Fanny Price--Austen's Greatest Heroine? (a re-reading of Mansfield Park)

Of all of Austen’s novels, Mansfield Park (1814) gets precious little attention—and far too little love. Why? Actually, I’m somewhat at a loss myself, since I’ve always loved this novel and decided to re-read it after 8 or so years to make sure my judgment is sound. In fact, I recently re-read all of her novels, and taught most of them, too, with unparalleled delight. Nothing is more fun that taking a group of college students through the wonders of Jane Austen’s quicksilver prose,  her devastating yet subtle satire, and her effortlessly character arcs. But I had never taught Mansfield Park, largely because it’s on the longer side for a novel most people seem to dislike. Yet if you take a step back and look at some of the basic elements of the novel, you can’t help but wonder why this isn’t hailed as her greatest novel, or at least the most beloved.

[Spoilers ahead…] 

Take the story itself for starters: Fanny Price, a poor cousin of a great family, is taken in as a pity project by the Bertrams who live at Mansfield Park. No one asks Fanny if she wants to come, and even the person who suggests it (the deliciously horrific Mrs. Norris) wants nothing to do with her. So she remains a kind of hanger-on of the house, tolerated but not educated, and left to shift as she will in an attic room without a fire. Only Edmund, her older cousin, takes an interest in her and encourages her reading and moral outlook. Fanny grows up devoted to only two men: Edmund and her brother, William, left behind to do the only thing a poor brother in the early 19^th century can: join the navy. As she grows up, the family receives a shock when the local vicarage is taken up by the Grants, and Grant’s wife summons her sister and half-brother from London—Henry and Mary. Henry quickly begins flirting with both Bertram sisters, while Edmund falls head-over-heels for Mary, and she for him. And Fanny…well, Fanny watches in silence.

Things come to a head when Sir Thomas Bertram is called away to his estates in Antigua, leaving the young people all alone under the watchful eye of Lady Bertram (who only has eyes for her pug), and Mrs. Norris, who still thinks herself a girl of eighteen. They decide to put on a play for their own amusement, all the better to speak love to one another and play one amorous scene after another. Fanny strongly objects but no one listens, and hearts are broken as Henry courts Julia Bertram and then turns his attention to Mary Bertram, who is engaged to Mr. Rushworth, a poor buffoon who can only watch in impotent rage. Mary is in danger of doing something quite scandalous, and even Edmund, flirting shamelessly with Mary, is oblivious to the danger—no matter how many times Fanny points it out to him.

Disaster is averted when Sir Thomas returns and demands all such merrymaking be dissolved at once. Mary is married off to Rushworth and dispatched with Julia to London, leaving the annoyed Henry Crawford with nothing to do…except begin flirting with Fanny, a woman he would love to make madly in love with him (despite her obvious and intense disinterest). Here the second part of the novel ensues, since Henry’s vanity soon gives way to surprise and admiration as Fanny rejects him time and again; and Sir Thomas, newly returned from Antigua, finds Fanny much more beautiful and sensible than he thought. He encourages Fanny to make an advantageous match with Henry, and Henry, for his part, does everything he can do win her affections without his usual tricks.

And Edmund, pining as he is for Mary, encourages the suit as well, completely oblivious that Fanny can only love and admire him (even if he is taken in by the relatively frivolous and cavalier Mary Crawford). To give her time to reflect, Sir Thomas sends her back home among her poor mother and father to see life on the “other side.” Yet this makes her even more confirmed to repulse Henry, though he visits her there and uses his influence to get William promoted to a Lieutenant in the navy. Maybe he has changed after all? (but don’t tell that to Fanny!).

I won’t give away the ending, though it’s surprising and shocking for many modern readers, and should I add, unsatisfying. Why would Austen write a novel that ends in a less-than-romantic union when she previously envisioned Elizabeth and Darcy, and there was still Anne and Wentworth to come? What delights me about this novel is the one thing that frustrates many casual readers of Austen: Fanny Price. She’s such an Austenian heroine, but also goes against the grain of what you might expect. She’s self-educated, perhaps haphazardly so, and is something of a moral stickler (some call her a prude). Yet as someone who has only a precarious existence in a great family, she has to be beyond reproach: it would take very little for them to toss her out like yesterday’s fashion (after all, nothing ages so poorly as good intentions). Also, she admires Edmund—destined to be a country parson—and strives to be worthy of his friendship and, in her wildest dreams, love. In short, this is a woman completely unlike Elizabeth Bennet, since the latter knows she is a gentleman’s daughter and as such deserves even Mr. Darcy’s respect (he wouldn’t even bother to look down upon Fanny!).

