Jane austin keep calm and carry on dating

A Calendar for Mansfield Park

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But Persuasion, which was published posthumously and which may not have been revised to meet the author's full intention, does not have the richness and substantiality of Emma.

As for Mansfield Park, the first work of the mature period, it quite matches Emma in point of substantiality, but it makes a special and disturbing case.

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Greatly admired in its own day—far more than Emma —Mansfield Park is now disliked by many readers who like everything else that Jane Austen wrote. They are repelled by its heroine and by all that she seems to imply of the author's moral and religious preferences at this moment of her life, for Fanny Price consciously devotes herself to virtue and piety, which she achieves by a willing submissiveness that goes against the modern grain.

What is more, the author seems to be speaking out against wit and spiritedness while not abating her ability to represent these qualitiesand virtually in praise of dullness and acquiescence, and thus to be condemning her own peculiar talents.

Mansfield Park is an extraordinary novel, and only Jane Austen could have achieved its profound and curious interest, but its moral tone is antipathetic to contemporary taste, and no essay I have ever written has met with so much resistance as the one in which I tried to say that it was not really a perverse and wicked book.

But Emma, as richly complex as Mansfield Park, arouses no such antagonism, and the opinion that holds it to be the greatest of all Jane Austen's novels is, I believe, correct.

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Professor Mudrick says that everyone has misunderstood Emma, and he may well be right, for Emma is a very difficult novel. We in our time are used to difficult books and like them. But Emma is more difficult than any of the hard books we admire. The difficulty of Proust arises from the sheer amount and complexity of his thought, the difficulty of Joyce from the brilliantly contrived devices of representation, the difficulty of Kafka from a combination of doctrine and mode of communication. With all, the difficulty is largely literal; it lessens in the degree that we attend closely to what the books say; after each sympathetic reading we are the less puzzled.

But the difficulty of Emma is never overcome. We never know where to have it. If we finish it at night and think we know what it is up to, we wake the next morning to believe it is up to something quite else; it has become a different book. Reginald Farrer speaks at length of the difficulty of Emma and then goes on to compare its effect with that of Pride and Prejudice.

The effect is extraordinary, perhaps unique. The book is like a person—not to be comprehended fully and finally by any other person.

It is perhaps to the point that it is the only one of Jane Austen's novels that has for its title a person's name. For most people who recognize the difficulty of the book, the trouble begins with Emma herself.

Jane Austen was surely aware of what a complexity she was creating in Emma, and no doubt that is why she spoke of her as "a heroine whom no one will like except myself. John Henry Newman stated the matter more accurately, and very charmingly, in a letter of He says that Emma is the most interesting of Jane Austen's heroines, and that he likes her. But what is striking in his remark is this sentence: Inevitably we are attracted to her, we are drawn by her energy and style, and by the intelligence they generate.

Here are some samples of her characteristic tone: Wickedness is always wickedness, but folly is not always folly. I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with any other. Knightley comes to a dinner party in his carriage, as Emma thinks he should, and not on foot: You think you carry it off very well, I dare say, but with you it is a sort of bravado, an air of affected unconcern; I always observe it whenever I meet you under these circumstances.

Now you have nothing to try for. You are not afraid of being supposed ashamed. You are not striving to look taller than any body else.

Now I shall really be happy to walk into the same room with you. There is a great power of charm in self-love, although, to be sure, the charm is an ambiguous one.

We resent it and resist it, yet we are drawn by it, if only it goes with a little grace or creative power. Nothing is easier to pardon than the mistakes and excesses of self-love: And with good reason, for they are the extravagance of the first of virtues, the most basic and biological of the virtues, that of self-preservation.

But we distinguish between our response to the self-love of men and the self-love of women. No woman could have won the forgiveness that has been so willingly given after due condemnation to the self-regard of, say, Yeats and Shaw.

We understand self-love to be part of the moral life of all men; in men of genius we expect it to appear in unusual intensity and we take it to be an essential element of their power.

The extraordinary thing about Emma is that she has a moral life as a man has a moral life. And she doesn't have it as a special instance, as an example of a new kind of woman, which is the way George Eliot 's Dorothea Brooke has her moral life, but quite as a matter of course, as a given quality of her nature. And perhaps that is what Jane Austen meant when she said that no one would like her heroine—and what Newman meant when he said that he felt kind to Emma whenever he thought of her.

She needs kindness if she is to be accepted in all her exceptional actuality. Women in fiction only rarely have the peculiar reality of the moral life that self-love bestows.

Most commonly they exist in a moonlike way, shining by the reflected moral light of men. They are "convincing" or "real" and sometimes "delightful," but they seldom exist as men exist—as genuine moral destinies. We do not take note of this; we are so used to the reflected quality that we do not observe it.

It is only on the rare occasions when a female character like Emma confronts us that the difference makes us aware of the usual practice. Nor can we say that novels are deficient in realism when they present women as they do: No change in the modern theory of the sexes, no advance in status that women have made, has yet contradicted this.

The self-love that we do countenance in women is of a limited and passive kind, and we are troubled if it is as assertive as the self-love of men is permitted, and expected, to be. Not men alone, but women as well, insist on this limitation, imposing the requirement the more effectually because they are not conscious of it. But there is Emma, given over to self-love, wholly aware of it and quite cherishing it.

