English novelist Graham Greene writes:

“When you visualized a man or a woman carefully, you could always begin to feel pity . . . that was a quality God’s image carried with it . . . when you saw the lines at the corners of the eyes, the shape of the mouth, how the hair grew, it was impossible to hate. Hate was just a failure of imagination” (Greene).

Though living and writing long before Greene, it is likely Regency novelist Jane Austen would have agreed with this sentiment. Like Greene, her novels emulate a profound capacity to portray the details of everyday human life in a way that generates empathy—even in settings starkly unfamiliar to her readers. At first glance, the setting and plot of an Austen novel does not strike her readers as particularly relevant or poignant in our modern milieu. What can we have in common with a sophisticated heiress like Emma or a wealthy landowner like Mr. Darcy? What do we share with a bumbling Regency vicar in quest of love, or a poor relation like Fanny taken into an aristocratic family? Are not Austen’s novels merely entertaining works of romantic fiction, narratives which are charming, endearing, and delightfully-composed but trivial, nonetheless? Some critique Austen’s social and ethical relevance: how can she, after all, keep her footing on the ever-shifting sands of our cultural, political, philosophical, and psychological landscape?

In this essay, I will argue that it precisely because Austen does not intend to position herself on a broader ideological landscape that her brilliance and relevance is maintained. Rather than become entrenched in socio-political affairs, Austen chooses instead to highlight the everyday details of life, to dwell richly upon the complex lives of individuals rather than societies. Austen uses what many scholars have called “a tiny canvas” on which to practice her craft (Weiss 253-254). With this intention, Austen succeeds in portraying human experience in a way that transcends time and place. In attending to the details of life, in, as Greene would say “visualizing” the minute, intricate, and intimate concerns of someone’s nature, Austen allows us as readers to attend more deeply and empathically to their humanity; as a result, Austen creates a world in which it is nearly impossible to hate; hate is, as Greene likewise argues, a failure to imagine other people complexly with interior worlds and exterior circumstances as complicated as our own.

To explore this element of Austen’s work, I will first examine why readers critique Austen’s use of the “tiny canvas” and why her work is sometimes described as irrelevant, out-of-touch, or frivolous, particularly in regard to her treatment of national issues and wealth disparity (Weiss 253). In the second half of this essay, I will look at the ways in which Austen uses detail to create a sense of psychological realism which, in turn, generates empathy. By looking at a few examples from Austen’s works, we can peer more closely at Austen’s miniature canvas, perceiving how, by painting stories in miniature, she allows us to view even the most irksome or foolhardy character with an attitude of compassion, or more frequently, one of laughter.

Over the centuries, many critics have struggled to see the potency of Austen’s works in the face of social or political turmoil. Amongst the literary voices narrating the French Revolution, American Revolution, the Napoleonic Wars, the transatlantic slave trade, and the struggles of the poorer classes in the emerging Industrial Age, Austen seems strangely silent. Only by brief mention does she acknowledge a broader world outside of the gardens, drawing rooms, and lanes of her English country villages. In Persuasion, Captain Wentworth and Admiral Croft have recently returned from the Napoleonic Wars, but little mention is made of their conflicts except to explain how Wentworth made his fortune in the war and is now able to marry up into society (Morgan 91). Unlike many of the popular writers of her day, Jane refrains from commenting on the ethics or the war and gives it little significance in the outplaying of her narrative. In addition, Anne’s friend Mrs. Smith is said to own property in the West Indies, likely a plantation property made profitable by slave labor; no doubt Mansfield Park’s Sir Thomas’s business in Antigua is of the same kind (Morgan 90). Again, Austen offers little to no insight on the moral consequences of these ventures, including them seemingly only as they pertain to the social and personal experiences of her chief characters. To some, this makes Austen an author who takes “no interest in the broad concerns of national life” (Butler 161.) Frederick Harrison called Austen “a rather heartless little cynic . . . penning satirettes about her neighbors while the Dynasts were tearing the world to pieces and consigning millions to their graves” (Pinion).

