Jane Austen’s Emma is a veritable treasure trove of ironic commentary, and none of it is more meticulously directed at any character than at its protagonist and heroine, Emma Woodhouse herself. Often described as beautiful, talented, and brilliant, Emma exhibits an acute awareness of her privileged circumstances throughout the novel, and as can be expected for anyone with the bountiful wealth and cleverness that Emma is said to possess, she is quite used to getting her own way. It is only in the character of Mr. Knightley that we find someone equal to the task of challenging Emma’s agency, and in the words of the novel, “one of the few people that could see faults in Emma” (12). Criticism of Emma’s character and behavior is, more often than not, left to the reader, and encouraged through the ironic commentary offered by the narrator, both from the use of traditional narration and free indirect discourse. Through this implied critique, we are able to form a more complete picture of Emma Woodhouse’s character, for all her faults and virtues. An interesting mechanism of this irony is Emma’s use of “masks,” or constructed personas that allow her to properly navigate the complex social structures of high society in Regency England. Her masks are employed both consciously and unconsciously throughout the novel’s progression, often for the purpose of playing specific roles that shift according to the demands of the moment. This is conceptually similar to Mikhail Bakhtin’s notion of the dialogic self—a self on the threshold, composed of competing voices that are never unified or finalized. Emma’s masks, in this sense, reflect not only the manipulative role-playing characteristic of her external performances, but also the conflicted interiority that Austen allows readers to hear through her use of irony and free indirect discourse. In this essay, I analyze two scenes in Emma that showcase the protagonist’s use of “masks”: one in which she is consciously employing one, and one where her mask-wearing is unconscious. I argue that Austen’s characterization of Emma relies heavily on the masks that she utilizes, as the irony revealed in these scenes offers the reader perhaps the greatest source of insight into Emma’s “true” character and intentions.
One of the first and most striking instances in which Emma dons a mask occurs when Harriet Smith seeks her advice after receiving a letter of proposal from Robert Martin. By this point, the reader is aware of Emma’s obsession with match-making and her vanity surrounding the practice, as noted by Mr. Knightley in a conversation with Mrs. Weston: “I do not think her personally vain. Considering how very handsome she is, she appears to be little occupied with it; her vanity lies another way” (38). The subject of Harriet and Emma’s friendship is a contentious one, marked—at the very least—by a significant imbalance. Emma occupies a position of power and consistently fails to recognize her own faults, while Harriet, lacking in sense and overly devoted to Emma, is particularly vulnerable to manipulation. As Thomason observes: “Emma… has never understood her own shortcomings; moreover, she imaginatively endows Harriet with shortcomings that do not exist so that she can ameliorate them” (Thomason 228). At present, Emma has fixed her attention on Harriet Smith and is determined to secure her an advantageous match, for Harriet is a girl lacking not in beauty or good temper, but in gentility of birth and station. Upon learning that Harriet has been acquainted with Robert Martin and his family, and after observing his total “lack of manner” and station, as well as Harriet’s obvious affection for him, Emma sets out to “redirect” Harriet’s affections toward what she believes to be a much more suitable match: the town vicar, Mr. Elton. In her attempts to sway Harriet’s affections toward Mr. Elton, Emma tells her: “In one respect, perhaps, Mr. Elton’s manners are superior to Mr. Knightley’s or Mr. Weston’s. They have more gentleness. They might be more safely held up as a pattern” (34). Emma’s manipulation here is blatantly evident: she masks her ambition and disregard for the feelings of others under the guise of compassion and friendship; and although one cannot say the negative effects of her actions go unnoticed by her, or otherwise pass without concern for moral or social consequence (for she does possess a conscience), these moments of self-reflection or doubt are quickly dispensed with and overpowered by the hyper-rationalizing and justifying nature of her mind.
