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? 

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. 

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?

bad education

 It seems that the 'happy end' of MP comes from the characters' graduation as their education is complete.  Almost everyone is said to have learned from the errors of their ways and almost everyone is rehabilitated into MP.  And though this is the ending we've been expecting of a morally didactic novel, Austen's rushed ending leaves me wondering whether anybody's learned anything and whether even I, as a reader, have learned anything.  Maria and Henry’s elopement happens from their chance encounter, ultimately leading to Edmund and Fanny’s marriage which also depends on Mary’s support of her brother.  And then Yates and Julia’s marriage seems to come from nowhere.  These events weren’t inevitable and because everything comes from luck and just happens to work out, no one learns anything.  Rushworth is free to walk away from his cuckoldry and stupidity without consequence.  Mary seems to be fine too, and though there’s mention of her missing Edmund I’m sure she’ll soon realize she was too good for him anyway. We don’t really get to see how Edmund’s love for Fanny developed and I’m convinced that Edmund is perhaps experiencing a shortage of women and just settles for Fanny, maybe even recognizing that someone as virtuous and devout as Fanny would only make him look good as a clergyman.  Sir Thomas seems to learn from the error of his tyranny perhaps the most but then also brings in Susan to take care of Lady Bertram.  The rest of Fanny’s family remains in Portsmouth as though they are beyond any possible education.  Only Susan is worthy of moving to MP or even learning from Fanny in the Portsmouth scene.  Yates and Julia apologize and can come back to MP; Tom wakes up from his sickness and is all of a sudden morally cured too; and, of course, Maria and Mrs. Norris are banished because—like Fanny’s family—they can’t be educated and instead must be physically removed.  Fanny hasn’t learned anything but has been rewarded for remaining the same—which makes me wonder why Susan has to come to MP at all if it’s a place that just seeks to corrupt.  Not much has changed by the end of the novel.

So what’s the lesson here: become an obedient, pious girl and the universe will reward me, and through serendipity no less?  (Maybe I should return to McDonnell’s article here.) Austen continues to reward her heroines for sitting around and waiting while demonizing, or at least punishing, those who actively seek their future husbands/fortunes.  So then where do our heroines get their power?  If Elizabeth’s power comes from her intelligent witty thought and speech, then Austen weakens this power at the end of the novel by leaving Elizabeth to question everything that she does.  I understand that epistemologically this is more sound and human even, but if she’s made self-aware of her prejudices that have thus far clouded her judgment then how much more intelligent is she in the end?  Why critique the one thing that sets her apart and makes her stand out from all the other women?  Likewise, if Catherine’s independence and free-spiritedness comes from her candidness then how helpful is her self-awareness in the end?  Austen chips away at what makes these women special by presenting these attributes as juvenile, obstructive of their personal/spiritual/social development, and generally disadvantageous.  Marianne too must let go of her ‘fancies’ of love and charming princes and accept Colonel Brandon.  I’m not sure what Elinor and Fanny really have to give up as they grow though they’re rather pious, prude, and priggish to begin with and their suffering becomes almost Christ-like.  Growing up seems to mean sacrificing and that sacrifice is then rewarded with a proposal.  And yet, the men don’t sacrifice anything except maybe past engagements.  What lessons are we supposed to learn from Austen and could we see those very 'lessons' as parody?

A Web of Relationships

As I got into the first few chapters of the novel, I began to realize that there were going to be a lot of love relationships between all the young folk, both expected and unexpected, flirtatious and serious (or both), etc.  Julia and Henry, for example, are said to be a couple who is “expected” to be together by default, since Maria is supposed to be engaged to Mr. Rushworth.  But the Maria-Henry relationship interrupts this, as both know they are technically “tied” to other characters.  The Edmund-Mary relationship is also an interruption, as he is meant to be with Fanny, but the fact that Mary is kind to Fanny is I think what makes this a problem for me (The Elinor Dashwood-Lucy Steele conversation about Edward just flashed in my mind). Also, doesn’t Mary initially want to like Tom because he is the oldest and has more financial security? Her falling for Edmund frustrates me.  If I remember correctly, at one point in the novel (sorry I can’t recall where) she admits to being confused as to why she likes Edmund more than she likes Tom. Maybe she just got bitten by the lovebug and there’s no answer since love sometimes doesn’t make any sense, but sometimes, I just wish that the characters would stick with their rightful partners.  But, to counter this, I suppose that this “bouncing around” is exactly what makes the characters and the plot more interesting.

