Two Awkward Carriage Rides Elevate the Novel Form to New Heights

*Emma* Reading Challenge, week two

Photo by Randy Fath on Unsplash

When Emma was published at the beginning of 1816, Jane Austen had only a year and half left to live. It had been only five years since the appearance of Sense and Sensibility, her first novel to be published. She had one masterpiece left, Persuasion, along with an extended fragment of Sanditon. (Embarrassing admission: for years, before I read it, I misread this title as "Sandition," which I suppose I assumed was a word that I didn't know; it was only when I got around to looking up the word and not finding it that I realized my mistake.) Sanditon reflects an expanding literary ambition in a number of ways, though we will never know how this ambition would have been realized.

Persuasion was published posthumously, and it seems as though she had not quite finished making her final revisions. This means that Emma was her final novel to be completed according to her final intentions, and most critics hold it to be the pinnacle of her accomplishment. Not all readers agree: I know of advocates for all of the other mature novels (yes, even for Northanger Abbey and Mansfield Park), though some of these readers will acknowledge Emma is the best, even if it is not their favorite. Why is this the consensus? It is a highly subjective conclusion; after all, Pride and Prejudice is both funnier and more dramatic, and Persuasion and Sense and Sensibility deliver more pathos.

I love all of the novels, but Emma is indeed my favorite, and during this read-through I have been thinking about why this is the case. It's a late-developing opinion; I went through my P&P and Persuasion phases, and I have a soft spot for Northanger, because I teach it every fall semester in my literary criticism class during my "rise of the novel" unit. Why Emma?

A history of Austenian adaptations demonstrates, I think, that Emma is the most difficult of the novels to dramatize effectively (perhaps along with Mansfield Park), owing to the relative lack of obviously dramatic events. Arguably, the climax of the entire novel is an unfortunate word spoken at a picnic. It's possible, therefore, that Emma depends more on the form of the novel than the other books.

This may be, as we noted last week, because of the amount of time that we spend inside Emma's head. While we are treated to large doses of Anne Eliot's and Elizabeth Bennet's consciousnesses, in those narratives there is more outward movement from place to place, more dramatic (i.e. "cinematic") scenes and confrontations, and more of what we normally think of as "plot." By contrast, Emma unfolds more like our own lives than like a movie, at a slower pace than cinema allows—with banal conversation, with day-to-day social interactions, and with minor weather events and common colds changing the course of things. (There is, it seems to me, a book to be written about weather in Jane Austen; if someone writes it, they will have at least one reader.)

For example, let's take a look a couple of moments in the narrative arc of the Christmas Eve party at the Westons’ house, specifically, at two carriage rides which take us from Chapter 13 to nearly the end of Volume One, from the anticipation of the event through the mortifying ride home. In this confined world, a journey of a half-mile to a neighbor's house on Christmas Eve for a party is a "great event (for it was a very great event that Mr. Woodhouse should dine out, on the 24th of December)" (78). And, all irony aside, this focus on what seems a trivial social occasion invokes the reader's sense of how life passes: over the course of repetitive daily routines and interactions with the same people over and over, a dinner party with friends may loom on the calendar as an event of great anticipation. This is life, not Hollywood.

Well, no, not that much snow. Photo by Pablo Ceas on Unsplash

And, as in life, the weather threatens to ruin everything—specifically, a bit of snow. Mr. John Knightley, Emma's brother-in-law, who is even more blunt than his brother, seems almost to address directly the irritation of some readers who are wondering why we are spending so much time in this place, where nothing significant seems to happen. I quote him at length as he complains of the social obligation as they make their way in the carriage:

"A man," said he, "must have a very good opinion of himself when he asks people to leave their own fireside, and encounter such a day as this, for the sake of coming to see him. He must think himself a most agreeable fellow; I could not do such a thing. It is the greatest absurdity—Actually snowing at this moment!—The folly of not allowing people to be comfortable at home—and the folly of people's not staying comfortably at home when they can! If we were obliged to go out such an evening as this, by any call of duty or business, what a hardship we should deem it;—and here we are, probably with rather thinner clothing than usual, setting forward voluntarily, without excuse, in defiance of the voice of nature, which tells man, in every thing given to his view or his feelings, to stay at home himself, and keep all under shelter that he can;—here we are setting forward to spend five dull hours in another man's house, with nothing to say or to hear that was not said and heard yesterday, and may not be said and heard again tomorrow. Going in dismal weather, to return probably in worse;—four horses and four servants taken out for nothing but to convey five idle, shivering creatures into colder rooms and worse company than they might have had at home" (81).

If this were a postmodern novel, we would call this a "metatextual" moment. It is, in other words, a moment in which the text seems to be providing its own critical commentary. These are almost precisely the complaints of readers who express impatience with Austen's work, and with this novel in particular: why should I care about the boring conversations of these people? why do we care about an uneventful dinner party? what about the servants? does anyone even consider them? why should we bother at all? what's on Netflix? Ah, Bridgerton! Finally, some drama and sex!

But Austen’s self-reflective commentary is superior to (most) postmodern writing, because she folds it so naturally into the narrative that we do not even realize that we have, in a sense, stepped out of it for a moment of critical analysis. John Knightley is simply the kind of person (and we all know them) who says the quiet part out loud. And we are immediately treated to Emma's thoughts on the matter, though she does not respond verbally: "her heroism reached only to silence" (82).

This occurs before they reach the vicarage, where Mr. Elton joins the journey, and of course Elton and John Knightley mix like oil and water—the truth-speaker and the sycophant. Elton asserts that "at Christmas every body invites their friends about them, and people think little of even the worst weather" (83). One can imagine the other's contempt. Indeed, earlier in the day, John has already expressed his opinion of the clergyman's flattering nature and that "he seems to have a great deal of good-will towards you [Emma]" (80).