Emma’s interference with the relationship between Harriet Smith and Robert Martin reaches its most active and manipulative stage in the scene where she persuades Harriet to reject Martin’s proposal. Here Emma showcases her complete control over Harriet’s sensibility, and her awareness of it as well. She knows exactly what the situation calls for, and her responses to Harriet (or lack thereof) are deliberate and calculated in their intention to dissuade Harriet from accepting the proposal. Emma’s disappointment in the letter’s undeniable elegance and emotional appeal is palpable, as she denigrates Martin by suggesting that his sister must have helped him write it, and that a person like him would be incapable of expressing such delicate and liberal sentiment: “‘Yes, indeed, a very good letter,’ replied Emma rather slowly—‘so good a letter, Harriet, that every thing considered, I think one of his sisters must have helped him’” (50). The following scene illustrates the full extent of Emma’s manipulative prowess and marks the first clear instance where she dons a “deliberate mask”: Emma, according to social convention and propriety, knows it is not her place to advise Harriet on her response, and she makes it abundantly clear that her letter “must be wholly her own,” yet in the same breath she indirectly manipulates Harriet’s decision by taking it as a given that she will reject him: “‘You need not be prompted to write with the appearance of sorrow for his disappointment’” (50). This clever linguistic evasiveness is an integral part of Emma’s game: she is shaping her friend’s decision, and by extension her heart and feelings, without, in her mind, crossing the line of culpability with respect to both her own scruples and to any charge of intentionally influencing her friend’s agency. She effectively masks her manipulative and self-serving behavior as the compassion of a loving friend, as a sense of obligation and responsibility based on her elevated station, and—perhaps most absolving with respect to her own conscience—her classism as a model of propriety and moral guidance. This scene illustrates the power of Emma’s deliberate mask: her ability to perform benevolence while simultaneously enacting control, and to dress ambition in the trappings of genteel responsibility.
While there are many occasions throughout the course of the plot in which Emma is acutely aware of the masks she wears, there are also instances in which the opposite is true, and Emma is shown to put on an unconscious mask. The resulting psychological effect of this unconscious masking—a self in perpetual negotiation with internal and external voices—resonates strongly with Mikhail Bakhtin’s dialogism: “The very being of man (both external and internal) is the deepest communion. To be means to communicate… A person has no internal sovereign territory, he is wholly and always on the boundary; looking inside himself, he looks into the eyes of another or with the eyes of another” (Bakhtin 287). Many of Austen’s protagonists exhibit this relational conception of the self, as they are filled with competing voices, perspectives, and contradictions, and rarely conform to any one specific role. With respect to the character of Emma, the presence of a dialogic self is especially evident, as Emma is by nature a role-player; she does not adhere to any one particular part, and has the ability to switch between roles as she sees fit. Beneath these ever-shifting roles lies Emma’s enduring agency—a theme and character trait that generates much of the novel’s ironic tension, and one that Austen establishes in the opening pages: “The real evils, indeed, of Emma’s situation were the power of having rather too much her own way, and a disposition to think a little too well of herself…” (7). During moments when Emma is in complete control—or under the illusion of control—her performance is monologic, as it demonstrates one authoritative voice (her own judgement), while simultaneously suppressing other internal and external modes of criticism. When, however, Emma’s agency comes under threat—whether by forces known or unknown, internal or external—the dialogic self begins to emerge, and the mask begins to crack or falter.
Such a case occurs during the party at Mr. and Mrs. Cole’s—a party Emma “condescends” to attend. Among those attending include Mr. and Mrs. Weston, Frank Churchill, the Bateses and Jane Fairfax, as well as some others of lesser gentility. After the exchange of pleasantries and greetings, and after Emma has taken her seat, the topic of an extravagant gift of unknown origin arises: Jane Fairfax has received a new pianoforte, and the question of who bestowed the gift is of great interest to Emma—as are all things tinged with potential scandal. The general consensus attributes the gift to Colonel Campbell, but Emma quickly dismisses this possibility, turning instead to Mr. and Mrs. Dixon—Jane’s close friend and her husband—as her preferred candidates of choice, given that Mr. Dixon is insinuated as being a potential object of affection for Jane. Frank Churchill becomes Emma’s confidant in these musings, and appears to be entirely swayed by the sheer force of her persuasive ability:
“If Colonel Campbell is not the person, who can be?”