Having only read up to chapter 15 so far, and not knowing how the rest of the novel unfolds, I don’t know if there will be other characters introduced who’ll participate in this web of relationships, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Tom Oliver or Charles Maddox come in to complicate the relationships, both the “fake” ones that are part of the play, and the real ones outside the play.

Surrogates

So my post today will have something in common with my post on Sense and Sensibility: there I was wondering about the "interchangeable" nature of characters the novel otherwise seems to oppose.  Here I'm intrigued by how much of Mansfield Park is dominated by surrogate characters: characters who stand in for--play the role of--an absent character.  We get the idea of surrogation most obviously at the beginning, with Fanny's adoption: thus the Bertrams stand in as parental figures for the Prices.  But then, as flawed or disengaged guardians, the Bertrams are quickly displaced by Edmund, who comes to represent a brother and father figure for Fanny all in one.  As a brother figure, he replaces the absent William (who will make a re-appearance later). Edmund also stands in for the oldest son: he is responsible in all the ways Tom is not, and when Tom goes to Antigua Edmund literally takes his place--in family duties and in Mary's affections. As a father figure, Edmund replaces Sir Thomas, who is absent in several senses: both as a plantation owner (at the beginning of the novel he manages his West Indies property from afar) and then, once he travels to Antigua, as a father (though one could make the argument that this geographic absence only reinforces an emotional disengagement from his family that already existed).  Finally, as a clergyman in the making, Edmund invokes ideas of surrogation in the sense that the the vicar "stands in"--morally, etc--for his parishioners, and also "stands in" the pulpit as a representative of Christ: see Edmund's discussion with Mary on the clergy (Chap 9).  Not surprisingly, vicar and vicarious share an etymological root.

I'm interested in this pattern in the novel more broadly; as you keep reading, I think you'll see the ways in which Fanny is a surrogate character too.  For me, this pattern raises questions such as:  what happens to surrogate characters when the originals come back?  And what does the process of surrogation do to questions of responsibility--who has responsibility, the original or his / her replacement?  As the main surrogate figure in the novel, the character who can stand in for a whole range of other characters, I also find it interesting that Edmund is the most resistant to the theatricals.  Theater is, after all, the realm in which surrogation is made most overt.

My paper ideas, then, seem to be coalescing around ideas of substitution in Jane Austen's novels...why it happens, what are its effects...

Austen's Heroines And Marriage: The Heavy Weight of Gratitude

     Following our discussion today, I realize that I am actually annoyed that Austen’s heroines always owe tremendous debts to their future husbands. The leveling field just never seems fair. The valued love appears as always born out of the women’s sense of “gratitude”; a sort of vulnerability and “sensible” recognition of obligation or luck. This might not be a bad thing, especially considering the superficiality of some of the more peripheral marriages in her novels (Lydia-Wickham), but it somehow bothers me. I know, I know, historical context, women with no legal standing wanting security, etc., etc… But, speaking of the psychological premises upon which Hume wants us to ground sound judgments, the heroines’ bases always seem to be tainted with the pressure of looking up to these men, for better or for worse.

        Northanger Abbey overwhelms Catherine Morland and she swoons at how much more knowledgeable and sophisticated Henry is compared to her. As if these advantages weren’t enough, he forgives her for having suspected Colonel Tilney of being a Gothic villain. She is forever indebted to her superior then, who acted gracefully facing his lesser. If she had not submitted already, now she vows to. Meanwhile, the smart Elinor Dashwood loves Edward from the start and although she actually owes him nothing, the very fact that he chooses her over a competitor, Lucy, makes her infinitely happy and grateful to have him (even though he has been nothing but ambiguous and passive throughout the story). He flirted with Elinor while he was still engaged, but because he steps up at the very end, and is willing to upset his mother again in order to marry her, the latter is overjoyed. Her naïve and dramatic sister, Marianne, realizes she has transgressed and has been punished for going after what she wanted: a passion-filled relationship. She has been taught a lesson then and bends to what everyone else tells her to do. Marrying Brandon is almost necessary after all the good things he has done for their family, whether taking care of her mother and sister, or just being a more loyal man to them than Willoughby. She owes Brandon a lot.

     Just as we get to our most eligible and independently spirited heroine, Liz Bennett, we also get the greatest indebtedness of all so far. With Liz, the gratitude is just overwhelming to her; not only does Darcy take her back after she refuses him, but he saves Lydia from total dishonor, and pays for everything. Even in the beginning, she cannot imagine that a man of his standing would be staring at her for any other reason than disgust; she is therefore lucky that it is for a pleasing reason. She is like the wild horse Darcy has broken or tamed. I’m not saying that she does not teach him anything, but he definitely does a lot more for her. Jane, the beautiful and sweet one (the perfect woman of the day), also keeps repeating how “lucky” she feels that Bingley has selected her and cannot believe it even after he proposes. His wealth, charm and superior social standing make it impossible for her to even fathom that he is the “lucky” one to have deserved her attention.

