Interview of Emile Dubois (The Eponymous ‘That Scoundrel Emile Dubois’) By Laura Lee

 

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I am very pleased with my new cover done by Ebook Launch.The eponymous scoundrel – and he really is one, no half measures here – and the virtuous Sophie are about to be drawn into the time warp…

Here’s an interview with one Émile Dubios…

Laura Lee: Come in. Sit down. Would you like something to drink?
Émile Dubois: Thank you, Madame. The red wine for a certainty. Georges – my right hand man, you know, though some might spread the rumour that he was my companion in crime – organized this interview. You do things very differently to how we went on in the late eighteenth century – and I speak not only of your strange inventions.
Laura Lee: Which is the first region your eyes would wander to if you were to ever see (gf/bf/wife/husband) naked?
Émile Dubois: I confess myself astonished, Madame, by the familiarity of that question, and from a lady, too. Bien sûr,  the secrets of the bedchamber –
Georges (springing out from behind a curtain). Hoighty Toighty, Monsieur, as my Agnes would say. I can answer that one; he has ever been enslaved by his wife’s derrière and for sure, it is ample enough to attract attention.
Émile Dubois: (leaping up) Tais toi, you insolent lout, how dare you speak so of my angel?
Georges: I am fond indeed of Madame Dubois too, but facts is facts.
Laura Lee: Have you ever been caught naked by someone?
Émile Dubois: I do not clearly remember, Madame –
Georges: Of course he has. Biggest rake in all London society at one time.
Laura Lee: What is the one word in your vocabulary that you use excessively?
Émile Dubois: You will not be surprised to learn that I use three most often: ‘Tais toi Georges’.
Laura Lee: Personally, do you think size matters in reality?
Georges (sniggers vulgarly): Size of what?
Émile Dubois: If you refer to height and width of the whole body, Madame – and I can scarce credit you refer to anything else, liberal as your age is – then for a man in a mill – that is the term for a fist fight of our age, for sure size does matter. If you speak of the ladies, then our age appreciated female curves as you will see from the paintings. As for a man’s most intimate proportions – I am silent on that point, however nature has endowed me.
Laura Lee: Who is the biggest jerk/bitch you’ve ever come across in your life and why?
Émile Dubois: As a gentleman, Madame, I would not refer to a member of your sex by such a term, whatever the provocation, even That Jade Mistress Ceridwen Kenrick.
Georges: You can answer about old Kenrick, though.
Émile Dubois: For sure Goronwy Kenrick qualified as this ‘Jerk’ of whom you speak. A most rebarbative man. He set his siren wife upon me with her hypnotic powers so as to draw me into his schemes for time travel. He tried to sink his disgusting fangs into ma chere Sophie and forced me into co-operating with him by threatening to attack the human members of my household. Besides that, he tortured me by showing me visions of the tragedy that had overtaken my younger siblings. I have never wanted to kill anyone so much.
Georges: Tais toi, Monsieur! Madame will believe the rumours about our violent past to be true.
Émile Dubois: Impossible – the blather about our being Gentlemen of the Road was mere idle chatter.
Laura Lee: Have you ever accidentally and yet intentionally kissed someone or tried kissing someone?
Émile Dubois: Under a trance, yes. Ceridwen Kenrick made me do so. Her beauty was possibly an excuse, but ma pauvre Sophie took a dim view of the business.
Laura Lee: What is your favorite color of socks to wear?
Émile Dubois: Madame, in my age we do not wear these how you say, socks. Stockings, yes.
Laura Lee: Women/Men or Cars?
Émile Dubois: Ah, those horseless carriages that create such disruption? Horses are by far a better mode of transport and a good form of exercise, enfin. As for which of the three I find most interesting, as a young man about town, I was fascinated by your sex for a certainty.
Laura Lee: If you try to fail, and succeed, which have you done?
Émile Dubois: You have stabbed yourself in the foot, perhaps? Your pardon, Madame; in our age we do not go in for what you call introspection. Life is much more comfortable so, especially for a scoundrel such as myself.
Laura Lee: When was the last time you felt possessive?
Émile Dubois: You saw it in me, minutes since, when Georges had the audacity to speak of my wife’s wonderful derrière.l
Laura Lee:  What is the most embarrassing moment you’ve experienced in your lifetime?
Georges: (guffaws) I will respond to that on Monsieur’s behalf – it was when, against all advice, he would go to Kenrick’s evil household in search of diversion with Madame Kenrick from his obsession with Sophie. Of course, he was bitten – and in the Most Compromising Circumstances, what we call en flagrant délit, at that. He had to fight his way out of the house besides, and came back in a fever to spew upon the most magnificent pair of boots that ever I owned.
Émile Dubois: (wearily) Georges, would it cause you great anguish firstly, never again to mention those boots and secondly, not to reveal any more of my most humiliating secrets to Madame?
Laura Lee: Thanks for your time today!
Émile Dubois: (rising and bending over her hand to kiss it). Your servant, Madame.
Georges: Had he ever truly been a servant, he would not say he was yours with such a flourish.

