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Fanny Price, the necessary ninny

Image via Penguin
Cover images courtesy of Penguin

Mention Mansfield Park to a devoted Austen-ite and you get the tell-tale sigh: yes, but Fanny Price! Why does she have to be so …

Pious?

Humourless?

Blessedly, teeth-grindingly annoying?

In any situation, you can count on Jane Austen’s heroine (a poor cousin taken to live with rich relatives at age 10) to be terribly proper. She’ll be concerned that everyone’s comfort is given due consideration, and aware of her own low station. She’ll say things like, ‘a whole family assembling regularly for the purpose of prayer, is fine!’ and ‘never happier than when behaving so dishonourably and unfeelingly!—Oh! What a corrupted mind!’

Cue the eye-roll.

Mansfield Park—which was published after Pride and Prejudice and celebrates its 200th anniversary this year—is acknowledged to be Austen’s least-loved novel. A seminal essay on the book (by Lionel Trilling) goes so far as to say that for Austen admirers, the book “is likely to make an occasion for embarrassment” while “nobody, I believe, has ever found it possible to like the heroine of Mansfield Park.” But so far this year, I’ve read it three times. There’s that same lovely Austen eye—showing us how people are ridiculous without sneering at them, making us laugh and drawing us in to the lives of characters invented two centuries ago. It doesn’t sparkle the way that Pride and Prejudice does, but its heroine (bullied as she is by her Aunt Norris and ignored by almost everyone else, except her cousin Edmund) is not (and nor is she meant to be) Elizabeth Bennet. She’s poorer, more alone, and daily reminded of her lowly position. Trilling, for all that he noted its mixed reception, pronounced Mansfield Park a great novel. And it’s Fanny—quiet, upright, moralising Fanny—who makes it so fantastic.

How can this be? So much of what Fanny does rubs a contemporary reader up the wrong way. She’s treated like a servant, pitied for her ‘deficiencies’ and excluded from the privileges her cousins enjoy—and she just accepts it. Nods demurely and fetches the sewing for her awful Aunt Norris. Is pitifully grateful that her flaccid Aunt Bertam wants her company, even though it means staying home while the others gad about having fun. You want to shake her—‘come on, Fanny, don’t be such a ninny! Show some spine!’ But this reaction, though understandable (even Austen’s mother judged Fanny ‘insipid’) rather misses the point.

I think Fanny’s pious submissiveness is in fact a clever armour, leading up to the point at which she utters those remarkable words: “I cannot like him, Sir, well enough to marry him” and “I think it ought not to be set down as certain, that a man must be acceptable to every woman he may happen to like himself.” Remembering that this is a time in which women could not vote, or own property—and bearing in mind Fanny’s precarious financial situation—her decision to refuse the wealthy (and untrustworthy) Henry Crawford is an act of self-assertion. Unlike those around her, Fanny Price’s insight and intellectual integrity allow her to see Mr Crawford and his sister for who they really are; next to Fanny, the Bertrams (including Sir Thomas, the respected patriarch) are dullards who misread just about everything that happens in the novel. The fact that Fanny is so serious and submissive means she that when she does think (and act) for herself, she is morally untouchable enough that even Sir Thomas, though angered by her refusal, can’t completely write her off. Presumably the same applied to readers in 1814.

We see this more clearly in looking at a modern version of the story. The 1999 film adaptation (the one starring Frances O’Connor) does two particularly interesting things: it hands Fanny Price a pen (and a sense of humour), and adds more events around the Bertrams’ sugar plantation in Antigua. These elements are sketched more lightly in Austen’s story—we know Fanny has a small study, where she goes to read and write, but we hear little of what she produces; and we know Sir Thomas travels to Antigua, and that Fanny asks her uncle about the slave trade, but the issue is not explored in detail.[1] In the 1999 version, Fanny Price has taken on elements of Austen herself; the film draws on the author’s letters and diaries, giving Fanny a gift for language and seeing her, at the end of the film, about to publish her first book. She’s still reserved and accepting of her situation, but we’re allowed to interpret it differently—she knows her own mind and holds independent ambitions. Contemporary readers don’t need Fanny to be cloying, carefully toeing the line and knowing her place. Things have changed. In a similar vein, viewers today are unlikely to be satisfied with the Bertrams’ interest in the slave trade being in the background—it requires explanation. But of course whatever her personal view may have been, Edward Said notes that it’s not reasonable to expect Jane Austen to “treat slavery with anything like the passion of an abolitionist”—she, like us, is a creature of her time.