Yet despite this, she still holds herself to high standards and is not above holding her superiors in quiet contempt when they fail to do the same. She sneers at her silly-minded cousins who throw themselves at men and become one another’s rival; at Mary Crawford, who makes vulgar jokes and assumes her opinion is the only one in the room; and definitely at Henry, who think that his charm entitles him to exist in a moral vacuum. Her only match in the novel is Edmund, but he also falls short in his admiration for a woman who has wit but not taste or discernment (though ironically, he admires Fanny for exactly that).

One of the most powerful scenes in the novel is when Edmund tries to convince her to marry Henry, which is such a betrayal to Fanny. The man she loves trying to convince her that an utter scoundrel (in her eyes) is possibly her equal—or his! As he tells her,

“But (with an affectionate smile), let him succeed at last, Fanny, let him succeed at last. You have proved yourself upright and disinterested, prove yourself grateful and tender-hearted; and then you will be the perfect model of a woman, which I have always believed you born for” (Penguin 322).

Can you imagine having the love of your life tell you that you must prove yourself to him—and to the world—by marrying against your will? That you are destined to become “the perfect model of a woman”? According to whom? He takes this a step further a page or two later when he suggests, “He will make you happy, Fanny, I know he will make you happy; but you will make him every thing” (Penguin 325).

This is Austen’s most searing indictment of marriage (and contrary to popular belief, she did not find it the culmination of a woman’s hopes and dreams): in this passage, Edmund says that it is her job, her duty, to make a man into something better. Not to make herself, or to choose for herself; these are merely qualities that make her eligible for the greatest gift of all—to ‘ennoble’ a man with your self-sacrifice. Even sadder is Edmund’s incredible hypocrisy here, since he is not speaking of Henry Crawford as much as Mary: he wants to marry her, therefore promoting her brother’s cause is paramount. And she calls him on it. To his credit, he doesn’t deny it, but admits that Mary finds it puzzling that she—a girl of no title, no wealth, no anything—could possibly turn down Henry with all his gifts and charms! Her response is devastating and stands out even among so many powerful and immortal speeches in Austen:

“I should have thought…that every woman must have felt the possibility of a man’s not being approved, not being loved by someone of her sex, at least, let him be ever so generally agreeable. Let him have all the perfections in the world, 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” (Penguin 327).

In other words, shouldn’t a woman sympathize with the pain of having a man assume his suit will be crowned with a “yes” or an “oh, thank you!” Is class alone the requirement to make love to a woman? Or is it just being of the opposite sex? Even Edmund seems to think so, by telling Fanny, enough is enough—now marry the bloke! Fanny, though dismissed by too many as a prude, refuses to be prudish: she sticks to her guns and refuses to marry just because it’s the “right thing” to do. Any other woman would have; thousands did. But she tells him over and over that he’s not serious enough, that he trifles with people’s affections, and that they simply have nothing in common.

In a later passage of the novel, she scolds Edmund from afar by saying “Edmund, you do not know me” (Penguin 394). This is a powerful admission, since Edmund is the only man she cares to know, and aside from her brother, the only man she admires. But in her world, no one truly cares to know her—only to tell her her duty. In Austen’s England, a woman was her duty and little more; ideas and values were merely decoration to make doing it more attractive.

Another triumph of the novel is that Fanny disagrees with the reader, just as Austen knew she would. For most of us, we also want Fanny to give Henry a chance. To be fair, Henry comes a long way in the novel, and is the only person to really see Fanny for who she is, and more importantly, to see her as a woman. To that end, Henry sees to the promotion of her brother, wines and dines her poor parents in Porstmouth, and even offers to fetch her home to Mansfield Park when her family more or less abandons her. But is it enough? At times, Fanny weakens and admits that he does have some admirable qualities (he reads Shakespeare very well), but doubts that he can truly change, or ever stop toying with people’s lives.  As she reflects,

“Here was again a want of delicacy and regard for others which had formerly so struck and disgusted her. Here was again a something of the same Mr. Crawford whom she had so reprobated before. How evidently was there a gross want of feeling and humanity where his own pleasure was concerned—And, alas! How always known no principle to supply as a duty what the heart was deficient in. Had her own affections been as free—as perhaps they ought to have been—he never could have engaged them” (Penguin 303-304).