More on ‘Wuthering Heights’ : The Notorious Absence of a Wholly Sympathetic Character and a Moral Compass.

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I am still reading  that fascinating book by Marianne Thormëhelen, ‘The Brontës and Religion’, and it raises a point that had vaguely occurred to me, but which the author brings into sharp focus.

There is no character in ‘Wuthering Heights’ with whom the reader is meant to identify, who is depicted as generally sympathetic – even if flawed  –  and who provides a moral compass from which to view the events.  I believe this is the main reason why I experienced a sense of incompleteness about the story, and found it  vaguely dissatisfying.  This may well be the reasons why so many readers are left with a confused and disturbed feeling on finishing the story.

Marianne Thormëhelen  says:

‘‘Wuthering Heights’ has no such moral focus (as that provided by the heroines of ‘Jane Eyre’ and ‘The Tenant of Wildfeld Hall’ )  which  might have imparted authority to any ethical standpoint associated with the dramatis personae themselves.  As generations of ‘Wuthering Heights’ readers have observed, with varying degrees of fascination and irritation, none of the persons in the novel is entirely likable; the natural wish to sympathize with a lead character is thwarted at every turn. Attempts to make Nelly Dean the villain of the piece may seem fanciful; but her loyalties are inconstant and her complacency unjustified.  Edgar is surely right to upbraid her for delaying the recognition of Catherine’s illness , and that is only one of her grave mistakes. Convinced of the goodness of her intentions, she shows no sign of ethical development involving recognition of her faults.  Nor does anybody else in the book, with the possible and partial exception of young Cathy.  Hareton is guided towards his happy ending by nature (decent genes in combination with love) not be principle; and Edgar Linton is a gentleman and devoted husband and father, but he does not possess enough force of character to provide a moral centre of gravity in a tale which contains such varied and vehement passions. ‘

The man who thinks that he is a moral authority , the Calvanist serving man Joseph, is in fact, a figure of fun.   Intolerably convinced of his  own spiritual superiority, superstitious and wholly uncharitable,  he provides black humour among the grim melodrama and savage brutality played out between the other characters.

It is also one of the few books I can think of which has been an outstanding success without any firm  moral basis . Of course, there are books with anti-heroes and flawed narrators, and ‘Wuthering Heights’  certainly  does have an anti-hero in Heathcliff, and unreliable narrators in Nelly Dean and Lockwood; but most books which have these do generally have some sort of moral focus provided b y at least one admirable character. While I think that Marianne Thormëhelen is rather harsh in her judgement of Nelly,   In ‘Wuthering Heights’ the reader is left to make his or her own way among a group of characters often behaving unsympathetically,   with generally little in the way of ethical insight.

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Perhaps that is even a source of its continuing fascination for generations of readers.

This makes me  think,  once again, that the  earlyVictorian writers were lucky as regards breaking certain rules in novel writing. They may have faced strict  censorship  regarding the then  rigid notions regarding sexual morality and propriety, but they were perhaps allowed to break rules which today are regarded by most people in  the publishing world as incontrovertible.