     We have only started Mansfield Park, but looking at Austen’s pattern (the first guy that establishes an intriguing rapport with the heroine is usually the one she will end up with), I expect that Fanny will feel extremely “grateful” and “lucky” that Edmund picked her. This might just be the pinnacle of gratitude experienced by any heroine so far. From the start, from the tender age of nine, Edmund is her savior. Not only is she emotionally broken, and therefore malleable, but she is also at a ripe age for total conditioning, unlike the other heroines. Looking at her traumatized sense of self-worth, she is destined to be infinitely submissive toward any man that shows her a small act of kindness, thinking: “wow, he must be a hero of beneficence if he likes me since I am obviously nothing more than an abysmal charity case...”

    Ok, so I am sounding super cynical. I know. But, the happiness of the endings does seem to stem from the heroines’ excitement of having been “chosen”, as if they never thought they could have been the picked in the first place. I mean, this “blessed and humbled” gratitude works better than having the women being beaten or chained into an agreement. Granted, the heroines are happily “grateful” and seem to accept their marital obligation as a blessing. No, I am not saying that gratitude is manipulative coercion. But, as grateful as they are, the heroines never seem to fully acknowledge their own worth and view men’s proposals as a saving grace in which they don’t recognize their own agency. I don’t know if what I’m arguing for is even realistic or reasonable in the historical setting that we are observing. Yet, I just feel that these heroines acts’ of courage come in accepting their men and giving up who they are before even valuing themselves. Moreover, they seem to desire inferiority to their husbands in some way because they need to look up to them. And, perhaps that is what I recognize still in women today: this eagerness to be dominated in the midst of insecurity over our own power. I don’t really know what I am getting at anymore or what I am revealing or disclosing, but I do feel that this concept of female gratitude is loaded with shades of gray. 

Just for fun...

Found this post on a blog "devoted to cultural criticism" via literature and comics (according to their website).  Article talks about Austen's P&P, the 20th century romance novel, and zombies, among other things.
Enjoy!

The Hooded Utilitarian: Female Creators Roundtable: Jane Austen

in defence of gold digging

Working off our conversation about feminism in JA’s novels that ended our class yesterday, I have some questions about some seemingly contradictory views of choices, mercenaries and happy endings. Mrs Gardiner, the mother Elizabeth and Jane deserve, advises Elizabeth against loving Wickham, as their marriage would have serious financial consequences.  Elizabeth concedes and seems to recognize the ‘imprudence of encouraging such an attachment’ (140). But she also asks her dear aunt, ‘what is the difference in matrimonial affairs, between the mercenary and the prudent motive?’ and here lies my own confusion in what claims about marriage JA is making in her novels (151).

We’ve seen quite a few villainous—or at least more despicable characters—leave love for money: Isabella, Lucy, Willoughby, Charlotte, and Wickham while our protagonists and narrators often criticize the actions of these characters who go out to ‘hunt’ and make their ‘conquest.’  Isabella is the catty mean girl in NA because she actively pursues her lovers in an effort of securing her fortune.  Lucy seems duplicitous in her ability to quickly shift her love for Edward to Robert who now acts as the older son and inherits his mother’s fortune.  Elizabeth thinks Charlotte has somehow betrayed her romantic ideals in marrying a man as absurd as Mr Collins to assure a comfortable living.  We can even add Mrs Bennett to this list of gold digging women since she very aggressively and unapologetically pushes her daughters towards wealthier men at the risk of Jane even falling sick.  These women are ridiculous and we, as readers, laugh at them and generally despise them for their choices. 

But the fact is that these women are also the only female characters that do make choices and then act upon those choices.  If ‘a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife,’ why can it not be the case that a single woman, whether or not in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a husband (5)?  Mr Collins comes into the Bennetts’ home and takes his pick of women as if at a farm or market and we think him foolish for it; although, Mr Darcy, Mr Bingley—arguably all the men at the ball do the very same thing.  Mr Collins’ foolishness comes only from his belief that he has a chance with these women.  The men can choose.  In fact, Lady de Bourgh orders Mr Collins to ‘chuse properly, chose a gentlewoman’ as though it is only proper of him to do so (103).  When Willoughby and Wickham choose to align themselves with wealthier women, we begin to see the duplicity in attitudes toward free will and power as they differ for men and women.  Willoughby gets his redemption because we sympathize with him in the end and Elinor forgives him as we do too.  He is humanized and we no longer see him as the enemy but perhaps as prudent and can at a minimum understand where he comes from.  Elizabeth herself sympathizes with Wickham too and allows Wickham the benefit of the doubt that he at least operates from prudence too and that is thereby justified for his actions and not a mercenary.  The narrator does criticize Elizabeth for her hypocrisy in being so critical of Charlotte for the very same motives but so forgiving of Wickham (147). 