Knightley rebukes her for heedless conduct and says, "I leave you to your own reflections. Does my vain spirit ever tell me I am wrong? Inevitably we are drawn to Emma. But inevitably we hold her to be deeply at fault. Her self-love leads her to be a self-deceiver. She can be unkind. She is a dreadful snob. Her snobbery is of the first importance in her character, and it is of a special sort. The worst instance of it is very carefully chosen to put her thoroughly in the wrong.


We are on her side when she mocks Mrs. Elton's vulgarity, even though we feel that so young a woman Emma is twenty ought not set so much store by manners and tone—Mrs. Elton, with her everlasting barouchelandau and her "caro sposo" and her talk of her spiritual "resources," is herself a snob in the old sense of the word, which meant a vulgar person aspiring to an inappropriate social standing.

But when Emma presumes to look down on the young farmer, Robert Martin, and undertakes to keep little Harriet Smith from marrying him, she makes a truly serious mistake, a mistake of nothing less than national import.

Here it is to be observed that Emma is a novel that is touched—lightly but indubitably—by national feeling. Perhaps this is the result of the Prince Regent's having expressed his admiration for Mansfield Park and his willingness to have the author dedicate her next book to him: At any rate, there appears in Emma a tendency to conceive of a specifically English ideal of life. Knightley speaks of Frank Churchill as falling short of the demands of this ideal: He may be very 'aimable,' have very good manners, and be very agreeable; but he can have no English delicacy towards the feelings of other people: English verdure, English culture [agriculture, of course, is meant], English comfort, seen under a sun bright without being oppressive.

It is often said, sometimes by way of reproach, that Jane Austen took no account in her novels of the great political events of her lifetime, nor of the great social changes that were going on in England. There is in some sense an interpretation of social problems in Jane Austen's contrivance of the situation of Emma and Robert Martin.

The yeoman class had always held a strong position in English class feeling, and, at this time especially, only stupid or ignorant people felt privileged to look down upon it. Knightley, whose social position is one of the certainties of the book, as is his freedom from any trace of snobbery, speaks of young Martin, who is his friend, as a "gentleman farmer," and it is clear that he is on his way to being a gentleman pure and simple.

And nothing was of greater importance to the English system at the time of the French Revolution that the relatively easy recruitment to the class of gentlemen. It made England unique among European nations. Here is Tocqueville's view of the matter as set forth in the course of his explanation of why England was not susceptible to revolution as France was: It was not merely parliamentary government, freedom of speechand the jury system that made England so different from the rest of contemporary Europe.

There was something still more distinctive and more far-reaching in its effects. England was the only country in which the caste system had been totally abolished, not merely modified.

Nobility and commoners joined forces in business enterprises, entered the same professions, and—what is still more significant—intermarried. The daughter of the greatest lord in the land could marry a "new" man without the least compunction. For several centuries the word "gentleman" has had in England a quite different application from what it had when it originated. Thus if we follow the mutation in time and place of the English word "gentleman" a derivative of our gentilhommewe find its connotation being steadily widened in England as the classes draw nearer to each other and intermingle.

In each successive century we find it being applied to men a little lower in the social scale. Next, with the English, it crosses to America. And now in America, it is applicable to all male citizens, indiscriminately. Thus its history is the history of democracy itself. And to make matters worse, it is a principled snobbery. The yeomanry are precisely the order of people with whom I feel that I can have nothing to do.

A degree or two lower, and a creditable appearance might interest me; I might hope to be useful to their families in some way or other. But a farmer can need none of my help, and is therefore in one sense as much above my notice as in every other he is below it. Snobbery is the grossest fault that arises from Emma's self-love, but it is not the only fault. We must also take account of her capacity for unkindness. This can be impulsive and brutal, as in the witticism directed to Miss Bates at the picnic, which makes one of the most memorable scenes in the whole range of English fiction; or extended and systematic, as in her conspiracy with Frank Churchill to quiz Jane Fairfax.

Then we know her to be a gossip, at least when she is tempted by Frank Churchill. She finds pleasure in dominating and has no compunctions about taking over the rule of Harriet Smith's life. She has been accused, on the ground of her own estimate of herself, of a want of tenderness, and she has even been said to be without sexual responsiveness.

Why, then, should anyone be kind to Emma? There are several reasons, of which one is that we come into an unusual intimacy with her. We see her in all the elaborateness of her mistakes, in all the details of her wrong conduct. The narrative technique of the novel brings us very close to her and makes us aware of each misstep she will make.

The relation that develops between ourselves and her becomes a strange one—it is the relation that exists between our ideal self and our ordinary fallible self. We become Emma's helpless conscience, her unavailing guide. Her fault is the classic one of hubris, excessive pride, and it yields the classic result of blindness, of an inability to interpret experience to the end of perceiving reality, and we are aware of each false step, each wrong conclusion, that she will make.

Our hand goes out to hold her back and set her straight, and we are distressed that it cannot reach her. There is an intimacy anterior to this. We come close to Emma because, in a strange way, she permits us to—even invites us to—by being close to herself.

When we have said that her fault is hubris or self-love, we must make an immediate modification, for her self-love, though it involves her in self-deception, does not lead her to the ultimate self-deception—she believes she is clever, she insists she is right, but she never says she is good.

A consciousness is always at work in her, a sense of what she ought to be and do. It is not an infallible sense, anything but that, yet she does not need us, or the author, or Mr. Knightley, to tell her, for example, that she is jealous of Jane Fairfax and acts badly to her; indeed, "she never saw [Jane Fairfax] without feeling that she had injured her.