Received wisdom today is that if  a book doesn’t have sufficiently sympathetic characters, readers will lose interest and soon enough  stop  reading. This blog featuring writing advice is surely fairly typical

https://blog.nathanbransford.com/2011/07/what-makes-characters-sympathetic-and

Yet, ‘Wuthering Heights’  continues to engage readers, and only a portion of these are convinced that Heathcliff  is a romantic hero.  For myself,   I am sorry to say that I was uncharitable enough to hope that Heathcliff  was forced in some way to repent of his evil actions, and to my disappointment, he never did…

…I first read it many years ago, of course; long before I learnt that the author was fascinated in the concept of the fate of the unrepentant Gothic wrongdoer.

As for what motivates other readers who are not partisan regarding Heathcliff  or the older Cathy  into continuing to read the story, I am not sure.  The vivid writing, larger than life characters and Gothic happenings must surely play a part.  Perhaps, they might let me know?

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Heathcliff – No Romantic Hero: Vengeance and Forgiveness in ‘Wuthering Heights’.

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I have recently been reading Marianne Thormählen’s fascinating book ‘The Brontës and Religion’ (Cambridge University Press 1999).

I shouldn’t be. Really, I should be doing more research into the social background of the UK in the early Georgian era for my latest – but I couldn’t resist it.

I came across it through its mention in the notes of the 1994 Wordsworth Classic Edition of ‘The Tenant of Wildfell Hall’ as containing a good discussion of Anne Brontë’s belief in universal salvation. Having as usual glanced ahead at certain portions, I expect it to provide the key to certain puzzles and ambiguities in the depiction of evil and the development of character in the Brontë sister’s novels.

For instance, as I have said in blog posts elsewhere, I have always been surprised at the widespread and I think, wholly mistaken view that Heathcliff is meant to be a romantic figure (for all his depiction in many films).

Once, in an energetic mood, some years ago, I even entered into a discussion about this on Goodreads. There. a startling number of readers coming to ‘Wuthering Heights’ for the first time, assured me that I was entirely mistaken, and that I ought to read the book yet again, confident that I would immediately see that Heathcliff is a misunderstood romantic hero.

I know that Emily Brontë reflected in her poems an interest in the final fate of the unrepentant evil doer, and it may well be that her depiction of Heathcliff is influenced by that. He goes wholly unrepentant to his grave. Notoriously, when Nelly Dean advises him to send for a clergyman, comes this exchange: –

  ‘You are aware, Mr. Heathcliff,’ I said, ‘that from the time you were thirteen years old you have lived a selfish, unchristian life; and probably hardly had a Bible in your hands during all that period.   You must have forgotten the contents of the book, and you may not have space to search it now.   Could it be hurtful to send for some one— some minister of any denomination, it does not matter which— to explain it, and show you how very far you have erred from its precepts; and how unfit you will be for its heaven, unless a change takes place before you die?’

‘I’m rather obliged than angry, Nelly,’ he said, ‘for you remind me of the manner in which I desire to be buried.   It is to be carried to the churchyard in the evening.   You and Hareton may, if you please, accompany me: and mind, particularly, to notice that the sexton obeys my directions concerning the two coffins!   No minister need come; nor need anything be said over me.— I tell you I have nearly attained my heaven; and that of others is altogether unvalued and uncoveted by me.’

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In the same exchange, he refuses to accept that he has treated anyone unjustly, even seemingly, the younger Catherine: ‘As to repenting of my injustices, I’ve done no injustice, and I repent of nothing.’

This annoying refusal to accept responsibility for his wrongdoing is of course, very human. Nevertheless, the author takes care to sprinkle the book with many references to his seemingly demonically inspired behaviour.

As Thormähelen notes, he spits out the words that summarise Christian virtues with contempt: ‘duty’, ‘humanity’ ‘charity’ an d ‘pity’. Although he worships the first Catherine, he does not feel this sort of tenderness towards her, and his savage treatment of her when she is dying in fact hastens her death. This parting, of course, he appreciates will leave him in a sort of hell on earth, as he regards her as his ‘soul’.

The more metaphysically inclined reader wonders at the fate of these two barbaric lovers in the next world. Are they joined in death, perhaps in a form of purgatorial existence, or separated until they can love in a slightly more spiritual way, or condemned to walk the earth together until they can abandon their unholy alliance?

