To thine own self be true: reflections on Jane Austen's significance in the 21st Century

Flowers against linen, originally uploaded by The River Thief. Copyright Ruth Seeley

Something about year’s end makes me think of Jane Austen and want to reread her work. I think Sense and Sensibility was the first of her novels I read, and I have no recollection of it at all, despite an addiction to PBS’s Masterpiece Theatre and the phenomenal recent popularity of the novels as film and mini-series properties. Somehow when watching them I get caught up in the period piece aspect of the visuals, and find myself focusing on the clothing and the difficulty of maneuvering in it. I become fascinated with the kerchiefs that translucently cover a rather immodest expanse of bosoms and wonder precisely how uncomfortable those Empire-waisted gowns would be. I know every time I’ve tried on an Empire-waist garment I’ve had to fight feelings of suffocation as I attempt to get the unnaturally tight and high yoke over my breasts, and the relief at doing so just doesn’t make the prospect of owning a garment that will engender a wrestling match every time I want to wear – or discard it – terribly attractive.

But without the distraction of the kerchiefs and the bosoms and the elaborately dressed hair supplied by the visual, one can focus on the social and emotional dilemmas Austen’s novels of manners pose. And my recent rereading of Persuasion confirms my long-held opinion – no matter how dramatically Western society has changed, the dilemmas faced by Jane’s heroines are timeless, and not limited by the inequality of the sexes to a particular time period in the 18th Century.

For those of you who haven’t read Persuasion, or haven’t read it recently, the novel’s heroine, Anne Elliott, is well on her way to becoming a spinster, having broken off her early engagement to a naval captain on the advice of a family friend, Lady Russell. As the novel opens, Anne is 28 and has lost her early bloom. There have been no other suitors, really, the result of a combination of Anne’s disinclination to consider any others and of the fact that she alone of her immediate nuclear family (baronet father and two sisters) is marginalized. Something outward-looking and principled in Anne’s nature makes it difficult for her to put her needs first, and while she is without a doubt the most sensible, the kindest, and the brightest of the three sisters, these qualities aren’t valued by her family. Not terribly concerned by questions of rank and privilege, with egalitarian leanings and an intellectual bent, Anne is, like many of Austen’s heroines, a social anomaly. She would rather discuss a novel (or even, perish the thought, a work of philosophy), than who should precede whom at a dinner party or ball, or waste her time unraveling the degrees of separation between members of the minor nobility.

Anne gets a second chance though: eight years after ending her engagement to Captain Wentworth on Lady Russell’s advice (sound insofar as it went, since he had yet to make his fortune and at the time of their engagement had insufficient means to support her in the style to which a baronet’s daughter had the right to be accustomed), she and Captain Wentworth meet again. There would be no novel if Anne and her captain saw each other again and reaffirmed their love – that would be a Harlequin romance. Instead, the novel spans several months of tortuous social intercourse in which it is impossible to speak plainly, and in which rumour, innuendo, and misperceptions influence events so the lovers have ample time to consider the mistakes they made in the past and learn to behave differently in the present and future.

Looking back on the decision she was persuaded to make at 19, early in the novel Anne reflects:

“How eloquent could [she] have been, -- how eloquent, at least, were her wishes on the side of early warm attachment, and a cheerful confidence in futurity, against that over-anxious caution which seems to insult exertion and distrust Providence! – She had been forced into prudence in her youth, she learned romance as she grew older – the natural sequel of an unnatural beginning.”

I would argue though that a cheerful confidence in futurity has little to do with age, and everything to do with whether one is a risk-taker or not, and with whether one is willing to trust one’s own instincts. The impulsiveness of youth may lead to risk-taking, but the willingness to take a chance doesn’t rest on a firm foundation in the immature character, and results from ignorance of potential consequences rather than a true willingness to let the chips fall where they may and enter new ventures, new relationships, and new situations with either a cheerful optimism that they will succeed or the knowledge that nothing ventured, nothing gained is the worst possible scenario.

The true evolution of Anne Elliot in the novel is her journey of self discovery and self acceptance. Once she begins to trust her own judgment of situations and individuals and assert herself, she embarks on the road to happiness. Ironically, in Anne’s case, this involves returning to the certainty of youth in order to assert her convictions as a mature woman. With the benefit of hindsight, Anne has learned who she is – who she has to be – and who she wants in her life.

“Mr. Elliot [Anne’s cousin, who becomes one of her suitors] 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. Her early impressions were incurable. She prized the frank, the open-hearted, the eager character beyond all others. Warmth and enthusiasm did captivate her still. 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.”

Rawk on, Anne Elliot.