So if the men are allowed to pursue their fortunes and their spouses—in fact, it seems as though it is their duty to do so as it is a ‘truth universally acknowledged’—why can’t the women?  It seems—to me—as though Mrs Bennett is right to actively seek men for her daughters because she does so in their best interests.  If women are fated to marry, why not at least choose who they want to marry?  If they have no fortunes of their own and are disinherited by estate laws then why not choose a home that can provide for them?  It seems a bit convenient that our heroines always end up with the men that they want who just so coincidentally happen to be have large (enough) fortunes themselves.  Sometimes JA’s happy endings are so contrived that they undermine her own (or at least her characters’) criticisms of women gold dig.  For example, Edward’s fortune from his friend Colonel Brandon seems unbelievably fortuitous and far too convenient. 

Our heroines passively wait for the men around them to act and then suffer the consequences of the men’s actions instead of ever actively deciding their own fates and I’m having a lot of trouble with this as we read more of JA’s novels.  Though Jane got sick from travelling in the rain, had Mrs Bennett not sent her, her courtship with Bingley would have been that much slower and the plot would have been that much less interesting.  And we shouldn’t forget that Mr Bennett also foolishly sent Lydia to Brighton though his decisions proved far more consequential.  Are JA’s novels all about karma in which the women who wait patiently and act out of virtue will be rewarded with the charming, good-looking wealthy lover while the active, fortune-seeking women will suffer?  Do they suffer?  What should we make of Elizabeth’s original question between being prudential and being a mercenary and what does that say about women’s power to choose and act upon their free will—if they have any?

Judging and Pre-judging

The end of our discussion yesterday got me thinking about prejudice, both as it continues to exist in our own society and as it is defined in Austen's novel.  The word has an interesting etymological history, with roots in both the Old French prejuise, meaning preliminary judgment or a precedent, and the classical Latin praeiudicium, meaning preliminary enquiry or precedent.  Nowadays (and in Austen's time too), the word has very negative connotations: the first definition offered by the OED gives us "preconceived opinion not based on reason or actual experience; bias, partiality; unreasoned dislike, hostility, or antagonism towards, or discrimination against, a race, sex, or other class of people." Indeed, the OED shows this usage of prejudice appearing as early as 1300.  Prejudice has a long and painful association with bias, partiality, and discrimination.

But, to play devil's advocate for a moment, might we be a bit prejudiced about prejudice?   I am by no means endorsing the negative characteristics I outline above.  But what about the other, very literal meanings of the word--the sense of pre-judging or anticipating something, or the efficacious use of precedents in law?  Legal precedent functions as pre-judgment, a situation in which the judgment of one scenario frames the interpretation of a new (and ostensibly similar) one.  But I'm also curious about how we mark the distinction between judgment and pre-judgment.  Who decides what makes a judgment preliminary versus--what would be the opposite here--substantiated?  Do we ever have enough evidence to make an opinion into a fact?  Doesn't the concept of pre-judging contains the sense that some material--though perhaps very little--is available to be judged?  And wouldn't this make prejudgment more of a "mini-judgment" than an act that exists prior to judgment?

To put these questions into the context of Austen, what do we make of moments when the novel seems to endorse the very characteristic it elsewhere condemns?  Mr. Collins's letter, for instance, affords Mr. Bennet material he can use to form a pre-judgment about his relative, and his assessment, based solely on his analysis of the letter's form and content, is spot on.  Elizabeth's doubts--"Can he be a sensible man, sir?"--are confirmed confidently by her father: "no, my dear, I think not.  I have great hopes of finding him quite the reverse.  There is a mixture of servility and self-importance in his letter, which promises well.  I am impatient to see him" (Vol. 1 Ch. 13).  The family goes into their meeting with Mr. Collins with certain expectations in place, and the confirmation of these expectations confirms in turn Mr. Bennet's role as careful reader (he loves his library) and an astute judge of character.  I find this moment especially intriguing, as it asks us to contrast indirect and direct evidence of character--what we read of a person versus what we see of him or her.  As our discussion of Mary intimated yesterday, a knowledge of the world based solely on books may itself be pedantic and even "prejudicial," but Mr. Collins's letter also suggests that writing can at other times be a trustworthy representation of character, even in lieu of an actual meeting.  And Austen, as a novelist devoted to crafting realistic characters, would seem to be hyper-aware of this fact.  

