332
E
UR
A
MERICA
could she do?” (Austen, 2006: 429). Austen’s choice of word
(“their own obligations,” “reward” and “confederacy against
her”) conjures up the problem of indifference. On the face of it,
Marianne’s friends care more about rewarding their benefactor
than about her happy marriage. But close attention to Austen’s
text reveals a different story. They promote the marriage also
because they genuinely believe that Marianne “[would find]
her happiness in forming [Brandon’s]” (430). This belief is
corroborated by future events: “Marianne could never love by
halves; and her whole heart became . . . as much devoted to
her husband, as it had once been to Willoughby” (430). Austen
encourages us to penetrate the façade of indifference and to
appreciate its affective core.
V. Conclusion
The willingness to acknowledge the link between
indifference and affection is exactly what is lacking when
Austen critics discuss whether and how she represents feeling
in her novels. Brontë’s famous criticism establishes reserve as a
serious weakness that damages Austen’s reputation as a great
writer. Modern refutation of this charge, be it Burgess’s and
Guest’s historical approaches or Wiltshire’s close reading,
certainly proves Brontë wrong and uncovers an Austen deeply
interested in emotional complexity. At the same time, however,
they unwittingly agree with Brontë that indifference is a
derogatory term. Their defense of Austen implies that to
discuss indifference in relation to Austen’s novels is irrelevant,
unjust, and even disrespectful. Their argument may seem a far
cry from that of Brontë, but they share her view that
indifference and affection are irreconcilable. Brontë believes
that a reserved woman like Austen cannot feel much, while
twenty-first century Austen scholars assume that a feeling
Austen cannot be interested in unconcern.
