Undeceptions

On motherhood, Emma Woodhouse, and selfishness

I have a very bad habit of hating, in others, the faults that I myself possess. The “small” selfishnesses I observe in the course of day-to-day life never fail to enrage me: the shopping carts left in parking spots, the litter by the side of the roads, the driver dangerously tailgating others on the highway. And I think such rage is, at bottom, a reaction against my own struggle with the sin of selfishness.

I may not litter, but I complain crankily when I must clean up after my young children. I may not leave shopping carts in the middle of the parking lot, but I leave dirty dishes on the table and dirty clothes on the floor. I may not tailgate, but I, all too often, see my children as obstacles barring me from doing the things the way I want to do them.

This tendency to dislike in others what I know to be wrong in myself is the reason I found Emma Woodhouse, the heroine of Jane Austen’s Emma, an initially infuriating character. But the more I’ve matured, the more I’ve come to appreciate one of Austen’s most morally complex women. Furthermore, I think our highly individualized and self-centered culture can learn a lot from Emma’s moral growth; a belief that has strengthened since I came across singer Chappell Roan’s comments about her friends who are parents.

I had never heard of Roan before I came across Emily Stimpson Chapman’s absolutely incredible article in response to Roan’s comments. After reading Chapman’s article, I reflected on what I would say to young men and women who, like Roan, can only see what Chapman calls the “tares” of parenthood: the sleepless nights, the feeling of being “touched out” at the end of the day, the lack of communal or institutional support, the effort it takes to simply get out the door. And one of the things I would say is that these tares are blessings in disguise. For it is through them that parents are offered an incredible opportunity to grow out of selfishness and into selflessness. And it is this same journey that Emma Woodhouse undergoes (in an admittedly much less intense fashion) in Emma.

In the novel’s opening lines, Emma is described as “handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition.” Despite the loss of her mother at an early age, Emma has not suffered from want of affection in her life. Possessing “some of the best blessings of existence,” Emma appears to ‘have it all.’ And that is exactly her problem. According to the narrator,

“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; these were the disadvantages which threatened alloy to her many enjoyments. The danger, however, was at present so unperceived, that they did not by any means rank as misfortunes with her.”

Contrary to worldly wisdom, Austen posits that Emma’s privileged existence is, in fact, the source of “evil” in Emma’s life: the “power” to do whatever she wants, whenever she wants, and a tendency to overestimate her goodness. The ease Emma has found in being “virtuous” thus far, and the indulgent nature of her parental figures, has deceived Emma as to the state of her own soul. Outside of the morally and mentally superior Mr. Knightley, Emma has no one with whom she can compare herself and find herself lacking. The genuinely good deeds she practices (such as caring for the poor of her community, patiently managing her hypochondriac father, practicing gracious hospitality) require very little in the way of self-sacrifice or inconvenience on her part. They do not challenge her enough to allow for significant moral growth. Indeed, because of the general admiration for Emma which these good deeds excite, they end up adding to her excessive sense of self-satisfaction.

Furthermore, as the narrator points out, Emma fails to realize the “danger” of her situation. The rest of the novel explores the way in which this danger is, often painfully, brought to Emma’s attention. For example, a bored and lonely Emma decides to make a protégé out of the local school’s beautiful parlor boarder, Harriet Smith. Harriet, inferior to Emma in rank, intellect, and strength of will, is convinced by Emma to reject the marriage proposal of a kind (but unrefined) farmer who genuinely loves her. Instead, Emma tries to set Harriet up with Mr. Elton, a clergyman whose polished manners initially conceal his less than stellar character. Emma, used to having her “own way,” and deluded by a “disposition to think a little too well of herself,” is convinced that her interference in Harriet’s love life is warranted. When she discovers that Mr. Elton wishes to marry Emma herself (rather than the socially inferior Harriet) she experiences the first shattering of her essentially untroubled existence. In an essay on Jane Austen, C.S. Lewis referred to this shattering as an “undeception,” where Austen’s heroines “painfully…discover that they have been making mistakes both about themselves and about the world in which they live. All their data have to be reinterpreted.”¹

The key mistake Emma makes is to believe that her excessive self-satisfaction reflects an accurate measure of her moral character and mental abilities. As a result, if Emma wants to do something (like interfere with Harriet’s love life), it must be right to do that thing. And with her wealth and rank, there is no one (aside from Mr. Knightley) who can offer any critique of her actions. When Emma reveals the truth about Mr. Elton, the sorrow experienced by the lovesick Harriet, and Harriet’s lack of resentment towards Emma, cause Emma to be “really for the time convinced that Harriet was the superior creature of the two—and that to resemble her would be more for her own welfare and happiness than all that genius or intelligence could do.” Alas, this moment of “undeception” is not enough to fully cure Emma of “making mistakes.” One of the best things about Emma the novel is that Emma the heroine must confront the reality of her selfishness and its negative consequences multiple times before the lesson really sticks. Indeed, the ups and downs of Emma’s moral growth make it one of the most “realistic” of Austen’s novels, and one of the reasons I have come to regard its heroine with a great deal of affection.

