Jane Austen

Jane Austen

Tuesday, June 26, 2012


As we’re finishing up Austen’s canon, I kind of want to go back to the beginning of our class and talk not just about the novel or characters, but of Jane Austen herself.  Jane Austen described her own works as being created on a “little bit (two inches wide) of ivory on which [she worked] with so fine a brush.”  She equated the emphasis on detail with a form of femininity that no man with his “manly, vigorous sketches” could achieve.  I think it was her flourishing artistry and growing command of authorship that allowed her to create—and popularize —this feminine genre.  And regarding, femininity, I wanted to raise the topic of female characters' objectified roles as marriage selections...


          In Sense and Sensibility, we see reason and rationality paired in Elinor and Marianne.  In Pride and Prejudice, we have five unique Bennet sisters.  In Mansfield Park we have Maria and Julia Bertram who are somewhat similar, and in Persuasion, we have the Musgrove and Elliot sisters.  What I found intriguing as we’ve come to the end of Austen’s canon is that in each of her novels, the sisters, regardless of how similar or different in personality they may be, usually play very similar roles.  What I mean is that in each novel, the girls always seem to be portrayed as being lined up and ready for marriage selection by the men.  To me, it often feels like the girls are voiceless mannequins in a display window and the men walk by, observing them, taking their pick from the one they like most.  I don’t like how women seem to be so objectified, but I suppose that is simply a result of the times and culture of Regency England.  What I wonder is whether Austen ever thought to spin this concept on its head and write an “inverted” novel?  Suppose she had written one where the men were "on display" and the women took their pick? I’m guessing that might be too modern of a concept, but just as Lady Susan is a deviation from Austen’s typical characters, I think this idea would just as well have worked as an Austenian novel.  I think it would have been nice to see a different kind of novel from her.  The only reason why many perceive her novels to be all same sort is because all except a few share similar settings and storylines.  I don't think that the few works we read should serve as the absolute picture of her as an author, but I suppose that these books are the canon for a reason, and I think they have shaped how I, and many others, have come to know her, read her, and understand her.  


Austen's novels have always been popular among women, but as I mentioned before, I find that a move towards an appeal to masculinity could also help in the postmodern era. Fittingly, I found a rap video on Austen while I was browsing on youtube... Hope you enjoy! 


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-b_xiWmFWgY

persuading perfection


As I was reading Persuasion, I couldn’t help but be constantly reminded of the foolishness of Louisa Musgrove and the similarity between her and characters like Lydia Bennet and Marianne Dashwood.  I know she’s not our protagonist, but her falling off the Cobb steps was just too ridiculous; she’s not at all someone we think could even deserve the attention of a proper gentleman like Captain Wentworth.  The ironic thing is that when we first meet her, she is a reasonably good girl: she had “all the usual stock of accomplishments, and… like thousands of other young ladies, living to be fashionable happy, and merry.”  She’s also described as being “rather pretty,” with “spirits extremely good,” her manners “unembarrassed and pleasant” (Ch. 5).   True, Lydia Bennet may not have been described in this fashion, nor Marianne really, but why, then, is it that all these seemingly perfect qualities of a girl don’t make her the perfect wife? These perfect qualities of a young girl don’t seem to translate well as the perfect qualities of a married lady.  I think what I’m trying to ask is if Austen is implying that no level of perfect education can equate the perfectness of education a young lady can achieve through a marriage.  I know we’ve talked about this before, as education and marriage seems to be a recurring theme within all of Austen’s novels we’ve read. I guess Louisa’s flaws lie in her gaiety and joie de vivre, and I’m assuming this translates into immaturity and childishness? Must we always assume from Austen’s novels that there must be something wrong with a girl with perfect traits? I remember a class discussion on Samuel Richardson’s influence on Austen’s writing, and I think Clarissa may have been the inspiration for many of Austen’s female characters, including Louisa Musgrove.  If Clarissa was written to be the perfect heroine, with all the perfect traits and full embodiment of virtue and morals, I think Austen, in her witty, cynical way, twisted this to establish characters that seem perfect at first glance but are heavily flawed underneath.

