Winding down...book discussions and Persuasion.

I appreciated this hot day, and I will enjoy the ones that are to follow, but I have to face reality: Summer is winding down, and with it, mah blurg. I've read eight full books, three essays, and a smattering of assorted Austen-related goodies, and written about a fraction of them.

Today was really special. I had a book discussion on Northanger Abbey with four intelligent, well-read friends. We shared tea, cheese and crackers, and cookies while talking over our favorite things about NA (the "case for innocence," the punctuation and "tastefully ornamental" sentences, and of course, her sharp irony) and differing opinions on Henry Tilney (by turns a "dreamy" educator who really helps improve Catherine's worldview and "a condescending man-splainer"--but nowhere near as bad as this guy). I felt really lucky to have friends who wanted to spend time talking about Austen. And another exciting thing that came from this: We will be meeting in a few months to discuss Mansfield Park! It was a lovely afternoon. I felt so happy before the discussion, after picking up flowers and walking home with a bag of cookies from a local bakery in my hand. I was happy that this was my life: Baked goods, fresh-cut flowers, and a book discussion.

So, to rewind: While on vacation I read Persuasion, which was the first Austen work I read, back with the brilliant Mr. Youngblood in my high-school English class (and apart from his intelligence and influence, he is a total silver fox). I wanted to read it last for that reason (not the silver fox reason), but also because it was her last novel, her oldest heroine, and her most "autumnal." It's important to be seasonal, as anyone who has seen the costumes in Far From Heaven can tell you.

Rocking the fall color palette. 

It was difficult to find time to read on the vacation. I started the novel on the ride to St. John, but once there had trouble reading more than a page or two at a time. What with the views, the people, and the claims of the salt-water pools (where you could open your eyes underwater without it burning!), it was hard to read more than a paragraph without losing my place. And if I decided to really SIT DOWN AND READ, I did so in a hammock, where I promptly fell asleep. But boy, I tried! I took it everywhere--by the pool, on the boat, to various beaches. In a box, with a fox....One of my parents used it as a coaster when I wasn't looking. And it's not even my book, so keep that in mind if I ask to borrow a book.

Maybe it was the distractions, but I had a bit of trouble keeping track of people in this book. Coming off of E, especially, it seemed there were more families and groupings than usual. I found myself confusing the Crofts and the Harvilles--there were so many navy characters!

I liked that Anne Elliot, who was passive, calm, and reserved, was drawn to men who were warm and forthright. She was more suspicious of charm than the younger Austen heroines, who are initially drawn in by the Wickhams, Willoughbys, and Churchills. Anne observed of her cousin: "[He] was rational, discreet, polished--but he was not open. There was never any burst of feeling, any warmth of indignation or delight, at the evil or good of others. This, to Anne, was a decided imperfection. [...] She felt that she could so much more depend upon the sincerity of those who sometimes looked or said a careless or a hasty thing, than of those whose presence of mind never varied, whose tongue never slipped" (end of chap. 17). I like this sum-up of personality quite a bit, and find it interesting that Anne herself is such a composed, private person, unlike Louisa or Henrietta, the girls who you could view as warm and frank, but are seen as imprudent. I think that the above observation is something that holds true in almost all of Austen's novels--the men who are the most lovable are the ones who are the least polished, and they're often awkward.

Amy Smith, in her travelogue All Roads Lead to Austen, talks about how the men in Austen are never Prince Charming, rather, what makes them the hero is more a question of "fit;" a yin-yang match for the heroine. A partner who can balance and improve the other is the ideal. The Crofts provide an example of a happy couple: they do everything together, they are true partners. Mrs. Croft corrects the enthusiastic but sometimes careless driving of the Admiral, and he....I'm not quite sure what he does for her, but provide liveliness and good cheer. I love that scene, and the depiction of the Crofts. I like that characters are decidedly imperfect, but the romance comes from the idea that a union between people can bring them all closer to perfection.