For I have been Emma Woodhouse. Indeed, I am still Emma Woodhouse. I too grew up with, and by the gift of God still possess, “some of the best blessings of existence:” loving family and friends, an excellent education, material comforts, and a safe community. Compared to what so many suffer in this world, I too have had “very little to distress or vex” me. And as a result, I too have “a disposition to think a little too well of [my]self.” I too am in constant need of “undeception.” And if anything has taught me how far I still must travel in the journey from selfish self-satisfaction to selfless self-forgetfulness, it is being a parent.

Prior to being a Mom, I retained a fairly high opinion of my moral and mental superiority to ‘most people.’ True, that self-satisfaction could be shaken by my regular encounters with scripture or the lives of the saints. However, in my heart of hearts, I wasn’t comparing myself to the saints, let alone to Christ himself. Rather, like Emma, I was comparing myself to my peers, to the ‘average person’ in the world around me (as seen through the skewed lens of social media). And compared to said ‘average person,’ I thought I was doing pretty well for myself. I frequently attended mass. I taught at a Catholic school. Like Emma, I did charitable works. Like Emma, I was an affectionate friend and a (usually) dutiful member of my family, whether as a wife or as a daughter/sister. Yet, just as in Emma’s case, none of these deeds or duties required serious sacrifice or inconvenience on my part. Or, when they did, there was usually some equivalent (and fairly immediate) compensation or positive feedback involved. I spent long nights grading, but I got paid for that, and experienced the self-satisfaction of ‘knowing’ that I was doing one of the most important jobs in the world. Whatever love or sacrifice I poured out on behalf of my husband was returned tenfold, because he is a genuinely wonderful human being. And on top of all that, I generally wasn’t sleep-deprived, had a good amount of time for indulging my hobbies, and could do fun things like regularly drive to Notre Dame for football games.

And then, the most wonderful and terrifying thing happened. I became a mother. Before I even met any of my children outside of the womb, the self-sacrificing demands of motherhood began. I struggled through various pregnancy symptoms that wreaked havoc on my appetite, my sleep, and my pelvic floor. And despite all the people who reminded me how “worth it” it would be when I met my child, my anxious brain couldn’t help remembering that such a ‘reward’ for my labors was not guaranteed. My children have two cousins in heaven that they will not meet this side of paradise. And with a retained placenta after my second daughter was born, I became all too aware that there were no guarantees on my end of the equation either. In pregnancy, and in labor, I was being asked to empty myself in trustful hope, to put another’s good before my own without any certainty I would receive the expected “compensation” for that self-gift. And of course, if anything can reveal to you how badly you rely on “the power of having rather too much [your] own way,” there’s nothing like having your idealized birth scenario shot to hell before the first night is over (N.B. ladies-there is NO SHAME in taking that sweet sweet epidural). Furthermore, as any mother knows, there is a necessary humility that comes with the physical act of pregnancy and childbirth. It’s a lot harder to have an overly inflated ego when you’ve simultaneously peed your pants and puked your guts out outside of your town hall, or realized that the pants size you secretly prided yourself on is a product of the past.

One of the most interesting elements of Emma’s “undeception” is the fact that, in addition to realizing the dangers inherent in thinking “a little too well of herself,” she realizes that the reasons behind this self-satisfaction are themselves suspect. For example, she prizes her wit, only to use said wit to seriously wound a beloved (if occasionally irritating) neighbor, inviting censure from the man she loves. She is proud of her supposed matchmaking abilities, only to find out that the man she aimlessly flirted with has been engaged since before she met him. By the novel’s end, Emma is learning that a healthy sense of self-worth, unlike a dangerously smug egoism, is based on deeper and truer qualities, like kindness and self-sacrificial love.

And for both the realization of how smugly selfish I have been (and am) at heart, and of the ridiculous basis for said smugness, I am forever indebted to my children. I used to pride myself on the frequency with which I attended mass, and how prayerful and reverent I was during it. Now, I offer to God the much less satisfying sacrifice of weekly attendance spent in passing snacks to my oldest daughter, reminding my son for the umpteenth time that no, pews are not beds and we don’t lay down on them, and preventing my youngest daughter from yanking my veil (along with a chunk of my hair) off of my head. Having failed to hear most of the homily and unable to sing a single hymn, I have learned that God’s action at mass, his self-sacrifice made present in the Eucharist, is far more important than any action of mine. And I have learned a greater gratitude for the Eucharist, because the frustration and distractedness I experience at mass are a reminder of how unworthy I am to receive such a great gift.

