I’ve read all of Jane Austen’s other novels before, but I held off on Mansfield Park for the longest while because the summary sounded quite depressing, and I’ve heard from many critics that Fanny is the least likable of Austen’s heroines. Indeed, Fanny is quite passive, and it’s easy to interpret her quiet disapproval as prudery. My sympathy for Fanny came in because of the constraints of her situation as a dependent who cannot practically defend herself or assert her desires; in that respect, at least, Austen drew a realistic portrait of many women who live their lives in such circumstances without respite. I could see parallels with my mother and the women of her generation, and while Fanny does not know the words to utter her frustrations—may even be conditioned to believe that her frustrations are invalid—I suspect that those frustrations do exist.
Still, sympathy aside, Fanny is not charming, not the way that Elizabeth Bennet or Catherine Morland or Emma Woodhouse is charming. She doesn’t have Elinor Dashwood’s quiet presence of mind nor Anne Elliott’s steady passion. She loves Edmund but can barely express her affection or jealousy. Moreover, her love interest, Edmund, is hardly ideal, and she only gets her happy ending with him after he becomes unable to marry his first love. We never see Edmund falling in love with Fanny and are left to suspect that he settled for her as the comfortable choice.
Nabokov’s Lectures on Literature convinced me to finally read Mansfield Park, and I must say that approaching the book from a critical angle did increase my appreciation for the book. He analyzes Austen’s techniques of characterization, and I firmly believe that the appeal of Mansfield Park lies in its full cast of characters. They are not admirable or likable, but they are all very complete and very real, even the more comic figures like Mrs. Norris.
Around the same time, I set about rereading Sense and Sensibility. The first time I read this book, I was convinced that Edward Ferrars was going to turn out to be a cad toying with Elinor’s heart and was quite surprised to find that he was devoted to Elinor after all. So upon reread, I paid special attention to his scenes and interactions with Elinor and felt more satisfied, though I still think his relationship with Elinor remains on the undeveloped side.
I was sobered by how much I have started to notice the hidden presence of colonialism in Austen’s novels; even last year, I don’t think I would have been quite so aware. The offhand references to the colonies and to goods acquired from overseas stood out to me where before they would have glided by unnoticed. I don’t think they take away from my enjoyment of the novels but they do stop me from romanticizing the era. Though I will add that Austen’s novels are not romantic; in some sense, they are anti-romantic. I’ve often read them for the love story and found them unsatisfying; that’s because her stories are not meant to be about love itself but the obstacles to love, such as money and social conventions. She doesn’t dwell on the reasons for affection but rather its consequences for human relations. Austen’s perspective is quite pragmatic—and I find that rather refreshing. Thus, Edward Ferrars’ decision to honor his engagement to Lucy Steele—even though he no longer loves her—is heroic, not frustrating, and Willoughby’s jilting of Marianne is tragic but also one of those everyday tragedies of life, not a Romeo-and-Juliet-style hyperbole. There’s something quite real about the way Austen portrays relationships, even to my modern perspective.