Her sense of her superiority leads her to the "insufferable vanity" of believing "herself in the secret of every-body's feelings" and to the "unpardonable arrogance" of "proposing to arrange everybody's destiny," yet it is an innocent vanity and an innocent arrogance which, when frustrated and exposed, do not make her bitter but only ashamed.

That is why, bad as her behavior may be, we are willing to be implicated in it. It has been thought that in the portrait of Emma there is "an air of confession," that Jane Austen was taking account of "something offensive" that she and others had observed in her own earlier manner and conduct, and whether or not this is so, it suggests the quality of intimacy which the author contrives that we shall feel with the heroine.

Then, when we try to explain our feeling of kindness to Emma, we ought to remember that many of her wrong judgments and actions are directed to a very engaging end, a very right purpose. She believes in her own distinction and vividness and she wants all around her to be distinguished and vivid. It is indeed unpardonable arrogance, as she comes to see, that she should undertake to arrange Harriet Smith's destiny, that she plans to "form" Harriet, making her, as it were, the mere material or stuff of a creative act.

Yet the destiny is not meanly conceived, the act is meant to be truly creative—she wants Harriet to be a distinguished and not a commonplace person, she wants nothing to be commonplace, she requires of life that it be well shaped and impressive, and alive. It is out of her insistence that the members of the picnic shall cease being dull and begin to be witty that there comes her famous insult to Miss Bates.

Her requirement that life be vivid is too often expressed in terms of social deportment—she sometimes talks like a governess or a dowager—but it is, in its essence, a poet's demand. She herself says that she lacks tenderness, although she makes the self-accusation in her odd belief that Harriet possesses this quality; Harriet is soft and "feminine," but she is not tender. Professor Mudrick associates the deficiency with Emma's being not susceptible to men. This is perhaps so; but if it is, there may be found in her apparent sexual coolness something that is impressive and right.

She makes great play about the feelings and about the fineness of the feelings that one ought to have; she sets great store by literature although she does not read the books she prescribes for herself and makes it a condemnation of Robert Martin that he does not read novels. Yet although, like Don Quixote and Emma Bovary, her mind is shaped and deceived by fiction, she is remarkable for the actuality and truth of her sexual feelings.

Inevitably she expects that Frank Churchill will fall in love with her and she with him, but others are more deceived in the outcome of this expectation than she is—it takes but little time for her to see that she does not really respond to Churchill, that her feeling for him is no more than the lively notice that an attractive and vivacious girl takes of an attractive and vivacious young man.

Sentimental sexuality is not part of her nature, however much she feels it ought to be part of Harriet Smith's nature. When the right time comes, she chooses her husband wisely and seriously and eagerly. There is, then, sufficient reason to be kind to Emma, and perhaps for nothing so much as the hope she expresses when she begins to understand her mistakes, that she will become "more acquainted with herself.

How modern a quest it is, and how thoroughy it confirms Dr. Leavis's judgment that Jane Austen is the first truly modern novelist of England. The most radical changes have come from personalities who were conservative and even conventional …"6 Jane Austen, conservative and even conventional as she was, perceived the nature of the deep psychological change which accompanied the establishment of democratic society—she was aware of the increase of the psychological burden of the individual, she understood the new necessity of conscious self-definition and self-criticism, the need to make private judgments of reality.

III But the character of Emma is not the only reason for the difficulty of the novel. We must also take into account the particular genre to which the novel in some degree belongs—the pastoral idyll. It is an archaic genre which has the effect of emphasizing by contrast the brilliant modernity of Emma, and its nature may be understood through the characters of Mr. Woodhouse and Miss Bates. These two people proved a stumbling-block to one of Jane Austen's most distinguished and devoted admirers, Sir Walter Scott.

In his review of Emma in The Quarterly Review, Scott said that "characters of folly and simplicity, such as old Woodhouse and Miss Bates" are "apt to become tiresome in fiction as in real society. Woodhouse and Miss Bates are remarkably interesting, even though they have been created on a system of character portrayal that is no longer supposed to have validity—they exist by reason of a single trait which they display whenever they appear. Miss Bates is possessed of continuous speech and of a perfectly free association of ideas which is quite beyond her control; once launched into utterance, it is impossible for her to stop.

Woodhouse, Emma's father, has no other purpose in life than to preserve his health and equanimity, and no other subject of conversation than the means of doing so. The commonest circumstances of life present themselves to him as dangerous—to walk or to drive is to incur unwarrantable risk, to eat an egg not coddled in the prescribed way is to invite misery; nothing must ever change in his familial situation; he is appalled by the propensity of young people to marry, and to marry strangers at that.

Of the two "characters of folly and simplicity," Mr. Woodhouse is the more remarkable because he so entirely, so extravagantly, embodies a principle—of perfect stasis, of entire inertia.

Almost in the degree that Jane Austen was interested in the ideal of personal energy, she was amused and attracted by persons capable of extreme inertness.

She does not judge them harshly, as we incline to do—we who scarcely recall how important a part in Christian feeling the dream of rest once had. Woodhouse is a more extreme representation of inertness than Lady Bertram of Mansfield Park.

To say that he represents a denial of life would not be correct. Indeed, by his fear and his movelessness, he affirms life and announces his naked unadorned wish to avoid death and harm.

To life, to mere life, he sacrifices almost everything. Woodhouse has a more speculative interest than Miss Bates, there is not much to choose between their achieved actuality as fictional characters.

