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.