Three Heroes: Henry, Darcy, and Edward


            The role of a hero plays a focal point in the setting of a novel. The main story line cannot move on itself without the presence of a hero. A male protagonist brings security and action into a traditional narrative. Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey explains why Catharine Morland is in a static situation in the beginning of the novel, “But when a young lady is to be a heroine the perverseness of forty surrounding families cannot prevent her. Something must and will happen to throw a hero in her way” (Austen 8). Notice the instance, “a hero” is mentioned to the reader, the presence of action words and events dramatically change the direction of where the novel will go. A transitional phase has already occurred early on in the novel. Therefore, Heroes in Austen’s novels affect each novel’s starting point and conclusion. Heroes can significantly influence a novel’s narrative without truly being “a hero”.  For example, Austen produces only one true hero in the three novels she works on simultaneously: Northanger Abbey, Sense and Sensibility, and Pride and Prejudice. Mr. Darcy is the only real character, who epitomizes the role of a patrician hero; Henry Tilney and Edward Ferrars lack character development. It doesn’t necessarily mean the reader loses interests in Mr. Tilney or Edward, because they seem to generate a sense of rawness which strips away their traditional narrative titles unlike Darcy. Why does Austen choose to pair Elinor with an awkward and self-conscious Edward, who does very little to be called a hero?  Elinor’s so-called hero lacks the courage and financially stability to grow and remains a weak hero throughout the novel. Henry Tilney represents the early development of Austen’s traditional heroes. Mr. Tilney has several glitches, which need to be fixed both in terms of gallantry and honesty. Mr. Darcy’s image as a hero will be analyzed and criticized by comparing and contrasting to the heroes in Austen's first two written novels. Therefore, the discourse on Austen’s heroes is to understand why Austen is able to create one true hero with a traditional paradigm, instead of three functional heroes to complement their heroines? 

Sunday, June 24, 2012

Persuasion: Dutiful Mistakes and Superstitious Security


Persuasion explores the power dynamics of relationships; it reveals how arbitrary predictions, advice, and a sense of security really are in the changing world or wars and pretty prairies. The dots only connect when you look back, not when you look ahead. One cannot safely rely on the words of anyone, even if a strong sense of allegiance is involved. For Ann Elliot, doing things “right” does not guarantee anything except for personal sacrifice and self-doubt. Persuasion will invade from all sides. Whether a loving mother figure or an impulsive lover, the “right side” can only be determined through the luck of time, not on fixed moral grounds.
     How one reacts to persuasion builds one’s moral character however. Listening to Lady Russell, Ann follows on the “right side” of duty. This path makes her suffer and therefore “grow”; it does not offer immediate gratification. Her second chance with Wentworth almost seems providential then. Indeed, when Ann looks back at her actions, she tells Wentworth: “I must believe that I was right, much as I suffered from it… To me, she was in the place of a parent… I am not saying that she did not err in her advice. It was, perhaps, one of those cases in which advice is good or bad only as the event decides; and for myself, I certainly never should, in any circumstance of tolerable similarity, give such advice. But I mean, that I was right in submitting to her… and I mistake not, a strong sense of duty is not bad part of a woman’s portion” (2.11, p.230-231). Ann learns that advice, pride and prejudice, are nothing more than superstitions, guaranteeing a security that is unaffordable in the unpredictable state of nature. Yet, as a nineteen-year-old girl, she had a loving obligation to obey Lady Russell, her surrogate mother; she will sacrifice herself first before jumping into temptation. Nothing in haste, even when this means missing out on what one is meant to have… For, although Wentworth loves Ann enduringly, he carries trademarks of gambler characters like Frank Churchill or Willoughby: idealistic as a young man,  he is adventurous, passionate, and still plays courting games to get attention. So, time was a good test for a character such as his. It would have been a gamble eight and a half years ago to accept his proposal. Ann therefore explains that she is a better, stronger, and humbled woman today; she can look back without the regret of having betrayed her young conscience. She can now be happy with Wentworth without any moral compromise. Everything in its own time then. Second chances do come around for those who don’t yet trust themselves. Is it important to suffer then, to be persuaded by the careful yet “erring” side? Is it important to make mistakes, as long as they obey the right hierarchy of intentions, those of safe parental figures?
    Yet, I do not think Austen is preaching here either. She seems rather to show that everything is contingent. Even the happy ending of this marriage plot, with she details more than in her other novels, carries a doubled edged sword; not so much ironic, as melancholic. We read both into the essentialism of “meant to be” second chances and into the arbitrary transience of human security. No matter how much Ann pierces Wentworth’s soul, no matter how long they waited to be with each other, and how many lessons they had to learn, nothing protects them from total loss at any time. This is the frustration of human existence; we dedicate our lives to creating “rightful” meaning but we never have control. Things flow out of our grasp, even when our fingers are tightly clenched. 
     For better of for worse, the novel fixates upon the unchangeable past, almost like an impulsive defense mechanism against the ever changing present. We feel Ann’s constant anxiety around all the possibilities and uncertainties that keep arising in real time.  From the moment Wentworth’s name is mentioned, the regrets of the painful yet pleasuring past consume Ann. Memories become her secure sanctuary as Wentworth comes in and collides against everything, disturbing the steadiness of her future.  Hopes and fears appear and disappear from one moment to the next, based on his sudden presences or absences. As Ann will tell Wentworth, she still looks fondly upon Lyme, even if the last few hours were so upsetting: “… when the pain is over, the remembrance of it often becomes pleasure. One does not love a place the less for having suffered in it, unless it has been all suffering, nothing but suffering – which was by no means the case at Lyme” (2. 8, p.173). The past, for all its pain, offers the beauty of stillness and patterns; the traces of our own decisions over a fate we think we can never control. It is a pretty picture, with its light and darkness, of something forever out of reach, something like heaven. The novel appropriately ends then with an uncertain omen as it looks to the future: “the dread of a future war was all that could dim her sunshine. She gloried in being a sailor’s wife, but she must pay the tax of quick alarm for belonging to that profession which is, if possible, more distinguished in its domestic virtues than in its national importance” (2.12, p.236).  The happy ending then brings out the theme of new beginnings, albeit darker ones here; the future is full of fears so Ann must feast upon her life now. Time both builds and kills love just as the sailor profession makes Wentworth a great husband to Ann and yet, can remove him from her at any time. 