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They are, as I have said, created on a system of character portrayal that we regard as primitive, but the reality of existence which fictional characters may claim does not depend only upon what they do, but also upon what others do to or about them, upon the way they are regarded and responded to. And in the community of Highbury, Miss Bates and Mr. They are fools, to be sure, as everyone knows.

But they are fools of a special and transcendent kind. They are innocents—of such is the kingdom of heaven. They are children, who have learned nothing of the guile of the world. And their mode of existence is the key to the nature of the world of Highbury, which is the world of the pastoral idyll. London is but sixteen miles away—Frank Churchill can ride there and back for a haircut—but the proximity of the life of London serves but to emphasize the spiritual geography of Highbury.

The weather plays a great part in Emma ; in no other novel of Jane Austen's is the succession of the seasons, and cold and heat, of such consequence, as if to make the point which the pastoral idyll characteristically makes, that the only hardships that man ought to have to endure are meteorological.

Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather.

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Some explicit thought of the pastoral idyll is in Jane Austen's mind, and with all the ambivalence that marks the attitude of As You Like It toward the dream of man's life in nature and simplicity. I shall wear a large bonnet, and bring one of my little baskets hanging on my arm. Here,—probably this basket with pink ribbon. Nothing can be more simple, you see.

And Jane will have such another. There is to be no form or parade—a sort of gipsy party. Every thing as natural and simple as possible. Is not that your idea? My idea of the simple and natural will be to have the table spread in the dining-room. The nature and the simplicity of gentlemen and ladies, with their servants and furniture, I think is best observed by meals within doors.

When you are tired of eating strawberries in the garden, there will be cold meat in the house. Elton, whose vulgarity in large part consists in flaunting the cheapened version of high and delicate ideals, and that Knightley should answer her as he does—this is quite in accordance with our expectation of Jane Austen's judgment.

Yet it is only a few pages later that the members of the party walk out to see the view and we get that curious passage about the sweetness of the view, "sweet to the eye and to the mind. The idyll is not a genre which nowadays we are likely to understand. Or at least not in fiction, the art which we believe must always address itself to actuality. The imagination of felicity is difficult for us to exercise. We feel that it is a betrayal of our awareness of our world of pain, that it is politically inappropriate.

And yet one considerable critic of literature thought otherwise. Schiller is not exactly of our time, yet he is remarkably close to us in many ways and he inhabited a world scarcely less painful than ours, and he thought that the genre of the idyll had an important bearing upon social and political ideas.

As Schiller defines it, the idyll is the literary genre that "presents the idea and description of an innocent and happy humanity. But the limitation is merely accidental—these circumstances "do not form the object of the idyll, but are only to be regarded as the most natural means to attain this end. The end is essentially to portray man in a state of innocence, which means a state of harmony and peace with himself and the external world. The idea of a similar state, and the belief in the possible reality of this state, is the only thing that can reconcile man with all the evils to which he is exposed in the path of civilization.

This he does by gathering up the elements of actual life that do partake of innocence, and that the predominant pain of life leads us to forget, and forming them into a coherent representation of the ideal. Works in this genre, he says, appeal to the heart but not to the mind.

A morbid mind will find its cure in them, a sound soul will not find its food in them. They cannot vivify, they can only soften. To the soul of the writer of tragedy he assigns the adjective "sublime," which for him implies reaching greatness by intense effort and strength of will; to the soul of the writer of comedy he assigns the adjective "beautiful," which implies the achievement of freedom by an activity which is easy and natural.

Schiller does not observe this, but Shakespeare knew it—the curious power and charm of As You Like It consists of bringing the idyll and comedy together, of making the idyll the subject of comedy, even of satire, yet without negating it. The mind teases the heart, but does not mock it. The unconditioned freedom that the idyll hypothecates is shown to be impossible, yet in the demonstration a measure of freedom is gained.

So in Emma Jane Austen contrives an idyllic world, or the closest approximation of an idyllic world that the genre of the novel will permit, and brings into contrast with it the actualities of the social world, of the modern self. In the precincts of Highbury there are no bad people, and no adverse judgments to be made. Only a modern critic, Professor Mudrick, would think to call Mr. Woodhouse an idiot and an old woman: Weston is too simple and open-hearted, that he would be a "higher character" if he were not quite so friendly with everyone.

It is from outside Highbury that the peculiarly modern traits of insincerity and vulgarity come, in the person of Frank Churchill and Mrs.

With the exception of Emma herself, every person in Highbury lives in harmony and peace—even Mr. Elton would have been all right if Emma had let him alone! Weston are no less innocent than Mr.

If they please us and do not bore us by a perfection of manner and feeling which is at once lofty and homely, it is because we accept the assumptions of the idyllic world which they inhabit—we have been led to believe that man may actually live "in harmony and peace with himself and the external world.

Woodhouse and Miss Bates, the instructive perfection of Mr. Weston, constitute much of the charm of Emma. Yet the idyllic stillness of the scene and the loving celebration of what, for better or worse, is fully formed and changeless, is of course not what is decisive in the success of the novel. On the contrary, indeed: No one has put better and more eloquently what part this idea plays in Jane Austen's work than an anonymous critic writing in The North British Review in She broods over his history, not over his individual soul and its secret workings, nor over the analysis of its faculties and organs.

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She sees him, not as a solitary being completed in himself, but only as completed in society. Again, she contemplates virtues, not as fixed quantities, or as definable qualities, but as continual struggles and conquests, as progressive states of mind, advancing by repulsing their contraries, or losing ground by being overcome.

