustrate. She had reached the age of seventeen without encountering a single charming guy who could ignite her emotions, without experiencing a real, intense passion, and without attracting more than just mild and fleeting admiration. It was quite unusual! But odd things can often be explained if you investigate their root causes. There wasn't a single nobleman or baronet in the neighborhood, and not one family among their acquaintances had taken in and supported an unknown boy found on their doorstep. There wasn't a single young man with a mysterious background. Her dad didn't have any wards, and the local squire didn't have any children.

But when a young lady is destined to be a heroine, the stubbornness of forty neighboring families can't stand in her way. Something must, and will, happen to bring a hero into her life.

Mr. Allen, who owned most of the property in Fullerton, the Wiltshire village where the Morlands lived, had to go to Bath to deal with his gout, and his wife, a good-natured woman who liked Miss Morland, perhaps realizing that if a young lady doesn't find adventure in her own village, she must seek it elsewhere, invited Catherine to come along with them. Mr. and Mrs. Morland readily agreed, and Catherine was absolutely delighted.