Joseph, that caricature of a Calvinist, has no doubt as to the final destination of Heathcliff or Catherine:

‘‘Th’ divil’s harried off his soul,’ he cried, ‘and he may hev’ his carcass into t’ bargin, for aught I care!   Ech! what a wicked ’un he looks, girning at death!’ and the old sinner grinned in mockery.   I thought he intended to cut a caper round the bed; but suddenly composing himself, he fell on his knees, and raised his hands, and returned thanks that the lawful master and the ancient stock were restored to their rights.’

The country folk would certainly talk about ghosts anyway; but the hint that the two godless lovers do indeed walk, is shown by the famous encounter between the down to earth Nelly and a little shepherd boy on the moor one twilght:

 ‘I encountered a little boy with a sheep and two lambs before him; he was crying terribly; and I supposed the lambs were skittish, and would not be guided. ‘What is the matter, my little man?’ I asked.

 ‘There’s Heathcliff and a woman yonder, under t’ nab,’ he blubbered, ‘un’ I darnut pass ’em.’

 I saw nothing; but neither the sheep nor he would go on so I bid him take the road lower down.’

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As Charlotte Brontë has observed, if it wasn’t for his very occasional flashes of humanity in his mild affection for Nelly Dean and Hareton, it would be difficult to think of Heathcliff as having any human emotions at all, for as she says, the attachment he shares  with Cathy is a terrible and relentless (though intriguingly asexual) obsession, not any form of true love.

Hareton, in fact, is an interesting pointer about the author’s attitude towards the problem of dealing with evil.

This is not done by conscious design on the far from cerebral Hareton’s part. But he is naturally fearless, and not only does he not only feel none of that dread and fear that most people feel for Heathcliff, but he is even fond of the man who led his real father to his ruin and usurped Hareton’s own rights, regarding him as a sort of stepfather.

Therefore, as Thormähelen astutely observes, Hareton is not corrupted. He is, in fact, able to remain essentially untouched by Heathcliff’s scheme to degrade him as Hindley’s heir. He may be able to make him illiterate and seemingly brutish, but he cannot make him mean spirited. Heathcliff himself sees Hareton’s intrinsic worth, particularly compared to his own son, Linton, who was almost certainly conceived in hatred, and very probably through rape. Catherine, of course, comes at last comes to see how she has misjudged him and they fall in love and history comes full circle. This time, however, there is a happy outcome, for Hareton and the young Cathy have all the capacity for human affection lacking in original lovers.

The author also notes, about Heathcliff and his life devoted to revenge, a thing that I have noticed myself. Adopted and spoilt by the ailing Mr Earnshaw, his degradation to the place of a servant by Hindley after the older Earnshaw’s death, leading to his rejection by Cathy, is:

‘The basis for Heathcliff’s revenge,and compared to the crimes and sufferings that prompted his Elizabethan and Jacobean predecessors to take up arms against an assortment of evildoers, it is not a very impressive one. All the wrongs he sets out to avenge are wrongs directed against himself. Nobody has murdered a parent or child of his, and his loved one, as he recognises, in effect murders herself.’

In other words, there is something rather ridiculous and self-pitying about Heathcliff’s refusal to get over his childhood wrongs at the hands of Hindley for twenty years. By the standards of a rough age, they were not excessive when compared to many. Still, Heathcliff dedicates his life to hatred.

Even his speech towards the end, when he sees in Hareton as he sits with the younger Catherine ‘The ghost of my immortal love; of my wild endeavours to hold my right; my degradation, my pride, my happiness, and my anguish’ cannot in all its dramatic effect make this decidedly ignoble basis for his grand scheme of vengeance anything but mean spirited.

Hareton, as the author points out, escapes largely undamaged from his upbringing in the terrible atmosphere of Wuthering Heights precisely because he does not hate his enemy. Presumably sensing Heathcliff’s grudging admiration and affection, he cannot really accept that he is an enemy.

And as Emily Brontë  was, for all her apparent heterodoxy, a parson’s daughter, and as the Christian response to a sinner is to hate the sin but love the sinner, this is highly appropriate.