Hence again the individual mind can only be represented by her as a battle-field where contending hosts are marshalled, and where victory inclines now to one side and now to another. A character therefore unfolded itself to her, not in statuesque repose, not as a model without motion, but as a dramatic sketch, a living history, a composite force, which could only exhibit what it was by exhibiting what it did.

Her favourite poet Cowper taught her, "By ceaseless action all that is subsists. Yet this is indeed how she understood the mind. And her representation of battle is the truer because she could imagine the possibility of victory—she did not shrink from the idea of victory—and because she could represent harmony and peace. The anonymous critic of The North British Review goes on to say a strange and startling thing—he says that the mind of Jane Austen was "saturated" with a "Platonic idea.

Yet most of us will consent to think of it as one of the most attractive of the idyllic elements of the novel. It proposes to us the hope of victory in the battle that the mind must wage, and it speaks of the expectation of allies in the fight, of the possibility of community—not in actuality, not now, but perhaps again in the future, for do we not believe, or almost believe, that there was community in the past? The impulse to believe that the world of Jane Austen really did exist leads to notable error.

This England, especially as it is represented in Emma, is an idyll. The error of identifying it with the actual England ought always to be remarked. Yet the same sense of actuality that corrects the error should not fail to recognize the remarkable force of the ideal that leads many to make the error. To represent the possibility of controlling the personal life, of becoming acquainted with ourselves, of creating a community of "intelligent love"—this is indeed to make an extraordinary promise and hold out a rare hope.

We ought not be shocked and repelled if some among us think there really was a time when such promises and hopes were realized. Nor ought we be entirely surprised if, when they speak of the person who makes such promises and holds out such hopes, they represent her as not merely a novelist, if they find it natural to deal with her as a figure of legend and myth. Irony as Defense and Discovery, Tocqueville should not be understood as saying that there was no class system in England but only that there was no caste system, caste differing from class in its far greater rigidity.

In his sense of the great advantage that England enjoyed, as compared with France, in having no caste system, Tocqueville inclines to represent the class feelings of the English as being considerably more lenient than in fact they were.

Still, the difference between caste and class and the social and political importance of the "gentleman" are as great as Tocqueville says. In commenting on the relatively simple society which is described in James West's Plainville, U. Kardiner touches on a matter which is dear, and all too dear, to Emma's heart—speaking of social mobility in a democratic, but not classless, society, he says that the most important criterion of class is "manners," that "knowing how to behave" is the surest means of rising in the class hierarchy.

Nothing is more indicative of Jane Austen's accurate awareness of the mobility of her society than her concern not so much with manners themselves as with her characters' concern with manners. Schiller, in speaking of the effectiveness that the idyll should have, does not refer to the pastoral-idyllic element of Christianity which represents Christ as an actual shepherd.

I am grateful to Professor Joseph Duffy for having told me of this admirable study. Emma's attempt to form the character of Harriet is thus a perversion of the relation of Mrs. Knightley to herself—it is a perversion, says the North British critic, adducing Dante's "amoroso uso de sapienza," because it is without love. Southern Illinois University Press, In the following essay, Fraiman views Mr.

Darcy of Pride and Prejudice as a father figure for Elizabeth Bennett and therefore reads the novel as transferring patriarchal power from one generation to the next as Elizabeth passes from her father's care to Darcy's. I belong to a generation of American feminist critics taught to read by Sandra Gilbert and Susan Gubar. The Madwoman in the Attic both focused our regard on women writers of the nineteenth century and formed in us invaluable habits of attention.

It alerted us to eccentric characters, figures off to the side, to the lunatic fringe. We learned to see certain transients—required by the plot to move on before things can work out—as feminist doubles for the author as well as heroine. These marginal women voice anger and defiance that split open ostensibly decorous texts. I want, in keeping with this tradition, to stress the accents of defiance in Pride and Prejudice, but I locate these less at the edges than at the very center of the book; my argument concerns the much-admired Elizabeth Bennet and the two major men in her life, Mr.

I read Pride and Prejudice as the ceding of Mr. Bennet's paternity to Mr. Darcy, with a consequent loss of clout for Elizabeth. Austen's novel documents the collapse of an initially enabling father into a father figure who, in keeping with his excessive social authority, tends to be rather disabling. As Elizabeth passes from Bennet to Darcy, her authorial powers wane: I want to look at Elizabeth's gradual devaluation, her humiliation, in terms of this double father.

She shows us a form of violence against women that is not hidden away in the attic, displaced onto some secondary figure, but downstairs in the drawing room involving the heroine herself. Elizabeth's first father is a reclusive man and seemingly ineffectual; beside the rigid figure of Northanger Abbey 's General Tilney, Mr. Bennet may well appear flimsy. But the general his love of new gadgets notwithstanding is an old-fashioned father whose authoritarian style was all but outmoded by the end of the eighteenth century.

Bennet is not really a bad father—just a modern one, in the manner of Locke's influential text on education. Smoothbrowed advocate of instruction over discipline and reason over force, he typifies the Lockean father.

As Jay Fliegelman points out, however, Locke's concern "is not with circumscribing paternal authority, but with rendering it more effective by making it noncoercive. Bennet, apparently benign to the point of irresponsibility, may seem to wield nothing sharper than his sarcasm. But what he actually wields is the covert power of the Lockean patriarch, all the more effective for its subtlety. This aloof, unseen power of Mr. Bennet's suggests to me, for several reasons, the peculiar power of an author.

His disposition is emphatically literary.