For all that, the two centuries that have passed since Mansfield Park was published can’t diminish my enjoyment of this book. Fanny Price might require a bit more of an empathy stretch than Elizabeth Bennet, but she’s more than worth the effort.

Fanny navigates poverty and patriarchy, landing on a place (however eye-rollingly virtuous it may seem) where she can assert herself. So if she sometimes comes across as a ninny, then it’s a necessary calculation—and we’re all the wiser for seeing the world through her eyes.

 

 

[1] For a detailed analysis of Mansfield Park and attitudes to slavery, see Edward Said’s book Culture and Imperialism (Vintage, London, 1993). Paula Byrne also provides some interesting thoughts about Austen’s deliberate use of names and language in alluding to slavery.

The Katniss strategy

Image courtesy of Scholastic
Image courtesy of Scholastic

I don’t like games. Don’t care about sport. Can’t see the point.

I realise this makes me a freak.

In Melbourne, having an AFL team is a tribal thing. I’ve had friends who grew up interstate tell me that you can’t live in Victoria and not follow footy. But I’m here to tell you – you can. I have. And this ambivalence didn’t only spring from my own ineptitude with a ball (although that certainly helped). I just don’t like (what I see as) arbitrary rules. You kick the ball through the sticks. Whatever. You wear red or blue or brown. Whatever. I mean good for you – you’re fit and healthy – fantastic. I just don’t care.

But for all of that, I’ve spent the past month engrossed in a game. A terrific, gripping, high-stakes, I-care-who-wins game. I even had a favourite player.

I’m referring, of course, to Katniss Everdeen, of The Hunger Games.

For those who haven’t yet indulged in the books (or the film), Katniss Everdeen is the 16-year-old protagonist of Suzanne Collins’s Hunger Games trilogy. Katniss is thrown into a reality TV, fight-to-the-death arena with 23 other youths when her sister is chosen as a contestant in the ‘Hunger Games’. These games are staged each year to punish the population of a future North America (known as Panem) for past uprisings against the despotic rulers in the Capitol.

Before I proceed any further, I do just want to say that Katniss is pretty great. She’s been called a “new female warrior”, a brilliant creation who cuts through the princess-heroine mythology with a bow and arrow, a gift for survival and a refreshing ambivalence about romance. She can be called feminist. And she’s wildly popular, if the numbers (50 million copies in print and digital format in the US alone, and an opening-weekend take of  $US155 million) are anything to go by.

And not only is Katniss a great character – the books are a terrific read. There were things I didn’t like so much (such as the frequent descriptions of her outfit/makeovers/hair), but I roared through all three books with the kind of speed and absorption rarely seen since my teenage years. I made unscheduled trips to the library. Returned blank stares when asked what was for dinner. And I’m twitching to get away from my desk long enough to pick up the boxed set I ordered from my local bookstore.

Reading these books (and I’ll focus mainly on the first one) got me thinking about games. The way they impose rules which seem, in some back-to-front kind of way, to give people the freedom to act. You’re not just standing on the grass with a squished ball. You’ve got something to do with the ball. (Kick it through the sticks, and all that). There’s competition, cooperation, and structure. We certainly see all of these elements in the ‘Hunger Games’ arena (where the stakes are, of course, somewhat higher than a golden cup). But what I think is most interesting is how the combination that Collins presents – a fiercely independent female protagonist and a dystopian, rule-bound future – helps make these books so appealing.

Ours is a culture of persuasion. There’s no despotic overlord, forcing us to live in one place, rather than another; no law that says some people have more rights than others. We vote, we debate, we agree. But there’s all kinds of unfairness in the world. The causes are complicated, not least because we’re standing right in the middle of everything, as it’s happening. We’re working within a kind of mutually agreed truth that tells us who we are, and how we fit in. There’s no single rulebook for that truth. And high-school aged readers – at whom this series is targeted – are in the throes of working that out.

Katniss, on the other hand, is living under the despotic overlord. She and her family would starve if she didn’t flout the law, and go hunting in the woods. She lives in a fenced-off area, called District 12, which is designated for coal-mining. School lessons are largely about coal, and the greatness of the Capitol. The District can’t afford doctors, and even those among the well-to-do ‘merchant class’ have little more to eat than stale bread. Life in the other ‘resource’ districts is similarly grim, if not worse, while those in the Capitol live in modern, clean housing and dine on delicacies like pork chops and orange juice.

Yet we never think – not really – that Katniss is defined by her poverty.

This is possible, I think, partly because (to reuse a quote from Harold Bloom) “the function of convention is to liberate the will”.[1] In The Hunger Games, inequality is writ large – it’s turned into a kind of rulebook. There’s a terrible hierarchy at play, horrible people to blame, something to clearly push against. And on top of that there’s a particularly nasty twist, in the form of the games themselves: by making the fighting into a festival[2], the Capitol tries to not just subdue the population, but persuade them, too.

