loved her” and that this persuasion, plus everything else,
made her think that she must be a little in love with him, in spite of every previous determination against it. “I certainly must,” said she. “This sensation of listlessness, weariness, stupidity, this disinclination to sit down and employ myself, this feeling of every thing being dull and insipid about the house!—I must be in love” (pp. 235-236).
Knightley’s remark early on that Emma has never been in love was closer to home than even he might have reckoned. Emma feels let down after two exciting weeks, and she is also for the moment bored and at loose ends. That she mistakes boredom and momentary tedium for being in love suggests to us where she is. Her imagination of being in love at this moment intimates some negative inner state, some condition that compounds loss, frustration, and disappointment. It does not propose the ardent desire and yearning for the object, for the presence of another, that we ordinarily associate with romantic love. That desire and longing Emma tends to regard as “mania,” which is how she describes Harriet’s infatuation with Elton (p. 304) .
When Frank rescues Harriet from the gypsies, Emma happily succumbs to her fantasy-work again. She feels “on fire with speculation and foresight!—especially with such a ground-work of anticipation as her mind had already made.” In her heightened state, she thinks of what she is doing as analogous to the activities of “a linguist... a grammarian ... even a mathematician” (p. 303). These occupations have in common a concern with language, with codes and encryptions, with the interpretation of symbols, and with formulae that conjure up other worlds. She thinks of herself as “an imaginist,” and this arresting coinage suggests her shadow or secondary identity as a crypto- or pseudo-novelist, a proto-novelist, or novelist manqué. But she is also a constructivist and fantasticator—she simply makes things up, but considers such fabrications on her part as clever and penetrating interpretations. xxvi When it comes to matters of romance and adventure, her readings, despite her cleverness, are almost always wrong. Some unacknowledged source in her, some embedded contrariety of wishes, feelings, desires, and ideas, distorts her perceptions and judgments, the faculties of intelligence on which she sets particularly high store. This unresolved or unintegrated mental state impels her to perceive falsely what isn’t there (invention in this context is a failure of imagination) and to further deny or misperceive what is staring her in the face. The upshot is that she repeatedly substitutes unmoored fantasy for imaginative inference or genuine interpretation.
Emma had determined quite early that she was not in love with Frank Churchill. After he departs from Highbury, “she could not admit herself to be unhappy.” And although she continues to day-dream about herself and Frank,
the conclusion of every imaginary declaration on his side was that she refused him ... “I do not find myself making any use of the word sacrifice.... In not one of all my clever replies, my delicate negatives, is there any allusion to making a sacrifice. I do suspect that he is not really necessary to my happiness. So much the better. I certainly will not persuade myself to feel more than I do” (pp. 237-238).
Admirable to a fault. And yet she continues to flirt with Frank long after she has come to this conclusion. She does so partly out of tedium—or the lack of anything more purposeful for her to do—partly out of mischievous high spirits, and partly, I suspect, out of her rivalrous dislike for Jane Fairfax. She continues to do so right up to the breaking point, which occurs at Box Hill.
The excursion begins and ends badly. Out of doors, the party disperses and never gets back together in either physical or social senses. There is no concord but only separateness and estrangement among the
made her think that she must be a little in love with him, in spite of every previous determination against it. “I certainly must,” said she. “This sensation of listlessness, weariness, stupidity, this disinclination to sit down and employ myself, this feeling of every thing being dull and insipid about the house!—I must be in love” (pp. 235-236).
Knightley’s remark early on that Emma has never been in love was closer to home than even he might have reckoned. Emma feels let down after two exciting weeks, and she is also for the moment bored and at loose ends. That she mistakes boredom and momentary tedium for being in love suggests to us where she is. Her imagination of being in love at this moment intimates some negative inner state, some condition that compounds loss, frustration, and disappointment. It does not propose the ardent desire and yearning for the object, for the presence of another, that we ordinarily associate with romantic love. That desire and longing Emma tends to regard as “mania,” which is how she describes Harriet’s infatuation with Elton (p. 304) .
When Frank rescues Harriet from the gypsies, Emma happily succumbs to her fantasy-work again. She feels “on fire with speculation and foresight!—especially with such a ground-work of anticipation as her mind had already made.” In her heightened state, she thinks of what she is doing as analogous to the activities of “a linguist... a grammarian ... even a mathematician” (p. 303). These occupations have in common a concern with language, with codes and encryptions, with the interpretation of symbols, and with formulae that conjure up other worlds. She thinks of herself as “an imaginist,” and this arresting coinage suggests her shadow or secondary identity as a crypto- or pseudo-novelist, a proto-novelist, or novelist manqué. But she is also a constructivist and fantasticator—she simply makes things up, but considers such fabrications on her part as clever and penetrating interpretations. xxvi When it comes to matters of romance and adventure, her readings, despite her cleverness, are almost always wrong. Some unacknowledged source in her, some embedded contrariety of wishes, feelings, desires, and ideas, distorts her perceptions and judgments, the faculties of intelligence on which she sets particularly high store. This unresolved or unintegrated mental state impels her to perceive falsely what isn’t there (invention in this context is a failure of imagination) and to further deny or misperceive what is staring her in the face. The upshot is that she repeatedly substitutes unmoored fantasy for imaginative inference or genuine interpretation.
Emma had determined quite early that she was not in love with Frank Churchill. After he departs from Highbury, “she could not admit herself to be unhappy.” And although she continues to day-dream about herself and Frank,
the conclusion of every imaginary declaration on his side was that she refused him ... “I do not find myself making any use of the word sacrifice.... In not one of all my clever replies, my delicate negatives, is there any allusion to making a sacrifice. I do suspect that he is not really necessary to my happiness. So much the better. I certainly will not persuade myself to feel more than I do” (pp. 237-238).
Admirable to a fault. And yet she continues to flirt with Frank long after she has come to this conclusion. She does so partly out of tedium—or the lack of anything more purposeful for her to do—partly out of mischievous high spirits, and partly, I suspect, out of her rivalrous dislike for Jane Fairfax. She continues to do so right up to the breaking point, which occurs at Box Hill.
The excursion begins and ends badly. Out of doors, the party disperses and never gets back together in either physical or social senses. There is no concord but only separateness and estrangement among the
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