Gender in Northanger Abbey

First things first: I really enjoyed Northanger Abbey. I found it to be an entertainingly quick read and I didn’t want to put it down. I loved Austen’s wit sprinkled throughout, especially when subverting Gothic expectations. However, I did find that I had a hard time explaining the plot of this novel to those who would ask me what I was reading. My answer would go something like this: “It’s about this girl who is on a vacation, and she likes this guy.” “Oh,” would be the general response. “No, it’s actually so much more than that!” and I would try again and eyes would glaze over. Yet this novel is so smart. The subversions of the Gothic narrative are entertaining and plentiful, and the commentary on novels and readers is incredibly insightful and self-reflexive. But Austen goes even further, subverting other expected norms such as gender and romance.

The one true romance that Austen presents is the one between Catherine and Henry, as Eleanor’s romance takes place outside of the pages and Isabella’s romantic aims are for money rather than true companionship. Yet, Austen does not set up Catherine and Henry’s romance as some grand affair, but rather presents it more as an anti-romance. This begins with the set up of Catherine and Henry as unconventional characters or literary heroes. Catherine is immediately painted as a peculiar choice for a literary heroine in that she is so ordinary. In her young life, Catherine is called “plain” and “occasionally stupid” – not a great start for a literary heroine. Austen purposefully places Catherine in direct contrast to Gothic heroines, such as the sentimental and faint-prone Adeline of The Romance of the Forest. Catherine is “almost pretty” in contrast to Adeline’s intoxicating beauty, and is quite healthy without being prone to fainting. I just realized that she may be the first female character that we have read that doesn’t faint!

Henry is also not presented as a standard literary hero. He is “not quite handsome” and has a rather feminine knowledge of clothing. Even Catherine realizes that he does not resemble an ideal man as she almost calls him “strange” (16). Their romance is not filled with exceptional witty banter or any romantic gestures, but is instead filled with occasional discussions where Henry openly mocks Catherine and his sister. His absence is far more telling of their relationship than his presence. In his absence, we see Catherine wishing for his presence which is the only real indication of her feelings for him. However, his absence is most noted when General Tilney sends Catherine away with no guardians on a potentially dangerous trip back home. Here is the perfect place in the romance plot for the young literary hero to swoop in and save the day but again Henry is absent.

All of these anti-romantic (as in love relationships, not the Romance genre) characteristics of the plot work to highlight the frequent gender disruptions. In addition to Catherine’s tomboy past and her lack of traditional feminine arts and occupations, her first conversation with Henry informs the reader that Catherine does not keep a journal like most young girls do. In the same conversation, we learn that Henry has a vast knowledge about women’s fashion and frequently buys dresses and fabric for his sister. Though these characters are restricted in many instances by their gender, Austen creates characters who do not fully consist of gender norms even if they still have to play the gender game.

Musings on 'The Romance of the Forest'

Even though I don’t think of myself as well versed in the Gothic tradition, I definitely recognized common Gothic motifs throughout Radcliffe’s The Romance of the Forest: the beautiful young heroine, the dark, looming forest, the exotic locale, the mysterious Abbey, the kidnapping, the incestuous relationships. I also see strong Romantic qualities in the novel, especially in relation to Radcliffe’s treatment of awe-inspiring nature and its relationship with art. What I found interesting is the relationship between exteriors and interiors, the rational and supernatural, and order and chaos.

From the opening scenes of The Romance of the Forest, I was struck by the idea of exteriors and interiors. La Motte seeks refuge and safety for his family in a “small and ancient house” (3). However, the interior of the house does not provide the protection that La Motte hopes for, but rather holds more danger than he could have possibly imagined. While the interior of the house may shelter one from a storm, it is far removed from a safe haven. It is so dark that La Motte can barely make out the sparse room or the threatening figures and there are iron bars on the window to trap one within the house.

The interior of the Abbey is another interesting exterior/interior space. Radcliffe is a little heavy handed with the description of the Abbey as she describes La Motte’s reaction: “La Motte sighed. The comparison between himself and the gradation of decay, which these columns exhibited, was but too obvious and affecting. ‘A few years,’ said he, ‘and I shall become like the mortals on whose reliques I now gaze, and, like them too, I may be the subject of meditation to a succeeding generation, which shall totter but a little while over the object they contemplate, ere they also sink into the dust’” (16). We get it, Radcliffe.

