“I hate to hear you talk about all women as if they were fine ladies instead of rational creatures. None of us want to be in calm waters all our lives” –Jane Austen (Persuasion)
It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that Jane Austen has written some of the most scintillating love stories to ever grace the pages of literature.
From Pride and Prejudice to Emma and Northanger Abbey to Persuasion, escaping into the wonderful Regency romances of a Jane Austen story never ceases to “bewitch me body and soul,” no matter how many times I reread the books or rewatch their movie counterparts. It seems incredible that stories and characters written in such a distant era could still be so relevant and beloved today, even continuing to inspire new adaptations. However, when examining the literary doors Austen opened for women and the dynamic heroines she crafted, the enduring appeal is not difficult to find.
In an era when women were expected to exist one-dimensionally in life and literature as complacent and unspoken mothers, wives, and homemakers radiating around a central male figure, Jane Austen broke barriers within both literary and social spaces. In Austen novels, female characters take center stage — not just as the ancillary love interests, but as individuals with their own complex desires, ambitions, and beliefs that they aren’t afraid to voice and act on. Challenging the role of women as delicate, passive figures, her heroines take on active roles in their own stories and lives, carving out their own happily-ever-afters.
Within the confines of an often restrictive social structure, Austen’s heroines are outspoken, witty, driven, and emotionally motivated, which endows them with a dimensionality rarely afforded to female literary figures of the time. One of my favorite things about Austen’s characters is that, rather than assuming a single role, femininity is allowed to take on various forms. From spunky, proto-feminist Elizabeth, to vain Emma, melancholic Anne, spirited Catherine, and conniving Lady Susan, Austen women are women we love and hate, driven by complex motivations and internal conflicts that are individual to each persona. Women are allowed to be both messy and virtuous, villain and hero, portrayed in all its realistic complexities.
Not only does Austen craft three-dimensional protagonists, she also takes such pains to develop their relationships with other women. From the sisterly bond between Mariane and Elinor Dashwood, to the friendship of Emma Woodhouse and Harriet Smith, to the mother/daughter dynamic in Pride and Prejudice, the protagonists’ female relationships are shown to be just as foundational to their identities and character development as their romantic pairings.
It speaks so much to the nature of our culture and its outlook on the feminine that both in her own time, and even today, Austen’s works are so frequently dismissed as “fluffy” and “sugary” precisely because they are romance — I had an English teacher say exactly this to me when I told her Jane Austen was my favorite author. Her books are still classics, yes, but certainly not on par with more “sophisticated” works by men.
But this view disregards what makes Austen novels so valuable and important — they are women’s worlds, female in sensibility. Not just because of the gender of the main characters and the emphasis placed on their female friendships, but also the politics that the narratives explore: marriage, class, education, inheritance, and the engendered implications these institutions hold. To me, the dismissive ways in which literary spaces tend to regard the romance genre as vapid or insubstantial is merely another example of society’s fiendish tendency to revile anything that has to do with girlhood, leading to young girls growing up being made to feel that the things they enjoy are silly or sappy.
I love that Austen’s heroines never reject their roles as romantic partners, mothers, and wives — rather, they’re empowered in their love lives, challenged and changed for the better by them. But they’re also so much more than just love interests at the same time. Although hers is a love story, Elizabeth Bennet still maintains her autonomy and unabashed willingness to voice what she believes while also getting the man. And while the trajectory of an Austen love story is often criticized as materialistic and encouraging submission to the hierarchical, patriarchal classism of the Regency era (where finding a wealthy husband seems the only way to achieve a “happily-ever-after”), the reality is, marriage was so often the only thing available to women at the time. It was the only means of survival in the face of destitution due to inheritance laws — the only way to access upward mobility and avoid the scorn of a socially unforgiving society.
Austen explores the nuances of this exact dilemma in so many of her books (Sense and Sensibility, for example, or with the character of Charlotte Lucas in Pride and Prejudice). The love stories are always colored to some degree by a consciousness of class and financial stakes, which Austen never shies away from. Emma Woodhouse is the lone exception, being simply rich enough that the ability to not marry is an option available to her.
Therefore, to me, it seems reductionist to say that Austen novels promote conformity to the social order. For example, Elizabeth initially rejects Mr. Darcy’s proposal out of a moral objection both to his character and his abhorrent treatment of her beloved sister Jane. The assertion that the romances of Austen novels are only driven by materiality and conformity to the socioeconomic demands of marriage falls flat here, because rather than compromising on her beliefs, Elizabeth places them above the advantageous marriage that her society prizes above all else, only later accepting the offer of his hand once it is on her own terms.
While it is fair to say that the heroines never fully depart from the financial status quo of their societies, this speaks to the reality of living as a woman in the Regency period. Consequently, Austen’s heroines are able to make happy endings out of what limited options are available to them. Furthermore, Austen imagines the prized advantageous marriage as a mutually advantageous one. It isn’t just the women who “need” the men to save them from financial ruin; it’s the men pining after the women — the men who actually deliver the majority of Austen’s most famous romantic lines. Through the female gaze of her stories — letting us into the Regency period from the perspective of women who, at the time, would not have been given such a far-reaching voice — the characters at once rail against all conventions of their gender by nature of being the main characters in their own stories, yet, to some degree, still remain ensnared by them. This enacts a narrative futility that simulates the actual experience of being a Regency woman, which, to me, is a dichotomy that is endlessly stimulating to read and untangle.
This is precisely why I love Austen so much. I love reading about women with hearts, minds, contradictions, and restless spirits. I love the politics, the unabashed femininity of the romantic storylines, and the feminine gaze of the love interests. I unabashedly swoon for Mr. Darcys and Knightleys, for Colonel Brandons and Captain Wentworths. Romance novels or not, turns of phrases like “If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more” are some of the most beautiful pieces of prose I’ve encountered in literature. Reading Jane Austen makes me believe that love and romance aren’t silly pursuits in life or literature and that the happy ending, rather than being a cliche, is a severely underrated and underused literary trope that Austen always celebrates. In her books, women do get the ending tied up with the perfect neat bow, and while, sure, it may not always be realistic, isn’t it lovely to imagine?
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