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Taking refuge from the world in his library, Mr. Bennet prefers the inner to the outer life, books to people. He asks two things only: Most important, among women whose solace is news, he keeps the upper hand by withholding information. Bennet is a creator of suspense. In the opening scene, for example, he refuses to visit the new bachelor in town, deliberately frustrating Mrs.

Bennet's expectation and desire. Actually, "he had always intended to visit him, though to the last always assuring his wife that he should not go; and till the evening after the visit was paid, she had no knowledge of it.

But the suspense is not over. Elizabeth's father is, even then, as stingy with physical description as some fathers are with pocket money. He controls his family by being not tight-fisted but tight-lipped, and in this he resembles Austen herself. George Lewes first noted the remarkable paucity of concrete details in Austen, her reluctance to tell us what people, their clothes, their houses or gardens look like.

Bennet only follows Austen when, secretive about Bingley's person and estate, he keeps the ladies in the dark. Their curiosity is finally gratified by another, less plain-styled father, Sir William Lucas, whose report they receive "second-hand" from Lady Lucas. Much as women talk in this novel, the flow of important words of "intelligence" is regulated largely by men. In this verbal economy, women get the trickle-down of news.

But I could no more write a romance than an epic poem. I could not sit seriously down to write a serious romance under any other motive than to save my life; and if it were indispensable for me to keep it up and never relax into laughing at myself or other people, I am sure I should be hung before I had finished the first chapter. No, I must keep to my own style and go on in my own way; and though I may never succeed again in that, I am convinced that I should totally fail in any other.

August – Jane Austen in Vermont

Letter to James Stanier Clarke of April 1, Oxford University Press, Collins proposes to Elizabeth, Mr. Bennet again contrives to keep his audience hanging. Pretending to support his wife, he hides until the last moment his real intention of contradicting her. After a stern prologue he continues: From this day you must be a stranger to one of your parents. Collins, and I will never see you again if you do" Not only this particular manipulation but indeed the entire scene goes to show the efficacy of paternal words.

Throughout his proposal, to Elizabeth's distress and our amusement, Mr. Collins completely ignores her many impassioned refusals. He discounts what she says as "merely words of course" ; even his dim, self-mired mind perceives that a lady's word carries no definitive weight. Collins accuses Elizabeth of wishing to increase his love "by suspense, according to the usual practice of elegant females" Yet creating suspense is exactly what Elizabeth, rhetorically unreliable, cannot do.

She has no choice but "to apply to her father, whose negative might be uttered in such a manner as must be decisive" Bennet's power resides, as I say, in his authorial prerogative: Bennet uses this right to disparage and disappoint his wife, regarding his daughter he uses it rather to praise, protect, apparently to enable her. Like many heroines in women's fiction think of Emma Woodhouse or Maggie Tulliver Elizabeth has a special relationship to her father.

She is immediately distinguished as a family member and as a character by his preference for her and hers for him. The entail notwithstanding, she is in many respects his heir. To her he bequeaths his ironic distance from the world, the habit of studying and appraising those around him, the role of social critic. In this role, father and daughter together scan Mr. Collins's letter, dismissing man and letter with a few, skeptical words.

Bennet enables Elizabeth by sharing with her his authorial mandate, which is Austen's own: Through her father, Elizabeth gains provisional access to certain authorial powers. Bennet also shares with her, illogically enough, his disdain for women; he respects Elizabeth only because she is unlike other girls. This puts his exceptional daughter in an awkward position—bonding with her father means breaking with her mother, even reneging on femaleness altogether.

Elizabeth is less a daughter than a surrogate son. Like a son, by giving up the mother and giving in to the father, she reaps the spoils of maleness.

We can understand her, alternatively, in terms of Freud's scheme for girls. Mrs Price "addresses a letter to Lady Bertram" while "preparing for her ninth lying in". She has "8 children, the eldest a boy of Mrs Norris brings out her plan to take "charge and expence of one child entirely out of her great number" "The eldest daughter, a girl now Another conversion, another day Will not take the girl Mr Norris "took up every moment of her time. Fanny "astonished, uneasy, in constant terror, so desirably sensible of her good fortune, ends every day sobbing self to sleep" Penguin MP I: They walk in the park, and he discovers "one William, the eldest, a year older than herself" Lady Bertram there is "a vast difference in memories Fanny "was fixed at Mansfield Park" From about the time of [Fanny] entering the family Eton for Oxford makes no change, just "more opportunities" Miss Lee "taught her French," read portions of history; Edmund "made reading useful Sir Thomas provided her with a horse, and despite her intense reluctance, she learned to love to ride: Maria 16 when Fanny is 13 renamed schoolroom the East Room.

Sir Thomas tells Tom "you have robbed Edmund for ten, twenty, thirty years, perhaps for life, of more than half the income which ought to be his".

New man is 45 Dr Grant, wife 15 years younger, no children, "very respectable agreable people" Penguin MP 1: Sir Thomas mentions his expectation to his wife that Aunt Norris will "claim her share," lives alone, Fanny older It can make very little difference to you, whether you are in one house or the other Then a more distressing conversation with Edmund, as it shows Fanny his limited perception [unaware of what a bad advisor Mrs Norris is, ignores Fanny's abjection]: That Fanny enjoys riding though at first so afraid; "how right you proved to be Mrs Norris takes possession of White house Mrs Grant's rich "consumption," expensive cook, hospitality; makes garden out of heath; Mrs Norris's "invective": Lady Bertram "injuries of beauty" because Mrs Grant "so well settled without being handsome.