Partly because he cannot properly degrade Hareton, Heathcliff’s elaborate plans for revenge fail. For now, haunted by his vision of Cathy, he has lost interest in that vengeance, as reflected in his famous speech to Nelly.

‘‘It is a poor conclusion, is it not?’ he observed, having brooded awhile on the scene he had just witnessed: ‘an absurd termination to my violent exertions?   I get levers and mattocks to demolish the two houses, and train myself to be capable of working like Hercules, and when everything is ready and in my power, I find the will to lift a slate off either roof has vanished!   My old enemies have not beaten me; now would be the precise time to revenge myself on their representatives: I could do it; and none could hinder me.   But where is the use?   I don’t care for striking: I can’t take the trouble to raise my hand!   That sounds as if I had been labouring the whole time only to exhibit a fine trait of magnanimity.   It is far from being the case: I have lost the faculty of enjoying their destruction, and I am too idle to destroy for nothing.’

Heathcliff’s going unrepentant to his death may strike some readers as romantic, but his end, completely lacking in insight as it is, strikes me as bleak.  It is, of course, impossible for a healthy man in his prime to starve to death in a few days, and his death, whatever it is caused by, is certainly not caused  by his refusing to eat for that length of time.

He is mourned by nobody save Hareton, and all the evil he has devoted two decades towards accomplishing is undone by the coming together of the two young lovers.  Yet, though love triumphs over hate at the end of the story, it is, as Marianne Thormähelen observes,  about as unsentimental a depiction of the power of good over evil as can be imagined.

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Thormähelen considers that neither vengeance nor forgiveness is allowed a decisive victory in the world of ‘Wuthering Heights’. Here, I would disagree: I think that after all the horror of inhumanity, forgiveness does triumph in the world of the novel: but only just.

 

The Antagonist in Various Forms

 

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‘Evelina’ by Fanny Burney. Sir Clement Willoughby introduces himself with an air of gallantry, Letter XIII. This edition published in 1920. First published in 1778. FB, English novelist, 13 June 1752- 6 Jan 1840. Illustration by Hugh Thomson 1860-1920. (Photo by Culture Club/Getty Images)

I read somewhere the phrase, ‘Inside every antagonist, there’s a protagonist waiting to come out’ ( obviously a variant of the saying ‘inside every fat person, there’s a slim person trying to come out’).

The antagonist, of course, makes the story nearly as much as the protagonist. If you have a weak or insufficiently motivated antagonist, it massively detracts from the tension, and tension, as so many advisors on writing craft constantly hammer home, forms the main interest of a plot.

Of course, an antagonist does not have to be evil or wrongly motivated. An antagonist can just be someone on the other side about a particular issue, and have strong arguments for doing the things s/he does to frustrate the will of the protagonist. Then, the situation can be as true to life as it often isn’t, when the rights and wrongs of a situation are wholly clear cut, with the baddies writ large – though reading about that sort of situation has its own appeal.

I have often thought how in Shakespeare – with the exception of his early, unfair depiction of Joan of Arc – part of his outstanding greatness is his capacity to depict everyone’s point of view fairly.

For instance, this is true of one of his greatest antagonists, Edmund in ‘King Lear’. He is shown to be motivated in his appalling villainies and his determination to usurp his legitimate brother’s place, by Gloucester’s insensitive treatment of  him, leading to his obsessive jealousy of Edgar. Gloucester even jokes coarsely about his mother in front of him to the Duke of Kent. Then Gloucester adds that he has been abroad and will be sent away again…

At the end of the play, on hearing how Goneril and Regan have died through their rivalry over him, he says, ‘Yet Edmund was beloved’. That is a tragic phrase; it shows what underlay his dismal scheming and brutality. He trusted no-one; but he had a great neglected need to be loved.

Tybalt in ‘Romeo and Juliet’ is  often described as the antagonist, and his motivation appears to be more simple than as so often in Shakespeare. He seems to be merely violent, and to hate the rival family unthinkingly.
An antagonist can be honest but misguided, or charming but flawed, or an estranged former ally. What s/he does have to be – even if s/he isn’t a person, but an impersonal force like the weather or a societal rule – is strongly motivated and a fit adversary for the protagonist.