But Katniss is a fighter, and we see that precisely because there is something to fight. She steers clear of politics (arguably making her a more relatable character than one radicalised by a particular point of view), but she comes out swinging, subverting the oppressive regime in the early pages of the first book, when she volunteers to take her sister’s place in the arena. She continues to do this throughout the trilogy, although things get murkier as the series progresses.

Now I’m not going to buy into the trilogy’s politics – or even the question of whether the books are meant to be social criticism at all (although I will note that one young reader recently asked me which developing country would be most like District 12).[3] What’s interesting about Katniss’s story is not just the detail of her reality; it’s the clarity of her vision. The way the rules that constrain her, also allow her to act.

Imagine, in contrast, the situation of the adolescent reader of these books. You’re young, not sure who you are yet. You’re at the mercy of your parents, of school, of who the world seems to think you might be. And depending on your circumstances, you might be coming to think that life’s not always fair. That some things are denied to you, even if you can’t always put your finger on what those things are, and why you can’t have them. You might even think you know who to blame, but get no traction. None of these hardships, thankfully, will be anything like what Katniss is up against – but I think there might be some moment of relief, in identifying with a character who knows what’s holding her back, no matter how impossible her odds are. Even if you’re losing the game. There’s some certainty there.

Of course, there are plenty of grey areas, too. Just as there are in life. The Hunger Games invites us to condemn violence, while we watch it; presents us with a corrupt dictator, while showing us how he co-opts others into believing in him; and presents us with a game which is both a barbaric tool of oppression, and an entertainment. Ultimately, though, these grey areas play to the story’s strengths. Because Katniss’s genius is in her ability to hit the sweet spot between using the game’s momentum, and remaining absolutely herself – thereby turning the rules in her favour.

If I were the game-playing type, I’d say that’d be the way to go about it.

 


[1] The full quote was about Jane Austen, whom he said “understood that the function of convention was to liberate the will, even if convention’s tendency was to stifle individuality, without which the will was inconsequential.” From The Western Canon, Papermac, 1996, p258

[2] This is, as others have pointed out, reminiscent of Roman gladiators. Collins drew the notion of  sending ‘tributes’ to a ruler appears from the myth of Theseus and the Minotuar.

[3] Laura Miller writes in the New Yorker that “only someone insensitive to the emotional tenor of the story could regard social criticism as the real point of Collins’s novel. The Hunger Games is not an argument. It operates like a fable or a myth, a story in which outlandish and extravagant figures and events serve as conduits for universal experiences”.

 

In praise of Miss Bates

Image via Penguin
Cover images via Penguin

As every politician knows, the trick is to push – but not too much.

You want to hit that sweet spot between keeping people comfortable, and stirring them up.

Jane Austen understood this.

But okay, first things first. Having mentioned Austen, I need to say that her writing is gorgeous, her characters finely drawn, her irony pitch-perfect. But of course we know all that.

What I’ve been thinking about, as I re-read Emma over the past few weeks, is how Austen makes things possible. Which reminded me that Hetty Bates – the dittery, chattery spinster of Emma – is one of my fictional heroes. Because she’s all about possibility.

Miss Bates is, to my mind at least, the most interesting – and amusing – character in this book. She’s poor, unmarried, and lives with her (partially deaf) mother in pretty humble circumstances. But she loves everyone, and is generally loved back – in spite of her tendency to go on somewhat. For example:

“So very obliging of you! – No rain at all. Nothing to signify. I do not care for myself. Quite thick shoes. And Jane declares – ”

Oh, it’s lovely writing. The pauses – the gaps – the way Austen captures the breathless joy and squirrel-like distractibility of a lady who finds goodness in everything: well, it makes me happy.

Now I wouldn’t be the first to point out that Miss Bates, like Austen herself, is the daughter of a clergyman; that she also, like Austen, finds herself unmarried; and that this status gives her a position sufficiently outside of the expected (ie, married) path for women that she’s able to observe, and occasionally offend, without serious consequence. After all, Miss Bates has fallen pretty far down the social ladder – there’s not much more she could do to injure herself.  We’re therefore free to enjoy her social blunders – such as when she lets on that she, along with probably the rest of town, is well aware that the pompous Mr Elton once had designs on our heroine, Emma Woodhouse:

“Well. I had always rather fancied it would be some young lady hereabouts; not that I ever – Mrs Cole once whispered to me – but I immediately said, ‘No, Mr Elton is a most worthy young man – but’ – […] At the same time, nobody could wonder if Mr Elton should have aspired – Miss Woodhouse lets me chatter on, so good-humouredly. She knows I would not offend for the world.”