I used to pride myself on being a dutiful and loving family member. But it turns out that what duty demands we give to generous and supportive parents, or siblings, or spouses, is much easier, and requires much less self-sacrifice, than what duty demands we give to (developmentally, not morally) egocentric and needy children. For duty requires that I snuggle my sick children and clean up their vomit-covered sheets, knowing that, chances are, I’m next. And when I am sick, duty requires that I keep them fed, and clean, and safe, even when all I want to do is lie down in bed and rewatch BBC’s Pride and Prejudice. And to love my children. To love my children is to begin to grasp, however dimly, the fearful lesson Christ taught on the cross: true love requires self-death. The promise of Resurrection, and a new self, a richer and more abundant life, is on the other side of that death. But even Christ had to wait three days before the promise was fulfilled. To love my children is to read the same inane Thomas the Tank Engine story for the twentieth time and still do the voices with the same enthusiasm as if it were the first. To love my children is to refuse to shout in moments of frustration, even when I am sleep deprived from staying awake with the sick baby. To love my children is to put down my book when my son asks me to play hide and seek with so much hope and excitement in his voice, even when I was desperately hoping for a little ‘me time.’ To love my children is to lose the power of “having rather too much [my] own way” time and time again. And to love my children is to thank God for saving me from the “misfortune,” of living a life devoted to the increase of that power, especially when I am most tempted to resent my children for that power’s loss.

I used to pride myself on teaching full-time at a Catholic school, and on practicing works of mercy in the wider community. After my son was born, I discerned (for a variety of reasons) that, for the time being, I should put my teaching career aside. In our career-oriented culture, where one of the first questions a stranger will often ask you is some variation of “What’s your job?,” I had to find value in a different kind of work. Work that was so often hidden, secret, and unglamorous. I had to discover the beauty of feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, and welcoming the stranger in the hidden and sacred space of my own home, where no public recognition or applause awaited me. And I had to do these things with the same trustful hope, with the same lack of certainty, with which I brought my children into this world. For I don’t know what the future holds for them, or for me. I don’t know if I will grow old to see the “fruits of my labors.” I don’t know if we will remain on the same path, or if we will be separated for a time by sin, or suffering, or sorrow. I can’t be certain of the results. I can only be certain that I must give, and give, and then give some more. I must submit to undeception after undeception, recognize my mistakes again and again, and know that the ultimate results are in hands far more capable than my own.

And a life lived in that kind of uncertainty is far richer, for more beautiful, far more glorious, than a life built on the false security of smug self-satisfaction and the unimpeded power of having my own way. There are other routes, aside from marriage and parenthood, by which one can an experience an undeception like Emma Woodhouse’s. As a Catholic, I contemplate with awe and gratitude the countless men and women who have practiced radical self-sacrifice as consecrated single people or professed religious and clergy. Then there are those lay people who, through no fault of their own, are single or unable to bear children. Indeed, in those individuals, God is radically (and painfully) offering them the chance to lay down the “power of having rather to much [their] own way,” as He himself did when He became man. Rather than to them, I am writing for those who, like Chapell Roan, would look at Emma Woodhouse’s life, before her experiences of “undeception,” as an ideal to aspire to.

For those who refuse to let go of their “disposition to think a little too well” of themselves, to relinquish their power to get what they want when they want, can never receive the foretastes of Resurrection given to those who put to death the “old self” in whatever their state of life. No Notre Dame football weekend, however enjoyable, is as precious to me as a trip to the zoo with my family, seeing the wonder of the world anew through my children’s eyes. No compliment from a coworker has meant as much as my son’s assertion that, “You are the best Mama I could ever have.” No uninterrupted night of sleep will ever be as satisfying as the knowledge that, when one of my children wakes up distraught in the middle of the night, my mere presence is enough to soothe their fears.

So I will continue to journey on the troublous road of constant undeception. I will allow myself to be weaned from my addiction to selfishness and willfulness. I will fall, repent, and like Emma Woodhouse, try again. And I will hope that my story too ends with a wedding, the wedding supper of the Lamb.

1. https://undeceptions.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/12/A-Note-on-Jane-Austen-Lewis.pdf?fbclid=IwY2xjawJWYuNleHRuA2FlbQIxMAABHdGIkvtguvKVLhnvP4Dxwc4Rt_JsNlF0b6YMCZkrulsqfzlv0yL3kVBcSQ_aem_FTEEloeYsovSmUFRkpFcSg