Tuesday, June 19, 2012

The Absence of a Hero


The ending of Mansfield Park left me with a sense of dryness and disappointment. I realized Fanny did not marry her hero, instead she had to settle for her cousin.  The awkward ending of the novel affirms to the reader−how the novel lacks a hero.  Edmund doesn’t seem to ever embody the characteristics that make a hero, which Mr. Darcy epitomizes.  Mary Crawford to a certain degree speaks for the reader’s frustration by constantly arguing with Edmund about his future in proclaiming that becoming a minister is “stepping out of his place to appear what he ought not to appear”. I completely agree with her statement, although her opinion seems to be out of place because she is not talking to the hero of the story. The audience analyzes Mary and Edmund’s heated discussion as ironic, because they believe Edmund to be the hero of the story with the expectations for his character development to exceed as the story progresses which actually takes a downturn for the worse (in contrast to what we expect of the stereotypically hero). To a certain extent, the scene is very reminiscent of Edward’s frustration to become someone high and mighty in order to oblige the wishes of his Mother and sister; the only difference being here that Edmund’s passion for the church is consistent throughout the novel.  Another instance, the absence of the hero is felt becomes quite obvious when Edmund remains passive (to a certain degree encourages the marriage plot to become real) as Henry Crawford proclaims his love for Fanny. Fanny seems to understand exactly, who she wants as a husband while Edmund continues to be captivated by the illusion he has created over Mary’s appearance.  The lack of power in Edmund is visible when he tries to stop the play from becoming a reality; the secondary male figures in the novel override his vacant authority. Can it be due to Edmund’s high regard for his father’s authority ? Do you believe a hero is never present in the Mansfield Park? Can it be due to the role the church has played in his life?       

our knight

I wanted to return to a point in our discussions from last week.  Melissa asked how we can fit in Mr Knightley's and Mrs Wheston's conversation in chapter five with our opinion of him as possibly the most likeable hero yet.  Here Knightley tells Weston that she is 'very fit for a wife, but not at all for a governess. But you were preparing yourself to be an excellent wife all the time you were at Hartfield.  You might not give Emma such a complete education as your powers would seem to promise; but you were receiving a very good education from her, on the very material matrimonial point of submitting your own will, and doing as you were bid...' (36-7).  If this is really Knightley's view of marriage and Mrs Weston is the embodiment of the ideals that make for a good wife, then this is troubling for us when we think of Emma's future with Knightley-- especially since Knightley is pretty frank that he 'should like to see Emma in love, and in some doubt of a return; it would do her good' (39).