P&P: a humorous lesson on vanity, or the lack thereof

   We mentioned that Pride and Prejudice feels like an easier read than Northanger Abbey or Sense and Sensibility, and I believe it is so for multiple reasons, but one in particular is that it is much more humorous because of its characters.  We laugh at characters like Mr. Collins and Mrs. Bennet, but why do we laugh at them?  To me, these characters are like the self-deprecating comedian, except that they’re not aware they’re deprecating or embarrassing themselves.  These characters are shameless, and they become a source of comic relief because they are different from the norm and don’t stay inside society’s acceptable standards of propriety.  These characters are very different from those who do “stay within the bounds,” like Lizzy Bennet.  Lizzy, and others like her, are aware of their own actions and of the way they are perceived by others.  Lizzy is very aware of impropriety and the shame that comes with it when, for example, she becomes embarrassed of her mother’s brazen and defensive response to Mr. Darcy's remark on the "country neighbourhood" in chapter 9.  Mr. Collins, too, is highly unaware of the awkwardness of his social manners.  Indeed, his physical presence at the Bennet home itself presents an uncomfortable situation, as everyone clearly knows his only reason for being there is to select a wife from one of the daughters.  He thinks he is doing the family a favor by marrying into the family to save the entail, but the women of the family think him “an oddity,” and this does not help his cause.  We could also make the claim that Miss Caroline Bingley is one of these shameless characters when we see her in her attempts to reel Mr. Darcy into a current social activity or conversation.  True, she may be proud (according to Mary’s definition in chapter 5), but she is not vain enough to see that her single-sided flirtations with Mr. Darcy are not as veiled as she thinks them to be, and we all laugh at her futile attempts to, for lack of a better word, seduce him. 

   Mr. Collins, Mrs. Bennet, and Miss Bingley are very proud people, and I believe Mary Bennet would say that they hold a very high opinion of themselves.  But I suppose we can conclude that they are not vain, as they do not seem to care about others’ opinions about themselves.  This flaw in their character makes them blunt, and as a result, quite funny, but is this necessarily a bad thing?  Logically, we understand this much: one must know the codes of society to know what is considered acceptable and what is considered a breach.  But if vanity is defined as an awareness of others’ opinions of a person, and society determines one’s social acceptance or rejection, does this not make Lizzy vain, as she is very aware of others and their perceptions?  Maybe she is only aware when someone besides herself is caught in the spotlight of shame and impropriety, since she seems to have no problem getting her petticoat “six inches deep in mud.”  So if we can call Lizzy vain, does this make everyone subject to vanity?  Going back to the matter of book titles, as we mentioned in class, what implications do the words "pride and prejudice" have on humanity? Will there ever be an unbiased, unprejudiced utopia where we can live? This brings me back to one of the last points of our discussion today: Do we live in a post-judgmental era? It seems that according to Jane Austen’s title, we will never, for where there is pride of oneself, there will always be prejudice against another. 

The Height of a Hero

When Mr. Bingley draws upon his friend’s height and the importance it plays in why he considers Mr. Darcy a friend. Mr. Bingley: “I assure you that if Darcy were not such a great tall fellow, in comparison with myself, I should not pay him half so much deference. I do not know a more aweful object than Darcy, on particular occasions and in particular places…” (Austen 34). It seems to reflect the weight of his role as a hero. The presence of his physical appearance is reminiscent of the affect George Washington’s statuesque figure had on the perception we encounter of him in history books. The regal appearance of height allows the reader to perceive Darcy as a natural-born hero. Darcy stands (pun intended) for the authority figure in the novel, who always looks down upon the “country neighborhood” of Meryton in lacking propriety or morality. The first encounter Darcy has with the people of Meryton, he becomes lost in his thoughts in order to grasp the character of the assembly as a whole. On the outside Darcy, comes off as arrogant and prudish because of his aloof demeanor. He rapidly loses the rave reviews formulated by the party. The odd direction the story begins to develop into a despised hero, Darcy, although  he continues to rise as a respected character. The dark shadow as a prideful man stays in place while the narrator acknowledges the influence he has as a hero. Elizabeth is a perfect example of the influence Darcy begins to generate in the heroine’s mind and feelings. She becomes enamored with Darcy’s pride as the novel progresses. Mr. Bingley understands the power and influence Darcy has over him and glorifies his pride in complimentary fashion.  His accountability as hero is not hindered by his coldness. Darcy is able to act rude in different parts of the novel and still hold onto his gentility. Why does Darcy come off strong as the story progresses, when half of Meryton decides, he is the proudest of men? Does power (money) or influence have anything to do with Darcy’s elected authority?