No indeed, Miss Bates would not offend: but she frequently sees, and says, more than she’s meant to. Throughout the course of the novel – just to give you a sample – Miss Bates ‘accidentally on purpose’ lets on:

  • That she ignores the advice of Mr Woodhouse (Emma’s father, and patriarch of Highbury) and bakes apples only twice (a deeply serious matter for the food-paranoid Mr Woodhouse);
  • That she and her niece, Jane Fairfax, often speak of the “charming” Frank Churchill (who we later learn is Miss Fairfax’s secret fiancé);
  • That Miss Fairfax and Mr Churchill have been secretly writing to one another (though this revelation is indirect, and apparently unintended).

But in the study guides (which were the pick of the Emma books I gratefully checked out from my municipal library), Miss Bates is perhaps best known for her role in Emma’s journey to self-knowledge. Full of impatient pride, Emma insults Miss Bates at a picnic. Emma’s repentance is of course a central plot point in the novel, but that’s not what I find most interesting about this exchange. What draws my eye is Miss Bates’s response:

“Ah! – well – to be sure. Yes, I see what she means (turning to Mr Knightley,) and I will try to hold my tongue. I must make myself very disagreeable, or she would not have said such a thing to an old friend.”

This is a dignified reply from a woman who boasts ‘neither beauty nor cleverness’. But we absolutely believe it. I, for one, can very clearly hear her saying it (and not only because I’ve seen one or two movie adaptations). We see that Mis Bates is ridiculous – we know we’re supposed to sneer, just a little bit, at her spinster status, and the small-mindedness of her incessant chatter – but we sympathise with her, and we learn to trust what she tells us. She’s a kind of comic Cassandra.[1]

How, then, has Austen made this possible? How has she placed an ‘old maid’ of low status among the ‘best families’, and not only made her respectable – but admirable?

Well, I’d say it’s all about balance.

In a sense, Austen gives us two spinsters in Emma – Miss Bates and Emma herself, who declares that she’ll never marry (though of course by the end of the book, she has). As Emma tells a friend, a single woman of fortune need not be ‘comtemptible’ – she may even enjoy some measure of independence. In this way, Emma stretches the norm, but only just so far – she has money (and youth) to cushion her. Miss Bates, of course, has neither money, nor youth – but she has a ‘gift of happiness’. She accepts her situation, is interested in others, and receives charity cheerfully.  She’s neither completely cowed by her circumstance, nor resentful of it. She’s therefore acceptable enough (a bit silly, without ambition above her station) to be allowed to speak her own turn and behave, in some ways, as an independent woman. Which – when you consider that Emma was written around the time that Mary Wollstonecraft was fighting the frippery of women’s domestic lives, and 90-odd years before Australian women were allowed to vote – is an achievement.

So Austen has pushed things, but not too much. I might add that I see a similar pattern at work in Emma’s marriage to Mr Knightley – after all, it’s a bit unusual, given the time and place, that he moves in with her. But of course everything evens up, to make it possible: it’s all to pacify her father; she’s attained some degree of equal intellectual footing with her husband-to-be (but not too much); and the house, after all, will ultimately belong to Mr Knightley. Sure, some of today’s readers may feel disappointed that Emma has given herself to marriage, and turned away from independence; but mostly, we’re happy for her.  We’re able to close this book, ready to smile with her at the misunderstandings and misjudgments the future will undoubtedly bring, knowing that whatever happens, Emma will be a woman who – in her own time, and place – knows herself.[2]

Miss Bates, meanwhile, is heading for a future in which her beloved niece Jane is comfortably married (to the secret fiancé), and the Bateses continue to hold an esteemed place in Highbury society. Everyone who should be married, is suitably settled; and everyone who deserves respect, is given it in appropriate measure.

As the lady herself would say: “Excellently contrived, upon my word. Nothing wanting.”

 

 

 


[1] Well … sort of. Readers who clicked the link will see that I’ve stretched the metaphor somewhat – but she does have a strange kind of insight and is, in her own way, a bit of a tragic figure. (I also note that others have also made the connection).

[2] In other words, Emma, within the bounds of convention and society, will remain resolutely ‘herself’. Harold Bloom put this rather more eloquently when he wrote that Austen “understood that the function of convention was to liberate the will, even if convention’s tendency was to stifle individuality, without which the will was inconsequential.” From The Western Canon, Papermac, 1996, p258