Miss Lee left family. Lady Bertram first mentions it to show they are deciding on this "we need not keep Miss Lee any longer when Fanny goes to live with you. Lady Stornaway was Mary's "particular friend" rather than Mrs Fraser: Sir Thomas hoped Fanny "might see William again in the course of the ensuing Winter [] Miss Mary Price dies, 2 hours before death, gives knife to Susan; godmother, Mrs Admiral Maxwell gave it her 6 weeks before.

We are told in spring 09 that Susan has been struggling for control of the knife for the 2 years since Mary's death Penguin MP: Fanny "valued friend the old grey poney" dies Penguin MP 1: Fanny "might ride one of her cousins' horses Sir Thoms never intended Fanny have a "regular horse" like cousins," then a "purchase in his absence," "adding to great expenses of his stable when a large part of his income unsettled September comes but no Sir Thomas: Mr Rushworth and Maria engaged, dependent on Sir Thomas's approval.

Since we are told of "some months before Sir Thomas could consent," I suggest Christmas festivities the time Events include Mrs Norris "forced Lady Bertram to go through ten miles of indifferent roads, to pay a morning visit" Language suggests the match made between Mrs Norris and Rushworth.

Edmund only one of family "who could see a fault;" "not pleased [Maria's] happiness should centre in a large income; "If this man had not a year he would be a very stupid fellow" Penguin MP I: Mrs Grant accepts Miss Crawford's "proposal" to come to her; Miss Crawford would have preferred Henry's "country house" rather than "hazard other relations," but Henry has "a dislike to permanence of abode, limitation of society"; did "escort" her to Northamptonshire and engages "to fetch her away at half an hour's notice".

Miss Crawford regrets Mrs Grant has "not half-a-dozen daughters;" for Henry one needs the "address of a Frenchwoman. Charlotte Lucas's point of view; a blind leap, only worse: Henry had "intended to spend only a few days Family "did not, from his usual goings on, expect him back for many weeks" Conversation among Mary, Edmund, Tom about whether Miss Price is "out," "does not like to see a girl of eighteen or nineteen so immediately up to everything.

Mary blames mother; Augusta "should have been with governess" many elements in this story would grate on Austen Penguin MP I: Here the plan for visiting Sotherton together is first broached by Mrs Norris: We can also count 6 weeks from this week to the week Tom returns. Mr Rushworth "now" returns from Compton where his friend, Smith, had had Repton whose terms "5 guineas a day"; Mrs Norris "and if they were 10," he could do it, she'd not "think of the expense" were she Mr Rushworth; refer to her "little half acre" "ridiculous" for her "to attempt".

Mary remembers 3 years ago, 3 months in cottage at Twickenham in "all dirt and confusion," very indulged type; she likes to have "everything as complete as possible" but "all done without my care" Penguin MP I: Fanny cannot speak of "number of years" Wm away Brothers can write "long letters when they are "at a distance from their family: July 27th, Wednesday conjectured: As "acquaintance increased" Edmund "offers his own quiet mare for purpose of [Mary's] first attempts to learn to ride" Penguin MP I: Plan to take mare to parsonage "half an hour" before Fanny's ride to begin.

Returned in time July 30th, Saturday: Fanny goes out; houses "scarce half a mile apart": She sees others walking "down the hill to the village.

All praise Mary for taking to it quickly. Edmund to Fanny "whether she meant to ride the next day". Mrs Norris over whether Mary "desirable I am glad church is not so close The house fronts the east Mr R talked of the west front" Maria: Absurdity of Henry's grave looks at "windows West front looked across to a lawn Mary, Edmund, Fanny into the wilderness, not locked, "considerable flight of stairs," "planted [intricately regulated rows of trees] wood of 2 acres" Mary endeavours to persuade him to give up life as clergyman: He has one on each arm: Do you think we are walking four miles an hour Edmund urged [Fanny] remaining with an earnestness she could not refuse Irish anecdotes during a 10 mile drive" M: Mr R here in a moment with key J: He is not 5 foot I went the very moment Mrs Norris and Mrs Rushworth "at top [of terrace] just ready for the wilderness Crawford contrives to seat Julia by him; Mrs N: Maria "discontented enough to point out what Mrs N "spunged.

November the black month fixed for his return", "business nearly concluded, take passage in September packet so "early in November" Sisters' minds: Mary's slur on his motives since he has a "very good living kept" for him learned from Mrs Grant ; his defense, Fanny's analogy of sons in navy or army Monday morning till Saturday night".

The contemplative speech before "unclouded night Casiopeia" forgotten as he is lured to piano, mortified and scolded Aug 28th Sundayweek of: Looking forward to Yates's story Tom at Weymouth during weeks of Sept 4th - 12th 10 days in there.

Fanny expresses surprise Crawford "should come back again so soon," as he stayed "full 7 weeks before. If we are to see him staying another 8 weeks till later October when Sir Thomas interrupts that is a long enough time for a love relationship to emerge Penguin MP I: Just "One evening" still September: Occurred as "thought only of the afternoon," a "violin player" now among servants we are told that "a new intimate friend of Mr Bertram's has just arrived: Mrs Grant had said she could "raise five couple" trying to please her sister, Mary, keep her entertained.