It can be difficult  to enjoy a book when you wholly side with the Antagonist, as I did with Mary Renault’s books about Theseus. There, the Antagonist is female power as personified in the Great Mother, and I was very sorry that Theseus as the personification of patriarchy inevitably triumphed as regards power. He did not, of course, triumph as regards his personal life, ending up an empty shell after the sacrificial death of his Apostate Amazon and his murder of his wife Phaedra (incidentally, that  was an astoundingly inefficient choke that he used; done efficiently it should have rendered her unconscious in ten seconds appproximately, not in minutes; but that’s the Sportsfighter in me speaking) .

Then there is the story where the Antagonist can triumph – the Anti Hero, and the one where the Protagonist is his or her own Antagonist. Perhaps s/he does things under an unconscious influence or is even haunted by his own Doppleganger; as In ‘Dr. Jeklyl and Mr. Hide’ and the main character in Chuck Palanhuik’s ‘Fight Club’.

Sometimes, an antagonist truly makes a series, for some readers at least, becoming a favourite character.

I remember when I read ‘The Mortal Instruments’ to my daughter, I never thought the later books were the same after the larger than life antagonist Valentine was killed off. I found his habit of jumping through a portal with a contemptuous jibe a brilliant feature (besides, I was sad that he was never depicted as repenting before going to his final account).

On entertaining Antagonists, I recommend Rannie in Robert Wingfield’s ‘The Legend of Dan’ series. I do relish an Antagonist with a sense of humour. Also, there is Harpalycus in Rebecca Lochlann’s ‘Child of the Erinyes’ series. He is so foul it is funny, and he revels in his wickedness. What he most keenly relishes, after many centuries of body hopping, is causing as much misery as he can on the three main characters, Aridela and her two rival lovers.

 

 

 

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I have said before, that sometimes the Antagonist is unfortunately more interesting or even more sympathetic than the Protagonist , and even if s/he fails to win the lead characters’ love, or take over the world – or whatever it is s/he wants to do –the said Antagonist anyway takes over the book.

This is what I felt about Clement Willoughby (the original of Jane Austen’s own beguiling Willoughby, perhaps –as we know from Mary’s quotes from Evelina that Jane Austen had read it). He is far more entertaining than the sententious Lord Orville, and protests eternal devotion to suspicious heroine, the problem being that he never quite gets round to proposing and makes the occasional half-hearted effort to abduct her.

MrWickham_characterportraitOn Jane Austen, I never thought that Wickham was quite up to the part. That may just be me, and perhaps a villain of that sort doesn’t need much strong motivation, and just drifts from one self-indulgent escapade and heartless seduction to the next. While general hatred towards Mr. Darcy is part of his motivation, it isn’t somehow made convincing, and his seduction of Lydia is just part of his general self indulgence rather than something he is strongly motivated, though it does further the plot. I suppose this weakness, this tendency to undertake mean schemes and then to be bought off from them, is meant to be all part of his villainy, but somehow he is a disappointing villain.

Another interesting point, to return to what I said at the beginning of this post, is the fact that sometimes exactly who is a Protagonist and who an Antagonist can be unclear. It can even depend on perspective, as according to the point of view, their roles can be interchangeable. It is to a particular example of this that I return in my next post.

The Anti-Heroine

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I have often thought, on and off, what a shame it is how few anti-heroines there are in both traditionally published and self published fiction.

Anti -heroes suffer from overpopulation in the fiction world- particularly in romance – but their female equivalents seem thin on the ground.

This anyway, is my experience, but maybe I am looking in the wrong places (anxiously picks up some stones in the garden).

Maybe I haven’t come across them because I don’t read much fantasy and all its sub sections, and possibly that is the genre in which they are most often to be found, with all those katana waving, leather clad female warriors.  With all the newly published works on the internet, there must surely be many of these outrageous lead females I have missed. But if so, I keep on missing them, as with the 65 bus when I used to live in South Ealing.

There are, however, some excellent classic ones. I have to start off by saying that to my shame, I have yet to read ‘Madame Bovary’ and ‘Anna Karenina’ whom I believe count as anti-heroines.

