I remember reading Austen’s Emma for the first time at the start of lockdown in March and thinking that no other author I’d ever read – especially not one writing in the 19th century – had afforded their female characters the same level of fallibility as Austen had.
As an English Literature student and a passionate feminist, this struck a chord with me. Amongst the hundreds of books I’d read in my life, I couldn’t pin-point any other ‘classic’ novel where the female protagonist had made mistakes and simply been allowed to learn from them and become a better woman. Of course, there are novels where women make mistakes, but never without repercussions – think Tess in Hardy’s Tess of the D’Urbervilles or Esther in Plath’s The Bell Jar. Conversely, Emma’s suffering is low-level and mundane; it’s a refreshing perspective, particularly in a world where women who make mistakes are still so heavily critiqued.
As women, we are expected to perform under this notion of perfection, in every aspect of our lives; to succumb to human fallibility is seen as a failure. This same pressure governs our whole existence – our careers, schools, social lives and relationships. It’s no surprise that girls outperform boys in school, from GCSE to A-Level. An incredible degree of dedication and perfection is instilled into us as the norm, so when Emma is allowed to be human, an imperfect young woman who can still prosper in her own error, it resonates with me.
The words ‘badly done, Emma’ are almost seared into my consciousness. ‘It was badly done, indeed!’ This scorn, perfectly balanced between love and disappointment, provides Emma with some necessary perspective. These words speak of dismay, rather than anger, but also seem to allow for forgiveness, with the knowledge that Emma is better than her flaws. The words allow for amends and apologies to be made to those hurt, presenting the chance to try again.
Emma’s intentions are always kind; her wrongdoings are never malicious, they are merely youthful blunders. She exemplifies true goodness. This is paralleled in Clueless, the film adaptation of Austen’s classic, with Cher modelled on Emma. The same message can be garnered from the film; Cher’s misguided attempts to make others happy don’t succeed – they are nothing but self-satisfying. She learns the true value of forgiveness and friendship in making up with Tai. Like Emma, Cher is young and imperfect. She makes mistakes but sees the error of her ways and becomes a better person.
To be human is to make mistakes, but I think a lot of people are afraid of this fact. Something in this modern world has told people that there’s no room for error, no space to mess up and learn. The ability to admit you’re wrong and that you’ve made a genuine error doesn’t make you weak. Many of us are too quick to assume that our poor decisions are inherent character flaws. We can’t accept that it is these bad choices that help us become better people. We are all learning to be less selfish, to be kinder. No one in the history of the world has lived their whole life never having upset someone they care about.
Isn’t that how we navigate the world as young people? It’s that extra glass of wine that you should’ve turned down, the late-night rush to finish an essay due the following morning, those words you should’ve kept under lock and key that slipped through your filter. It’s all of us, imperfect but forgiven, fallible but loved.
We are all Emma. We are all guilty of her thoughtless words. We all know that subsequent apology gift. Perhaps not quite a food basket, but the haphazard ‘I’m sorry’ cards of our youth, a packet of biscuits from the local supermarket or surprising them with something that they’ve had their eye on. Maybe we’re like Emma in our misguided attempts to make others happy, our hopeless attempts at matchmaking even when our targets have made a steadfast decision not to date.
Austen’s beloved character may be an anti-hero, but she can represent all of us who align with the female identity. She reminds us to be kinder, both to ourselves and to one another.