Jane Austen’s Wardrobe, by Hilary Davidson. Review

Yet to dismiss Austen because of her small canvas is to miss the bigger picture. Contemporary writers, whether they realise it or not, are still attempting to emulate her brilliance in focusing on something ordinary and immediate, while in doing so telling us about an entire world.

Over the years, scholars and fans have pored over Austen’s words, trying to fathom what she was like. Was she the model for high-spirited and high-handed Elizabeth Bennett or Emma Woodhouse, or was she more in Eleanor Dashwood’s mould, thoughtful and self-effacing? 

READ MORE: Bluebeard’s Castle by Anna Biller

Sadly, we will never know for sure. One of the greatest tragedies of literary history is that her sister Cassandra destroyed most of her letters. 

In Cassandra’s defence, she has left the only two portraits of her sister in existence, although the one that graces the £5 note was described by Austen’s niece as “hideously unlike” her aunt. The other shows a back view of the writer in a blue gown and white petticoats. 

What Hilary Davidson, a historian of fashion and textiles at the Fashion Institute of Technology, New York, can deduce from this affectionate image shows skills akin to Sherlock Holmes. Using the letters that do remain, Jane Austen’s Wardrobe forensically examines what they say about what the novelist wore, when, why, what it cost and what she thought about it. Nothing I have read has brought Austen so close. 

Only two pieces of clothing that (very probably) belonged to her remain: a muslin shawl and a pelisse, which was a refined, ankle-length coat. The centrepiece of the book, it offers a rare, tangible glimpse of one of the world’s finest writers.  Made from copper-brown silk, the pelisse was patterned with oak leaves, a subtle reference to the British Navy’s successes in the Napoleonic wars (two of Austen’s brothers were in the Navy).

The almost pristine garment is elegant and fashionable, with a high ruffled collar. Using its measurements, Davidson estimates Austen’s height: 5’6”-5’8”, which she says was “categorically tall” for this era.   “This tallies with contemporary comments, one recalling Austen unkindly as “a thin upright piece of wood or iron”, another as a “tall, thin, spare person with very high cheekbones”.

 “This pelisse,” writes Davidson, “is a material text as richly explicit as any of Austen’s literary constructions. It, too, can be ‘read’ in the same way, through the process of unpicking and remaking to reveal a whole world of experience around the business of getting fashionably dressed.”

With copious illustrations of Regency period clothes held in various collections, and from fashion magazines and illustrations of the time, Jane Austen’s Wardrobe begins with gowns and goes on to cover every item to be found in a middle-class woman’s closet or drawers, from petticoats and stockings, caps and shawls, walking clothes and shoes to underwear, night-gear and jewellery. 

Each section is prefaced by extracts from Austen’s letters, such as this from 1811: “and now nothing can satisfy me but I must have a straw hat, of the riding hat shape, like Mrs Tilson’s; and a young woman in this neighbourhood is actually making me one. I am really shocking; but it will not be dear at a Guinea.” 

Or this, from 1814, when she is worried about what is acceptable for an evening dinner: “I wear my gauze gown today, long sleeves and all; I shall see how they succeed, but as yet I have no reason to suppose long sleeves are allowable.” (In the event, they were.)

Over the years she enthuses about the prospects of new gowns, bewails Mr Floor the dyer who ruined one of her dresses – “he is at present rather low in our estimation” – and prepares to improve one of her bonnets: “I bought some Japan Ink … and next week shall begin my operations on my hat, on which You know my principal hopes of happiness depend”. 

Davidson’s expertise in textiles provides the underlying context in which to place Austen’s clothes. Muslin’s popularity, for instance, soared when the embargo on Indian imports was lifted in the later 18th century. 

Gauze took off when machinery for making it improved. French prisoners of war, along with the indigent and blind, were given work making “list” shoes and slippers. These were clumpy woollen footwear, designed to keep the feet warm.  They were as ugly as Ugg boots but useful if, as Austen discovered, you were attending a January ball and wanted to protect your dancing slippers from the wintry weather. 

Mourning clothes, which were a regular feature of Austen’s attire, usually called for Bombazeen or crepe. In the circles in which her family moved, it was not only relatives who must be visibly mourned but figures of state also.  Hence  Austen’s commonsensical approach to the impending death in 1811 (as everyone expected) of the unfortunate George III: “last week I bought a Bombazeen, thinking I should get it cheaper than when the poor King was actually dead. If I outlive him it will answer my purpose, if I do not, somebody may mourn for me in it – it will be wanted for one or the other, I daresay, before the moths have eaten it up.”  The king did not in fact expire until 1829.

Davidson’s engaging and illuminating study portrays a household in which appearances are important but budgets tight.  Only as Austen makes money from her writing, or is gifted a windfall, does she dare to splash out.  More commonly dresses were repurposed or updated.  What is fascinating, however, is her avid interest in clothes; this is no catalogue of drudgery or penny-pinching.

Austen kept a keen eye on changing fashions, and the embellishment of a flounce or a pretty pair of shoes gave her immense pleasure.  As this book shows, some of the artistry and wit displayed in her novels found its way into her wardrobe.