False Readings

As I come closer to the end of SS I’m becoming more aware of the importance of candidness and openness which seems to in contrast with NA and Catherine’s own development into maturity.  In NA Catherine always reads people incorrectly and this sets her apart from other characters and highlights her naiveté and innocence which Henry and readers alike come to love about her.  And though false readings are much more singular to our heroine in NA, in SS just about every character seems to read a person’s feelings or motivations incorrectly and these misunderstandings make for the most of the plot: Mr John Dashwood thinks Colonel Brandon likes Elinor, Mrs Dashwood and Marianne assume Elinor and Edward to be very much in love, just about everyone believes Marianne and Willoughby are together, Lucy doesn’t think there’s anything wrong in telling Elinor about her engagement, etc.  Throughout the novel characters hide their thoughts and feelings either to protect themselves or others so that by the third volume the characters take their assumptions to be true and largely operate from rumour alone because that’s all that they have to work with.  In an absence of any clear professions of love or affection, other involved characters try to read what they can from the relationships (or lack thereof) and take their own interpretations to be the truth.  In fact, everyone seems to ‘know’ about Marianne’s and Willoughby’s relationships from suspicions alone so that Mrs Jennings can confidently say she knows about the engagement ‘for it has been known all over the town this ever so long’ (173).  Though characters’ suspicions sometimes prove correct [Elinor had ‘suspicions of Willoughby’s character’ (163)], they are often misguided.

Marianne is perhaps most like Catherine in her candidness and yet unlike Catherine, she begets no shame upon herself but instead Elinor cringes in embarrassment as her sister openly writes to Willoughby in her letters or later forthrightly questions him at the party.  In NA Catherine’s later ability to read people ‘correctly’ is a sign of her maturity and growth but in SS it seems as though characters must grow to be more expressive and open so that only in the end does Elinor tell her sister and mother of Edward’s engagement and later of her disappointment in his (though actually Robert’s) marriage and her openness—her sensibility arguably—eventually brings the family together because it is in these very scenes that Mrs Dashwood and Margaret join the sisters.  Where once Elinor asked Marianne to ‘pray, pray be composed…and do not betray what you feel to every body present’ (167) she later ‘tenderly invited her [Marianne] to be open’ (321) and no longer mask her feelings about Willoughby and his engagement.  Instead of shame, candidness evokes pity in SS so that Marianne becomes ‘poor Marianne’ (288) in her ‘wretched’ state, Colonel Brandon ‘poor Colonel Brandon’ once he relates his misfortunes, and Willoughby ‘poor Willoughby’ (312) as his truth redeems him and effectively ‘softens’ the heart of those who once vilified him and soon even Mrs Dashwood ‘was sorry for him’ (325).  Perhaps aware that his truth will absolve him at least a little, Willoughby even asks for Elinor’s pity and begs, ‘if you can pity me, Miss Dashwood, pity my situation as it was then…And now do you pity me, Miss Dashwood?’ (305-7).

I’m getting lost between Austen’s own opinions of candidness which—to me—seem to shift from NA to SS.  In NA openness seems to be a sign of youth, naiveté, and perhaps immaturity, though certainly a mark of moral virtue and integrity.  In SS concealment creates conflict and openness soon saves the day and redeems the characters so that readers and other characters sympathize with those who were previously one-dimensional villains.  Here too, candidness is a sign of integrity and Mrs Dashwood even praises Colonel Brandon for this goodness: ‘such openness, such sincerity!—no one can be deceived in him’ (314).  Austen still holds candidness in high esteem in SS but characters must move towards it so that we only get truths in the third volume whereas in NA Catherine begins with this inherent quality and grows to recognize its absence in others.  Is Austen consistent in her treatments of concealment and candidness in both novels or not?  Is the difference in her opinions of the importance of concealment moreso than candidness (as I have written here)?  Why does candidness bring forth shame in NA but pathos in SS?  Why did we once laugh at Catherine for her candidness (think her exchange with Eleanor when she asks about Henry’s dance partner) when we now welcome it as the truth ties up all the loose ends of the novel?

Interchangeable Characters?