Austen on Illness

Since finishing Sense and Sensibility a few month ago, I have been interested in the use of illness in Austen's work. Some of her most ridiculous characters suffer from or fear illness (often imaginary), and use it to control situations (like Mrs. Bennet and her "nerves"; the hypochondriac Mr. Woodhouse; and the tyrannical Mrs. Churchill, whose illnesses "never occurred but for her own convenience"). On the other hand, bright, lively, and "too" romantic characters suffer life-threatening illnesses and emerge transformed (Marianne Dashwood and Tom Bertram; Col. Brandon's first love is a notable exemption from the "re-emerged"). Illness is often used as a sort of punishment for high living, unhealthy ideas about romance, or betraying social values. Sound familiar? It's like how every prostitute from Manon Lescaut to Marguerite Gautier dies from tuberculous (usually). Illness is still today linked with punishment, unfortunately. Just look at what people continue to say about AIDS. And if you went to that link and feel a little sick, here is a tonic: Blanche tells Rose "AIDS is not a bad person's disease." I'm still surprised and a little sad that line doesn't receive a standing ovation. Austen uses this familiar message of illness and punishment, but allows her characters to face death and repent, albeit their lives proceed more subdued and responsible than before.

In her essay "On Being Ill," Virginia Woolf writes about the transformative aspect of illness. It reveals undiscovered places within ourselves; precipices and flowering valleys, that sort of thing. Illness can change our relation to the world. Through a feverish lens, "friends have changed, some putting on a strange beauty, others deformed to the squatness of toads, while the whole landscape of life lies remote and fair, like the shore seen from a ship far out at sea." It is akin to a religious experience; we see, for the first time, things that have always been there, such as the clouds moving and changing shape, and we speak the truth of our body. "Illness is the great confessional."

In S&S, after her life-threatening illness, Marianne tells her sister that it gave her time to reflect: "It has given me leisure and calmness for serious recollection," and the result is her resolution to "atone" to God and her family, and to live less selfishly. She sees her illness as her fault: "brought on by myself," but her survival was a rebirth, and a chance for change. Contrast this with Col. Brandon's first love, the doomed Eliza, who was "seduced" into "a life of sin" and consequently "faded" and became "worn down by acute suffering of every kind," finally dying, of course, of "consumption." Her sins were greater than Marianne's, and her tragic life serves as a warning against the allure of sensual libertines. But it isn't a clear-cut anecdote. Eliza's story is as much a tragedy about awful marriages, where an unkind husband whose "pleasures were not what they ought to have been" can send a young and inexperienced woman with a lively mind into the arms of another man. And then another and another. And yet part of me smirks at the story-within-a-story. It is so over the top, not to mention cliched, that it seems like a joke. Coupled with Brandon's tiresome and maudlin delivery, I have to wonder if it is inserted as a sort of reminder of the tragic Romances that would have been popular with girls like Marianne; this is the sort of pulp they eat up, but also, this sensibility destroys lives.

In MP, Tom Bertram's illness also provides a renewal: "He was the better for ever for his illness. He had suffered, and he had learnt to think, two advantages that he had never known before." He became "useful," "steady and quiet," and learned to "not [live] merely for himself." But first it was necessary to suffer, which Austen views as an advantage. True suffering humbles the extravagant, and the ones who can and will repent, do.

Tom and Marianne made the most out of their time away from the world, whereas others, like Mrs. Bennet, Mr. Woodhouse, and Mrs. Churchill, fake illness as an escape. Woolf writes about the opportunity for escape in illness, saying: "We cease to be soldiers in the army of the upright." The ill are deserters, and escape the daily drudge. That release from responsibility can be appealing to those who are unhappy or just childish and selfish. It is also a way for those with little or no power to exert their influence.

