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