In discussions of wealth, poverty, and social status, Austen appears equally culpable. In Emma, for instance, Mr. Knightley denounces Emma for trying to make Harriet to marry above her station in life, as she is ‘the natural daughter of nobody knows whom’ who cannot expect to elevate her fortunes or social standing (E 48). Near the end of the novel, Austen seems to cement her socially-elitist perspective:

[Harriet] proved to be the daughter of a tradesman, rich enough to afford her the comfortable maintenance which had ever been her’s, and decent enough to have always wished for concealment.— Such was the blood of gentility which Emma had formerly been so ready to vouch for!— It was likely to be as untainted, perhaps, as the blood of many a gentleman: but what a connexion had she been preparing for Mr. Knightley—or for the Churchills— or even for Mr. Elton!—The stain of illegitimacy, unbleached by nobility or wealth, would have been a stain indeed” (E 370).

In Austen’s world, members of the genteel class and those of the working class remain mostly separate; in the rare cases that they do unite in marriage, such as when Fanny’s mother Mrs. Price who marries beneath her station, the social and economic consequences are severe (MP 6). Mrs. Price’s children live in poverty and are essentially disowned by their relations, and only return to dignity when they, like Fanny, once again conform to the prescribed social order by marrying into wealth, stability, and status (MP 6-7). Though much could be said about Austen’s implicit critique of these social conventions, she makes few explicit comments about poverty and its evils; though some of her heroines visit the poor, and some can be, in genteel terms, described as “poor,” themselves, Austen’s narratives seem woefully out of touch with modern analyses of wealth and poverty, and alarmingly elitist in their treatment of class divisions. Unlike many of her contemporaries, Austen adamantly insists on rendering the local rather than the global, the psychological rather than the cultural. It is for this reason G.K. Chesterton calls her work “as domestic as a diary in the intervals of pies and puddings” (Pinion).

Is this domesticity, however, exactly Austen’s ambition? A closer look at Austen’s narratorial style will demonstrate that her supposed ignorance of the wider world was not a negligent oversight, but rather an intentional choice. According to Marilyn Butler, in reading writers like Austen, “we are trained to involve ourselves . . . in the inward experience a novel has to offer” (Butler 167). Contrary to what some critics assert, Austen’s refusal to address broader social issues is integral to her genre; in avoiding the particulars of a singular social movement or political event, Austen work becomes universally-relatable. By emphasizing psychological rather than historical realism, she glorifies the beauties and intricacies of everyday life and conversation, thus freeing herself from the constraints of a single time period. Her consequent emphasis on interiority and detail makes her work all the more timeless. Austen makes no effort to justify war, slavery, or poverty in general terms; the concerns of her genre are necessarily more miniscule and more subtly humane.

In Mansfield Park, a simple exchange represents all of Jane’s Austen’s intricate poise and subtlety: when the heroine, Fanny, has been given an elegant necklace from her Miss Crawford and a simple chain from Edmund, the reader finds themselves plunged into the trials of her decision about which ornament is most appropriate, and most desirable, to wear to an upcoming ball (MP 225-229). On the surface, this decision seems to possess all of the triviality of a vapid Regency romance. But Austen will not allow us to consider it that way. By explaining in detail Fanny’s adoration of her cousin’s gift, her treasuring of even “Edmund’s commonest handwriting,” we at once realize the personal significance this occasion holds for Fanny (MP 235-237). Austen proceeds to expound the many layers of social expectation, adherence to convention, appeals to gratitude, and intuitive connection to her desires that Fanny experiences as she chooses which necklace to wear. In addition, the reader is brought into the turbulent state of Fanny’s emotions surrounding her cousin Edmund, who, in this exchange, expresses ardent love for Miss Crawford (MP 235-237). As the chapter continues, the reader recognizes familiar emotion: anxiety about what other’s think of us, desire to please, humility, resentfulness, gratitude, jealously, and the warm rush of receiving affirmation. Each of these emotions intensifies as Fanny indulges in the “many agitations and fears” of anticipating the coming ball (MP 234). Nearly everyone can reflect on a time of life that held such similar nervous anticipation. In this small, seemingly insignificant exchange, which takes up but a few pages, Austen masterfully conducts her readers out of the regions of the general into the particular; we are drawn into Fanny’s particular concerns and find ourselves caring deeply about them. In Fanny, we glimpse a representation of our own concerns, and more significantly, the concerns of others.

