Time & Certainty: Jane Austen & René Descartes Have Tea

Despite the century and a half separating their lives, the English writer Jane Austen would have undoubtedly offered tea to the French philosopher René Descartes had they chanced to meet. And so it happened that once upon a time, near Christmas, she looked out her front window upon the streets of Bath. Through the gently falling, large snowflakes, she saw her friend Mrs. Tatham passing by with a small company. She called for them all to come in and warm themselves. Gathered around a lively fire, the company included several ladies, an aged vicar, and Mr. Descartes, who was introduced with much formality to Miss Austen.

Mr. Descartes sat silent and aloof as the ladies bantered and sipped from their Wedgwood teacups, an intense look about his eyes. At last, Mrs. Tatham playfully ventured a question to him. “Sir,” she said, “I know that you are a great mathematician and have something to say on arriving at certainty in any field of knowledge.” The chatter died away, and all eyes turned to the philosopher. “Well,” Mrs. Tatham continued, “Miss Elie, here, is trying to decide whether or not to marry the young gentleman in the large house at the end of this street. Can you help her?” Mr. Descartes did not catch the mischievousness in Mrs. Tatham’s eyes, but Miss Austen acknowledged it with a wink at her friend.

Without even glancing at poor Miss Elie, the philosopher began telling the story of his great discovery as a young man. Plagued by skepticism, he craved intellectual security. One day he realized that thought could be independent of things. This meant that the absolute certainty of mathematics could be achieved in all other areas of life. He needed no recourse to others or to the past. He needed only to consult his reason alone. He would doubt everything and allow into his mind only those ideas that were clear and distinct, beginning with his own existence. He could build up a structure of certain knowledge within his mind and then transfer that certainty to reality outside.

After this lengthy speech, a servant refilled the aged vicar’s teacup; Mrs. Tatham yawned; Miss Austen continued to direct her steady, level gaze at the philosopher, pondering; and the others wondered how this method could help Miss Elie, even while offering obsequious praises of the obvious brilliance of Mr. Descartes.

“Sir, you are wrong.” The company instantly fell silent. The fire crackled, and teacups remained suspended midway to mouths. The philosopher’s facial muscles tightened as he turned to face Miss Austen. “Whoever studies the noble science of mathematics,” she said coolly, “admires the subtlety and clearness of its proofs. His confidence in philosophy increases, and he thinks that all departments of knowledge are capable of the same clearness and solidity of proof as mathematics. He even expects such certainty in religion or in human relationships — but certainty in these areas cannot be arrived at in the same way.”

Mrs. Tatham looked in wonderment at her friend and then broke the awkward silence by saying, “Jane, do please enlighten us as to your meaning. How else can one arrive at certainty than by this logical, scientific method of Mr. Descartes?” Mrs. Tatham smiled knowingly at Miss Austen, “Can you help Miss Elie?” Miss Austen stood and took down a manuscript from the mantelpiece.

“I have been working on revisions to a novel,” she said, “about a man, Mr. Darcy, and a woman, Elizabeth Bennet, and their pride and prejudices against each other. The story is about how, with the passage of time, their pride is gradually humbled and their prejudices removed.” She turned to a particular page. “Yes, here is where Elizabeth’s sister, Jane, at first unbelieving that Elizabeth’s hostile sentiments toward Mr. Darcy could have changed, asks her, ‘My dear, dear Lizzy, I would, I do congratulate you; but are you certain? Forgive the question — are you quite certain that you can be happy with him?… Do you really love him quite well enough? Oh, Lizzy, do anything rather than marry without affection. Are you quite sure that you feel what you ought to do?’ Elizabeth assured her that she did. Jane, not satisfied, asked, ‘Will you tell me how long you have loved him?’ Elizabeth: ‘It has been coming on so gradually, that I hardly know when it began; but I believe I must date it from my first seeing his beautiful grounds at Pemberley.’ Elizabeth next had to satisfy her father, who did not believe she loved him either. By repeated assurances, and by explaining the gradual change her estimation of him had undergone, relating her absolute certainty that his affection was not the work of a day but had stood the test of many months’ suspense, and enumerating with energy all his good qualities, she did conquer her father’s incredulity.”

Miss Austen halted, put down the manuscript, and sipped her tea. Everyone was silent. She continued, “As someone once said, ‘Truth is the daughter of time.’ The histories of our circumstances, the passing of external events, the surprises of unexpected revelations from people around us and before us — I am afraid that it is precisely those elements, which Mr. Descartes denies, that are so important for apprehension of truth in questions of the heart. The passage of time is necessary for certainty in love. This passage is a growth, a process of persuasion, based on many factors, such as memories, testimonies, sufferings, the looks and small actions of one to the other. It is the continuous convergence of impressions and feelings in favor of a conclusion. Each encounter between Darcy and Elizabeth was a new step toward assurance, toward a greater depth of understanding, which led, in time, to an immense certainty.”

The aged vicar now stood up to speak. “I have been listening to Mr. Descartes and to Miss Austen,” he said in a quiet manner that commanded the respect of the company. “And I want to observe that we will soon celebrate the entrance of Jesus, our Lord, into time itself. His mother, Mary, ‘kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart.’ She possessed the capacity to live well even in the midst of ambiguity and uncertainty by continually pondering in her heart. Gradually, amidst the passing of time, she trusted and her thought matured. She did not concern herself with anything but what her Father asked of her, not even with ‘certainty,’ knowing the ‘how’ and the ‘when.’ She pondered in her heart those testimonies and memories and impressions she received into herself from reality outside. These converged with her reason in favor of certain conclusions. Herein lies the method, it seems to me, recommended by Miss Austen to Miss Elie.” He smiled charitably at Miss Elie who, now standing, smiled and curtsied to the vicar.

Everyone applauded the vicar, relieved that tea time had ended cordially. The ladies stood to put on their wraps, all the while chattering about the lovely snow and upcoming weddings and Christmas services. Miss Austen saw the party to the door, exchanging pleasant farewells. She paused as the philosopher stood upon the stairs and turned to her. “Not all truths, sir, can be arrived at by immediate and absolute certainty. The characters in my novels live within time, and their certainty and maturity come to them in the course of time if their reason and their heart cooperate.” She looked at him sternly and concluded, “Perhaps, sir, you should read more novels.”

Mr. Descartes silently bowed to her and took his leave.