In short, he sees everyone in relation to himself; even in assisting Fanny, he is still thinking of how he will be viewed as her savior, lover, friend, admirer, etc. She may be wrong in loving Edmund (since Sir Thomas would never allow it), but she is right in the knowledge that marrying Henry will change nothing: it will merely create an even bigger scandal when he commits another social taboo—as she inevitably does (whoops!). Nevertheless, we often think Fanny is wrong and is being too judgmental and defiant. Can’t a man change and put his unfortunate past behind him? Couldn’t she help him do so if she truly loved him? And could she, just possibly, be starting to do just that? It’s hard to tell, and that’s what makes the novel so much fun—trying to see through Fanny’s icy exterior to the passionate heart that we know burns deep within (as she several times exhibits during William’s visits or her drives through the country).

Fanny aside, the book is one of her wittiest in terms of sly remarks and a consummate command of understated prose. Austen’s narrator is constantly cutting down this or that character, or making arch comments about a situation that others are too blind to see. In one hilarious passage, Mrs. Norris is boasting of how much pocket money she has given William on his return to the navy—which, knowing her, was very little indeed. As she boasts,

“She was very glad indeed that it had been in her power, without material inconvenience, just at that time, to give him something rather considerable; that is, for her, with her limited means, for now it would all be useful in helping to fit up his cabin...

“I’m glad you gave him something considerable,” said Lady Bertram, with most unsuspicious calmness—“for I gave him only ten pounds.”

“Indeed!” cried Mrs. Norris, reddening. “Upon my word, he must have gone off with his pockets well lined! and at no expense for his journey to London either!”

“Sir Thomas told me ten pounds would be enough.”

Mrs. Norris being not at all inclined to question its sufficiency, began to take the matter in another point.

“It is amazing,” said she, “how much young people cost their friends, what with brining them up and putting them out in the world!”... (Penguin 281).

What we learn from this passage is that Mrs. Norris patted herself on the back for giving a mere nothing—much less than ten pounds, which in itself is a nothing gift. Austen later told a friend that the sum was actually a single pound, which is miserly in the extreme; but Mrs. Norris loves the myth of being a benefactor to the young—as long as it costs her nothing. The narrator slyly bring this out through the innocent interaction with Lady Bertram, who little suspects Mrs. Norris’ tight-fisted charity. Predictably, Norris turns on William and scolds him for costing his benefactors too much money and not thanking them for their pains. This sour grapes attitude is typical of her and her class, and we can almost hear the narrator chuckling behind this speech as she fumes and fumes.

But the narrator knows when to reign in the satire and offer us an unalloyed portrait of passion. Not the passion common to romance novels that has two characters ripping each other’s clothes so they can devour each other. Instead, befitting the mores of the early 19th century, it is the reserved, intimate passion that rarely speaks in words but is manifested in quiet thoughts and glances. Case in point, a beautiful scene where Edmund gives her a necklace so she can display an amber cross William gave her for her first ball. Though Henry has already given her a necklace to use, she much prefer Edmund’s simpler, less ostentatious offering, all the more so because it comes from the heart. He writes her a short letter to beg acceptance of this gift, and the letter, even more than the necklace, is dear to her. As she reflects,

“Two lines more prized had never fallen from the pen of the most distinguished author—never more completely blessed the researches of the fondest biographer’s. To her, the hand-writing itself, independent of any thing it may convey, is a blessedness. Never were such characters cut by any other human being, as Edmund’s commonest hand-writing gave! This specimen, written in haste as it was, had not a fault; and there was a felicity in the flow of the first four words, in the arrangement of “My very dear Fanny,” which she could have looked at for ever” (Penguin 245).

The ability of Austen to help us see what a simple letter could mean to someone like Fanny, who had never received such a letter in her life, is simply magic. Because we’ve all squirreled away such lines, or something relatively thoughtless as the dearest possession of our lives (a napkin, a hair band, even a pen). Passages like these remind us that Fanny is no mere abstraction or moral cipher, but a true flesh and blood woman; passionate, but not perfunctory. She won’t act the way we expect or come to the same conclusions as we do, for the sole reason that she’s her own person, and see the world through her own eyes, however distorted they appear to Austen’s admirers. I encourage anyone to give the book another read (or a first read) with open eyes and a willing heart, and perhaps it will become, like Edmund’s letter, a thing of beauty you can look on forever and always find fresh wonders as I do.