Such a paradigm applies not to just to the heroines of Austen’s novels, but to the antagonists as well. Austen rarely allows her readers to think ill of a character without adding the nuance of detail. By including the short series of Mr. Collins’ self-righteous, interfering letters, Austen gives us a glimpse into his internal world and reminds us just how dreadful it must be to have so little self-respect (PP 307). We see Mr. Collins not merely as irritating, but as insecure, self-doubting, and subservient, and as a figure who evokes amusement and pity rather than scorn or loathing. Even Willoughby astonishingly evokes Elinor’s sympathy by his complex confession of his misfortunes. She attributes a great deal of Willoughby’s malice to “the irreparable injury which too early an independence and its consequent habits of idleness, dissipation, and luxury” had made to his otherwise “open and honest” nature (SS 375). In characterizations like these, Austen continuously inverts our black-and-white categories of right and wrong, lending a sense of emotional realism to her characters.

In the same novel, it is the ludicrous, gossiping Mrs. Jennings who ends up being of great comfort and support to the grieving Marianne after Willoughby’s treachery. Through most of the novel, Mrs. Jennings represents all that is foolish, vain, self-interested, and loquacious. She insists on getting the Dashwood girls married and will stop at nothing to squeeze the latest gossip out of every conversation (SS 127-135). But all the same, Elinor recognizes in Mrs. Jennings a real compassion for those around her and a tendency to self-effacing humor. She takes the sarcastic jibes of her son-in-law in easy stride and seems to think nothing of Marianne’s occasional rudeness and rejection (SS 127-135). She evinces real concern for Marianne’s well-being and does a great deal to aid in her recovery (SS 218-222). Though Mrs. Jennings’ manners are far from polished, Elinor and Marianne learn to see Mrs. Jennings for the woman of hospitality, sympathy, and warmth she truly is. Austen seems to be reminding us, with a smile, not to consider only someone’s exterior behavior, but to also take into account the internal qualities. By involving us in the small details of Mrs. Jennings’ existence—her fondness for her daughters, the glass of wine she kindly brings to Marianne’s bedside, the news she carries—the readers begin to see her as a whole person, rather than the stereotypical gossip Austen initially sets her out to be (SS 218-320).

Here Austen’s playful nature appears; she frequently gives us one set of expectations about a character, only to subvert those expectations to our surprise and chagrin. In this narratorial process, she continually appeals to us to perceive others more complexly: to consider her characters not as archetypes of great social movements, dastardly villains, or moralizing exemplars, but a real people, with all of their faults, foibles, irritations, joys, and discoveries. Indeed, there are few real villains in Austen’s world. At their worst, Austen’s characters are foolish, pompous, self-deceiving, or self-important, and they nearly always receive the just desserts of their ill natures. Almost without exception, our reaction as readers is to laugh or pity rather than to hate. As such, Austen’s paints a compelling picture of the world which invites us to ask: if we really considered the details of sometimes life, if we visualized the meanderings of their daily rhythms, entered into their internal experience of grief, self-doubt, or anxiety— if we could see them for who they really are—that is, complex people with multilayered motives and desires—could we truly ever hate them?

In his way, Austen’s novels are profoundly relevant and significant to the modern reader as they recall to us our deeply human trait of empathy. Empathy is hard-won. Just like Austen’s characters, few of us possess the innate ability to enter into and share the feelings of someone else without substantial effort. Like Emma or Marianne, most of us need frequent reminders to look carefully into the minds and hearts of others alongside our own. Austen gives us just such reminders in her novels. Passing over the general in favor of the particular, Austen makes no attempt to situate herself on a broad ideological landscape: rather, she fixes our attention on the details of everyday life and as a result, allows us to encounter the universal and transcendent. Within the “tiny canvas” that makes up Austen’s world, we are able to vicariously experience the subtle but significant troubles and successes of her heroines, and alongside them, to grow into compassion, understanding, and quite often, humor (Weiss 253). In reading Austen, we can practice imagining others in all the beauty, intricacy, and complexity of their real nature, with external circumstances and internal worlds as vibrant and complicated as our own. Such an exercise increases our ability to behold others in their full humanity: to see all of the “lines at the corners of the eyes,” as Greene would have it (Greene).