Though we can read this as an articulation of Knightley's desire to control his wife, Emma, and the narrative, I think we can also read it all pretty ironically (like everything Austen).  Wheston is educated to become subservient and Knightley criticizes Wheston for it because where Wheston was to teach, she was instead taught herself and that too on the 'very material matrimonial point' (i.e. superficial and not deep) from someone with no experience (Emma has never been married, was not witness to her parent's marriage, and neither her sister's marriage since she lives away from the Woodhouses).  Knightley recognizes Harriet as Emma's next student and wants to stop this mentorship perhaps because he sees Harriet's future as a second Mrs Wheston and doesn't support such education.  Harriet knows 'nothing herself, and looks upon Emma as knowing every thing' just as Wheston, Mr Woodhouse, and arguably everyone other than Knightley do (37).  Knightley sees this as dangerous as he ironically articulates in his criticism-- not support-- of Wheston's role in her marriage.

I know this is pretty overarching and I'm mostly rambling here but I do think Knightley is the least conservative character of the book.  He can see Emma for her flaws and all and can cut through her 'cleverness' to see what she's really doing and perhaps even why.  Knightley recognizes that Emma wants an escape from this society (again, may be overarching here) and that though she is too 'clever' for everyone, she misdirects her boredom from her lack of playmates or even intellectual-mates into manipulating the lives of those around her and playing author.  Like Knightley says, 'Emma is spoiled by being the cleverest of her family' because her family has made her out to be and has thereby put her on a pedestal from which she can safely exclude herself from the narrative and just narrate (36).  Yet Emma is entirely clueless about marriage, love, and even friendship at times and so this may be where Knightley comes in to educate Emma on this point by hoping 'to see Emma in love' which really would 'do her good.'  So, where other characters have had to grow before marriage, it seems that Emma will grow in marriage because Knightley can afford her that room to grow by refusing to provide her with false flattery that already leaves her perfect and not in need of improvement or any 'bildungs.' 

I find that Emma's frustrations come from the stasis of her society.  She tries to remove herself from it and is compromised, then tries to escape it by leaving it altogether but finds that impossible too, and ultimately recognizes Knightley as her escape-- maybe not a physical one (I don't know how this all ends) but at least from perfection.  Knightley can and will challenge her as no one has thus far and it seems as though Knightley seeks a challenge himself.  He and Emma bicker and banter and seem like true friends of an equal footing in their conversations.  Though Knightley wants Emma to correct her ways, he can't mean for that to come from a submission to his patriarchal reign as her husband because then she would become just as inferior as Wheston or Harriet in doing so.  And as Knightley asks, 'how can Emma imagine she has any thing to learn herself, while Harriet is presenting such a delightful inferiority?' (37).  If we apply this same question to Knightley and Emma's future marriage, Knightley could not benefit from Emma's blatant inferiority.

I really like Knightley and am perhaps being too generous here in giving him the benefit of the doubt and I'm sure I'm guilty of being an 'imaginist.'  As I read on, my views here might change, but if this argument cannot hold, I wonder why I still root for Knightley to get together with Emma.  Can we only read this chapter as non-ironically and misogynistic?

Perfect Characters

During the Box Hill outing, Emma and her friends are playing word games, the way they do (consciously or unconsciously) so often in this book.  Mr. Weston proposes a "conundrum":


"....What two letters of the alphabet are there, that express perfection?"
    "What two letters! express perfection! I am sure I do not know."
    "Ah! you will never guess. You," (to Emma), "I am certain, will never guess. I will tell you. M. and A. Em-ma. Do you understand?"
    Understanding and gratification came together....

Mr. Weston's riddle, though "a very indifferent piece of wit," is of a piece with the riddles and cyphers that characterize this novel.  But the theme of this riddle--perfection--is also everywhere.  "Perfection" is the criterion by which characters in Emma are judged: Emma is or is not the perfect character, depending on whom you ask (Mr. Woodhouse? Mrs. Weston? Mr. Knightley? Emma herself?).  Harriet thinks various men are "all perfection." Mrs. Weston, similarly, is perfect in Emma's eyes.  Almost an inverse of P&P, Emma thus frames misreading as an act of seeing perfection, and corrected reading as the ability to see another's flaws.  My question has to do with how we resolve this aspect of the novel with the "bildungsroman" aspect of Austen we've been exploring: do you think the final "moral" message of Emma is merely to become aware of one's flaws?  Or to try to rectify them?