“What do you say to Mrs. Dixon?”
“Mrs. Dixon! very true indeed. I had not thought of Mrs. Dixon.” (202)
This sense of monologic control, however, is quickly disrupted when Mrs. Weston takes her seat beside Emma and regales her with a theory of her own: that Mr. Knightley is the mysterious benefactor, and that he is in love with Jane Fairfax. It is Emma’s reaction to this piece of gossip that first indicates the emergence of her unconscious mask, as demonstrated by her defensive tone and compensatory line of reasoning. She immediately denies the possibility of Mr. Knightley ever marrying—let alone someone like Jane Fairfax—and even accuses Mrs. Weston of having contrived the match herself, rather than treating it as gossip of the same triviality she was just engaged in with Frank Churchill:
“Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax!” exclaimed Emma. “Dear Mrs. Weston, how could you think of such a thing?—Mr. Knightley!—Mr. Knightley must not marry!…I cannot at all consent to Mr. Knightley’s marrying…” (209)
Emma’s scruples are at work in this scene as well, though here they are internally directed, taking the form of concern for Henry—Mr. Knightley’s young nephew—and the status of his future inheritance; yet, as Mrs. Weston reasonably observes, Henry is only six and entirely indifferent to such matters. The fervency of her denial borders on psychological frenzy, as if Emma were engaged not in a conversation with Mrs. Weston, but in an interior monologue designed to rationalize and desperately conceal unconscious motives and unacknowledged truths—chief among them being her own unrealized feelings for Mr. Knightley. This scene offers a glimpse of not only Emma’s psychic imbalance, but a rare window into unfeigned authenticity: a self momentarily revealed in its struggle to regain autonomy. Emma’s repressed emotions remain just beneath the surface until the novel’s final crisis, when the facade perpetuated by her unconscious mask ultimately collapses, and her dialogic self emerges in its entirety.
In Emma, Austen fashions a heroine unlike any other: one whose “scruples of delicacy” mask both her interior and exterior being, and one who challenges the very notion of what it means to be a traditional “heroine.” The term itself takes on an almost ironic connotation when applied to Emma’s character, and much of the novel’s brilliance lies in the sustained ambiguity surrounding what this designation truly entails. As Barbara Thaden notes, “Unlike any other heroine, Emma has also been “doing just what she liked” for her entire life, and her constant and only concern is herself. Austen’s other novels reserve such freedom and selfishness for unsympathetIc characters” (Thaden 48-49). Is Emma, then, unsympathetic? Is she a manipulative, snooty variation of Pushkin’s “superfluous man?” Or does she instead embody the ideal subject of the “Bildungsroman,” or “coming of age” novel, in which the hero undergoes a spiritually and morally transformative odyssey?
Although these questions are necessarily rhetorical, and any attempt to dissolve them with a blunt “yes” or “no” would be an insult to Austen’s legacy of genius, avoiding them altogether is hardly a preferable—let alone viable—solution. Perhaps, then, it would be useful to approach the issue from a different angle, and ask what Austen stands to gain from maintaining this ambiguity at all: why, in other words, does she create so divisive a heroine in Emma—one who, whether consciously or unconsciously, so often conceals her true nature and intentions? A simple answer may lie in the novel’s immense ironic potential, as demonstrated by the many miscommunications and misunderstandings between characters, more often than not stemming from Emma herself. This answer is by no means wrong, but it does feel somewhat reductive, especially when considering the sheer complexity of both the novel and its heroine. A more compelling answer is that Austen sought to explore something incredibly elusive and ahead of her time: a character’s relationship with the prospect of their own inner growth. Emma’s masks, in this light, are far more than devices for irony or narrative design; they reveal instead a mind’s struggle with the unknown—with that which cannot be controlled or shaped to one’s will—and with the uncertainty that accompanies genuine transformation.
