Bibliotherapy Session: Emma, Emma, on the wall

Let the trumpets sound. I finished Emma.

It was delicious. My favorite Jane Austen book so far. I probably would have finished it earlier, except that it was so good. It was like the chocolate-zucchini cake of books. I wanted to savor it and just read a little at a time. [I am like that with a lot of things and it makes my Mr. Case crazy.]

Throughout my reading of Pride and Prejudice I was in a constant state of dissatisfaction with myself, wishing I could be just like Elizabeth Bennett. With Sense and Sensibility, Elinor and Marianne occupied two ends of a very wide spectrum. Sometimes I was here, sometimes there.

And then I opened Emma. And it was a little like Jane Austen had handed me a mirror.

I had to smile when Emma reminded Mr. Knightley:

"I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with any other..."

and when I relayed the similarity to Mr. Case, he laughed and agreed. Because I was right. As usual.

My eyebrows shot up when Emma, sulking after not being invited to an event whose invitation she was planning to reject anyway, concluded that:

She felt she should like to have had the power of refusal;

And I realized that my dear, sweet mother-in-law learned this about me even before I had learned it about myself. That must be why she kindly invites me to things even when she knows I will say no. Because it's always nice to be invited, right? [Bless you, Sue. Bless you.]

I made a face when Emma saucily called Frank Churchill out on not visiting sooner:

"Do we not rather surpass your expectations? I am sure we do. I am sure you did not much expect to like us.”

He laughed rather consciously; and though denying the sentiment, Emma was convinced that it had been so.

Moments after my knee-jerk "I can't believe she said that!" reaction, my mind took a sudden detour down memory lane, right past the haunted mansion where echoes of my own saucy comments still come out to give me the chills.

I bit my lip when Emma even showed signs of being a bit of, well, a control freak:

All was safe and prosperous; and as the removal of one solicitude generally makes way for another, Emma, being now certain of her ball, began to adopt as the next vexation…

and I quickly tried to hide away my mental checklist of things I plan to be stressed out about, when I am finished with the current item on the list, that is.

Imagine my greater surprise when this magic mirror
revealed the shape of my ego in some of Miss Austen's other infamous
[or infamously more ridiculous]
characters,

My eyes widened when Miss Bates' explanation sounded strangely familiar:

"I meant to…the first thing… but something or other hindered me all the morning; first one thing, then another, there is no saying what, you know."

Actually, she goes on for three pages of "saying what" you know. Because one must defend herself when it looks as though she totally flaked. And that always requires a good deal of explanation [mostly for her own benefit] [and in which she probably won't let you get a word in on the conversation.]

and then my jaw dropped when, after Miss Bates was briefly interrupted, she resumed her dialogue with,

“What was I talking of? … I declare I cannot recollect what I was talking of.”

If I had a nickel for every time I've ... never mind.

Where were we?

Oh yes, talking about how I never finish my conversations...

I frowned when Mr. Knightley admitted:

"My interference was quite as likely to do harm as good. … In such cases my interference was giving you two bad feelings instead of one.”

And I was reminded of my earlier days as a bossy older sister who felt her interference was sorely needed but was constantly resisted [not to mention resented]... [and of later days as a wife who still sometimes thinks her interference is sorely needed.]

I gulped hard when the antics of Mr. Woodhouse concerning things like eating too much cake and having a little gruel before bed made me feel fanatical beyond my years.

His own stomach could bear nothing rich, and he could never believe people to be different from himself. What was unwholesome to him, he regarded as unfit for any body;

Though I must say, it is not the eating of too much cake that bothers me as much as it is the eating of too much cake by others in the house so that there is not as much left for me. But by all means, have some gruel before bed. You'll sleep better. Really. Cheerios work, too.

I didn't know whether to cry or laugh when I stumbled upon what Jane Austen is said to have penned about Emma:

I am going to take a character whom no one but myself will much like.

So I think I must owe my family and friends as much adoration as I can possibly manage, along with a healthy amount of apologies and most likely some money, too. [Do you take nickels?]

I smiled again [and I hope they will too] when, after Emma is faced with "the overthrow of every thing," she finds that,

...the only source whence anything like consolation or composure could be drawn, was in the resolution of her own better conduct, and the hope that, however inferior in spirit and gaiety might be the following and every future winter of her life to the past, it would yet find her more rational, more acquainted with herself, and leave her less to regret when it were gone.

See? There's hope for me yet. I'm not finished. Let the trumpets sound.