We started to talk a bit yesterday about the ways in which the protagonists of Sense and Sensibility, Elinor and Marianne, are at once contrasted and compared.  On a first read, they strike many as polar opposites; on more careful examination, they each seem to have the traits of the other (Marianne has, or develops, some sense; Elinor has, or develops, some sensibility).  I wanted to comment briefly here on a related phenomenon in the novel, and gather some of your feedback on it.

This is the phenomenon of what I'm calling "interchangeable characters."  On one hand, the novel constantly gives us characters--such as Elinor and Marianne--in opposition.  Edward--especially in Marianne's eyes--is the polar opposite of Willoughby.  Willoughby, again in Marianne's eyes, is the polar opposite to Brandon.  Or for example, consider the way the narrator positions Lucy Steele, in manners and education, as a foil to Elinor.  But the novel also features many moments when characters mistake other characters for their "complete opposites."  So: in chapter 16, Marianne is convinced that she sees Willoughby on horseback, and it turns out to be Edward.  Or, in chapter 26, when Marianne is convinced that Willoughby is coming up the stairs, and the novel instead presents us with Colonel Brandon.  Perhaps most curiously, we have the [SPOILER ALERT] discovery of Edward's engagement to Lucy Steele, and the odd character conflations that encourages.  In chapter 18, Elinor sees the lock of hair in Edward's ring, that is exactly the same color as her hair.  But, in chapter 22, we learn that the hair is Lucy's (and that Elinor and Lucy thus have identical hair-color?  Or that Elinor is the victim of wishful thinking?).  This character conflation also becomes a painful "joke" for the company, as the Middletons and Mrs. Jennings tease Elinor and Lucy on their respective attachments (to, they presume, different men).  The elder Miss Steele then almost gives the game away by commenting "significantly" that "I dare say Lucy's beau is quite as modest and pretty behaved as Miss Dashwood's."  Nancy Steele, the only other woman aside from Elinor who is privy to Lucy's secret engagement, hints that two characters are really only one.  The "joke" here--the literal conflation of two potential fiancés into one man, and the plot conflict that results (not enough men to go around?)--seems parallel in some way to the narrator's persistence in giving us one character when we expect another, or suggesting that one character can substitute just as well for the character we expect.  Thoughts?

               The “Perfect Happiness”: A Joke To Be Taken Seriously in Northanger Abbey?

     The last few pages of Northanger Abbey left me particularly puzzled. Was I supposed to laugh sarcastically or to sit there in a state of humbled acceptance? Probably both. Austen strays out of her characteristic, detailed style and speeds the plot up, almost as if she is slightly “over” her story right at its supposed climax point. In these final moments, she delivers a rushed vagueness that almost appears as blasé. Austen avoids “unnecessary” (p.234) descriptions to messily tie the knot on the “perfect happiness” (p. 235) of two marriages. She lets us readers imagine the new Mr. Eleanor Tilney for ourselves, since we can all “instantly” (p.234) envision manly perfection. As usual, she is pulling the rug from under us since we would all have very different readings of this perfection. She mocks us until the end then, just as she invites us to project our own fancies  into truths (in the trails of Catherine). In a way, there is a sense of handing the “authorship relay” to us buffoons. The first person narrator intimately asks us to become the readers-writers of the ending (or the new Tilney beginnings) since this is no longer the story she is interested in, but rather the cliché we require as a consumer audience. We are just like Catherine, elaborating on our hopes and fears when our author does not give us enough of our addiction fix. Have we not learned our lesson?

    Austen has just divulged to us that Henry Tilney grew into affection for Catherine based on a flattered ego, and then stood up to his father, defending his “code of honor”. Like Catherine, who envisions herself as a heroine, so Henry proudly (and somewhat vainly) tries to define himself based on the chivalric or gothic models he has read about. Meanwhile, Eleanor puts up with any type of nasty masculine behavior, whether her brother’s insults or her father’s reprimands, so how would she know to pick the right person? Maybe she would. Maybe she wouldn’t. And maybe, either outcome is ok. To each his own.

