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I taught this novel many times, though I am not sure I ever completely conveyed how funny Mr Woodhouse is as a revolt against the Manners that governed the society which Austen depicts with such precision and amusement. At his grand table at Hartfield, Emma's dad offers valued guests his most valued supper of thin gruel. As I descend into a certain age, I tend to value gruel more, instead of steak. Also like Mr Woodhouse, I would certainly see marriage of my remaining daughter as an assault on my home, if I still had a daughter at home. But Mr Woodhouse's lack of seeing beyond his immediate kin insulates him from this terror:
"Happily he was not farther from approving matrimony than from foreseeing it"(XXIII).
Austen sums up in a sentence that may well have sent her chuckling, as her sister's letter records, to her small hexagonal writing table before the south-facing street window at Chawton:
"Human nature is so well disposed towards those who are in interesting situations, that a young person, who either marries or dies, is sure of being kindly spoken of…" (Ch XXII).
I told my classes that Austen generated her greatest comedy out of what would have been seen by her neighbors as her greatest defeat--not marrying.
Mr Woodhouse's hypochondria extends to art. Emma's drawing of her protege Harriet sitting outside, in summer, raises her dad's fears: "It is never safe to sit out-of-doors, my dear"(40). Mr W's dietary fears include wedding cake, which he endeavors to discourage guests from eating, with the approbation of his apothecary, whose children are rumored to have partaken, but Mr Woodhouse cannot believe it. In fact, the spectacle of dueling apothecaries--between hypochondriacs père et fille (Isabella, elder than Emma).
Perhaps her third-greatest subject of humor is parsons (presumably unlike her father). Emma the manor-born declines the assiduous Rev Elton, who goes on to marry the proud Miss Hawkins,
"Mrs Elton conceived Miss Hawkins to have held such a place in society as Mrs Elton's consequence only could surpass." (XXXIII)
Her second-greatest subject of comic irony is, as here, vanity of social position. (And the 19C English novel, unlike the American, mostly concerns social position.)
Austen writes a domestic epic, with the dangers being those of conversation*, as in a discussion of Isabella's trying to get thin gruel, "Here was a dangerous opening"(86). Consider heroism in conversation: Emma "could not be complying; she dreaded being quarrelsome: her heroism reached only to silence"(93).
Here British culture enhances the epic of the everyday. England values appearance, from grand houses to meticulous clothes, even facial appearance from class remoteness to engaged feelings, but most: disguise of feelings--say, anger--under social politeness. Emma achieves this when Mr Elton courts her rather than Harriet, "Mr Elton's civilities were dreadfully ill-timed; but she had the comfort of appearing very polite while feeling very cross"(97).
Emma's self-deception is one of the great spectacles of English literature, like Othello's jealousy, or Argan's hypochondria in Moliere. (Ah, that would make a good essay assignment, to compare Mr Woodhouse and Argan as hypochondriacs.) We readers spend half the novel observing the spectacle of Emma's growing self-deception, her raising her protege to reject Martin of Abbey Brook Farm, and to fall for the gentleman Mr Knightley, who is a prospective beau for Emma herself could she but see beyond her rational and social pretensions, and her attachment to the rogue named for Sir Winston. Emma comes to self-knowledge, not a common achievement: "How to understand the deceptions she had been thus practising on herself, and living under…" "…with unpardonable arrogance she had proposed to arrange everybody's destiny. She was proved to have been universally mistaken"(XLVII).
Austen very clearly resolves this building drama at a point almost beyond repair. JA withdraws from the intimate exchange, noting Emma's last proposal, "What did she say? Just what she ought, of course. A lady always does" (Ch 49). My, what it takes for these smart Englishmen, under the pressure of social constraints, to see what is before their very eyes.
* Mr Woodhouse runs hilariously opposite, not valuing what the novel clearly does: "To be sitting long after dinner was a confinement that he could not endure. Neither wine nor conversation was anything to him"(99) [Pagination from Signet, 1980]
"Happily he was not farther from approving matrimony than from foreseeing it"(XXIII).
Austen sums up in a sentence that may well have sent her chuckling, as her sister's letter records, to her small hexagonal writing table before the south-facing street window at Chawton:
"Human nature is so well disposed towards those who are in interesting situations, that a young person, who either marries or dies, is sure of being kindly spoken of…" (Ch XXII).
I told my classes that Austen generated her greatest comedy out of what would have been seen by her neighbors as her greatest defeat--not marrying.
Mr Woodhouse's hypochondria extends to art. Emma's drawing of her protege Harriet sitting outside, in summer, raises her dad's fears: "It is never safe to sit out-of-doors, my dear"(40). Mr W's dietary fears include wedding cake, which he endeavors to discourage guests from eating, with the approbation of his apothecary, whose children are rumored to have partaken, but Mr Woodhouse cannot believe it. In fact, the spectacle of dueling apothecaries--between hypochondriacs père et fille (Isabella, elder than Emma).
Perhaps her third-greatest subject of humor is parsons (presumably unlike her father). Emma the manor-born declines the assiduous Rev Elton, who goes on to marry the proud Miss Hawkins,
"Mrs Elton conceived Miss Hawkins to have held such a place in society as Mrs Elton's consequence only could surpass." (XXXIII)
Her second-greatest subject of comic irony is, as here, vanity of social position. (And the 19C English novel, unlike the American, mostly concerns social position.)
Austen writes a domestic epic, with the dangers being those of conversation*, as in a discussion of Isabella's trying to get thin gruel, "Here was a dangerous opening"(86). Consider heroism in conversation: Emma "could not be complying; she dreaded being quarrelsome: her heroism reached only to silence"(93).
Here British culture enhances the epic of the everyday. England values appearance, from grand houses to meticulous clothes, even facial appearance from class remoteness to engaged feelings, but most: disguise of feelings--say, anger--under social politeness. Emma achieves this when Mr Elton courts her rather than Harriet, "Mr Elton's civilities were dreadfully ill-timed; but she had the comfort of appearing very polite while feeling very cross"(97).
Emma's self-deception is one of the great spectacles of English literature, like Othello's jealousy, or Argan's hypochondria in Moliere. (Ah, that would make a good essay assignment, to compare Mr Woodhouse and Argan as hypochondriacs.) We readers spend half the novel observing the spectacle of Emma's growing self-deception, her raising her protege to reject Martin of Abbey Brook Farm, and to fall for the gentleman Mr Knightley, who is a prospective beau for Emma herself could she but see beyond her rational and social pretensions, and her attachment to the rogue named for Sir Winston. Emma comes to self-knowledge, not a common achievement: "How to understand the deceptions she had been thus practising on herself, and living under…" "…with unpardonable arrogance she had proposed to arrange everybody's destiny. She was proved to have been universally mistaken"(XLVII).
Austen very clearly resolves this building drama at a point almost beyond repair. JA withdraws from the intimate exchange, noting Emma's last proposal, "What did she say? Just what she ought, of course. A lady always does" (Ch 49). My, what it takes for these smart Englishmen, under the pressure of social constraints, to see what is before their very eyes.
* Mr Woodhouse runs hilariously opposite, not valuing what the novel clearly does: "To be sitting long after dinner was a confinement that he could not endure. Neither wine nor conversation was anything to him"(99) [Pagination from Signet, 1980]