During Vinny’s presentation on Armstrong’s How Novels Think, I asked if she mentions the French Revolution. I am also taking Professor Scrivener’s course “Reading the 1790’s” and we have been looking at the French Revolution’s influence on British writers and thinkers to the point where I cannot disassociate France’s political upheaval from any British literature of the time.

The Romance of the Forest, perhaps like other texts of Gothic fiction, presents a twisted and chaotic plot line filled with violent scenes. I have to believe that the violence and basic failure of the French Revolution is acted out in fiction of the 1790’s, including The Romance of the Forest, especially in the disruption of family relations. Social stability and personal safety are all threatened through the course of the novel only to be extinguished at the end by reaffirming through the final reveals proper social order and traditional morality. Through the text, the British citizen would be able to act out the anxieties and disruptions of the French Revolution, while still affirming the political status quo by the reestablishing of family and marriage. Through the understanding of Adeline’s family tree, her social status, and her marriage, any anxieties that were expressed and experienced are put to rest.

Rereading and Teaching

Reading these secondary readings and through our class discussions, I'm starting to think about these issues not so much as how we understand them in relation to literary history, but rather how we decide to communicate them-simply, how we choose to teach these issues. Many of us are in graduate school hoping to achieve the same goal: to teach in a post-secondary institution. It is impossible to deny that we are incredibly indebted and influenced in our way of thinking through novels and rating their artistic merit by early literary critics. While our criteria of what makes good literature may have changed throughout the years, we still are in the tradition of rating, judging, critiquing literature, of expecting good literature to do certain things, to produce certain feelings in the reader.

I was interested in the emphasis on re-reading that Lynch finds in eighteenth and nineteenth novels. Lynch argues that with a burgeoning publishing market, readers needed to distinguish themselves as intelligent pursuers of art rather than vapid consumers. Lynch writes that there was "the new insistence on making reading itself an object of observation--on devising criteria that might distinguish good uses of 'every person's property' from bad and that would make some persons' relations to their properties more personalized" (130).
Lynch goes on to argue that it is both the restriction of certain books from one's reading and the rereading of others that make for a cultured reader.

Lynch uses Pride and Prejudice as an example of the importance that was inscribed in the practice of rereading. Lynch writes, "Austen identifies to her readers the proper means of and motives for literary experiences when she demonstrates that the truth of a letter is situated beneath or beyond the face of the page and when she demonstrates that character cannot be known at first sight" (131). The need for rereading suggests that literature is, using the same language Lynch uses to describe characters, round rather than flat. Literature has dimensions that require deep thought, intense attention, and rereadings and one will not acquire all that literature has to offer with just a fast reading.

So, what does this have to do with teaching? A lot. I think we have to keep in mind that one does have to be taught how to read in a certain way and that students, especially outside of our discipline, might be resistant to this idea. There were a couple of posts this week on academic blogs dealing with the issues of undergraduate students in the sciences who resent having to work in English classes. The authors of the posts summarize stories of such students who complain of certain novels making them "feel stupid," or of novels that aren't realistic or that don't somehow relate to that student's own life.

The author of the blog writes,

When I am feeling ungenerous, I think this sort of response is about the very
real lack of respect that people in the world have for my discipline. I think
that such people would never question feeling challenged or in over their heads
in a science or math class - those are "real" disciplines don't you know - but
anybody who is moderately literate and has a library card is totally as
qualified as a reader of literature as any Ph.D. Because that's the thing: this
student's antipathy to the course material and to the course itself is about the
fact that the student feels affronted by the fact that ze can't just coast
through. Ze can't fathom that there are ways of thinking about literature that
go beyond "I connect with this character" or "it's a good story." And so yeah,
ze may be expressing that as "this stuff treats me like I'm stupid and hurts my
feelings," but I think that the underlying thing is a total lack of respect.

I have been thinking this for awhile, but this blog author hit it on the nail. As long as one is literate, then one can read and to read is to read-to get all there is out of a novel. However, even if one can count, one does not assume that he/she can do advanced calculus. The insistence of reading advocates that reading is more complicated, that one must approach literature as one would approach any other sort of academic endeavour. The issue becomes how do we as educators convince resistant students that they must devote energy to reading?