While Emma dismisses this surmise, she is baffled that Mr. Elton seems so quickly to have forgotten the news that Harriet has a cold and will be unable to attend the gathering. Indeed, he seems pleased by the increased intimacy of the event: "for my part, I would rather, under such circumstances, fall short by two than exceed by two" (83). The attentive reader, perhaps ready to agree with John Knightley's appraisal of the situation, understands that Mr. Elton is relishing the prospect of spending an entire evening in Emma's company and that Harriet's absence will likely increase his access to her.

John Knightley has provided the reader with a perspective on the social situation in general and on Mr. Elton's role in particular. This assessment then works its way, through free-indirect discourse, into Emma's consciousness and throws her into confusion and concern. The casual conversation of this insignificant, awkward carriage ride, then, has initiated a sort of crisis, a self-questioning of her own judgment and priorities—to which Emma has recently dedicated herself. Austen accomplishes this with extraordinary subtlety, with no intrusive assertions from the third-person narrator—but rather with dialogue about the weather and with Emma's own thoughts.

The course of the evening serves to amplify Emma's misgivings, as she finds Mr. Elton "continually obtruding his happy countenance on her notice, and solicitously addressing her upon every occasion" (84). Imagine the discomfort of this experience, with the creeping realization that you have entirely misjudged the situation. It's not difficult to imagine, because you have likely had a similar experience in which offhand remarks and a series of subtle changes in the social dynamic have led to a slow understanding that you have been wrong about something important to you.

A complex confluence events creates the circumstances that place Mr. Elton and Emma alone in the carriage on the way home at the end of the evening. Consider all of the moving parts of the plot that have brought us to this turn: Emma's matchmaking tendencies which lead her to act "encouragingly" to Mr. Elton, Harriet's acquiescence, the Westons' close proximity, Harriet's cold, John's words to Emma regarding Mr. Elton, the dusting of snow, Mr. Woodhouse's "nervous disposition," John and Isabella happening to step into the carriage in front, Mr. Woodhouse's admonition that the carriages be driven very slowly (which allows adequate time for the following scene), and Mr. Elton's having drunk "too much of Mr. Weston's good wine" (92).

All of these operations of plot, however, despite their complexity, unfold naturally without any sense of contrivance and culminate in what must be the most hilariously awkward short carriage ride in all of literature. And the technical brilliance of construction carries through to the scene itself, as Austen combines her use of free-indirect discourse with a sort of redacted conversational report that achieves concision even as it conveys awkwardness more powerfully than actual dialogue, as Emma finds "her hand seized—"

her attention demanded, and Mr. Elton actually making violent love to her: availing himself of the precious opportunity, declaring sentiments which must be already well known, hoping—fearing—adoring—ready to die if she refused him; but flattering himself that his ardent attachment and unequalled love and unexampled passion could not fail of having some effect, and in short, very much resolved on being seriously accepted as soon as possible. It really was so. Without scrupple—without apology—without much apparent diffidence, Mr. Elton, the lover of Harriet, was professing himself her lover. (92)

The third-person narration, without quoted dialogue, conveys both the essence of Mr. Elton's declaration and the confusion and distress of Emma's experience of it. When dialogue finally breaks out, it is devastating: "Miss Smith!—I never thought of Miss Smith in the whole course of my existence—never paid her any attentions, but as your friend: never cared whether she were dead or alive, but as your friend" (93).

When Emma presses the point, he delivers the most crushing blow to Harriet's aspirations: "I wish her extremely well: and, no doubt, there are men who might not object to—Everybody has their level: but as for myself, I am not, I think, quite so much at a loss" (94).

And there you have it: Mr. Elton's true colors unveiled to Emma in all of their ugliness. As Emma later reflects, "She need not trouble herself to pity him. He only wanted to aggrandize and enrich himself; and if Miss Woodhouse of Hartfield, the heiress of thirty thousand pounds, were not quite so easily obtained, as he had fancied, he would soon try for Miss Somebody else with twenty, or ten" (96). When Mr. Elton returns to the narrative in the next volume, she will discover how right this assessment actually is.

Again, if this were Hollywood, Mr. Elton would open the door of the carriage and storm out. But this is more like life, and since Mr. Woodhouse has ordered the carriages to drive extremely slowly, they must endure a few excruciating minutes in silence before the awkwardness can end.

And this is where we land: to my tastes, Emma is my favorite novel, not just of Austen's, but perhaps my favorite of all, because it feels the most real as life is experienced in all its internal complexity. We know what those few silent minutes in the carriage must feel like. And this effect is a considerable accomplishment, that it can still feel so vivid even though it was written more than two centuries ago. And unlike the modernists (say, Joyce or Faulkner), Austen accomplishes this in an unostentatious style that is easy to read, and unlike the postmodernists (say, Pynchon or Barth), she does not pull us out of the narrative through over-the-top metatextual machinations.¹

We are right there with Emma. Like her, we are mortified, but we are also amused, and we have much more amusement (and mortification) in store. We haven't even met two of our major players yet, as Jane Fairfax and Frank Churchill do not appear on the stage until the next volume, and we have yet to experience the full power of Miss Bates's loquacious glory. And just wait until you see whom Mr. Elton is about to bring to Highbury.

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I'll be back on Friday with our chapter-by-chapter analysis of the second half of Volume One for premium subscribers. Here is our reading schedule.

Thanks for reading, from my fancy internet carriage to yours.

Photo by Birmingham Museums Trust on Unsplash

1. I hasten to add that I appreciate and enjoy reading all of these writers.