This use of illness as a punishment is uncomfortable with me, after all the garbage I've heard about STDs through the past decade, but it is worth looking at as a plot device. In Austen's world, every action has a consequence, and yet I don't believe illness is used merely as a punishment. The emphasis is on the somewhat spiritual suffering the characters undergo to develop and grow. Fevers are a good way to externalize that suffering. If I were a historian or new more about 19th century literature, I'm sure I could write a more nuanced perspective on this topic. It might be a fun dissertation.

1. People can change

Ok, so I went into Mansfield Park knowing nothing. I was surprised by the differences in heroine (poor; physically weak; shy) and the severity of her surrounding friends and relations (cruel, or at the least negligent; crude; condescending; and cynical towards tradition and religion). Coming off of P&P, where the initially unlikeable character turns out to be one of the best people around, I pretty much expected that the immoral characters would redeem themselves. I didn't necessarily want this to happen, but I expected it to.

But I was surprised that the characters who were charming and morally bankrupt stayed that way, and subsequently lived out the consequences of their choices. The Crawfords surprised and fascinated me, as they are meant to. When I read Deresiewicz's chapter on MP, I was happy to see him link Mary C with Elizabeth Bennet, because I struggled with their similarities. Early on in MP, I thought that but for a slight difference, Mary Crawford could be the heroine of the novel. She was lively, charming, and clever--like Elizabeth Bennet. It's difficult not to like her. She's much more fun than Fanny. But she lacked Elizabeth's sincerity. Like I wrote a few weeks ago; Elizabeth said she hoped never to laugh at what was wise and good. Mary Crawford, on the other hand, does just that, mocking the Navy, the church, and her male relations, which was risque.

Maybe she didn't have a serious problem with the church or the taboo against premarital sex; but her instinct is to mock. Edmund sort of defends her by saying her mind isn't evil, but her words are. Mary doesn't examine her actions, but relies on what fashionable society has taught her to think. This inability to use her sharp intellect to examine her own mind is what stunts her love life, and therefore her destiny. When I heard one of my favorite satirical songs about wealth, fame, and society's flashy ideas of success the other day, it reminded me of Mary Crawford:

 "I don't know what's right and what's real anymore. I don't know how I'm meant to feel anymore."

 In The Madwoman in the Attic, Sandra Gilbert and Susan Gubar argue that Mary is an example of a woman trying to use her creativity to live life on her terms, and is punished by the patriarchy for her attempt. I don't have my own grasp on their take on Austen, though I'm sure it is very intelligent and well-thought out. Some of their interpretations of Austen's heroines are troubling to me, but I need to think more about it. But right off the bat, I don't agree that Mary's flaw is her inability to be passive; I think it's her insincerity.

And that about MP really surprised me: when the Crawfords appeared to be changing for the better, it turned out they were only faking it. They were playing a part, and Austen had been showing us throughout the entire novel how adept they were at acting and seducing. Really, we had no reason to expect anything better from them, except for our own hopefulness and the way we've been indoctrinated that characters can undergo a miraculous transformation from rakes to upright citizens.

And Fanny saw this, and stuck to her guns. She could call a spade a spade, and even when I expected her to accept the Crawford Charm in the end, she never did. She held out for her ideal and was rewarded in the end. She didn't give into the pressure from the patriarchy or even the awareness of her own unstable situation. That's pretty strong.

MP was harsher than I expected, and I appreciated it more for that.

the end of Mansfield Park

After another day of dusting and re-organizing dildos at the Toy Gallery, I came home with a six pack of PBR and the desire only to pee and then sit outside and read. I didn't move until I had finished MP. Up until the last chapter I expected things to turn around. I don't want to spoil the book for anyone, so I won't go into details. But let me just say: I was surprised. I think I may eventually have to go into some "spoilers" because there are a lot of expectations that Austen overturned for me in this novel. Well, really, three. But three big ones:

1. People can change and improve

2. Even unlikeable characters will end up happy and loved

3. Men/wealthier/more worldly people generally know what's better for women/the less fortunate/innocent people

I should clarify, that though I may not agree with the above statements, I sort of expected that they would hold true in MP. That's what I mean when I say my expectations were overturned.