    Just as Austen gives us the grand brushstrokes of the recipe marriage ending, so she leaves us with ellipses, or gaping holes. But maybe these cracks in the ice, these flaws in the relationships of the characters are precisely what make them “perfectly happy”, or perfectly human. Maybe these marriages won’t be climactic, but they will be fraught with incoherence and subtleties, like the novel we just read and enjoyed. The acceptance of imperfections makes things work in the real world. Long term at least. These marriages will “do”.  Austen humorously apologizes for the unions not to have taken place sooner even though if they had, there would have been no novel. In this vein, the “unjust” interventions of the General were actually “conducive” to the couple’s happiness, “improving their knowledge of each other, and adding strength to their attachment” (p.235). If there were no hurdles, there would be no novel. If there were no problems, the relationships would not exist; they just wouldn't be human. As false-flowery as she gets in her happy ending, Austen once again brings common sense to table, acknowledging that the impediments and compromises are a very real part of relationships, and therefore, of the “perfect” human happiness. Yes, she sublimates with generic clichés, but as an audience we have required that out of her; we want that aesthetic “poor taste”. 

    Yet,  maybe she actually is sublimating the imperfection of these unions? Maybe she is precisely praising their simple and settling realness?  Beneath the happy recipe surface, there is irony. But beneath the laughter, there is still a deeper, less detached consideration of our societal values and partnerships: our need for them perhaps, even though they bring us no absolutes, no complete solace? I don’t know… I have to look into this throughout our readings… 

Defining a Hero

                                                              Defining a Hero

Jane Austen’s heroines are, usually the focal point of the story plot-line, in how the character develops into a young woman at the end of the novel. Heroes are strategically placed in the direction of the female lead character; in order to complete the marriage plot proposal. The unique perspective, Austen allows the reader to explore is the “realistic” aspects behind her characters. Edward Ferrars, brings a unique perspective to the stereotypical characterization of the term, hero. The reader becomes engaged to understand a character, who does not match up to the title of “hero” imposed by the author. Edward’s demur keeps him under the radar, fitting to his personality. A particular passage stood out to the reader, because of the social implications disbursed upon Edward’s future. Austen elaborates the reader on Edward’s great expectations: “But he was neither fitted by abilities nor disposition to answer the wishes of his mother and sister, who longed to see him distinguished −as− they hardly knew what. They wanted him to make a fine figure in the world in some manner or other” (Austen 14).  The author’s statement, stands out within the whole passage, because Edwards’ mother seems conjure up an idea about her son without having a concise goal in mind.  The abrupt use of dashes in between “as” illustrates how Mrs. Ferrars’ doesn’t know what she wants her son to be, it also to brings together two ideas, which don’t match up. Austen is cleverly describing the relationship between Edward and his mother. The significance of the passage allows the reader to understand the unique social implications Ferrars is forced upon, he doesn’t seem to have control over his own future. Edward is unlike any hero, readers have come across in other novels. Austen fabricates a displaced hero, who lacks courage and security. What is the importance of Edward Ferrars in the novel, especially under the title role of hero?    

Is she or isn't she?

What I find interesting in the first twenty chapters or so of Pride and Prejudice is the seemingly selective analytical skills of the heroine Elizabeth.  On the one hand, she is considered to be extremely intelligent, making her the favorite of her father and the least favorite of her mother.  As a reader I am willing to accept it on nearly all accounts.  she is certainly clever, and is usually an excellent judge of people and their intentions.  This is, however, proven incongruous by her judgment of Mr. Wickham, who is clearly inconsistent in his first stating that it would have to be Mr. Darcy who prevented himself from encountering Wickham, yet in practice it is Wickham who creates false pretense not to attend the ball which Darcy attends.  Elizabeth’s eager willingness to accept Wickham’s explanations without better getting to know his character or gather the opposite side to the story is not consistent with her personality as developed throughout the beginning of the novel.  Several explanations can be provided for this inconsistency.  One cause could be the preconceived bias that she has built up against Darcy through the course of the first ball and their following interactions.  Another possible cause could be that she is falling in love with Wickham, who will undoubtedly prove a scoundrel by the end of the novel.  Either way, it would seem in matters of love Elizabeth is unable to employ her intelligence to her advantage, both in detecting Darcy’s affections for her (which she notices but interprets incorrectly as contempt [how could anyone outside of grammar school fail to see the difference between love and contempt?]) and in trusting Wickham.  Her misunderstandings with these two characters seems to undermine the credibility she accrues through seeing Mr. Collins for the fool he is and Miss Bingley as the conniving bitch that she is.  So what are we to make of Elizabeth?  I she an intelligent woman who is easily influenced by emotion or is she as dense as Mr. Collins with the occasional stroke of luck?  You tell me in the comments.

Portraits of Jane Austen

Pen and wash drawing of Jane Austen, done by her sister Cassandra.

This is a watercolor portrait, which seems to be a beautified version of the above, authenticated sketch, was found in an 1816 edition of Emma.


Only other authenticated portrait of Jane Austen, done by her sister Cassandra.