A discussion on Jane Austen’s Emma

The pages of Jane Austen’s Emma turn easily. On the surface, it’s a witty book about a meddlesome matchmaker in 19th century England. It explores social class, marriage, and the associated roles of men and women. What makes it especially effective is how it explores these themes from the different perspectives of the characters – in particular, Emma, the titular heroine. And what drives this plot and these themes is the construction of Emma’s character, and central to it is her growth as she becomes more mature. But Emma was one of my favourite books to read in a long time precisely because it fundamentally challenges the character’s arc.

The most interesting device in the book is that to a large extent, we see everything from Emma’s perspective, sort of. It’s a kind of focalisation. We are not in Emma’s head, per se, but the discussion of all major events are from her perspective. Take the relationship of Frank and Jane – we do not know the truth of it until Emma learns of it. We do not know the truth of Mr Knightley’s feelings until Emma learns of them; likewise, Mr Elton’s true intentions are not revealed until Emma realises them. The best example is how Emma tries to brush off insulting Miss Bates, and it is minimised until Mr Knightley talks about it, and suddenly it is all the narrative talks about until the end of the chapter.

The advantage of such a structure is that we largely hear Emma’s voice throughout the story, and therefore, we understand the way Emma thinks and reacts. Aristotle would call it ethopoeia, character-creation: using how the character chooses to frame ideas and opinions, their rhetoric, to craft personality, not just actions.

Emma’s ethopoeia is complete with her “tragic moment”: realising that Harriet is in love with Mr. Knightley, and that she herself is also in love with Mr. Knightley. It’s drawn for us from her perspective as she realises her naivety, and she understands her mistake; and at the same time, she becomes distraught. It’s an archetypal fortune-reversal and realisation on the level of Oedipus in Sophocles’ masterpiece.

But just like the best tragic characters, she is caught in a net entirely of her own making. It’s her zeal, naivety, and arrogance that drives Harriet away from Robert Martin, and eventually towards Mr. Knightley.

But what’s interesting is that in most tragedies, there are real consequences to the character’s actions. In this case, Emma doesn’t face those consequences. The book ends with the three marriages: Jane and Frank, Harriet and Robert, and Emma and George. All’s well that ends well, and Emma is protected from the negative aspects of her character, once again.

But if Emma is protected, one final time, by the narrative, does she really learn anything at all? Maybe she allows Robert Martin to be married to Harriet, but it seems convenient that she only learns the truth about Robert Martin once it again conforms to her goals (marrying Mr. Knightley). She gets what she wants, guilt-free. She gets to meddle, just as she loves to do, and it’s all fine. So, I don’t think it’s particularly settled that she has fully developed.

That, to me, is actually what makes Emma work so well: it’s a character-driven story about a woman who is slightly deluded into making everything fit her view of the world (when she finds out about Harriet’s feelings, she’s still wrong about Mr. Knightley’s, and she had no idea about Robert & Harriet). Right to the end, she’s extremely relatable.

I don’t think she grows. But I don’t think that’s the point. Sure, the plot ends happily, and we should be happy for Emma. But she is exactly who she is, just like the rest of us. Over the course of 54 chapters, Austen explores her heroine’s personality for us, focussing on who she is, and the way she thinks. And for that, Emma is brilliant.