However, I have read ‘Vanity Fair’ twice. The selfish, cold, manipulative  Becky Sharp is certainly an anti-heroine. I dislike her, because she has almost no warmth of feeling , and is prepared to destroy her only friend Amelia’s happiness and future security for her own gain. This also is  part of a mean spirited revenge she takes on Amelia’s fiancé George Osborn, who earlier has prevented her marriage to Amelia’s foolish half-brother Joss.

During the vain George’s honeymoon in Brighton with Amelia, she and  her now husband Rawdon Crawley turn up, and while Rawdon Crawley assiduously strives to relieve George of his small inheritance from his mother, Becky flirts with him and soon succeeds in making him infatuated with her, careless on how wretched this will make Amelia, who was the only person who championed her at school.

As, through George’s interference to prevent the Jos engagement, she is still free later to marry the baronet’s son Rawdon Crawley and aim higher up the social ladder, one might think that she would be philosophical about George’s earlier snobbish interference; but it seems that she is not.

In some ways she is carelessly drawn, I suppose as a result of WM Thackeray’s self –conscious masculine inability to see inside the heads of women. For instance, Becky at the beginning of the story is rebellious and resentful. She alarms Amelia by throwing away the dictionary given her by the school as a parting present, and shouts ‘Vive Bonoparte! Vive l’Empereur!’

I rather liked her for this frank defiance, but she soon changes into a sly flaterer. Within hours of going to stay with the Sedley family in Russell Square, she is suddenly expert at hiding her real feelings, and can draw in the fat and foolish Jos.

Vanity Fair is, of course, one of the greatest novels written about the Battle of Waterloo. That is the way in which it has lingered in my imagination, and not through any great interest in its two dimensional anti-heroine. However, Thackeray deserves all credit for creating one, however clumsily.

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I have to make another shamed confession here; I never finished reading Jane Austen’s ‘Lady Susan’. Jane Austen wrote it when she was very young, and not easily able to handle the subject matter, which is fascinating, being about a widow with a ‘dubious’ character scheming to marry one of a group of eligible young men. I think this is probably why I stopped reading.

I must read it through soon. In Jane Austen’s time, when a novel was abominated unless the author paraded its moral worth, an anti-heroine like the heartless Lady Susan was a theme only the boldest writer would attempt. Perhaps this is why she did not return to it, as she did to the early versions of ‘Sense and Sensibility’ and ‘Pride and Prejudice’.

Another anti-heroine is, of course, Cathy in ‘Wuthering Heights’. She dies ‘not with a bang but a whimper’ fading away after she finds that she cannot have both Edgar Linton and Healthcliff. However surprisngly tame the end of life in this world for Cathy is, she is a highly effective ghost.

Her relationship with the Heathcliff is certainly bizarre. Contrary to what so many readers seem to believe, I would argue that she does not appear to have romantic feelings feelings towards him, though they do seem to have some confusion of identiy.  It is difficult to work out what sort of feelings Heathcliff has for Cathy. From some of his comments, he seems to have less divided feelings about his passion for her than she has over hers for him.

In that era, it was, I believe, illegal for a person to marry a foster sibling (there was no formal adoption) whether there was any blood relationship or not, so I am puzzled about why Cathy even mentions marrying Heathcliff in her famous speech about degradation. There’s a good discussion of that, and the incest theme in ‘Wuthering Heights’ here 

Apart from her dependency relationship with Heathliff,  we really don’t know that much about Cathy. She is wilful and selfish and when in her early teens, loves running about on the moors in all weathers and soon develops a normal amount of teenage vanity.

In these characteristics, she does make a refreshing change from most mid Victorian heroines. However, she is not, for all her wild passions and temper tantrums, a fully realised character. For all her apparent ‘large ego’ if set aside from her torn feelings for both Edgar Linton and Heathcliff,  for all her undeniable egotism, she hardly seems to exist at all. Again, I found this disappointing.

I have more I want to write about anti-heroines, including the mid-twentieth century depictions of two in the Hélène in Simone de Beauvoir’s ‘The Blood of Others’ and Scarlett O’Hara, but for now I had better finsih this post with the request  that I hope someone reading it can recommend a modern anti-heroine to me.