Mansfield Park for the first time

MP is the last Austen novel I will read for the first time.* My memories of Persuasion and S&S are pretty foggy--I read them eons ago, back when I was a dewy-eyed child (slash in high school)--but I know the major parts will come back as I read them. In a way they will be new to me, because I have changed: I am a different reader than I was in high school. Still, I won't be experiencing them for the first time. As much as I enjoy the pleasures of rereading, I am conscious while reading MP that I will never meet and get to know these characters in this way again. 

As inevitable as MP may seem to someone who knows Austen's novels inside and out, for me it is still excitingly new and unexpected. Like--Fanny visits her family?! I read Vol. III, chapters 7 to 12 last night and I couldn't put it down. Here was Austen writing about poor(er) people and SERVANTS! Way to surprise me, Jane. 

I don't know how MP will turn out. I know it will wrap up the way they all do--everyone will be married happily, more or less. At least comfortable. I have a feeling I know who will end up with whom, but really, I don't know. She could surprise me. Ah! The charm--the suspense! of the first reading. What a lark! What a plunge!

*I still haven't read most of her juvenalia or unfinished works, like The Watsons and Sanditon, so there isn't cause for despair yet. 

Ann-Margret and Elvis star in a saucy adaptation of Mansfield Park!

This song is so apt for where I am in MP. Also, I have discovered a love for Ann-Margret I haven't felt since watching Bye Bye Birdie repeatedly as a child.

Lady B with Pug

The lovely, lazy Lady B with her pug, from the '99 movie adaptation, of which I have not seen. "The heat was enough to kill any body. It was as much as I could bear myself. Sitting and calling to Pug, and trying to keep him from the flower-beds, was almost too much for me" (59).

I love Lady Bertram: The exchange between Edmund and his mother on whether or not Fanny should go to the Grant's for dinner made me laugh; it was so delightful (170). She is completely spacey and fabulous. I am convinced she was on some kind of narcotic, because no one is that comatose.

Also, I'm a sucker for a wife with an ugly dog, like the German and her bulldog in Katherine Anne Porter's Ship of Fools. Deferred affection?

Mansfield Park: Initial Reaction

The other day I bought a new Oxford edition of Mansfield Park, which is the only novel I haven't read. It's clean and soft and full of footnotes. I am delighted with it! It's pretty shocking, actually. The characters make every one in PP seem virtuous. With the exception of Fanny and Edmund, the others are beautiful, witty, morally bankrupt flirts. There's a pun that could be about sodomy in the Navy, which almost blows my mind.* As the book goes on it is settling down a bit. Characters must fall in love and temper their callowness, I suppose.

There are two brother/sister pairs that remind me of my relationship with my sister, Jessie. Austen really holds the brother/sister relationship in high esteem: "even the conjugal tie is beneath the fraternal. Children of the same family, the same blood, with the same first associations and habits, have some means of enjoyment in their power, which no subsequent connections can supply" (183). The mischievous plotting of the Crawfords (which has begun to remind me of Dangerous Liaisons) and the pure joy of the reunited William and Fanny Price both remind me of being with my sister.

I'm interested in the POV of MP. We mostly are privy only to what Fanny sees, and for much of the book she is a very passive observer. We see only what passes her by (like the great scene in "the wilderness" at Sotherton), which gives us a critical distance from the characters, allowing us to recognize their vanity and indiscretions, which might be harder if the heroine of the novel was, say, Miss Crawford.



*The footnote in my edition explains that that is likely not what Miss Crawford is insinuating, due to Edmund's reaction. However, he is invested in seeing the best in her, and I would not be surprised if she was conscious of all meanings in her double (triple?) entendre. She's a smart, worldly cookie.