This indirect movement reminds me of the way Mrs. Second is one where Tom asks Mr Grant about "this strange business in America" which has been dated as well asanddepending on what external troubles the writer choses. This is said by him to deflect Mr Grant's attention from Tom's contemptuous dismissal of Mr Grant as a lover for Mrs Grant and his offer to dance with Fanny to deflect aunt's wanting "to nail" him to card table for "two hours" "though we play but half-crowns, you may bet half guineas with him [Mr Grant] Penguin MP I: Earliest days in October?

Sufficient time passes for Yates's thwarted theatrical adventures to be told, spread, and action taken. Another carefully timed story: Tom had spent "10 days at Weymouth" with Yates conjectured weeks Sept 4th - 12, say Sept 6thth as 10 days ; Yates had gone to another house of another friend "in Cornwall," "Ecclesford" seat of Right Hon.

Lord Ravenshaw"; this would be the weeks of 19 and 16 September. Lovers Vows within 2 days of representation", would have immortalized whole party for at least a twelvemonth". He has come straight from Cornwall house to Northampton one. He was to be Count Cassel. Lord Ravenshaw "little man It was but 3 days Bertram's irritation over bad billiard table makes him take seriously Yates' desire to act again: Fanny' suggestion to Edmund they might not find a play they can agree on Oct 5th, Wednesday: Miss Bertram that Yates's height suits him for Baron; Julia there is no part for Mary but Tom says one sister for Agatha, Amelia for Mary; Crawford's ploy to give Agatha to Maria as Julia's talent comedy meant Amelia for her his sister, Mary need not playbut Tom again reserving Amelia for Mary proposes Cottager's wife; Yates erupts on Julia's behalf, "the governess was to have done it Mr Rushworth accepts Count Cassel: Anhalt "a very stupid fellow" Penguin MP I: No counting of days.

Dick "a great lubberly fellow of 10 years old" Penguin, MP I: I shall be Cottager; "you have only 2 scenes". Called the "East Room" now since Maria Her plants, books of which she's been a collector "since "first hour of her commanding a shilling" A room of "comforts;" nostalgia of memory.

Antwerp at bottom" Penguin MP I: At "earnest request of Miss Crawford," Mrs Grant took cottager's wife. A Sense of time passing, floating which makes the period seems longer than it is Unmoored conversation between Mary and Mrs Grant on Bertram sisters' atitude towards Henry, Sir Thomas's great powers; Austen parodies a parody of Pope. Mrs Grant "thinks" Maria "likes Sotherto too much to be inconstant," Mary's doubt.

Tom "frets over scene painter's slow progress Rushworth does not care if he knows the 42 speeches; anyway he cannot make "anything tolerable of them" Many demands on Fanny's "time and attention;" she is "useful to all Mrs Norris wishes they'd stay another "day or two" when curtain will be hung; "very handsome festoons" Penguin MP I: That it is well before November is indicated by Crawford's statement after the play has been squashed: Then Sir Thomas would have arrived after the play had been staged Fanny "works very diligently under her aunt's directions Fanny "worked and meditated in the East Room for a quarter of an hour;" the entrance of Miss Crawford, "yes, this is the east room;" "rehearse" act 3 with her "against the evening They "got through half the scene," when Edmund arrives.

She is forgotten and forgets herself: She "must stand the brunt of it again that very day" Penguin MP I: Fanny entreated and yields Julia at the door My father is come Frederick still in pose of listening to Agatha's "narrative," "pressing her hand to his heart" The two brothers A very few words Evening after father arrives: We have had such incessant rains almost since October began, I have hardly taken out a gun since the 3rd Never seen the wood as "full of pheasants in my life as this year"; this to Sir Thomas on the evening of Sir Thomas's return.

Sir Thomas's walks into billiard room; scene of Yates playing the Baron. Sir Thoma's looks of "remonstrance" at Edmund.

Conversation with Mrs Norris who is "as nearly silenced as ever she had been;" details all her efforts to save money, physical exertions"; "glories" in connection to Sotherton; she did it all, "the first visit," "the distance to Sotherton," "middle of the winter," he is still on about play-acting, she persists in story of going to Sotherton.

Her influence not great, she half-knows this: I had been doctoring him, ever since Michaelmas I always feel for the horses" so gets out at "bottom of Sandcroft Hill".

Sir Thomas "pleased last night" with Rushworth's opinion "on one subject. Sir Thomas's "busy morning" re-instating himself, steward, bailiff, "examine and compute," walk into stables, gardens, nearest plantations," carpenter "pulling down what had so lately been put up in billiard room," "scene painter dismissed," "far off as Northampton" by now "spoilt only 1 floor, ruined coachman's sponges," made "5 underservants idle, dissatisfied," another day or two would suffice, he is burning all copies of Lovers Vows that he finds.

Maria "disturbed that even a day should be gone by;" "expecting" him "the whole morning Henry Crawford with Dr Grant "at an early hour Maria's "delight and agitation" seeing the man she loved introduced to her father," but "indefinable sensations" hearing Crawford to Tom, asking if "play" to be "resumed," in that case, he should make a point of returning to Mansfield;" "break through every claim," from "Bath, Norfolk, London, York Another day or two, "Mr Yates likewise gone. Mrs Norris sponges "the curtain" to her "cottage" with her where she "particularly in want of green baize.

Note also how quickly it is all brought to an end, with no loose threads left over, as if so says our clever author in the person of one of her characters the play-acting time had never been. I do not call Tunbridge or Cheltenham the country, and November is a still more serious month" helps for the counting of time as well as the phases of Maria's "agony of mind" Penguin MP II: